Page 11 of The Gargoyle and the Maiden (Nightfall Guardians #1)

Brandt

T he first thing that hit him when dusk broke was her scent.

Not the acrid, nauseating stench of war bat that had clung to her the night before.

That abomination had been scrubbed away hours ago by the keepers.

This was the other smell, the one that had been haunting him since their first encounter.

Citrus and herbs that combined in a way that made his chest tighten with an unfamiliar hunger.

Brandt flexed his shoulders experimentally as the last of the day-dust cracked and crumbled away from his skin.

The wounds Rikard had given him during their sparring session should have been agony.

He’d expected they would require days of the masons’ careful tending to heal properly, and perhaps another mind wall against the throbbing pain that had erupted once the battle bliss was gone.

Instead, there was only a faint tenderness where the gashes had been, and when he looked down, he could barely make out the thin lines of new scars.

The human’s stitching and herbal paste had somehow accomplished what trained masons struggled achieve.

He ran his fingers along the barely visible seams on his ribs, remembering the way she’d bitten her lip in concentration as she worked, her touch gentle despite the urgency of dawn’s approach.

It was troubling. He didn’t want to be impressed by anything about the maddening little creature who seemed determined to get herself killed in increasingly creative ways.

“Brandt?” Ghantal called from the outer chamber. “The Zenith wishes to see you. Something about last night’s incident.”

His gut tightened. Of course. Rikard’s shouts about goblin spies would have reached every tier of the Tower by now.

He dressed quickly, buckling on his everyday leathers and running his hands through his hair to smooth it into some semblance of order.

He brushed off Ghantal’s complaints about his armor as he departed.

The Zenith’s offices took up the entirety of the highest tier.

One could look down on the whole of the Tower’s hollow center and all of Solvantis from here.

Brandt had only been called up this high on a few other occasions as part of a group of commanders, never on his own.

His stomach rebelled at the thought of what might await him.

He was admitted immediately to the Zenith’s inner chamber, set off from the other rooms by the screens that kept out any meddling moths who might overhear his business.

Rikard was already present, perched awkwardly on a ledge with his wings folded tight against his back.

His expression was carefully neutral, but the stench of anxiety rolled off him in waves.

His uncle, the elderly Nadir, perched beside him.

“Commander,” the Zenith greeted him with a nod from his ornate, elevated perch. “I trust you’ve recovered from your training session?”

“Completely.” Brandt touched his fist to his horns in salute. “Ready for duty.”

“Good. Then perhaps you can explain what happened in the training gallery last night. Young Rikard here seems to believe he encountered a goblin spy.”

Brandt glanced at Rikard, who stared fixedly at the floor. “I investigated the matter personally. It was a misunderstanding.”

The Zenith’s eyebrows rose. “A misunderstanding?”

“It was a human, not a goblin, although Rikard could be forgiven for thinking so, because she wore war bat leather.”

“What?!” the Nadir burst in before the Zenith could respond. He turned on his nephew, who shrank back. “You attacked a human ?”

“The human in question is a servant, a cleaner who works the Tower. Apparently, she’d found a piece of leather in the Tower rubbish heap and took it to patch her boot.

She had no idea it was from a war bat.” The lie rolled off his tongue with surprising ease.

“When she entered the training halls to finish her duties, the smell triggered Rikard’s instincts to attack.

Completely understandable, given that he was still in battle bliss. ”

The Nadir seemed mollified by his explanation. “You spoke with this human?”

“I did. She was terrified, naturally, but cooperative. She does not blame Rikard. She will not file a complaint against him.”

“Will you still accept him in your wing?” the Zenith asked perceptively.

“Of course,” Brandt said firmly, meeting the younger gargoyle’s startled gaze. “His instincts were exactly what I want to see in combat. Better to investigate a false alarm than miss a real threat. He should be commended, not punished.”

The Zenith looked between them, clearly sensing undercurrents he didn’t fully understand.

But after a moment, he nodded. “Very well. I will issue a commendation. Bardoux, see that the keepers are educated about bringing goblin-scented materials into the Tower. We can’t afford this kind of confusion when tensions are already running high. ”

The Nadir put a fist to his horns. “It will be done.”

“Dismissed. Both of you,” the Zenith ordered. “Bardoux and I have other matters to discuss.”

They left the chamber in silence, but once they were alone in the outer passageway, Rikard caught Brandt’s arm. “Why?” he murmured in a low voice. “Why protect me? I nearly killed an innocent human.”

Brandt recognized the desperate need for approval on Rikard’s proud face. It was all too familiar. “Because you’re going to war in a week, and the last thing you need is doubt clouding your judgment. What happened last night was instinct, not malice. Learn from it and move on.”

“A commendation, though?” Rikard’s voice cracked slightly. “After I lost control like that?”

“You reacted to a perceived threat. That’s exactly what a warrior should do.” Brandt clapped him on the shoulder. “Your uncle should be proud.”

Something shifted in Rikard’s expression at the mention of Bardoux. The desperate gratitude faded, replaced by a familiar weight of expectation. “He needs me to survive this deployment. To carry on the family line.” He laughed bitterly. “No pressure at all.”

“The family line survives because you’re strong enough to carry it, not the other way around. Don’t let anyone’s expectations make you reckless out there.”

“Even yours?”

“Especially mine. I need my wing leaders thinking clearly, not trying to prove themselves to their superiors. I already trust you. I don’t need proof that you’re a good warrior. I know you are.”

Rikard nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Thank you for the second chance.”

“Don’t waste it.”

The rest of the night was consumed with deployment preparations. He received word that the deployment date had been moved up. Goblin hordes were amassing faster than expected, and the Sixth Watch would fly to Meravenna to meet them before they advanced further into human territory.

Brandt drilled the watch in defensive flying formations, reviewed supply manifests, and coordinated with the other wing commanders.

