Levet (3 page)

Waiting until the vampire had disappeared into the apartment, Levet squared his shoulders and marched out of the courtyard.

Bien
. No more Monsieur Nice Guy.

He'd been caught off-guard by his sister and cousin.

Now that he was fully prepared, he wouldn't be halted from his goal.

He had his courage firmly intact.

Oh, and he'd managed to “borrow” a disguise amulet he'd seen laying on Valla's counter when she'd been busy making tea.

The tiny bit of gold was now hung around his neck by a leather string and would make him invisible to all but the most powerful witches.

This time, no one would sense he was coming.

Puffing out his chest, and spreading his wings, Levet took to the air, soaring over the city as he headed toward the Latin Quarter.

It was . . . stunning.

Even after he'd traveled around the world and seen some of the most spectacular sights to be found, there was nothing quite so beautiful as Paris at night.

At last reaching his destination, Levet carefully landed on the shadowed street, studying the Gothic church that was situated only a few blocks from the Seine.

Constructed in the sixth century on the site where a hermit had lived and prayed, the Church of Saint-Séverin was built in the shape of a long, narrow hall. It had a tower, along with ornately topped pillars and pointed, Romanesque arches for windows and doors.

Tourists came to admire the Gothic architecture and to stroll through the gardens, or even to enjoy the Greek restaurant just down the street. But the pièce de résistance was the gargoyles who had stood guard for centuries.

During the daylight hours all gargoyles turned to stone. Unlike Levet, however, most were capable of altering their shape which meant that even the largest demon could shrink down to fit on the side of a building. What better place to hide from the humans than in plain sight?

At night they came out to play.

And pillage and plunder and create all-around mayhem among the demon world.

Usually they left the humans alone....

Usually.

Realizing that he was delaying the inevitable, Levet squared his shoulders and headed into the church. He didn't pause to admire the peaceful beauty of the nave, instead heading directly toward the bay door that opened into the garden that had once been a graveyard.

He was here with a purpose. Why the purpose had suddenly become so important . . .

He gave a sharp shake of his head.

Bah, that was a question for later.

Bypassing the long galleries that had been reconstructed to their medieval glory, he headed toward the very back of the garden. At last reaching the spot he was searching for, he sucked in a deep, steadying breath.

Only when he was mentally prepared did he step through the illusion that hid the ancient stone building.

Levet grimaced. Home, sweet home.

Waddling up the stairs that led to the door, he felt a familiar sense of bleak yearning tug at his heart, swiftly followed by a bitter sense of betrayal.

There were no happy memories to ease his return. No sense of comfort.

His childhood had been a miserable fight for survival among his brutal siblings. Oh, and the last time he'd seen his mother, she'd tried to kill him.

Hardly the ingredients for a happy family reunion. Reaching the door, he wasn't surprised to find it unlocked. What demon would be stupid enough to enter the lair of the doyenne of the gargoyle nest?

He stepped into the large room with a lofted, cathedral ceiling and plenty of room for a gargoyle to spread her wings. The floors were made of hardwood and deeply gouged by his mother's five-inch claws. And high above were wide windows that offered a view of the night sky.

The rest of the interior was something out of an
Arabian Nights
nightmare.

Crimson painted walls, gold and black silk pillows piled in the middle of the floor with a large hookah set beside them.

Levet had never been sure if his mother's fantasy was to be the sheikh or the harem girl.

And not knowing was the only thing that kept him out of therapy.

“So it's true,” a female voice boomed through the air, the floor shuddering beneath the weight of the approaching gargoyle. “The prodigal son returns.”

Levet froze. He would not run. He would not run. He would not run.

Reaching up, he tugged off the amulet that had obviously been deactivated by the spells of protection that surrounded the lair.

His mother was nothing if not thorough.

And cruel.

Excessively, spectacularly cruel.

The thought whispered through his mind as his gaze skimmed up the stout legs that were heavily muscled and covered by a reptilian gray skin. A long, surprisingly thin tail curled around the feet tipped with claws. His gaze lifted to his dear old
maman's
hefty body, which had grown even wider since Levet had last seen her, with wide leathery wings that spread in a ten-foot span from her back. Up ever higher, Berthe's face was a perfect example of gargoyle beauty.

A short, thick snout. Small gray eyes that peered at the world from beneath a heavy brow. Two fangs that were big enough to be called tusks curved from her upper gums to reach her pointed chin. And on top of her broad head she had two sharp horns that were polished to gleam in the candlelight.

Levet forced a stiff smile to his lips. “
Bonsoir, Maman
. You are looking . . .” He allowed his gaze to shift back down to her wide girth. “Well fed.”

Berthe shrugged. Unlike most females, gargoyles had no issues with weight.

Their philosophy was the bigger the better.

“Gregor proved to be a disappointment so I had him basted in a lovely rosemary and garlic sauce and roasted over an open fire,” she said with a light French accent. “He was far more satisfying as dinner than he ever was as a lover.”

“Charming.” Levet ignored his mother's jaundiced glare at his pretty, fairy wings. “Did you eat my father as well?”

“Do not be disgusting,” the female growled. “I am not a cannibal.”

Levet kept his expression guarded. Gargoyles were like most demons. They were willing to take lovers from many different species, although they usually chose a gargoyle when they were in heat.

Halflings weren't unheard of, but they were rare.

The fact that his mother had always refused to name his father had made Levet assume his parentage was yet another source of shame to the family.

“So my father was a gargoyle?”

Berthe snorted, thankfully unaware of how much the information meant to her son.

If she knew it could be a weapon to hurt him, she wouldn't hesitate to use it.

“What sort of question is that?”

