Page 1 of My Guardian Gryphon

Chapter 1

GRETCHEN

“What about this one,” I asked, my voice filled with a hope he didn’t notice. He never noticed. I could choose the most romantic story in the Blackmoor’s enormous library, and he would still look at me like I was the eleven-year-old girl who’d asked him a random history question fifteen years ago.

His wide brow wrinkled over amber-colored eyes that shimmered with flecks of gold. He was a man women dreamed about. At least I dreamed about him.

Tall. Dark. Mysterious. Broad shoulders melted into a tapered waist and narrow hips. Muscles went on for miles, muscles that I wanted to touch and feel against my naked skin. My stomach clenched and rolled. Lower in my body, a steady hum and throb started, growing with the ache inside I felt every time we were together. It’d gotten worse with each passing year.

By the gods, Gretchen, get a hold of yourself.

“Antony and Cleopatra?” The inflection of his voice carried surprise, and the words were spaced out, like he’d had to stop and think between the names.

I glanced up from the time-aged book. Not surprised. Even from across the expansive room he could read the embossed gold title on the cover like it was only inches from his face—he had telescopes for eyes. He never missed anything.

Except what was right in front of him. I could probably wrap my naked body in a clear shower curtain and he’d still be oblivious.

“It’s one of the most classical romances of that time period.” I emphasized the word romance, hoping to lead his mind in that direction. I’d never give up. Even if it took my whole life to make him notice me.

“Cleopatra was a…” His voice sharpened, filled with an emotion I couldn’t quite pin down. Irritation. Annoyance. Disbelief. “She was a smart woman, but she only loved herself. Both Caesar and Marc Antony fell for her wiles. Perhaps it did look like a love story from the outside, but from the inside, the only thing you could see was her cold, calculating heart.” He sat on our favorite couch and watched me expectantly. I half-expected him to pat the seat cushion and call me over. But he didn’t. He just sat there—waiting. Frustratingly patient and oblivious as ever.

Well, that didn’t work. Stupid Cleopatra. Instead of associating her with romance, he’s all bristled and annoyed. “So you’re saying Shakespeare got the story wrong?” I flipped through the worn pages of the classic. The smell of aged, stale paper had long since become a staple. My life revolved around escaping my quarters in the basement level of the castle. The library had started out a childhood fascination with history—humans—and a way to escape the mundane tasks the Sisters were constantly participating in—gardening, meditating, learning how to copulate to encourage fertilization.

On and on and on.

I didn’t get out of all the required studies, but I’d missed enough over the years that many of the Sisters were more than aware that I actively refused to participate in the destiny laid out for us thousands of years ago by the Lamassu—an ancient supernatural race more powerful than any other on Earth. A destiny that included giving myself to a stranger every weekend until I became pregnant. The House of Lamidae’s sole purpose was to procreate to increase the power of our collective visions—visions that would lead us to the eight Protectors. Vampire warriors who Rose—the Lamassu Sentinel who’d been protecting our House for thousands of years—would use to fulfill the prophecy.

Bile rose in my throat, and I took a deep breath, willing it back down into my stomach where it belonged. I put a hand on the end of the bookshelf and exhaled. My stomach calmed, and the urge to vomit no longer waited anxiously behind my tongue.

“Are you unwell, Gretchen?” The concern in his voice gave light to my flickering hope. But I wanted more. More than just the concern of a friend.

“I’m fine,” I answered, trying to purposefully sound more upbeat than I felt.

“You look a little green.”

Seriously? I am not green. “I’m fine. Please read Cleopatra’s story.” Living in a town filled with ancient immortals had its perks. They’d experienced it. Breathed air with many of the people in the books I’d read over the years. “How well did you know her?”

“Not personally, but I heard much about her from others in her employ. It was difficult to live in that time and not know about her.”

“You’re better than any book in this library. You know that, right?”

He blinked, raising his eyebrows. His lips parted for a moment before he closed them again. Closed off the emotion he’d let slip through the armor he permanently wore.

“We’re lucky the Blackmoor’s saved what they did during the American Riots. Most of the books here are the only copies left in North America. Oral testimony will never compare with the written word.”

“I know. I know. Supernaturals are the only ones who raced to save history while the American people just eradicated everything—knowledge, individuality, expression. You’ve reminded me many times.” When I’d first come across Alek Melos relaxing in a corner of Miles and Eli Blackmoor’s library, I’d desired nothing more than the truth—an answer to a single question about what had torn apart the United States. I’d gotten so much more.

He’d told me which stories were real and which stories weren’t. What events had led to the downfall of one of the most powerful countries on Earth? So strange to think there were other worlds. Well—at least two. Earth and Veil.

Still, my mind wondered if there could be even more. I’d asked him once and he’d shrugged, saying he hadn’t heard of any others.

“If you don’t like discussing Cleopatra, I can pick something else.” The stories used to be what drew me to the library day after day to learn everything I could from the quiet man I’d grown to care so deeply for. But now the stories were just the ancillary reason I went to the library. Now I desired something else completely.

I wanted to see Alek. Be next to him. Feel his touch. I wanted to belong to him. Something deep inside me sang every time we were in the same room. Joy filled me when we touched.

“It is a good tale. We should still read it.”

“She committed suicide by snake. Was that real?” I walked across the room, enjoying the plushness of the Persian carpets covering the floor, and sank down onto the couch cushion next to Alek. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling window behind us were drawn back with silken cords thicker than my wrists, and the afternoon light spilled in on my shoulders.

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