But through it all, that damned female’s scent lingered in his awareness like a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch.

He caught wafts of Idabel everywhere. They turned his head and destroyed his focus.

He couldn’t help tracking down the source of the scent, hoping to find her, but he hit dead ends every time.

He’d round a corner expecting to find her there, only to discover an empty corridor or a locked door.

It was so bad that the moths began following him on his wild-goose-chases, whispering their theories on his odd behavior.

“Do you think he’s lost?”

“The commander drank too much mead at the feast tonight. I saw him refill his tankard at least six times.”

“Besotted, he is. Absolutely skunked.”

“He’d better hope word doesn’t reach the higher tiers. It wouldn’t look good for him to be in his cups.”

The fourth time he scented her, he wouldn’t have followed it, but this time he was certain she had to be nearby. The citrus smell was so intense, it couldn’t be his imagination. His mouth watered, and his pulse quickened as he followed it down a narrow side passage.

Her scent led him straight to a garderobe.

Brandt stopped short, staring at the heavy wooden door that was marked with a gold crescent moon. Inside, he could hear the soft sounds of someone working: the splash of water, the scrub of brush against stone. Was she here, now, somehow? Was fate drawing them together, yet again?

He pushed the door open and found exactly what he should have expected: a cloaked keeper polishing the latrine, one with a carved wooden seat that had a tail-notch atop the stone bench.

A bucket and mop rested beside her. And there, scattered across the bench, were the rinds of lemons and oranges that she was using to polish the rich wood.

The scent hit him like a physical blow. This was it. This was what he’d been smelling. Not Idabel herself, but the cleaning supplies she used.

The realization appalled him. Here he was, standing in a latrine like a fool, lusting after a lemon rind that represented all that was wrong with their relationship.

Worse—he didn’t even know what she actually smelled like. Every time he’d encountered her, she’d been working, surrounded by the tools of her trades. The citrus and herbs and cleaning solutions and faefucked war bat hide had masked whatever natural scent she carried.

He had to know what she really smelled like.

The thought obsessed him for the rest of the night, driving out all others no matter how many mind walls he built.

The need quickly became a compulsion, interfering with his duties and clouding his thoughts when he should be focused on the coming deployment.

Thank the fallen gods the moths couldn’t see the nonsense inside his head, or he’d never hear the end of it.

His was simple curiosity, nothing more. Once he satisfied this ridiculous fixation, he could put it behind him and concentrate on what mattered.

So the next night, as soon as he shook off his day-dust, he found himself perching in the shadows near Maiden Hall like a common pigeon, hoping he wasn’t too late to catch Idabel on her way home from work.

He easily spotted her dark hair navigating the cobbled streets, its shining lengths pinned in braided whorls on top of her head tonight. It was an attractive style, a little like dragon horns, but he itched to unpin them and comb her hair with his claws.

He growled, shaking off the thought. Silly grooming instincts. He saved her life and now his guardian heart believed she belonged to him. He’d forget about her once he deployed and put up his mind walls, and then he’d be free of these annoying little impulses.

She was almost to the door when he struck.

He dropped from the sky like a hunting hawk, snatching her up before she could so much as cry out. His arms closed around her, and then they were airborne, climbing rapidly toward his tier.

“Brandt?” She sounded breathless, and he could feel her heart pounding against the inside of his forearm. “What are you doing?”

He couldn’t answer without admitting to the shameful lack of self-control that had driven him to this.

Instead, he concentrated on flying straight up with the extra weight.

Thankfully, she didn’t struggle and make it any harder.

He landed on his own balcony and set her down.

She stumbled back from him immediately, her eyes wide and accusing.

“What are you doing? You can’t just kidnap people off the street.”

“I need to know something,” he said, advancing on her slowly. She backed away until she hit the stone railing, trapped between him and the dizzying drop to the city street below.

“Know what?” Her voice was high and uncertain.

He leaned closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Close enough to finally, finally catch her true scent beneath the lingering traces of lemon oil and soap. He had to bury his nose into the side of her neck where her pulse throbbed.

And there it was. Sweet and warm and a little milky, like nothing else, the smell of Idabel. It hit him like a blow to the chest.

“Your scent,” he said roughly, pulling back. “I needed to know your real scent before I left.”

She stared at him like he’d grown a third horn. “My...what?”

He fumbled for an explanation, knowing full well he was being ridiculous. “Every time I’ve encountered you, you smelled of lemons or herbs. I couldn’t tell your true...” He trailed off, realizing how insane he sounded.

“You stole me off the street to smell me?” Her voice held an edge of amusement.

“I didn’t steal you. I was just...borrowing.” Fallen gods knew he couldn’t keep her.

She laughed and shook her head, sending a gust of her true scent swirling.

He found himself leaning closer despite his better judgment, bracing his arms against the balcony railing on either side of her, breathing her in like the rare flower she was.

It made his wings spread and his teeth ache.

It made his cock hard and his blood sing.

He plucked a pin out of her hair, and then another, until one heavy braid came tumbling down. He picked up the end and pressed it to his nose.

“Stop that,” she snapped, tugging it out of his hand, but her voice had gone breathless again.

“I can’t.” The admission felt torn from him involuntarily. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I can’t get you out of my head.”

Her expression shifted to something doubtful and guarded, even as her cheeks reddened. “You told me to stay away from you.”

He let go of the railing and stepped back, fighting for control. This was madness. She was human, completely unsuitable as a lover in every possible way. He was leaving for war in less than a week. He had responsibilities, duties, a reputation to maintain.

None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the way she was looking at him now, with hunger that matched his own in her dark eyes.

“I should take you back to Maiden Hall,” he said hoarsely.

“Yes.” But neither of them moved.

He was in serious trouble.