Page 78 of Howl for the Gargoyle

I flinched, and I tore my gaze away as another shot sounded, trying hard not to assume which man was yelping. I scrambled up to my feet, rushing forward and finding the stairwell closer than I expected, nearly toppling face-first into the darkness before catching the rhythm of the stairs, running and stumbling down.

"Hannah?"

I answered Rafe's ragged voice with an animal cry, racing around a corner in the stairs, pausing at the sight of him below. Now I knew where the silver had come from.

It was Rafe's blood.

He was chained to cement blocks, wings bound with what looked like a metallic netting, and he was bleeding in sheening silver rivulets that almost blended in with his gray stone. His cheek was gouged. His wings were cracked. His clothing was torn and sullied.

"Rafe!"

There were glittering chisels on the floor, three of the four already broken and stained with silver.

Rafe looked haggard, his stone darkened under his eyes, but he flashed a smile at me as I tripped over my feet and fell to the floor in front of him, hands grappling for his chains. He grunted as I pulled at them uselessly.

"Fuck. How do I—?" I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if I had to go back upstairs. Was Ray okay? Was he alive?

"Cutters," Rafe said, nodding his head to the corner of the room.

My claws gouged at the dirty floor as I skidded over to the corner and came back, massive bolt cutters in my grip. Rafe groaned as he flexed his injured wings, pulling the chain taut and giving me room to maneuver. Over our heads, voices shouted and feet stamped.

"Oh god, Rafe, are you—"

"Gonna be fine," he hissed, his breath hitching as I snarled and crushed one chain link between the teeth of the cutter, freeing his left arm. "Gargoyles bleed slowly too."

A soft cry escaped my lips, but it blended into the huff of effort as I cut his other arm free.

"Gimme those and sort out the net?"

I shoved the bolt cutters into his hands and swallowed back my next cry as I rounded his back to face the wreckage of his wings. The edges were ragged. Fincher had chipped away at their beautiful curves, and there were so many cracks I was almost afraid to touch him, wondering if the net was all that was holding the flesh of his wings together at the moment.

"It's gonna be okay," Rafe whispered.

And since I was meant to be the one rescuing him in the moment, I pressed my lips flat, silenced my whine, and searched the surface of the net until I found the hook that tightened the links together.

Rafe sagged, the metal jaw of the bolt cutters clattering against the floor as the top of the net drooped open. I was gentle, pulling the metal threads free from his wing hooks, and I held my breath as it dropped to my feet, but Rafe's wings immediately stretched open and closed, like a pair of lungs taking their first breath in hours, and my own lungs burned as if they'd done the same.

My knees crumbled and my hands pressed to his back, his wings dripping blood faintly to the floor but not shattering to pieces as I'd feared.

"Rafe," I moaned, pressing my face into his neck, breath catching on a sob as his wings reached back and gently brushed against me.

"He thinks you're his mate," Rafe said.

"I know you're mine," I answered, growling a little, my hands sliding down to grip his sides.

"Me too," he whispered, hands covering mine, a drip of hot silver blood hitting my sleeve.

Relief left me weak, and if Rafe had asked me to stand in that moment, I would've failed to do so.

Not until Fletcher, Fincher, came charging down the stairs. His own blood was red, and it wept eagerly from his leg as he thunked, limping, but he had a gun held in his shaking hand and it was pointed directly at Rafe's spread wings.

I knew, in the most imperative way, that if he fired and it struck, Rafe's left wing would shatter.

I could not stand.

But I learned to fly.

A feral snarl ripped from my lips as I leapt over my mate toward the stairs.

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