1. Gwen

CHAPTER ONE

GWEN

M y fingers brushed delicate porcelain high above my head. The vase teetered on its perch, mocking me with every little wiggle that scooted its smooth ass further and further out of my grasp. I shot a look to the step stool sitting neatly against a cabinet on the other side of the shop.

Of course. Try to be productive and do a little dusting, get punished for it.

"Almost... got it..." I muttered, straining higher.

My fingertips grazed something unexpected. Rough wood. A box? That didn't belong up there.

The vase tilted. Wobbled. Slid towards the edge of the shelf.

And then came tumbling down.

My heart lodged in my throat. In a desperate lunge, I snagged it mid-fall, cradling the priceless artifact against my chest. Crisis averted. Again.

I spun to face my oblivious customer, plastering on a smile. "As I was saying, this Ming dynasty piece showcases?—"

"Looks mass-produced." His eyes narrowed at his phone, more attention for his screen than the piece he specifically requested I bring down. "Bet I could get something similar at any department store."

I stifled a sigh. If only he knew the painstaking authentication process, the hours of research...

"I assure you, sir, this is far from a modern reproduction." My fingertip hovered over the delicate brushwork, mind already drifting. What I wouldn't give to be out there, unearthing these treasures myself instead of explaining their value to the willfully ignorant.

"See how the cobalt pigment pools slightly? That's a hallmark of fifteenth-century techniques. And here, this imperfection in the glaze? You won't find that kind of character in machine-made pieces."

He grunted, unimpressed. "Fine. What's your price?"

"Given its historical significance and pristine condition, we're offering it at twenty-five hundred dollars."

His eyebrows shot up. "There's no way some glass is worth that much. I'll give you a grand."

I almost laughed. Almost. Because who knew if Miriam watched the cameras? Not me, the one she'd scolded the last time I laughed in a customer's face. "Sir, this vase has survived five centuries. I'm certain it can weather a few more days in our shop at its current price."

That got his attention off the phone. He stood a bit taller, jaw firming into stubborn lines. "Twelve hundred."

Not surprising. With artwork and antiques, everything was haggling, wheeling, dealing—all just numbers on a spreadsheet. He wasn't truly interested in what he could buy; he was seeking status. The best, most sought-after piece, because owning it meant that for a brief moment, he was worth something too.

Unfortunately for him, he'd picked a bad day for bargain hunting. I'd already helped two others just like him and chased off a third for wondering aloud if my goods were also for purchase.

There must have been an asshole convention in town.

I launched into a well-worn script as my mind wandered. The shop brimmed with stories, each piece whispering secrets of its own. Antiques had an energy. They felt full of life, stained by every person who owned them. When I touched them, I could sense the past, feel it seep into me as I let the history unfold like the brushwork of a painting.

And here I was, stuck behind a counter, sending off another piece of priceless history to gather dust in some McMansion.

"...final offer. Twenty-two hundred."

I blinked, dragged back to the present. Close enough. "You drive a hard bargain, sir. Sold."

Transaction complete, I watched him swagger out with the poor vase tucked carelessly under one arm. My nails dug into my palms.

Silence settled over Whispering Relics like one of our heavy velvet curtains. I leaned against the counter. Restlessness itched under my skin. Normally, I enjoyed tending the shop—it allowed me to live vicariously through the pieces themselves. But today, there was nothing left to discover but dust.

Nor would there be. Not with my own hands, at least. While my boss gallivanted across Europe chasing the next big find, I minded the store. I'd practically begged to go along, but Miriam had shut me down with a pat on the head and a "Maybe next time, dear."

Next time. Always next time.

My gaze drifted to the high shelf where I'd glimpsed that strange wooden box. Strange, because I thought I knew every item in the shop.

I grabbed the step stool and hauled it over, climbing up for a closer look. The wooden box sat nestled between a pair of Art Deco bookends. It'd been forgotten for so long a thick layer of dust covered the top, leaving a perfect vase-shaped clearance in the middle.

