Page 9 of The Gargoyle and the Maiden (Nightfall Guardians #1)

Idabel

T he war-bat fur smelled worse than carrion. After handling the coarse pelt in Betje’s back room, the scent seemed to burrow deeper into her nostrils with every breath. The bitter, musky stench clung to anything it touched.

“You think this will work?” she’d asked Betje doubtfully, as the apothecary helped her rub the fur on her sleeves and skirt.

Betje shrugged as she worked in the near-dark, her fae-marked features pinched with distaste at the smell.

“War bats are goblins’ mounts. Any gargoyle who catches wind of it will assume they’re under attack.

Their instincts will take over. What happens then is anyone’s guess.

You ought to take your healing kit with you to treat your injuries afterward, just in case. ”

Now, sneaking through the Tower’s corridors with her ring of keys jangling softly at her hip and her pouch of herbs and supplies on her belt, Idabel wondered if she’d lost her mind entirely. The war-bat scent was so overwhelming that she could barely think past it.

She chose the training tier deliberately.

Though it was more likely to be busy, it was close to the bottom of the Tower so she could reach it quickly.

Plus, Betje’s suggestion that gargoyles preparing for deployment would be especially volatile, their blood already running hot with thoughts of battle, seemed plausible.

If any of them would bite first and ask questions later, it would be one of them.

The sound of clashing stone and grunted curses echoed from the open archway ahead.

Her pulse quickened as she approached, clutching her cleaning supplies like a shield.

She only needed to be smelled, not seen, so she paused to let the horrible scent drift into the training space and trigger someone’s instincts.

She peered around the corner. Two gargoyles struggled on the floor of the viewing gallery, one standing on the wing of the other to keep him from rising again. She recognized the victor with a swift intake of breath. It was Brandt, his scarred hide gleaming with sweat and blood.

Her stomach clenched with unexpected worry at the dark stains spreading down his leg and ribs. Why were they fighting so viciously?

She couldn’t stay to watch, though, or she risked drawing Brandt’s notice. She intended to keep her promise to stay away from him. All the gargoyles in the Tower, and she found him first. It’d be funny if she were in any other circumstance.

Edging away from the corner, she turned to go. But a few barked words in the incomprehensible gargoyle language startled her, and she stumbled, dropping her bucket as a massive winged form bore down on her with murder in his eyes.

She only caught a glimpse of the unfamiliar gargoyle, just enough to see the gold jewelry on his horns. His claws were extended, his fangs bared, and there was nothing in his gaze that suggested he planned to stop and ask questions after a single bite. Her courage fled.

She turned to run, but her feet tangled in her skirts. The corridor floor rushed up to meet her, and she threw her hands out to break her fall just as the gargoyle’s shadow fell over her.

The impact never came.

A tremendous crash shook the stones around her as two massive bodies collided in midair. She rolled over to see Brandt grappling with the other gargoyle, both of them slamming into the wall with enough force to crack the ancient stones.

“Enough!” Brandt bellowed, but his opponent was beyond hearing. The gargoyle with gold-wrapped horns twisted in his grip, still trying to reach Idabel with desperate swipes of his claws. “Let her be!”

“It’s a goblin spy!”

“She’s human, you fool!” Brandt managed to get an arm around the other gargoyle’s throat, cutting off his air until he stopped struggling. “Look at her! Does she look like goblin cavalry to you?”

The younger gargoyle’s wild eyes focused on Idabel’s prone form. She could see the exact moment sanity returned to him, his expression shifting from murderous rage to bewildered horror.

“What—how—” He looked from her to Brandt and back again. “The scent—I almost killed her. What is she doing here? They’re going to take my wings.”

“We’ll sort it out.” Brandt’s voice was strained, and Idabel could see fresh blood seeping from the wounds on his leg. “Go to the masons. Get your shoulder tended before dawn breaks.”

The younger gargoyle nodded shakily and departed, casting one last confused look at Idabel before disappearing down the corridor.

Brandt turned to her, and she shrank back from the fury in his dark eyes. “You,” he growled, advancing on her with slow, predatory steps. “What in Tael-Nost have you done to yourself?”

She tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs felt like water. “I can explain—”

He cut her off. “Why you smell like a goblin war camp?” He reached down and hauled her upright, his grip firm but not painful. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Still trying to get bitten,” she admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I thought if I smelled like an enemy, someone would react without thinking.” Indeed, it seemed they had. Just her bad luck that Brandt was there to interfere.

“You thought—” He stared at her in disbelief, then shook his head sharply. “Never mind. We can’t discuss this here. There are moths, and half the Tower probably heard Rikard’s shouting.”

He scooped her up before she could protest, cradling her against his chest as he launched himself out of the gallery, beating his wings toward another tier. He inhaled deeply as though trying to calm himself, and she saw him wince as the war-bat smell hit his sensitive nostrils.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his shoulder. “I swear I wasn’t looking for you.”

He didn’t answer, but his arms tightened around her slightly.

His rooms were exactly as she remembered them—austere but comfortable, with heavy tapestries and furniture scaled for beings much larger than herself. He deposited her on the stone floor near the fireplace and immediately limped away, putting distance between them as he lit a few candles.

In the better light, she could see the extent of his injuries. Deep gashes ran down his calf and across his ribs, still seeping blood. Fighting her would-be attacker had only made them worse.

“You’re hurt,” she said, taking a step toward him. “Can I take a look?”

He held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t. Not until you’ve washed that stench off yourself.” He gestured toward a basin and pitcher on a side table. “There’s soap. Use it. All of it if you have to.”

Idabel nodded and hurried to comply, scrubbing at her hands and face with the harsh lye soap until her skin felt raw. She couldn’t do much about her clothes, but at least the worst of the scent was gone from her exposed skin.

When she turned back to him, she found him sitting on the floor, leaning forward to examine the deep gouge in his calf. He winced as he tried to push the torn flesh back into place.

“Let me tend you,” she said, approaching him slowly. “I know some healing. Betje has been teaching me, and she’s the best.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding all over your floor.” She knelt beside him, ignoring his protests as she examined the gashes. They were deep but clean—like knife wounds rather than jagged tears. “I can stitch these closed. It will at least stop the bleeding.”

“With what needle?” he asked weakly.

She reached into the small pouch at her belt and produced a silver needle and silk thread from her healing kit. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”

He stared at her for a long moment, clearly skeptical, then sighed. “Do it quickly. Dawn isn’t far off.”

She worked as fast as she dared, cleaning the wounds with the remaining soap and water before beginning to stitch. Her hands shook at first—she’d never sewn flesh before, only practiced on fabric—but the familiar rhythm of needle and thread steadied her.

“Why?” Brandt asked quietly as she worked. “Why do you keep putting yourself in danger for this bite you want so badly?”

She kept her eyes on her stitching. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“There are people who need to see that you’re not the perfect protectors everyone believes you to be.” The words felt hollow even as she spoke them. After watching Brandt risk himself to save her yet again, Lord Wilkin’s cause seemed less clear-cut than it had in his marble parlor.

“And you’re willing to die for this cause?”

“I had no plans to die.” She tied off the thread on his calf and moved to his ribs.

He was quiet while she worked, grimacing as she cleaned his wounds there. These were shallower and only needed a few stitches. Then she rubbed a comfrey salve over all the injuries.

“That gargoyle who attacked you…he’ll be deployed with my watch in a few days.

If I hadn’t been here, if he’d killed you.

..” He shook his head. “He’s arrogant and reckless, but he’s not a murderer.

The guilt would have eaten him alive. They would have taken his wings.

His family would lose their roost. It might happen anyway if this story gets out. ”

Idabel’s fists clenched involuntarily. She certainly knew what it felt like to have her home and limbs in jeopardy. It hurt to put another in the same position, even if it was necessary. “I’m sorry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything.” But Brandt’s voice was gentle rather than angry. “You can’t keep doing this, Idabel. I can’t protect you forever.”

A sound from the passageway made them both freeze. Footsteps, and the rustle of wings.

“Brandt?” came his mother’s voice, sharp with concern. “I heard there was trouble in the training halls—”

He was on his feet in an instant, hauling Idabel with him toward an archway with a hefty wooden door. “My nest,” he hissed, pushing her through it. “Hide. Don’t make a sound.”