Page 8 of The Gargoyle’s Glade (The Gargoyle Knights #3)
Legend was, the old king was a friend of the fae if not fae himself.
He’d overseen construction over a lifetime suspiciously long to be simply human, and his magic had been woven into the very stones and lumber he’d built with.
Legends were trickly like that, however.
It was possible things had been exaggerated or embellished, and those who knew the truth were either fully committed to the lie or long gone.
The old king had held many superstitions if the stories were to be believed, and he’d chosen the shape and many of the decorative patterns specifically to trap any demons that might come through.
Wise, if you asked me, but not foolproof.
I smirked, thinking of Seir and his brother Tap.
Seir was a traveling demon and could go pretty much wherever he cared to at little more than a thought, particularly in Hell, and had a fantastic grasp of portal travel.
Tap was in charge of the crossroads, the keeper of all doorways.
If the king had known there would one day be a demon living right outside the walls of his castle and another had been in charge of the gates the whole time, he would have been aghast.
Though the old king’s reign had long since passed, and the castle had been reduced to not much more than rubble and lore, the magic remained.
At the heart of the old building was a central hall, and if one knew where to look between the fallen stones, broken pillars, and encroaching foliage, they could find the doors I’d been assigned to guard.
Much like the portal to Revalia, the doorways could take the user through to another part of the kingdom or another realm entirely.
Unfortunately, doorways work both ways—they sometimes also allow things through to our world that we might not want here.
Such an event was rare but had happened, so a permanent post had been assigned for a stone kin sentry.
Keeping things out that didn’t belong, like travelers and creatures from other places, was the whole of my job. It was important. Purposeful. Peaceful.
And much of the time, it was dreadfully boring.
In fact, I’d taken to carving figures out of wood and arranging stones in ever more tediously balanced stacks and arches to keep myself entertained.
The magic itself, however, was always pleasant to be around. It was a light, sparkling presence, proof that the old king’s intentions were good, even if he hadn’t planned properly for what might happen after he’d departed this plane.
I roamed the perimeter of my wards, ensuring that they were as tidy and strong as they could be.
For the dozenth time, I resolved to ask Ophelia if she would deign to leave her hut to help me strengthen them.
Hers in the Dread Forest were a true marvel, and with a boost from her power I would feel much better about the ones here.
She hadn’t left her home even a single time that anyone could recall since moving there, and I’d failed to work up the courage to ask her any of the times I’d visited.
Perhaps the next time I’d be brave enough.
After that, I surveyed the road that ran through the boundary.
It was not well-traveled, but still hosted unsuspecting wanderers now and then.
It had delivered Seir and Hailon into the ruins not all that long ago, as they traveled through on their way north.
Next came the castle itself, my wings getting a workout as I lifted myself further above the grounds to get an aerial look at things.
I went through the familiar motions I performed every night: checking, assessing, noting changes or growth.
I inspected the new dwellings as planned, and made sure that there was nothing out of place except where it couldn’t be prevented.
All doorway activity was verified and logged in a tome I kept in a locked box in my hut.
I selected some pieces of lumber for carvings and pulled together a group of fairly flat rocks to start a new perfectly balanced pile.
The familiar routine was a comfort to me.
Not to mention a good distraction from what had happened with Merry.
When the first light of dawn finally crested the horizon, I headed back to my dwelling, eager for a meal and some rest. But not before a detour past the new little cabin, which I discovered still had all its windows open.
An itch persisted under my skin even after I showered and ate.
Curious, I went to see if the construction crews had perhaps started arriving early and that’s what had my senses alight.
Stacks of lumber sat awaiting their craftsmen as they’d been the night before, and the glade as a whole was quiet save the birds and other small animals waking up for the day.
I was doubting my instincts until I rounded the last curve of the path and saw her.
Merry was up with the sun, using a trenching spade she found saints knew where.
The sharp edge glinted in the sunlight, and I fought against the wave of protective instinct that rose up at the sight.
She’d rigged up wooden stakes and string for an outline, and was busily hacking away at the soil to make what looked to be planting beds in large, rough rectangles.
There were also a few birds of prey circling above her. They reminded me of the ones that hung around with the demons at d’Arcan. I wondered if they believed her to be some kind of special snack, her hair a bright beacon under the early morning sun.
I didn’t interrupt, though I did stand there longer than I should have, watching her work, making sure the birds didn’t make any aggressive moves, and ensuring the blade was always as far as possible from her body as she swung it into the earth.
Merry was small but enthusiastic and clearly had plenty of experience working the earth, but still, I wanted to step in, to take the tool from her.
To keep her safe.
I rubbed at the sudden burn under my breastbone with the heel of my hand, unsure how my simple breakfast had left me with such terrible indigestion.
Once she finally set the dangerous tool down, I gave a sidelong glance at the birds, who had stopped circling and were instead perched on her roof. When I looked back, I found myself paralyzed.
In the short moments I’d had my eyes on the new avian visitors, Merry had tugged her blouse off.
She wore a thin camisole underneath, but it left very little to the imagination where her form was concerned.
For the second time in less than a full day, I tried to remember how to breathe at the sight of her bare flesh.
She used the inside of the discarded shirt to blot at her face and neck, then tied it around her waist before doing a final pass around the garden bed.
I marveled at her strong shoulders as she put her back to me, hands on her hips.
There was a reddish mark near her spine that I leaned forward to inspect closer, catching myself a breath before actually taking a step.
When she turned and bent down to inspect something in the dirt, every part of me flushed hot as her ample cleavage tested the fortitude of the rounded neckline and thin straps.
Pulse pounding and a painful ache in my trousers, I cursed my own nosiness. It brought me nothing but grief. Once I could move again, I left her to her business and swore to practice minding mine.