Page 7 of Bite of the Gargoyle

“Suisse?” he asks finally, his voice a mere whisper. I have no idea if he’s called me by someone else’s name or if he’s speaking another language. “No,” he continues, shaking his head. “It… it’s not possible.” Then he breathes in deeply and some of the anger returns to his expression. “I’m not trying to kill you,” he says, holding up his large hands into the air as though he’s admitting defeat. Ha! A likely story.

I say nothing, just continue watching him, waiting for the moment when he attacks. All the while, I spy that dark black hair. It has a sort of upward swoop that looks simultaneously windswept and like he just rolled out of bed. As I watch him and he watches me, I catch sight of his eyes. They’ve gone from amber to a winding, twisting pool of black.

He takes a step closer.

Every nerve in my body is attuned to him, ready to spring like a cobra about to strike.

“Don’t you bloody well speak?” he demands as he takes another step closer.

I say nothing.

In another second, he’s used that inhuman speed and he’s suddenly right in front of me. Before I can register what’s happening, he’s grabbed my face by both sides and his face is directly in mine, our noses mere inches apart. The feel of his skin is insanely cold.

He stares into my eyes as his continue to deepen, darkening into the pitchest black.

“Are you Suisse?” he demands.

“No,” I bark back at him, wondering what in the hell he keeps going on about.

He nods, as though he was expecting such a response, but his eyes maintain their pitch black depths. “Then you do speak.”

“Obviously,” I answer.

“You will leave the knife, and you will be on your way, leaving my property, never to return again, and you will forget you ever encountered me here.”

His voice is heavy, demanding, insistent.

“Or not,” I respond, and serve him with an uppercut straight to the jaw. His head slams backwards and he takes a few steps away from me as I make a beeline for my knife, diving into the mound of leaves and immediately locking my fist around the hilt. I roll and in another second, I’m back on my feet, eyeing my opponent.

He appears more shocked than actually injured and just stands there, staring at me almost as though he can’t understand why I haven’t done as he’s dictated. Hmm, he must possess some sort of mind control, or he thinks he does. I need to take the offensive because I’m fairly sure he’s just playing with me—baiting me as a cat does the mouse.

Rotating my knife in my throwing hand, I yank my arm back and then release it at him. He simply takes a step to his right, his eyes following the darting path of the flying blade as if it’s moving snail slow. It knicks his arm, only barely, but manages to draw blood. A killing blow it is, most unfortunately, not.

He stares down at the blood, as if in stunned fascination. He even reaches out, running his index finger through the viscous liquid, as if trying to prove to himself that he’s wounded.

“You drew my blood…” he whispers reverently, suddenly looking up at me with wide amber eyes. Eyes that only seconds ago were as pitch as tar.

“That’s what blades do,” I answer, frowning at him and wondering why I’m even bothering with conversation. I need him dead.

End of story.

“You drew blood from me… and you did not fall subject to my glamour… and you say you are not Suisse and yet… yet, you look so much like her—as though you could be her twin.”

I shake my head. “I know no one of that name.”

He walks toward me slowly, shaking his head in disbelief as I try to understand what his ploy is. He hasn’t once attacked me—he’s simply defended himself from my own attack. And that is, in a word,strange. I’m accustomed to blood thirsty monsters who attack as soon as they lay eyes on you.

Yet, this monster seems… amused by me?

When he’s close enough, I try for another punch, but he catches my hand. He moves faster than humanly possible again, which shouldn’t be surprising as there isn’t much human left in him.

The blood from the knife drips down his arm and splashes into the ground. I watch the grass absorb it into the soil, as if it’s clamoring to drink up the liquid. I’ve never seen blood fall to the earth like that before—it almost rolled off him, as if it were beading mercury. I look back up at the man whose eyes are no more than a centimeter or two from mine. The amber hues of gold make them look more like precious gems than eyes.

“What are you?” he demands, eyes narrowing.

I’m pressed against the tree, no weapons in sight, none that I can reach, anyway. My best bet now is to distract him or get another punch in with the hopes of escaping him. At this stage, I’m not sure I can defeat him so the best course is one of escape.

There’s a glint in those perfect autumn orbs as they stare at me wonderingly, his expression one of admiration and anger. Then the fangs come out.

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