“A rather obvious one, I would think.” Levet spread his stunted arms. “Just look at me.”

Berthe narrowed her eyes to beady slits. “Your father was a fearsome warrior who sired many sons who brought him nothing but pride.”

Levet's tail twitched. He didn't know if he was pleased or disappointed by the information.

He was demon enough to take pride in the thought that his father was admired among gargoyles. Bloodlines were always important.

But for centuries he'd blamed his lack of gargoyle-ness on his father.

Now who was he supposed to hold responsible?

“So what happened to me?” he demanded.

Berthe curled her snort in blatant disdain. “A freak of nature.”

Levet grimly pretended her words didn't cut. “Or perhaps your bloodlines are not as pure as you thought?”

A hint of smoke drifted from a flared nostril. Berthe was one of the rare gargoyles who could breathe fire. Which, of course, explained her position as doyenne.

“More likely a curse from the gods,” she countered, hate glinting her gray eyes. A hate that had been more destructive to Levet as a child than any of the vicious beatings. “I was warned to have your head removed the minute you were born.” She gave a flap of her enormous wings, nearly sending Levet tumbling backward. “Unfortunately I was too tenderhearted to follow the wise advice.”

Levet gave a snort, refusing to acknowledge the age-old sense of betrayal.

“Tenderhearted?”

“
Oui
.” Berthe moved to settle her bulk on the satin pillows, her wings draped over the floor and her tail swishing around her feet. She portrayed the image of languid indifference, but Levet wasn't fooled. She might look like a lumbering brute, but she could move with the speed of a striking viper. “I allowed you to survive with the hope that you would overcome your disfigurements and grow into a prince worthy of standing at my side. You should be grateful.”

Grateful.

The word echoed through Levet, abruptly altering the pain he'd sworn he'd never feel again to a rush of fury.

“Grateful for what? I spent my childhood being brutalized by my siblings.”

His mother shrugged. “Did you expect to be coddled like a human baby?”

He ignored her taunt. “And when I at last left the nursery I became the target of every gargoyle who thought it was amusing to toss me into the fighting pits and see how many demons could beat the heebie-jeebies out of me before I passed out,” he hissed.

Bertha furrowed her brow in confusion. “The . . .” She made a sound of impatience. “Oh, la la. It is bejesus, you ridiculous pest.”

Levet waved off her sharp words. “You did nothing to protect me.”

“Only the strong survive in our world.”

Levet planted his fists on his hips. “Is that your excuse for trying to kill me when I hit puberty?”

She trailed a claw over a scarlet pillow, her expression devoid of regret.

“It was obvious you were permanently deformed. It was my duty to rid the nest of such a blatant weakness. Every doyenne understands the necessity of pruning the deadwood from the family tree.”

Enough.

He hadn't come here to resolve his childhood trauma. He might be immortal, but not even an eternity would be enough time to work through his mommy issues.

It was time to get down to business.

“So what if I was to prove that I am more than deadwood?” he challenged. “That I am a prince in the truest sense of the word?”

“Impossible.”

Having expected scorn, Levet wasn't prepared for the sudden unease that rippled over his mother's ugly features. As if she was afraid of what he might say.

And he most certainly wasn't prepared for the lethal flames that she burped in his direction.

“
Sacrebleu
,” he cried, diving behind his mother's favorite Moroccan chest. She would never fry the camel leather inset with enough precious gems to rival the crown jewels. “What are you doing?”

She was on her feet, her tail quivering with an unreasonable fury.

“Finishing what I began when you were young.”

Levet hunkered behind the chest.

Merde
. This could be going better.

It was time to pull out his only weapon.

“I demand a tribunal,” he said in shaky tones.

A tribunal was the gargoyle equivalent of People's Court. Or a pirate's parlay.

“Denied.” Another belch of fire, nearly singeing the tips of his stunted horns.

Levet tucked his wings tight against his shivering body. Had he once said that vampires were the most unreasonable creatures to walk the earth?

He clearly owed Viper and Styx and all the rest of the bloodsuckers an apology.

Not that they would ever hear it from his lips.

He did have his pride.

Even if it was a little scorched.

“You cannot deny me,” he said, as the fire died. “I am a pure-blooded gargoyle despite my . . . deformities.”

“I shunned you.”

Levet was prepared.

“Ah, but I am a prince.” He peeked around the corner, meeting his mother's infuriated glare. “Those of royal blood can demand a hearing regardless of their sentence.”

Berthe was forced to hesitate.

Gargoyles might be savages in many ways, but the Guild was ruled by a strict code of laws.

There was a long silence as his mother ground her teeth, smoke still curling from her nostril. Then, her eyes narrowed with a cunning satisfaction.

“The elders are not in Paris. There can be no tribunal without them.”

Levet made a sound of disgust. How many demons had stood shoulder to shoulder to battle the Dark Lord while the gargoyles had been MIA?

“You mean the cowards are still in hiding?”

Berthe stomped a massive foot, making the entire building shake.

“They don't answer to you.”

“
Bon
.” Cautiously Levet moved from behind the chest. He didn't want to become a charred briquette, but then again he was tired of cowering. He was now a bona fide hero. Wasn't he? Straightening his spine, he tilted his chin to meet his mother's glare. “Then you will stand as judge.”

There was a low hiss as his mother snapped her wings to their full width. An impressive sight meant to intimidate.

“This is a trick.”

“No trick,” Levet denied. “You are doyenne. It is within your powers to pass judgment.”

“I did,” she growled. “You were banished.”

“I was banished without a fair hearing.”

“Because you fled like a spineless Guttar demon.”

Levet waved his hands at the absurd accusation. “You were trying to kill me.”