Page 15 of The Gargoyle and the Songbird

It’s not like he ever has anything useful to contribute, anyway. When he does bother to open his mouth, it’s usually just to bark orders or say something rude.

No, I’m making the executive decision here.

The worried crease between Mariah’s brows smooths slightly but I can tell she’s not entirely convinced. Damn Graeme and his stormy scowling! I link my arm with Mariah’s, angling us towards the door.

“C’mon, babe, let’s walk and talk! I want to hear all about your flower selection, and how the cake tasting went, and whether Uncle Bernie is still planning that gods-awful toast...”

The late afternoonsunlight dapples through the canopy of oak trees arching over my dad’s street, washing everything in a nostalgic glow.

Graeme’s bulky form looms behind me as I bound up the cobblestone path to the front door, one of my bags bouncingagainst my hip and Minx’s carrier clutched under the other arm. My heart swells with anticipation, the way it always does when I’m about to see my dad after too much time away.

I’ve barely raised my fist to knock when the cheerful red door swings open, revealing a beaming Joran Waverly.

It’s no wonder I turned out the way I did, wanting to perform, seeking an audience. My dad looks like he just stepped out of an old album cover, with his salt-and-pepper hair, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes, and a guitar slung across his back. He must have just been playing.

“There’s my girl!” he cries, sweeping me up into one of his legendary bear hugs. My short stature comes from my mom’s side of the family, not my dad’s. My feet lift right off the ivy-covered steps as I am folded into his embrace. “Welcome home, songbird!”

I melt into his familiar scent—cedarwood and old parchment.

“Hi, Daddy,” I mumble into his collar, blinking away the sudden sting of happy tears. “I missed you.”

“Missed you more, baby girl.” He spins me around before setting me back on my feet, hands braced on my shoulders as he looks me over with that fatherly inspection that never quite stops, no matter how grown I get. “You been eating enough? Getting enough rest between all those big fancy concerts?”

“Yes, Dad,” I assure him, fondly exasperated.

Over his shoulder, I catch Graeme hovering stiffly by the gate, looking deeply uncomfortable amidst all this open affection.

Whoops. Almost forgot about my dour tagalong.

I backtrack to the gate and grab Graeme’s elbow, tugging him forward, ignoring the way he tenses at my touch. “Dad, this is Graeme, my new?—”

“Bodyguard!” My dad’s grin widens as he clasps Graeme’s hand between both of his own, pumping it enthusiastically. “Good to meet you, son. Ecco told me you’d be accompanying her. I’m so glad she has you looking out for her. Any friend of my daughter’s is a friend of mine!”

Friend? I barely suppress a snort.

Graeme is many things—a thorn in my side, a professional stick-in-the-mud, an unwanted complication in my already chaotic life—but “friend” isn’t the word I’d use.

Nuisance, more like. Or royal pain in my ass.

To my surprise, some of the rigid tension seems to leak out of Graeme’s mountainous shoulders as my dad greets him so warmly. His chiseled jaw even unclenches a notch or two.

Huh. I guess even soulless gargoyle warriors aren’t entirely immune to the Waverly charm offensive.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Waverly,” Graeme says, the words only slightly stilted. “Thank you for having us.”

“Pshh, call me Joran, son. No need for formalities here.” Dad waves us in the door, closing it behind us once we’re in. “I’m so glad you could come by and see your old man on your way into town!”

“Um, about that, Dad...” I heft my overnight bag meaningfully as we step into the eclectic jumble of the living room. Minx starts squirming in her carrier, eager to be free. “We were actually hoping we could stay here for a few days, if that’s okay?”

I head down the narrow hallway with my bag, the faded rag rug soft beneath my boots as I head to my old room, Graeme a hulking presence trailing behind me.

Over my shoulder I call, “There was a bit of a room shortage at the Moonflower, and since Graeme needs to stay close...”

I push open the door to my old bedroom, ready to toss my stuff on the bed and change into something that doesn’t reek of car funk.

“Wait,” my dad calls. “Ecco, there is something?—”

He cuts off when I register what’s behind the door.

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