The property that they approached announced its intentions well in advance, it’s fa? ade seeming to leer over the street, and its gargoyles laughing in a craze. Dior bristled at the latter, the lifeless simulacrums without potent, but insulting nonetheless, the grotesque features distorted by cement. They were, Dior thought, Cael’s source of insult, poorly carved monsters of liquid stone.
“Honestly,” Dior protested to the vampires. “This becomes a farce.”
“It is where our tracking has ended,” Rebecca was no more comfortable with the location than they were. “We cannot be held responsible for the poor taste of mankind and warlocks. We will check the perimeter. Stay here.”
Dior curled his lip at her, but he could not argue the fact as the vampires disappeared to sight. He turned his eyes back to the cement renderings. These gargoyles were, as the saying seemed to be, stone bodies, stone hearts, and stone heads. Creatures without heart or animation. Blocks of false stone, mould poured to represent a distortion of life.
They were more than death – they were dead of the potential of life.
“I dislike those things they are just so ugly,” Dior glanced behind him, capturing the eyes of goat and griffin alike, and pulled them closer to him, seeking comfort in their triad. Quartet, he amended when Blaise pulled Charon into the embrace with him, the winged man seeming baffled beneath the goat’s seductive power. Quintet, Dior told himself. No longer a triad but hovering between a quartet and a quintet.
He could not wait until he lured his full quintet into the nest. His eyelids fell heavily imagining the sex that would result. Oh, yes, the lion gargoyle hardened at the images that roved his mind, oh yes, that would be an interesting night, with many more, hopefully to follow.
The things that they would introduce their newest nest members to…
Shit, he thought as his thoughts slid into the truly lascivious, something entirely inappropriate for the location, and he breathed in suspiciously to scent the air, quickly confirming his suspicion. The triad were in heat. The recent addition of Verity, a female who was ovulating, had triggered their hormones, their bodies preparing them to produce young, increasing to the drive to f-k, and they were putting off the pheromones intended to encourage their female to be receptive. Pheromones that were just as effective on each other as they would be to Verity.
His eyes met Etienne’s and knew the griffin shared his realization from the heavily lidded eyes and slow smirk. Dior did not even have to look at the goat to know that Blaise would be affected, not that it would make much of a difference as the goat was constantly randy anyway. His eyes slid to Charon and saw the winged man’s pupils expand as he inhaled their scent, becoming drugged on it as his body reacted, just as susceptible to it as they were.
“Oh, f-k,” the winged man murmured. “What is going on?”
“The vampires are checking the perimeters,” Blaise told him, stroking his hand between the winged man’s shoulder blades soothingly, edging closer so that he could press up against the man’s side. “Not a big deal. We will wait a moment, before we go in.”
“You are not telling the truth,” Charon replied. “There is some sort of… drug in the air.”
“Pheromones,” Dior replied with honesty. It would not be fair to him, to pretend that there was nothing happening. “What you are sensing is gargoyle pheromones. Verity was ovulating, and our bodies naturally react to an ovulating mate. Once we reclaim Verity, and return to the nest to sate our needs, the pheromones will settle. In the interim they are overactive, responding to the stimuli, as nature intended.”
“Responding to stimuli,” Charon breathed in deeply, something which Dior could have told him, if he were at all inclined to do so, would not help. The winged man’s pulse raced, audible to the gargoyle triad, and his breathing shifted rhythm. “That is… some potent response to stimuli. F-k me,” he swore ruefully.
“Mon petit pigeon,” Etienne’s pupils expanded in reaction to the winged man’s response to their pheromones. “Mon petit pigeon. J’ai l’intention de,” he purred.
“Etienne now is not…” Dior murmured in protest before the griffin got carried away by the winged man’s unintentional invitation, but the griffin had pushed the goat aside and was already nuzzling under the winged males’ chin, tracking the scent from Charon’s pulse point to the curve of his shoulder and back up, his breath caressing the other man’s skin, even though his lips barely grazed the surface. “The best timing,” the lion sighed it, because the griffin would not now be persuaded away from the object of his desire.
Charon’s eyelids fell heavily over his golden-brown eyes, and he moaned gutturally. Etienne’s hands stroked down the ridges and furrows of the winged man’s stomach, trailing through the crisp hair, disappearing below the waistband of Charon’s trousers before closing over him, so that Charon blew out his breath and leaned forward, bracing himself against the low fence at the edge of the property as Etienne curled over his back, his hands stroking with purpose within the fabric of Charon’s tracksuit pants.
