Page 20

chapter

three

Gabriel

One hundred and forty-three years.

That’s how long it’s been since I last drew a breath. Since actual air has filled my lungs. Since I felt the warmth of another person’s skin. Since I heard my own voice.

One hundred and forty-three years of watching the world move on without me.

And now, after all that time, I’m back to being a fucking gargoyle—I’m sorry, a grotesque. I want to scream. Unfortunately, I no longer have functioning vocal cords.

This is unacceptable.

April flinches.

“Jesus! Could you give a girl some warning before you do that?”

Before I do what?

“Talk in my head!”

Would you prefer I send a telegram?

She narrows her eyes at me.

I find that I enjoy making her do that. Which is troubling.

I’ve spent the last week listening to this woman chatter endlessly about her life, her problems, and the apparently insurmountable difficulties of obtaining paint in a timely manner. Not to mention Derek, the ex who evidently couldn’t find her clit with a GPS and a sherpa.

I had assumed she was simply irritating. Now I’m beginning to suspect she’s going to be the death of me. Again. Though I don’t suppose I’ve died. That’s been the problem.

April drags her wicker chair closer to the railing and drops into it. She looks at me.

I look at her. Or at least I assume I do. I have no control over my eyes in this form, but I can see her perfectly well.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s start with the basics.”

A sensible approach.

She smiles. Evidently, she likes praise. “You’re a gargoyle.”

Yes.

“But you were a man.”

Also yes.

“And you turned into a man because I rubbed you.”

I would smile if I could. I know nothing changes in my appearance, but still she narrows her eyes and points at me.

“Don’t make it weird.”

You were the one who spent several minutes stroking my body, April.

Her cheeks turn pink.