Page 4 of Bite of the Gargoyle

“Hello, there,” a voice said.

A deep, dark, and beautiful voice.

And my happiness dissolved. My exuberance at my birthday, at my canoe, it dissipated like ice in a fire. There was something wrong with the voice. Even though I couldn’t see where the voice came from, I knew in my gut that it didn’t belong here, in these woods, on this day, but nevertheless, here he was.

“Hello,” my father said, trepidation in his tone. He looked around, craning his neck, trying to find the source of the voice. I did the same. Kathleen just sat there frozen.

“Who goes there?” Father had said.

“No one you need be concerned with.” The voice suddenly came from a new direction, as if its source shifted from north to south in a matter of moments.

“This is my property,” my father said with a firm voice.

“Is it?” came the voice, this time from a completely different direction.

“I’ll have to kindly ask you to leave.” My father was spinning around now, keeping one hand on the boat all the while. He called out again, asking the voice to reveal itself.

Nothing.

He called out once more.

Nothing.

My father didn’t say anything for a while after that, but I could tell, even at that age, that he was sufficiently unnerved, enough so that he docked our boat along the side of the river and pulled the two of us out immediately.

I nodded, and my father picked us both up, one in each arm. I was far too old to be carried, but, at this particular moment, I didn’t object. I clung to his neck and buried my face in his chest as he lumbered toward the house.

Once inside, he latched the door and locked all the windows. Then he ran straight to the back door, out the washroom, and locked that door too. It frightened me to watch him so frightened.

“What’s going on, Father?” I’d asked him.

“Nothing, Darling,” he’d answered, patting my cheek twice and giving my shoulder a little squeeze to comfort me. I nodded, slightly reassured, and joined my mother in the kitchen. She was preparing a small supper of bread and bean soup. She smiled at me, handed me a bowl and water glass and told me to set my sister’s place at the table and come back for utensils. I told her I would. It would be the last thing I ever said to her.

I walked alone into the dining room, but once I saw the table, I realized I wasn’t alone at all.

A stranger sat in my father’s place. He wore a black suit with a purple vest. He had a flawless face with a sharp jaw and piercing icy blue eyes, impossible blue eyes. It was like staring straight down into the top of a glacier, then deeper still into the depths of the sea. It chilled me to the bone. His black hair was slicked back, and his straight nose was pointed right at me. He was beautiful but in an untouchable sort of way—a cold, calculated beauty like porcelain.

We stared at each other, and he smiled. I was frozen, unable to smile back.

“Hello, love,” he said, his voice carrying an accent that I would know were I to hear it ever again. It was all metal, glass, and twisted steel. You could cut yourself just listening to the rasp of that voice.

“How are you, this evening?” the man had continued, appearing utterly uninterested.

I said, “It’s my birthday.”

His smile deepened. He had one dimple that was far too deep but only enhanced his overwhelming handsomeness. But he wasn’t handsome in that subtle, comforting way that sent butterflies tumbling through my tummy. He was handsome in the way that froze the blood in my veins and stilled the breath in my lungs. His was a killing kind of beauty.

The bowl in my hand was trembling, as was the water in my glass. I couldn’t stop my body from shaking.

“Jo?” my mother’s voice called.

She came around the corner.

Then there was a sound. Motion.

It lasted a split second. I heard the screech of the man pushing back in his chair, the whoosh of wind, and the snap of bone, and the next thing I knew, his eyes were blood red, and he was drinking the life from my mother’s limp body.

“Mama!” I cried, and Father ran into the room.

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