Chapter 2
Chapter two
At the bottom of the hill, Ruger followed a narrow path shaded by a thick canopy of gold and orange to the property’s private lake. A wooden bridge now arched over the water, connecting the two banks while providing enough clearance for canoes and kayaks to pass underneath.
While an impressive feat of construction, it wouldn’t be Blackhaven Manor without a touch of absurdity thrown into the mix. Hence the twin pillars of natural stone that bracketed the entrance, each topped with an intricately carved, crouching gargoyle.
Did it make sense? No. Did it fit the serene atmosphere of the area? Not even a little. Still, it didn’t surprise him. Skye Maddock never did anything ordinary.
Brass plaques decorated the front of the pillars, one detailing the historical use of gargoyles in architecture, and the other giving information about these particular statues. Apparently, they had been imported from the ruins of some castle in Europe.
Still, he couldn’t deny the craftsmanship. In fact, he wondered if they had been restored before being placed on the bridge. Particularly the one on the right. The attention to detail was a little unnerving, and by appearance, it could have been carved just that morning.
The face was fierce and expressive, with deep-set eyes that seemed to glint in the sunlight, and a mouth that twisted into a silent snarl. Its muscular limbs coiled as if ready to leap, claws gripping the stone base with lifelike tension.
Ornate patterns traced along its flanks, almost like tattoos that disappeared into the creases of its thighs. A set of impressive wings folded down the monster’s back, each tipped with a long, hooked claw at the joint.
Oddly captivated, Ruger shuffled closer, tilting his head as he studied the face with more intensity than it probably warranted. A set of fangs that would make any vampire green with jealousy curved over a thin bottom lip. Even stranger, he swore he could see a glint of saliva along the edges.
He reached out, index finger extended, to trace one of the canines. The stone felt smooth against his skin, surprisingly warm.
And sharp.
Hissing in a breath through clenched teeth, he jerked his hand back to stare wide-eyed at the line of crimson that trickled down his finger. The cut, however, didn’t startle him nearly as much as the way the smear of blood he’d left on the statue sizzled and bubbled like acid.
He stumbled back a step and whipped his head around, checking over his shoulder for witnesses. Technically, he hadn’t done anything wrong, but he couldn’t help but feel like he had just been caught red-handed in some nefarious scheme.
Music, laughter, and conversation floated to him from the east lawn, but he was very much alone at the water’s edge. The fact did little to calm his nerves, especially when a loud crack echoed through the morning like a gunshot.
Spinning back to the gargoyle, he watched in horror as the stone split right down the middle, starting at the point where he had bled on the snarled lip. Thinner, shallower lines branched off from the first, crawling in every direction like delicate spiderwebs.
If that alone hadn’t been bad enough, the stone around the fissures began to crumble, pieces of rock plinking off the podium and the wood slats of the bridge. A cloud of gray dust billowed into the air, obscuring his view as the structural integrity of the carving completely failed.
Ruger swallowed thickly, his throat tight with panic while his heart knocked painfully against his ribs. He didn’t know what the hell was happening or why he couldn’t look away, but he did know he was so getting fired for this.
The sky darkened, the once blue canvas now churning with angry storm clouds that blotted out the sun. Lightning streaked across the heavens, followed by crashes of thunder that shook the ground beneath his feet.
Up the hill, someone screamed, and he caught a flurry of movement from the corner of his eye as everyone scrambled for cover. Still, he couldn’t look away from the cloud of gray powder that still surrounded the broken statue.
Another deep rumble echoed across the lake, the sound deeper and wilder than the storm. The kind of noise his subconscious immediately registered as dangerous.
And it was coming from somewhere inside the swirling dust.
Shoulders tense, spine rigid, he took a measured step back and crouched into a defensive posture. The hair on his nape stood on end, and a shiver rippled down his spine in warning when a pair of glowing red orbs suddenly appeared in the center of the cloud.
Stumbling back another step, he released a growl of his own. Instincts screamed for him to run—and as a cheetah shifter, he had no doubt he could outpace any threat—but something else held him frozen, unable to retreat.
As if in slow motion, the silhouette began to appear, soft and blurred at the edges at first, but becoming sharper as the wind kicked up to scatter the powdered stone. Another minute, the dust finally settled, revealing not a statue, but a fully formed male crouched atop the pillar.
Tangled and unkempt hair the color of midnight fell around his face and down his chest, framing a face made of all hard lines and harsh angles. His glowing eyes stared back at Ruger through the darkness, his gaze eerily intense and laser focused.
