He looks confused, this poor man who is more instinct than human at this point. Who understands bare necessities like food and water more than he understands anything else.

“Do you know how to find the Crown?” I ask, and this time I hold my hands right above my head, mimicking the act of putting on a crown.

The confusion only grows worse as he starts to babble. “No crown. No crown. No crown.”

It’s not the answer I’m expecting—not the answer any of us is expecting—and I glance back to see worry on Hudson’s and Jaxon’s faces. Because if he doesn’t have the Crown, where is it? And does that mean Cyrus can find it first?

But before I can ask him about the Crown one more time—just to be certain—he starts to babble again. “Her crown. Her crown. Her. Must give Crown to her. Must protect her. Must protect Crown. Her.”

Now I really do rear back in shock, because who is her? And why does she need to be protected if she’s already got the Crown?

161

Crown Your Sorrows

“It’s okay,” I tell him, stepping closer so I can put a soothing hand on his shoulder. He freezes at my touch and I realize—like with the water—this is the first real human contact this poor man has had in more than a millennia.

The knowledge hits me deep inside, makes me want to hug him and punch Cyrus at the same time. I settle for patting his shoulder and saying, “I will protect her. If you tell me who she is, I will protect her.”

His eyes narrow and he looks at me, half hopeful and half suspicious. “You will protect her?”

“I will. If you tell me how to get the Crown, I will give it to her, as soon as I save my friends.”

Again that look, as if he’s trying to assess me even through the jumbled mess of his mind. “You give her Crown?” he asks.

“After I save my friends, yes,” I tell him. “But do you know where it is?”

He nods quickly. “You promise. Give her Crown. Protect her. Agree?”

I have no idea who “her” is, but if it gets me the Crown, I’m totally willing to try to figure it out. It’s not like I want the Crown longer than it takes to defeat Cyrus.

But before I can agree, Hudson makes his way closer. “Be careful what you promise, Grace. It’s not the same in our world. What if ‘her’ is Delilah? Or someone worse?”

I nod, because I know he’s right. Look at Charon, who let us out of that prison against every instinct and desire he had, simply because he’d made a promise. What if I promise this Crown to the vampire queen or the Crone or someone equally as horrible who I don’t even know exists yet?

And so I turn back to the man/gargoyle and ask again, “Who is ‘her’?”

But he just shakes his head and says, “Crown give her,” over and over and over again.

I don’t know what to do, don’t know what to say to get him to trust me with the whereabouts of the Crown or the identity of “her.”

He’s growing as frustrated as I am, maybe more, and this time when he starts to babble, he says something else. Something more important. “Give mate Crown.”

I whirl around to look at Hudson, and he has the same thunderstruck expression on his face that I am sure I have on mine. “She’s your mate?” I ask. “You want your mate to have the Crown?”

He nods.

“You want to protect your mate?”

He nods again. And I’m reminded of Falia and Vander, both of whom had to go a thousand years without their mates. It devastated them, nearly destroyed them, and I wonder what must have happened to this man’s poor mate all these years. He was frozen in stone, but if she’s still alive, she’s suffered through all the agony of not having a mate, completely alone, unable to even communicate the most basic things to him.

I glance at Hudson again as something else occurs to me. If he has a mate, does that mean there’s another gargoyle out there somewhere? That maybe the two of us aren’t the only ones in existence? I mean, yeah, he could be mated to someone non-gargoyle—look at Hudson and me—but there’s a chance she’s a gargoyle. And that is the most wonderful and amazing thing I’ve heard in a really long time.

Hudson must feel my excitement, because he nods at me and even grins a little. I love that he reads me so easily and that—despite the bickering—we’re so often on the same page when it really matters.

And so I turn back around and say in a loud, clear voice, “Yes. If you give me the Crown to save my friends, afterward, I promise to search for your mate and give it to her.”

For the longest time, the gargoyle doesn’t move. He just studies me with eyes that grow older with every second that passes—eyes that seem to hold eternity in their pewter-gray depths.

I’m about to say it again, to ask if he’s okay, but then quick as a striking snake, he grabs my hand and says, “Agree. “

His palm slides against mine, and then he takes off running toward the entrance of the cave.

“What the—” Jaxon tries to race after him, but I stop him.

“Wait! Let him go. It’s okay. There’s nowhere to run, and we can chase after him in a minute.”

“But the Crown,” Macy says.

“He gave me something,” I answer, scratching at my palm because it’s suddenly burning and itching.

I turn it over, and tattooed right in the center of my hand, taking up almost my entire palm, is a series of seven concentric circles in the shape of a wreath…or a crown.

I hold my hand up for my friends to see, and as they all crowd around, I can’t help asking, “Now what?”

0

You Really Can’t

Go Home Again

—Hudson—

“Ready to go home?” I ask Grace as Macy prepares to open one last portal.

She turns to me, and the wind is blowing her curls across her face, so it takes me a few seconds to realize she’s been crying.

“Hey.” I pull her into my chest, and she comes—which, honestly, feels a little like a miracle in and of itself in a morning that’s been full of miracles already. “You okay?”

She nods even as she buries her head against me.

“Does it still hurt?” I take her hand, gently turning it over so that I can see the Crown emblazoned there. It’s glowing eerily, something her other tattoo only does when it’s actively channeling magic, which makes me wonder all kinds of things about this one. None of them good.

“It’s not too bad,” she answers. “More annoying than anything else. Not…”

“Not like the rest of the day, which has hurt like hell?” I fill in the blanks for her.

She nods. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Macy’s almost got the portal ready,” I tell her, nodding to where Macy and Eden are laying stones on the beach.

“Good. If I never see this place again, it’ll be too soon.”

I know what she means. First Xavier, then Luca. Yeah, we managed to hang on to Jaxon and Flint, but only because of those aforementioned miracles. “I’m beginning to think this island is cursed.”

“Or we are.” Now it’s Grace’s turn to look down at her palm. “What am I supposed to do with this thing?”

“We’ll figure it out,” I promise. “Maybe Foster or Amka have some ideas about it. And if they don’t, we’ll find someone who does.”

“Someone who won’t chop off my hand just to try to possess it for themselves?” She lifts a brow.

“Good point. Surely there’s someone who can—” I break off as she looks back toward the area that used to house the hot springs and trees and beautiful rock formations, an area that is now mostly dust.

Because of me.

I try not to panic as she stares at it for several silent seconds. I’ve spent the last hour waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to realize that she doesn’t love me after all. Or worse, that she doesn’t love me enough to stand up to her feelings for Jaxon, feelings she couldn’t help but realize as he lay dying right in front of her.

I wouldn’t even blame her. Those moments when Jaxon was dead… I would have done anything to take his place again. Anything for it not to have been my brother lying there cold and lifeless.

Anything, that is, but give up Grace. Maybe she had the same thought about me, without the caveat.

But then she turns to me and smiles, and it takes my breath away all over again. And when she joins her non-tattooed hand with mine, hope trembles inside me like a bird just beginning to stretch its wings.

Even before she whispers, “I love you. I think I’ve always loved you.”

And just like that, the bird takes flight.

Still, I don’t throw myself at her feet and gush the way I’m desperate to—a man needs some dignity, after all. Instead, I smile and whisper, “I know,” right before I take her mouth with mine.

It’s a brief kiss—soft and sweet and perfect—but she pulls away laughing after only a few seconds. “Are you always going to say that?”

“If it’s good enough for Han Solo and Princess Leia…”

She grins. “Then it’s good enough for us?”

“Something like that.” I pull her into my arms one more time just because I can. She melts against me, and I whisper what’s been burning inside me for nearly six long months. “I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”