3. Gwen

CHAPTER THREE

GWEN

" S tay put?" I seethed. The nerve of the rock-headed brute. "Stay put? Not even an ‘oh, congrats on the chosen one lineage'? No, just ‘stay put' while you turn into an overgrown lawn ornament. Not like I had any follow-up questions."

In no particular order: what the fuck, who the hell, and a litany of why, why, why?

"You can't keep me here forever, you know." I glared at the motionless gargoyle. Frozen mid-scowl, he looked... exactly how I'd imagine a statue guardian to look. All chiseled muscles, broad chest, and a pair of wings I itched to touch.

Holy hell, he'd really flown me over the city. Away from vampires!

My footsteps echoed off the cave walls as I approached him. His wings, spread wide, formed an intimidating shield of stone in front of the exit. So close, I could see the differences in the patina of his stone skin and the various cracks and gouges. Wounds and scars, I realized, like the ones he'd suffered from vampire fangs.

I tipped my head to the side and pursed my lips, considering. Part of me wondered if he was just playing possum, ready to spring to life the moment I tried to leave.

"Hellooo? Earth to Rocky?" I waved my hand in front of his face. Nothing.

Silence. Not even a twitch.

"You better not be faking this, Rocky." I jabbed a finger at his chest. "Fine. Have it your way."

Heart pounding, I crept toward the nearest arched doorway. Hell if I was going to sit pretty and wait for Prince Charming to wake up when I stood in an underground mystery house begging to be explored.

The passage opened into another cavernous room, though admittedly smaller than the main chamber. Torches sputtered to life as I entered, and my breath caught.

Shelves lined the walls, as crowded and heavy with antiques as the ones at Whispering Relics. A cluttered work table occupied the center of the space. Odds and ends lay scattered across its surface, as if the owner had set them aside for later and forgotten to return.

I ran my fingers over a tarnished silver chalice, its rim etched with symbols I'd never seen before. Next to it, a dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt that looked older than time itself. My eyes widened as I recognized the craftsmanship.

"Holy shit," I whispered. "This is from the 12th century. How the hell..."

Ancient. On the wrong continent. Rumored to be more myth than reality. Shelf after shelf, object after object, left me with more questions than answers. I wanted to know where he'd found these things, why he'd kept them stored away, what purpose they truly served to be included in a gargoyle's hoard.

Through another arched doorway, the artifacts grew stranger. Vials filled with glowing liquids. Bones carved with runes. A staff topped with a crystal that seemed to pulse with its own inner light. It was like stepping into a museum of the impossible.

I paused in front of a tapestry between arched doorways depicting a group of women in flowing robes, their hands raised toward the sun. Around them, armed warriors stood guard. The stitching was intricate, the colors still vibrant despite its obvious age.

"The Veiled Grove," I murmured, reading the plaque underneath.

A chill ran down my spine. Something about it felt... familiar. Like I'd seen it all before in a half-remembered dream.

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog, and slipped through the next arched doorway. A handful of doors led off a short hall. Most were empty, not even equipped with furniture. Only one looked inhabited, and paled compared to the collection in the other chambers. A bed covered with faded blankets, a wardrobe, and a battered wooden trunk tucked against one wall.

I backed away from the gargoyle's meager belongings and returned to the main chamber. Another arched doorway caught my eye, this one partially obscured by a heavy velvet curtain. I pushed it aside, and my jaw dropped.

"Holy mother of..."

A library. Rows upon rows of dusty bookcases packed tight with books, scrolls, and loose pages. The air was thick with the musty scent of old paper and leather bindings. Candles flickered to life here instead of the large torches everywhere else, casting a soft glow over the scene.

"Well, hello there," I breathed. "Let's see what secrets you hold."

I lifted a hand to the nearest shelf, but froze, attention drawn to the back wall. Centered against the stone and carved with runes and scenes, a thick lectern supported a massive, ancient-looking book.

My fingers trembled as I reached to trace the single name stamped with faded gold leaf on the cover.

