Page 47 of Hearts of Stone

Graven walked much closer to this part of the frieze. A stylised picture of a woman had been painted on the wall, but around her were three massive gargoyles. The skill of the artist was such that I could feel the intensity between them.

They were clustered around her, their wings partially unfurled to create a barrier that surrounded her and shut out the rest of the world. I knew somehow that this was both to keep her safe but also… I swallowed hard, my eyes beginning to sting… because they couldn’t bear to have her more than a foot away from them. They wanted her, needed her, with passionate intensity, that’s what I read in their dark gazes. It was the sort of passion I’d never experienced, only ever read about, and it had me staring at the painting with a pang of longing. And then, when I considered what and who my experience of romantic love had been, that set me frowning.

When I was growing up, I’d thought I’d experience the same sort of devoted love, because I thought that all adults did. I fully expected that it was my destiny for some guy to turn around and just… see me, to know that I was the only woman for him, and that it went without saying that he’d be the only man for me. The world would fall away and everyone else in it and we’d stare into each other’s eyes and feel it: that soul spark, where one recognises the other, even though you’ve never even spoken a word, knowing that somehow every step you’d taken thus far was to bring you closer to them.

I was shocked but not surprised when I caught Trevor balls deep in Septicaemia. I mean, watching someone else endure his subpar sexual performance created a strange kind of sisterly bond, right before Staphylococcus made clear that she knew exactly what she was doing: taking my man. But what the hell was she taking?

He’d never looked at me like this, or if he did, it was only in the moments when no one else was looking. Trevor alwaysseemed to be looking out for who was watching us and he’d flush bright red, his smile fading when he caught someone doing it. And then the comments would start.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to wear? Maybe you should try something more flattering. My mum thinks…”

“Do you have to talk that loud? I’m pretty sure he didn’t want to hear every thought you’ve ever had about…”

My frown got deeper as I stared more intently at the painting, because I was experiencing something entirely ridiculous: I was jealous of a woman I’d never even met. Worse, jealous of someone who probably didn’t even exist. I wanted what she had, the kind of blind, deep, overwhelming love that drove a man—or a monster—to want to protect you, to cherish you at all times. But I forced myself to shove that feeling to one side, plastering a smile on my face before I turned to Graven.

“But how did you guys come to be bound to The Eyrie? A witch bound you to it?” I blinked. “Did Madeline?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “The days of finding our true mate and protecting her house are long gone. There are just as many powerful warlocks as there are witches. It turns out that the curse allows anyone with sufficient power to bind us to a place.”

“But…” My eyes strayed back to the painting, focussing now not on the woman, but her gargoyle lovers. “How do you find your fated mates?”

“How indeed?” Carrick stepped forward, all his usual levity scrubbed from his face. His arms crossed his impressive chest. “You’re assuming that the warlock community would even want that. Allowed free rein, we would be competitors for the hearts of powerful witches. In the old days, such women would seek us out, strive to find their gargoyle mates, but as time went by…”

“Men have become more and more dominant in the community,” Graven added, much more mildly. “That is as true of the witching world as the human one.”

“Because a woman with gargoyle mates would become even more powerful…” I barely breathed that out, stepping closer to the mural, my hand going out to touch it without thinking. My palm began to glow the closer I got to it and it was only when I realised what I was doing that I snatched my fingers back. “She would not be ruled by any man.” I glanced back at the three of them. “Or gargoyle. But why are you telling me this?”

The three of them shifted restlessly, reminding me of birds sitting on an electrical wire. Their wings rustled, but didn’t unfurl and their focus flicked to each other before coming back to me. Graven was obviously seen as the spokesperson for the group, and he came closer now, hands outstretched. Hands that had taken mine and shown me just how powerful I might become.

“Before you used your power, you found some pebbles.”

I shoved my hand into my jeans pockets and produced three of them, forcing my fingers to open to let them roll around on my palm.

“I found lots up on the roof,” I said. “I collected a whole bunch of them in my shirt and that’s when…” I shook my head. “That’s when you came to life.”

“But only us—not the others,” he said, taking a step towards me, and then another, then reaching his hand out to cover mine. Immediately, I felt a pulse of the most incredible warmth wash all the way through me. “You touched the pebbles of all of the gargoyles upon the roof of The Eyrie but not all of them awakened.”

“Because I’m not powerful enough, obviously,” I said.

“Not at all, Mistress.” Seneca’s voice sounded somewhat strangled as he moved nearer as well. “I can feel your power like it’s my own, and it's not a small thing.”

I flushed at his words, feeling strangely embarrassed.

“So, then… what is this?”

I turned back to the painting, and then felt each of them draw closer. They surrounded me, the warmth of their bodies dispelling the musty chill in the room. But, more than that simple physical sensation, I had the feeling of something else. Hope.

Hope was like a small flame, newly lit. It could be buffeted around by the winds of reality, almost blown out by the kind of pessimism that had become almost second nature to me. Why dare to hope when the weight of reality seemed to crush the life out of you? Like each time I went to another rental property open inspection, hoping to finally have something I had thought was a basic right in my country: a roof over my head. Letting myself feel a small little flicker of hope each time a new message came in from a dating app. Hoping that I could move up and out of the job that was crushing my soul, that I might have enough. I’d hoped and hoped and hoped, and nothing had happened. But, now…

I jumped when a hand landed on my shoulder, then another, then a third on the nape of my neck. I could feel their claws through my shirt, not sharp, but there, dangerous, a reminder of their capacity to protect me. As I stared at the painting, I couldn't help but feel an echo of the love so plainly depicted there.

“This depicts a witch with her true mates,” Graven said, ever the didactic one. “With the gargoyles that would always own her heart.”

“Just as she owned theirs,” Carrick said, his voice turned low and husky.

“She would know them by the feel of their stone in her hand,” Graven continued, his voice taking on the sonorous quality of a bard. “It was a small grace granted by one of our past mothers. We may be tied to a house, but the tiny pebbles from our stone? They can be disseminated far and wide…”

“Allowing you to find your fated mates.”

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