Another streak of lightning sizzled across the sky, the flash glinting off his curved fangs and illuminating the litany of scars that marred his skin. Some long and thin. Others thick and jagged. A few looked as if they had only recently healed.
Ruger straightened marginally, his mind a chaotic jumble of conflicting thoughts. On one hand, this couldn’t be happening. There was no way a statue had come to life right before his eyes, complete with dramatic ambiance.
Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel some measure of sympathy for this mysterious stranger. Whoever he was, wherever he’d come from, something terrible had clearly been done to him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, surprised but pleased that his voice sounded mostly steady. “Do you need help?”
The male growled at him again, his sinewy muscles flexing as he gripped the edge of the platform and rustled his wings.
“Easy.” He held his hands up, palms out. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Considering the size of the guy, he doubted he could have if he had wanted to. Even crouched and practically folded in half, he was massive.
Standing a respectable six-two with muscles honed from hours in the gym, not many people intimidated him. This male, however, gave him pause. His sheer physicality radiated feral energy, and his defensive posture flashed danger like a neon sign.
Ruger took a cautious step forward again. A low, threatening growl poured continuously from the male’s dry lips, but beneath the menace, he also caught a fleeting glimpse of confusion, maybe even fear.
“Do you understand me?”
A pause, then the barest of nods.
Ruger exhaled, clutching at the small thread of hope. If they could communicate, maybe they could find common ground.
“My name is Ruger.” He pressed his hand to his own chest, then motioned toward the male, careful not to move too quickly. “Do you have a name?”
A longer pause followed the question, accompanied by a curious head tilt. At least he had stopped growling, though.
“I am Luka.”
His voice was low and raspy, hoarse with disuse, and tinged with the barest hint of an accent. He shifted his weight as he spoke, some of the tension easing from his coiled muscles, and the ring of glowing crimson faded from his irises.
At the same time, the clouds overhead slowed their frenzied churning, the lightning ceased, and their charcoal bellies faded to a pale gray.
Ruger needed more information before he decided what connection he could draw from that—if any—but he filed it away as something definitely worth keeping an eye on.
“Do you—”
“Where am I?” Luka shifted again, his gaze darting to the side then back to Ruger. “This is not my home.”
“You’re in Echo Falls, Colorado.” When Luka continued to look confused, he added, “It’s in the United States.”
The lines across his brow deepened, and he tilted his head, almost as if he had never heard of such a place.
“Um, the Americas?” Ruger added, trying to find a term the male might recognize.
“The witches.” Sitting back on his heels, Luka rested his arms atop his knees and nodded thoughtfully. “There are rumors. People say they are boarding a ship for the New World.”
Ruger frowned. If the guy meant what he thought he did, that had been more than four centuries ago.
“Do you know what year it is?”
Luka glanced along the shoreline and back before shaking his head again. “No, but I understand that much time has passed.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was trapped in darkness and silence, but my real curse was to remain aware of my punishment.”
Ruger’s expression twisted into something between sympathy and confusion. Sure, he knew curses existed, but he had never heard of such a powerful and long-lasting one.
“Punishment?”
Luka dipped his head.
“Why were you punished?”
A low, rumbling growl vibrated through his companion’s chest again. “For existing.”
It had to be the most disconcerting conversation Ruger had ever had. The fact that he was engaged in said discussion with a naked male who had been encased in stone only moments ago certainly didn’t help.
As fantastical as the story sounded, however, he had no reason not to believe Luka. First off, he had witnessed it with his own eyes. Beyond that, and despite knowing nothing about him, he was inclined to trust the guy.
He just didn’t know why.
People he worked with had described him as organized and detail oriented. Casual acquaintances considered him fastidious. Those who knew him well—and could get away with it—called him an asshole.
But they would all agree that he didn’t trust easily.
What made Luka different? Why did he feel so…familiar?
“We should probably find you some clothes.” And someone who knew a lot more about this kind of stuff than he did. Someone like Skye Maddock. “How about you come down from there?”
Taking a deep breath, he shuffled forward a step and stretched his arm out, making sure every movement was careful and controlled.
Luka stared at his offered hand for a long time, his posture tense, and his expression unreadable. Then, just when the inertia started to feel uncomfortable, those long, slender fingers unfurled, and he reached back with painful slowness.
Several things happened in that moment.
The wind kicked up again, the breeze swirling around them and carrying the fragrance of lake water, changing leaves, and something dark, almost primal. It wasn’t a scent he recognized on a conscious level, but one that triggered something in him on an instinctual level.
A charge crackled through the air.
A shiver rushed up his back.
Time slowed.
And someone yelled his name from the top of the hill.