Thorne.

I flipped it open, and the scent of old parchment filled my nostrils. I'd expected an encyclopedia or perhaps a compendium of magical beasts and beings. But this wasn't any ordinary tome. No, this was an ancient grimoire, the kind of text passed down from one generation to the next to safeguard the wisdom of ages.

Spidery handwriting covered the pages with passages of history and musings, diagrams, and what looked like recipes. But these weren't for baking cookies.

"Eye of newt?" I snorted. "You've got to be kidding me."

But as I skimmed the pages, my laughter died in my throat. This wasn't some Halloween prop or roleplaying guide. The conviction behind each word, the meticulous notes in the margins—this was real.

Or its authors believed it was.

I skimmed over the account of the first Thorne witch stumbling into her power and teaching her craft to her daughters, who taught theirs in turn. They healed the sick brought to them, helped the harvests and hunters feed their people, typical miracles of survival. But the magic came at a cost, and creatures of night slithered into their world, hungry for blood.

The warrior clan began and grew much like the coven: husbands and sons, then strangers, pledging to guard their witches from the darkness. But even these sworn shields couldn't stop the rise of the vampires. Their numbers swelled as they sought and murdered the witches.

I glanced up at the gargoyle guarding the exit. I'd long since hauled the ancient Thorne book to the comfort of the sofa in the main chamber.

"So, what happened?" I quirked an eyebrow at him and carefully turned toward the back. Many, many blank pages waited for a contribution that never had a chance to be written. "You were a man once, and now you're... this. Magic existed once, and now it's gone."

I stopped at the beginning of the final witch's tale and traced Cecily's name. "Except it isn't. Not entirely."

Madness. Only... not. Vampires were real. Gargoyles were real. Why was it so impossible to imagine I could be a witch? A weak ass, no mojo-having witch, but still a witch.

I read through Cecily's rise to power, overtaking her own mother's ability and ambition. Her early experiments pushing the limits of her magic, and the subsequent failures. Each disappointment fueled her determination until, one night, her plan came together. She left immediately with her sworn shield, Garrex, to hunt for the charms to pair with the diadem.

"Is that your name, Rocky?" I asked the statue. "Garrex?"

I flipped another page and found a tattered bookmark ribbon tied around a silver star. My fingers hovered over it, a strange anticipation building in my chest. Something told me this wasn't just an ordinary charm.

Taking a deep breath, I grasped the star.

The moment my skin made contact, a surge of warmth raced up my arm. The world around me blurred, and for a heartbeat, I swore I could hear whispers—countless voices speaking in a language I didn't understand but somehow knew. The star pulsed with a soft, silvery light.

"Whoa," I breathed, blinking rapidly as the sensation faded. It was similar to what I'd felt with the diadem, but more... focused. Like a key fitting into a lock.

Shaking off the lingering tingles, I carefully untied the ribbon and set the star aside. My eyes fell to the page it had marked, and I froze at the words scrawled there:

I failed, another hand had written. And for that failure, Maigdan gathered the last of the coven's magic and cursed my clan. Stone by day, grotesques by night, forever bound to guard the night as penance for my failure to guard her daughter.

My heart clenched. This had to be about Garrex and the other warriors. They weren't just protectors; they were being punished.

Below that, added later in a shaky hand: Eternity awaits, but even stone cracks under the weight of time.

I glanced up at the statue guarding the exit. A pang of sympathy pierced through my initial anger. My thoughts spun in a thousand directions. Questions demanding answers, bits of spells, pieces of Thorne history. It was overwhelming, and yet...

I carefully closed the book and set it aside.

My captor—protector?—was out of commission.

Vampires couldn't exactly pop in for a daytime snack.

My fist closed around the silver star charm, its warmth a steady pulse against my palm.

"Sorry, big guy," I murmured, approaching Garrex's stone form. "But I can't just sit here twiddling my thumbs. You think I'm a witch? Let's find out."

I had no idea if he was right, but I really, really wanted to find out what happened when diadem met charm.