“Oh. God.” Charon’s voice was broken, the edges ragged. “Oh, f-k.” His eyes were closed, and a muscle twitched in the corner of his jaw.
“Mon petit pigeon,” Etienne purred, focused on his purpose. “Viens pour moi.”
Dior’s hand closed over himself as the winged man’s groans grew filthy with pleasure and broke, the tones hoarse and gasped out. The lion gargoyle breathed heavily, sharing the rise of passion between his mates, and he braced against the same wall that Charon used to bear his weight, his head thrown back now against Etienne’s shoulder, the griffin pressing kisses against the winged man’s jaw as he stroked him to orgasm.
Charon grunted as his seed struck the wall, the scent of hot come sharply metallic on the air, as he groaned out his expertly manipulated release under Etienne’s determined and experienced hands. The griffin murmured foul words in perfect French into the winged man’s ear, the cultured tones hiding the meaning behind the syllables and Dior clenched his teeth as his seed sprayed against the wall, Etienne’s words bringing him to orgasm. He leaned heavily on his arm, breathing heavily as he regained his self-control.
“J’avais h? te de séduire le pigeon jusqu’à un meilleur moment,” Etienne confessed breathlessly, the wet patch evident on his trousers. “Sacrebleu, je suis venu si fort.”
“Me too,” Dior agreed, with a rueful grin, his balls still tight from his orgasm.
“Mhm,” Blaise was breathless with his own release, and Dior grinned at the line of come stains on the brickwork, proud of the virility of his mates. “F-k me, Etienne,” the goat complained. “When you get sexy, you don’t take no for an answer.”
“Il n’a pas dit non,” the griffin was smug, pressing kisses against the cheek of the winged man. “Il a dit oui dans tous les sens.”
“What is he saying?” Charon hung heavily, propped onto his arms, the griffin draped over his back. “Oh, f-k,” he murmured thickly. “I want his mouth on me.”
“I am sure Etienne will happily comply,” Dior’s grin was crooked and wicked. “But perhaps another time. The vampires will return any moment.” At least the release would clear their heads for a little while, he thought turning his attention back to the problem or rescuing Verity.
“F-k,” Charon pulled his trousers back to order. “This is… insane.”
“L’amour est souvent,” Etienne was unrepentant, capturing the other man’s face in his hands and kissing him thoroughly and with skill, before releasing Charon, breathless, in order to tug at his wet and stained trousers. “Ah putain.”
“Well, you only have yourself to blame,” Dior pointed out.
“Je vais prendre son cul,” Etienne leered. “Next time.”
“Mhm,” Dior’s attention had returned to the building. There was a bronze sign beside the door, and a doorbell. He tilted his head to the side, shrugged, and walked up to press it.
“Dior!” Blaise gasped in astonishment.
“They are a coven,” the lion gargoyle explained reasonably. “They will have the building warded. The vampires have not returned, and it would take them less time than this to scout the perimeter and return, so I believe they have been captured.”
“So, you seek to simply surrender us into their clutches?” Charon demanded.
“They have no interest in us,” Dior pointed out. “No reason to want to hold us hostage. So, we will talk with them.”
“Stone heads,” Charon muttered under his breath.
The door opened and an elegantly dressed woman looked up at Dior, her expression quizzical. “May I help you?” Her eyes travelled over his shoulder to the assembly of men that crowded behind. Her lips quirked, fighting back a smile as her eyes danced.
“Yes,” Dior’s smile revealed his sharper premolar and canine teeth. “You can. We are here to retrieve our mate, and a couple of vampires that we misplaced.”
“Ah,” her eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that interesting. Would you care to come in?” She stepped back, and Dior ducked his head as he stepped through the doorframe. The room within was much as the building implied from the outside, dated luxury, slightly faded with wear. The walls were wood panelled between the heavily burdened bookcases, and the chairs were stiff backed and upholstered in leather that had begun to crack. The carpet underfoot was of oriental design gone threadbare where there was the most traffic.
It smelled like old libraries, paper, leather polish, and woodsmoke from the little fireplace that had burnt down to embers.
