Page 7 of Gargoyle Vigilante

However, being inside their California headquarters for the first time in eighty years didn’t exactly thrill him. He didn’t doubt that his fellow Slayers would be resentful of him breaking ranks. When he’d followed the trail to LA of what he was sure must be an unusually large gathering of rogues, he’d figured he might get found out. But the hunt had been too intoxicating to resist.

He reached the bottom, a ten by ten room with a marble floor. Opposite the stairs was the iron door that protected their lair from anyone—or anything—that might try and attack. Before he had the chance to place the blessed selenite crystal that he wore around his neck into the keyhole, the massive door groaned and creaked, sliding into the reinforced rock bed wall.

He hadn't a clue as to why they had an underground lair in an earthquake country. That was above his pay grade. But the gargoyles who’d been tasked with building the space seemed to know what they were doing. No one had ever been crushed, so he couldn’t complain.

Ezekiel appeared once the door was all the way open. His eyes glowed gold in stark contrast to his clean-shaven, rich black skin. With high cheekbones and a strong jawline, his presence commanded respect. However, he didn’t appear amused at the moment.

“Get inside before you bring a scourge of rogues in with you.” He glanced down then flicked his eyes back up. “Oh, look. It’s Mr. I’m-too-busy-for-this-mate-bullshit, yet here you are.”

“Shut up.” Dante narrowed his eyes as he brushed past him. “Nice to see you too, Zeke.”

The door groaned shut behind them, the noise barely concealing Ezekiel’s throaty growl.

“Already, Dante, huh? You know I fucking hate being called by that name.”

Dante paused in the foyer shaped like a half-moon, the entrance being at the flat end of the curve, noting that nothing had changed. “Better than the other thing I could call you.”

“Heaven help us all, but you’re an asshole. If it weren’t for the Divine Spark’s insistence that you mate, I’d tell you and this Nephilim to fuck off.”

Dante’s own eyes blazed as he stared Ezekiel down. Before him was a formidable adversary and not one he dared challenge—especially not when he so desperately needed the Reaper’s help. The Slayer was around six five, like most slayers were, but he had a leaner, less muscled frame.

“Then fulfill your duty and heal my mate.”

Ezekiel gave him a self-satisfied smile as if he knew a secret. Dante figured he was enjoying being the one to witness the return of the prodigal son.

“It would be my pleasure.” Ezekiel gestured to the hall on the left, the one that led to the private sleeping chambers. The center hallway led to the heart of their operations, and to the right were recreation and eating areas.

“Unlike some Slayers, I do what’s best for all, not only what I prefer doing.”

If his mate’s life weren’t in the balance, throat punching wouldn’t be off the table.

They made their way down the corridor, passing more than one fellow Slayer who raised an eyebrow or two at his presence. He had no interest in engaging. All he could focus on was saving his fated one.

Ezekiel paused at the arched doorway of a room Dante had no issue recalling—his own. Despite Los Angeles being much different when their lair was constructed, it was still more interesting to him than the ancient locales he’d once called home. All gargoyles, Slayers included, needed a home base that was their responsibility to protect. Should the unthinkable happen, they would fight the holy ground until it fell.

Ezekiel regarded him. “What’s wrong? Forgot you had your own room?”

Dante pressed his lips together, startled by the unexpected development. “I assumed someone else, new progeny perhaps, would’ve taken my spot. I certainly didn’t need it.”

Ezekiel tilted his head. “Are you sure?” He gestured to his unconscious mate. “It would appear you need it after all.”

His patience was non-existent at this point. The banter between him and Ezekiel that once gave him a perverse pleasure had evaporated with the urgency to save his mate.

“Not unless you heal him,” Dante snapped.

Ezekiel’s features softened. “Of course.” He gestured for Dante to go ahead. “I won’t let him slip away.”

Dante laid his mate softly on the bed, startled that the plush velvet of the black duvet showed no sign of dust or dirt. He glanced at the Edwardian bedside tables that he had always loved, and not a speck of dust could be found there either.

“Are you sure no one’s been staying here?” He grunted. “Not that I care, but everything is spotless.”

Ezekiel rolled his eyes before leaning over Dante’s still-motionless mate. “You can thank the ever-hopeful Mal for that. He was convinced your return was imminent and he didn’t want you to be discouraged by a filthy room.”

A pang of guilt coursed through him. Mal never gave up on him, even though he himself had given up on everyone else—including his closest friend. Perhaps hisonlyfriend after the way he’d behaved for close to a century.

Dante rubbed his forehead, frustration taking over. Too much remorse and sorrow filled him, too many gentle, caring emotions. He needed his rage,neededto remain cold and heartless. How else could he fulfill his duty?

He tried to banish from his thoughts that part of that duty was to mate, but it was useless. He’d made a promise to the Divine Spark and wouldn’t go back on his word if the Nephilim was spared. Reminding himself that sex on the regular wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, he could perhaps have things both ways.

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