I grasped the edges and lifted it down, surprised by the warmth of the wood. The shelf wasn't under any particularly strong light or in a window's path, but the box felt like someone had cradled it in their hands for hours.

I blew a breath against the lid, dislodging a cloud of dust that made me cough. It didn't look like much. An average box carved from dark wood and polished until it gleamed. No maker's mark, no identifying features beyond its weathered patina.

Still... it looked awfully familiar, and it bothered me that I couldn't place it.

Curiosity gripped me in its teeth. I set it on the counter and drummed my fingers. "What are you hiding?"

My nail caught on an imperfection along the edge. There. A slight indent.

I pressed, and something inside clicked.

The lid sprang open, revealing a velvet-lined interior. Nestled on the faded fabric lay a diadem. Twin stones carved into crescent moons, one waxing and one waning, served as the focal point of a silver circlet. Delicate filigree with small moonstones formed a net of stars meant to spread over the top of the wearer's head.

"Holy shit," I breathed.

I'd handled countless priceless artifacts, but this... this was different. The air felt charged. My fingers hovered over the metal, drawn to it like a magnet.

I touched it.

Warmth flooded through me. Tingles started at my fingertips and raced up my arm. Something surged through me. Power? Recognition? It felt like coming home after a long journey.

Like finding a piece of myself I didn't know was missing.

The shop faded away. For a moment, I imagined I saw flickering images—moonlit forests, circles of robed figures, blood on stone. I could smell water, feel cool moss beneath my bare feet. A gentle breeze caressed my cheek, stirring loose strands of hair around my face.

I jerked my hand back, gasping.

What the hell was that?

Exhaustion. Far too many extra-shot cappuccinos from the coffee place two blocks over. Desperate fantasies of adventure caused by hallucinogenic dust mites.

My fingers itched. The diadem sat innocently in its box, the moonstone glimmer faded to a dull sheen.

Just an antique. Nothing more than ancient metal. A fascinating one, but still merchandise to be appraised, cataloged, and put up for sale.

I snapped the lid shut and tucked the box under my arm. Locking the door and flipping the sign to ‘Closed', I padded into the shop's small library. The shelves were lined with catalogs and histories of ancient jewelry styles, references and guides that allowed me to identify what came into the shop.

My fingers trailed along spines. Surely there had to be something about this diadem.

Books piled up on the desk as I scoured indexes and flipped through yellowed pages. I filled page after page of scratched-out scribbled notes from random searches through digital records. Celestial symbolism. Lunar regalia. Even ancient gems and moon goddesses. Nothing quite fit.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. The gentle ticking of several grandfather clocks faded to white noise. Night fell, my eyes burned, but I couldn't stop.

Just a few more minutes. Surely I'd find something in the next book, on the next webpage.

I jolted awake, face pressed against an open book. Moonlight streamed through the shop windows, painting everything in silvery light.

How long had I been out?

I stretched, wincing at the crick in my neck. After checking the clock, I groaned. Four in the damn morning. I'd spent the whole night chasing ghosts and found nothing.

The diadem's box sat beside me, lid still open. In the moonlight, the moonstones pulsed with an inner radiance.

I shook my head. Obviously, I needed to go home and rest properly. In a proper bed. I shoved my notes into my bag, flipped the lid on the box, and grabbed my jacket.

Outside, the summer night hung heavy with fog. Clouds hid the moon from view, leaving the streetlamps as the only source of illumination. A crisp wind stirred my hair and slipped down the back of my jacket, making me shiver.

I wrapped my arms around myself and hiked up the hill towards my apartment, eager to get home to a mug of hot cocoa and a warm bed. My footsteps echoed off the buildings that towered over the sidewalk, cutting through the silence that cloaked the city.

Something felt… off.

I glanced back at Whispering Relics. The windows were dark, the sign flipped to ‘Closed'. But it felt like more than that. Like the shop itself had gone to sleep, leaving me alone in the night.

Distant laughter floated down the empty street, the sound growing louder. I stiffened. Not a normal laugh, not the joyous sounds of people enjoying a night on the town.

This was low. Raspy. Full of hate.

Another set of footsteps joined mine.

