He suddenly jerks away and tries to sit up.
“You shouldn’t move,” I tell him, hands shaking. “Let me get a towel or something. I’ll stop the bleeding.” I move to stand but he grabs my wrist.
“There’s no time, Ace,” he says slowly, and pushes himself up. “I need to go.”
I get to my feet and take his hand, hefting him to his feet. Unsteadily, he shuffles forward and spreads his beautiful wings, holding out a hand to keep me at bay. His eyes meet mine.
“It’s going to be okay.”
Bits of stone crumble off his wings as he takes flight, landing on the roof without a moment to spare. He becomes a gargoyle again, trapped under the sun. I’m shaking, hands slick from Jacques’s blood.
“Jac?” I call one last time, not expecting him to respond. My legs feel weak, but I take a few steps back so I can look up at him. He’s in his usual pose, but this time, there’s a big crack in the stone on his chest.
15
Sunlight reflects off the blood pooled on the cobblestone. A smoldering pile of ash is next to it, smelling like I burned a week’s worth of garbage. Blinking back tears, I move away from the house and look at the carnage left in the front yard.
What the hell am I supposed to do with the bodies?
I bring a trembling hand up, pushing my hair out of my face, and fight the fear that threatens to plague me. Someone knows who I am. They knew where I was last night. Have they been watching me?
“Are you watching now?” I ask through gritted teeth. Anger surges through me and flames start to flicker around my fingertips again. I hope they are watching. Then I can catch them and end them.
Too angry to put out the flames, I go to the pile of ghouls Hasan left and bring my hand down, lighting them on fire. They ignite, and the magic in the flames causes them to turn to ash just like the others. Refusing to let myself think about Jacques, I hurry around the yard and drag the ghouls into the same pile, turning them all into ash.
Once the ghoul bodies are burned, I feebly walk to the house, stopping next to Thomas and Gilbert. They’re standing strong, posed like usual with nothing out of the ordinary. I rest my hand on Thomas’s wing, closing my eyes and wishing I could talk to them, figure out a way to keep them with me during the day.
Still barefoot, and now painfully aware of the uneven ground underfoot, I hastily walk around the house to look up at Hasan. I saw him take off but didn’t see him land. I need to know he’s okay. From what I can tell, he is.
But Jacques isn’t.
Are his injuries paused, and will they pick up right where we left off? Will he weaken as the day goes on? I love all my guys, and the thought of losing even one of them terrifies me.
They are my family. I don’t want to lose another family. I can’t. I hardly survived it the first time.
I break through spiderwebs as I hook up the hose, dragging it around front to wash away the blood. Everything I do is methodical, and it’s almost like I’m covering up a crime scene. I guess I am, in a sense, though I’m not the guilty party.
Going into the house, I realize there is no way I’m going to get things cleaned up in time for work. I haven’t called off in three years, and when I did I was so sick with the H1N1 virus I was hospitalized for two days.
I call in, saying I got food poisoning, and don’t feel bad about lying.
Setting my phone down on the kitchen counter, I grab a broom and dustpan, and a cardboard box from the basement. I line it with a garbage bag and start cleaning the glass from the broken window.
“This looks original,” I grumble, noting the thick broken sheets. “Fuck you, whoever sent them and bound my powers. Fuck. You.”
I grab the last of the big pieces and get the broom next, sweeping little shards into a pile. I’m going to have to go over this with the vacuum a few times before I’m sure the glass is actually gone.
A car turns into the driveway, and my heart jumps out of my chest. I drop the broom and race into the two-story living room to get my gun from the couch. I don’t have many rounds left, but I rarely miss a target.
I just hope this one can die.
But it’s not someone coming to hunt me down and kill me, at least I don’t think so. It’s Richard from down the street, and he keeps his car running as he apprehensively gets out, eyeballing the broken front window.
“Shit.” Keeping my gun in one hand, I rush into the kitchen and grab a sweater, slipping it over my arms and pulling it tight around my neck to hide the blood and scratches.
“Hello?” Richard calls, stopping on the cobblestone. The blood has been washed away, but the ashes are still there. “Detective Bisset?”
I open the front door, gun in my hand, and step onto the porch. Richard looks me over, and his eyes widen. Oh, right. I have claw marks on my face.
