Page 37 of The Gargoyle and the Songbird

14

ECCO

Istride out into the hall, where Graeme stands sentinel. “I’m ready,” I announce.

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Ecco, that’s not going to keep you anywhere near warm enough, not in all that snow.”

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Have a little faith, bodyguard. This is Elderberry Falls. We have ways of dealing with the unexpected.”

Before he can argue further, I lead him back down to the lobby. The warm, enchanted space has become a bustling hub of activity. Humans and magical beings line up before a transfiguration witch, who turns their regular clothing into enchanted snow gear with a flick of her wrist.

I watch in delight as a dryad’s sundress shimmers and morphs into a leafy green snowsuit, while a centaur’s tailored suit jacket becomes a cozy, fur-lined cloak. The witch’s magic is as impressive as it is efficient, and soon it’s our turn.

Graeme watches in reluctant amazement as my chic outfit—a fitted leather jacket, skinny jeans, and heeled boots—ripples and changes.

In a matter of seconds, I’m outfitted in a sleek, form-fitting white and silver snowsuit, complete with thermal gloves and fur-lined boots with blue accents that compliment my hair.

I give an experimental twirl, relishing the slide of the enchanted fabric against my skin. It’s lightweight yet insulating.

“Nice work,” I grin at the witch, who smiles back. I shoot Graeme a wink. “Your turn, big guy.”

He grumbles under his breath but steps forward, allowing the witch to work her magic. His simple black t-shirt and jeans transform into a rugged, all-black snowsuit that hugs his muscular frame in all the right places. His wings stay hidden inside of his clothes.

I decidedly ignore any thoughts I may be having about how well the outfit suits him, determined to focus on the adventure at hand.

“Ready?” I ask, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

Graeme sighs, resignation heavy in his tone. “As I’ll ever be. Lead the way, troublemaker.”

With a laugh, I grab his hand and tug him towards the door, ready to brave the enchanted blizzard and find some enjoyment in all this chaos.

The streets are all blanketed in a thick layer of glittering snow, the storefronts transformed into something out of a fairy tale. Icicles dangle from eaves like crystal fringe, and the air is filled with the soft hush of falling flakes. Workers with shovels have clearly been through already, clearing walking paths, but even in the shoveled places there’s new snow at least a foot deep.

Beside me, Graeme cuts an imposing figure in his black snowsuit. Even in the bulky gear, there’s alert tension in his posture. His eyes scan the street, ever-vigilant.

I roll my eyes. “Relax, Graeme. It’s a blizzard, not a battlefield.”

He shoots me a sidelong glance. “With you, Ecco, it’s both.”

I stick my tongue out at him, the cold air nipping at my exposed skin. “Come on, grumpy. I know just the place to warm you up.”

I lead Graeme through the winding streets, our boots crunching rhythmically in the snow. As we round the corner onto the town square, the mouthwatering aroma of baked goods wafts over us, and I grin.

The Hungry Minotaur sits like a beacon, warm light spilling from its windows onto the frozen fountains and snow-covered benches of the town square. The bakery’s exterior is painted a cheery red, with a hand-carved wooden sign depicting a friendly, aproned minotaur holding a tray of pastries.

I push open the door, sighing happily as the scent of cinnamon and cloves envelops me like a hug. “Rian? You in here?”

Rian, a handsome minotaur in his early 40s and the owner of the bakery, emerges from the back room. His broad face splits into a grin and he crosses the shop in three long strides, then pulls me into a warm embrace, chuckling.

“Ecco Waverly, as I live and breathe! It’s been too long, songbird,” he says. “How have you been?”

I hug him back tightly, breathing in the comforting scent of flour and spices that always clings to his apron. I’m used to being the shortest one in almost every room, but Rian’s always made me feel extra tiny, and it’s nice to be wrapped in his comforting bulk.

“Oh, you know,” I say. “Glamorous pop star life. Endless paparazzi. Crazed stalkers. The usual.”

Rian holds me at arm’s length, his kind brown eyes crinkling in concern. “Stalkers? Ecco, that’s…” He seems to notice Graeme for the first time, looming behind me like a thundercloud. “And who’s your friend here?”

“Graeme Grigori, Ms. Waverly’s personal security detail.” Graeme steps forward, offering a hand that Rian engulfs in his much larger one.

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