I glanced back. Nothing but shadows.

Picking up my pace, I rounded the corner. The footsteps quickened. Plural now. More than one set. Panic clawed at my throat.

A shadow detached itself from an alley. It stalked towards me, limbs moving with a jerky, unnatural motion. My steps faltered. It took on the shape of a man. Tall. Gaunt. Eyes gleaming in the darkness.

My pulse pounded in my ears. This wasn't a drunken couple or even some mugger looking for a payday. This was something else entirely.

His lip curled, revealing fangs.

Fangs?

I spun on my heel, only to skid to a stop. Another two creatures stepped out of the darkness, blocking my path.

They advanced, circling me like wolves. I spun, trying to keep them all in sight. My heart raced, blood pounding in my ears.

One lunged, grabbing for my arm. I yelped and jerked away, stumbling over my own feet. Another caught me, fingers digging into my shoulders.

I thrashed, kicking and clawing at anything I could reach. They were strong, too strong. I landed a kick that sent one sprawling, but it righted itself in an instant and snarled.

The sound was my only warning before it jumped, smashing me to the ground. Pain bloomed across the back of my skull, but I threw up my arms to block the fangs snapping for my throat.

I screamed, and a roar split the night.

Something huge and dark crashed into my attacker. The monster was flung aside like a rag doll, but it sprang back to its feet, hissing.

A massive figure stood between me and the... vampires. Because that's what they had to be. As much as I wanted to deny the hisses, the fangs, the general fucking malevolence wouldn't let me pretend otherwise.

My rescuer was made of stone, and wore only loose cloth pants. Cracks spider-webbed across his broad, muscular body. Wings—actual, honest-to-god wings—spread wide, sheltering me. Glowing eyes blazed in a horned head, giving me a once-over before fixing on the vampires with a snarl.

One vampire shrieked and charged.

The... gargoyle moved like a living thing. His fist connected with the vampire's jaw with a sickening crack that sent the beast stumbling back.

And then it was a brawl. Stone and fangs and claws tore through the night. Punches flew, jaws snapped, bodies slammed to the pavement. The scent of old, foul blood choked the air.

I watched in horrified awe.

My chest heaved with every ragged breath, a thin sheen of sweat covering my skin. I scrambled to my feet, the world tilting dangerously around me. This couldn't be real. Couldn't be happening.

My movement summoned the attention of one of the vampires. It dodged a fist, ducked a swing, and headed straight for me.

A stone wing snapped out, knocking it to the ground. The gargoyle didn't hesitate before he stomped a massive foot down on the vampire's chest. Bone cracked, and the vampire collapsed into a pile of dust.

Two others leapt onto the gargoyle's back. Jaws latched onto his shoulder and neck, and his bellow of pain shook the air.

Move. Run.

But I was frozen to the spot, eyes locked on his glowing ones. Blood trickled down his skin, seeping between cracks in the stone. He staggered wildly with the weight of two fangy fuckers on his back.

I need to do something.

Stone fingers closed around a vampire's throat, crushing, crushing, crushing until the vampire exploded into a cloud of dust.

The last vampire, the one that had knocked me down, scrambled backward, eyes wide with fear. But there was nowhere to run. The gargoyle's hand shot out, catching it by the collar. With a low, predatory growl, he slammed the vampire into the ground. The impact left a small crater in the pavement, and when the dust settled, only a fading pile of ash remained.

Panting heavily, the stone behemoth turned to me. He rose to his full, towering height and snapped his wings closed. "Are you injured, little witch?"

His voice was like granite, rough and craggy, and scratched down my spine with a delicious and confusing shiver.

Witch? I opened my mouth, but my brain struggled to form coherent thoughts.

The gargoyle's head snapped to the side, a low growl rumbled in his chest. I tried to peer over his shoulder, but I could make out nothing through the fog.

"More come," he rumbled, wings twitching ominously.

Without warning, he wrapped his stone arms around me and pulled me tight against his chest. I barely had time to gasp before we launched into the air, the ground falling away beneath us at a dizzying speed.