Chapter Four

“Another shitty day for another shitty dollar I don’t need.” Simon chucked his keys on the side table he had by the door explicitly for that purpose. Kicking off his shoes, he sighed and drew circles in the air with his shoulders, cricking his neck in the process. Shuffling in his socks along the hardwood floor, he made his way down a small entranceway to his open plan kitchen and living areas. Not even the sight of the pale yellow painted walls with their splashes of color coming from the art made him smile.

Taking care not to damage the large bag, he placed it on the couch before going through to the kitchen. His coffee mug was already waiting for him, the pot already hot. Automation was a wonderful invention and one that Simon appreciated. But as he took his black coffee over to the couch, plonking his butt down next to the mysterious bag left by his mate, Simon knew he might not be able to appreciate the benefits of an automatic coffee maker for much longer.

Putting his mug on the coffee table, Simon leaned onto the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling, although he didn’t see it. He was thinking, as he had done for at least ten times a day in the past month, about the mate he’d seen almost daily, but who still didn’t know he existed.

The Fates were obsessive about the mates they handpicked for their paranormals. Once, a long time ago, Simon had believed the idea of fated mates was romantic. He felt special, knowing that when he found his mate, that person would be perfect for him in every way. He fell in love with the handpicked concept that his elders always spoke about – how the Fates could see into the hearts of all those they matched, and provide them with the partner who would complement their strengths and bolster their weaknesses.

And what did they see in me? Clearly nothing, because the damn man was in my space, not two feet away from me some days, and didn’t even realize it.

Simon knew he wasn’t being fair. Every species of paranormal had unique ways of knowing who their mates were and some of those methods were more involved than others. Shifters had their uber noses, of course. One sniff of the one intended for them and their dick sprung to attention, at least in the males of the species, and they never looked back. Vampires needed to smell or taste the blood of the person meant for them to be truly sure, and in magic users, apparently the magic just knew, and that was that.

It’s not like I actually know what species my mate is. That could be part of the problem. Recalling the night they met, Simon remembered the surprise at seeing a paranormal in a non-para hospital. But Vegas catered to all sorts, and it was possible the person concerned just wasn’t aware of where he was. Simon had been immediately attracted to the commanding man demanding help from the nurses’ desk for the younger person in his arms.

He'd stepped in to help. The sick man was clearly very ill, and Simon didn’t want the man’s paranormal partner throwing a fit at nurses who were already under stress. He remembered touching the bigger man’s arm, wanting to direct him to a treatment room, and that was the instant he knew…Simon’s fate was set in stone in that moment. The only thing missing was the happily ever after the Fates promised.

Groaning, Simon shifted his weight on the couch, trying to ease out the aches in his joints. That was the curse of his kind. As a gargoyle, Simon had to touch his mate to know if he was the one. And I did that. But from that moment, there had never been the time or the space to mention their connection to the clueless paranormal, who clearly did not know.

It’s not like I could pull him from his dying lover’s bedside and say hey, seeing as we’re mates, how about a quick shag and a bite in the doctor’s lounge. Then maybe you’d like some dinner afterward?

Seeing his mate almost every day had helped in one respect. Every chance sighting came with the hope that the situation might change. But the Fates didn’t like it when their carefully crafted couples didn’t agree with their decision. Simon was getting sick, and he knew it. For gargoyles, there would come a day, and to be honest he was surprised it hadn’t happened already, when Simon would shift into his stone form, likely in his sleep, and never shift back. It wouldn’t be intentional, it was just the way his kind were. No matter how busy Simon tried to be each day, the aches in his bones let him know he was running out of time.

And now my reason for seeing Kolton has passed on and I can’t even get him on the telephone because he’s not answering. What a mess.

Simon hated that Warner had been through so much pain in his short life. He didn’t deserve to die, but then most people who died didn’t deserve it. It was what happened. Death was a part of life. Simon had sought out Warner’s older medical records, once he’d realized what was wrong with him, and the blatant lack of care from Warner’s actual family and original medical team bordered on criminal.

Bordered on, but not actually criminal. Ethically unsound. Morally abhorrent, but nothing Simon could lay a complaint about. From what the records indicated, Warner’s family had refused to continue paying for his medical treatment when he told them he preferred men.

Simon read the notes. He could see where the medical professionals had tried to reason with the parents. Even then it was known Warner would die young, with or without intervention, but medical treatments and medications could make that process a lot more comfortable for him. But to Warner’s parents, Warner was dead the moment he proclaimed he was gay, and after trying to get social services involved, inevitably Warner was discharged with no home to go to.

That had been in Oregon two years before. How the heck did a young man with a terminal illness end up in Vegas? Attracted to the bright lights, perhaps? Simon would never know, and logically it really didn’t matter anymore. You’d do better to worry about your own mortality.

Reaching over, Simon tugged Kolton’s bag toward him, carefully pulling out the box again and laying it on the seat next to him. It was still glowing, and Simon smiled as he traced patterns on the black velvet, watching the light show follow his finger. That’s pretty impressive magic, right there.

Opening the box fully, now he had somewhere private to do so, Simon marveled at the workmanship of the item inside. It appeared to be a collar, but it was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was too wide, too thick, and too long to ever go around a regular man-sized neck. “Who on earth has the power to make something like this,” he murmured. “More importantly, why does the magic respond to me? I don’t even know if my mate actually owns it.”

“The collar is mine, gifted to me by my master. It responds to you, and you alone, because we’re mates. Right? You do know we’re mates, don’t you?”

Simon looked up at the strange voice as Kolton appeared in his living room like a mirage but definitely in the flesh. He looked tired, but his clothes were clean and his hair tidy. His hands, down by his side, were loosely clasped in fists and he looked as if he wished he could be anywhere than where he was.

He’s here! “Yes. I knew, or should I say I know we are mates,” Simon said calmly, even though his blood started to race and the ache in his bones seemed to ease as if washed away. “I knew from the moment I saw you. I never understood why you appeared to be clueless about it, so if you don’t mind me asking, what are you and how did you end up in my living room?”

Kolton sighed. “I’ll tell you, if I can get the words out before my hound makes an appearance. But can I sit down? I’ve had a really shit day.”

Hound? Simon nodded, moving the collar box to the other side of him and patting the space left on the couch. His whole body seemed to sigh as Kolton sat beside him, their shoulders barely touching, but it was a start.