“It is not often so many handsome men come knocking at the door,” the woman commented. “The girls will be most excited.” She led them down the hallway where a graceful staircase curled up the wall. Sure enough, giggles from above lifted Dior’s eyes. The balustrade overhead was crowded with a bevvy of teenaged girls, whispering and bright eyed as they eyed off the men below without embarrassment and with every indication of enjoyment.
The elegant woman looked up, smiling. “Go on,” she told them. “Off with you.” The girls did not move, their giggles rising in volume. “We were a girl’s school,” she told them conversationally as she continued walking. “Before the recent unfortunate events. Whilst many students returned to their parent’s care, these ones parents were not able to return for them, and so they remain here.”
“Witches,” Dior decided to disperse with any pretence.
“Of course,” she replied unsurprised. “We are a coven operated facility. Which is why, I expect, you have come. Since the recent disruptions, we have become home to much of the administrational side of the coven, and the elders are in residence.”
She paused by a door and knocked before opening it enough to stick her head within. “I have four exceptionally large men,” she said with humour. “Who say they have come for the vampires.”
“And our mate,” Dior added.
“And their mate,” she amended obediently, and then opened the door fully, stepping back against it. “Enter,” she told them.
The room within was a large room dominated by a dining table, crowded with open spell books, pieces of velum, scrolls, inkpots and quills. Five people were arranged around the table to all appearances interrupted in the midst of studying the contents of the books. One of the men rose to standing, and Dior recognized the distinct green of his eyes.
“You are Verity’s father,” he said.
“And you are?” The man replied, his eyebrows raising.
“We are her mates.”
“Well,” the man’s lips pursed on a smile. “That is interesting. Four?” He shook his head ruefully. “That is unusual, but then, Verity has always been an unusual young woman. Perhaps you can answer a question for me. Where is Verity?”
Dior angled his head. “We had thought her to be here,” he said cautiously, trying to determine the man’s intentions.
“Hmm,” the man nodded, his eyes thoughtful and his brows pinching. “Why would you believe that?”
“Verity said that the coven was pursuing her, because they sought to reach her brother through her,” Dior stepped into the room to allow his mates to enter. “When she was stolen by portal from our home, it was a logical conclusion that the coven had traced her there.”
“F-king Alatar,” the man muttered, leaning on his arms heavily and looking at the book before him without seeing it. He sighed heavily and straightened. “We don’t have Verity. And, yes, we were seeking her, but our efforts have been unsuccessful.”
“You believe her brother was behind the portal?” Charon demanded. “Where can we find him?”
“A very good question,” Verity’s father walked around the table to stand before them. He was not a tall man, lean to the point of skinniness, his dark hair threaded with silver, and the velvet robes of his order worn over a tidy shirt and wool vest. “It is something we have been trying to answer for some time now. We had hoped Verity would know.”
“Verity says is not close to her brother,” Charon answered. “She does not know. But she is frightened of you.”
“Not me,” the man replied firmly. “Verity would not be afraid of me. Angry, perhaps,” he conceded. “My relationship with my children is… complicated, to say the least. Verity might fear the coven, however,” he agreed. “As it was, before, she would have been right to. We have been outcast for most of her life. But this war with the winged people has necessitate the coven softening its stance on such things.”
“Outcasts become incasts,” one of the women around the table smirked.
The man chuckled. “That is true. Those you see,” he said to Dior. “In this room, we were all outcast.”
“What does this have to do with Verity?” The shifting politics of the coven did not interest Dior, and he could smell the rise of pheromones from his mates and knew that in the enclosed space of the room, it would only be more potent.
“Hmm,” the man frowned at Dior and then his expression cleared. “You are a gargoyle,” he announced, and laughed, a harsh bark of sound. “The gargoyle triad,” he said to the witches and warlocks around the table that watched with interest. “Now that is unexpected indeed,” he returned his gaze to Dior. “That makes you Dior.”
“Yes.”
“I am Theo,” the man replied. “And I guess I am your father-in-law.”
“Yes,” Dior repeated. “We need to find Verity.”
“Indeed,” Theo agreed readily. “And Alatar. I need to talk to my son.”
“Where do you think he is?” Dior was getting impatient.
“With the werewolves, wherever the pack has gone,” Theo replied. “Along with most of the coven, which is why they are desperate to take back in their outcasts. We need to retrieve them, because we have a plan on how to get rid of the winged hellions that blacken our skies, and we need the full coven in order to do so.”