Black Briar by Sophie Avett Read Free Book Online Page B

middle-finger.
     
    The shoulders were spiked with wyvern scales, spattered with glistening dew droplets. What tendrils landed on her head, stretched and curved, and gnawed the rest of her hair beneath an elegant headdress with tall, helix horns.
     
    The long evening skirt spun from ragged shadows and glitter-dusted, failed dreams licked at her legs as she sashayed to the balcony on pumps made from raven feathers, heels pillared on silver, scalpel stilettos. Snip, snip, snipping across the floor.
     
    Starlight was bright and dying, sighing and screaming with the same breath. Her slash of crimson lipstick curved in the moonlight. “Three, two, one…”
     
    Crack!
     
    The galaxy was torn right down the middle and the wicked witch leaned a sharp hip against the marble railing. Black widow in wait.
     
    After all, when she’d run she’d hoped he would not follow. She’d hoped he would do what was right and FedEx her sleeping body to the Hag with a bill for the trouble. But Nova would always follow, such was their disease. Their attraction was a natural disaster. Untamed. Limitless. It was the kind of kismet that tore countries apart, robbed banks, and rolled around naked in screams and roses. And it would probably be the death of them both…
     
    “What the hell is this doll doing in my kettle? I say, they’re getting wily aren’t they…” The darkling heaved the bloodied toy over its shoulder and porcelain shattered. A tiny ghostly wail of equal joy and sorrow wafted up to greet her ears. “Damn, you animal—give me the spoon!”
     
    Crack!
     
    Lighting. Thunder. “He’s…” Sybille’s mouth sickled into a sinister crimson line and she snapped her fingers. An ebony scepter wrapped in glittering red roses wafted into existence and landed in her hand. She struck the marble with the wicked bladed tip.   “Here,” she finished.
     
    She waited…
     
    Waited…
     
    But the stars did not explode, the briar mountain didn’t crack in two—nope, nothing happened. Nothing, but the faintest breeze. Sending the small curling wisps escaping her headdress to lick at her cheeks. And then, there was a man on the horizon walking across the water. Leaving ripples to pulse in place of footprints.
     
    The darkling cackled. “Hasn’t a whit of originality, does he?”
     
    On the contrary, there was nothing quite like Nova’s brand of divinity in motion.
     
    But this…
     
    This was a first.
     
    According to lore, the ancient and true gargoyles were children of the dragon. Born from their tears. They were reared and raised in the heat of fire and brimstone. They did not need food, water, or air. Such a creature’s hunger knew no bounds. If they wished for blood, they painted black altars red simply for the sheer joy of it. If they killed, they did it like a kid with a magnifying glass and an ant farm—for the hell of it. For sport. A race of notorious and practiced head collectors. It was written that their thirst was their undoing. That they were cursed into spending the waking hours asleep by the very dragons that made them.
     
    The modern gargoyle wasn’t a modern creature at all but rather a creature that maintained its purity with a code they themselves had written into stone consecutive millennia ago. Years of tireless efforts and practices had given them unrivaled mental discipline. They did not feel—they reasoned. They did not cry, nor did they war—they’d evolved. A guardian race. Loyal, elegant, brutal, but only with the right incentive. Their purpose was to find a patron, to do as dragons did and protect their treasure, and, in return, be protected during their slumber hours. To exist in harmony with other beings in servitude was their self-imposed penance and redemption as a people.
     
    Most followed the Draconel’s code and teachings. Some modified it according to their values. And still, others chose to abandon it all together. In the end, it didn’t matter. Eventually, the sun rose and