To research myself.

Which I really, really need to do, considering my knowledge on the subject is incredibly limited. And when I googled them last night, all I got was an architecture lesson when what I really need to know is why I am apparently prone to bloody attacks and amnesia.

I should probably set up an appointment with Mr. Damasen, see what information he can give me on gargoyles that doesn’t involve pages upon pages about how they’re really good waterspouts and gutters.

I mean, I didn’t know that much about vampires, dragons, or witches when I got here, but I had a basic understanding of what they were and how things worked for them—though Jaxon, Macy, and Flint have still blown my mind on several occasions.

But gargoyles? I’ve got almost nothing. Except that they don’t seem to like vampires much.

In fact, the extent of my knowledge about myself pretty much comes from studying the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in art class and from what I can remember of the Gargoyles TV show reruns I watched when I was little. My mom always got a little agitated when she found me watching that show… Now I can’t help but wonder if it’s because she and my dad knew what was coming.

It’s a horrible thought—the idea that my parents deliberately kept who I really am from me my whole life—so I shove it to the back of my head and force myself not to think about it. Because learning that I’m a gargoyle is bad enough. Learning that my parents didn’t care enough to prepare me for this? That’s unforgivable.

Or it would be if they were alive. Now that they’re dead…I don’t know. Something else to go in my growing “Shit I Don’t Have Time for Today” folder. Because dwelling on it now definitely isn’t going to help me.

Instead, I paste a huge smile on my face—a smile that I’m far from feeling right now—and walk straight up to the circulation desk in the center of the library.

Amka is there, thankfully, and she smiles at me just as widely—hers looks genuine, though, which is nice. “Grace! It’s so good to have you back.” She reaches across the desk and squeezes my hand. “How are you?”

I start to give her a trite answer—I’m good, thanks—but the warmth and concern in her eyes get to me, even though I don’t want them to. So instead of lying, I just kind of shrug and say, “I’m here.” Which isn’t exactly what I’m feeling, but it’s close enough to get the point across.

Her smile turns sympathetic. “Yeah, you are. And I’m really glad about that.”

And there she goes again, putting things in perspective for me really quickly. “Yeah. Me too.” My manners kick in a little belatedly. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well. Just getting the library in shape for the Ludares tournament. Teams like to meet in here to strategize before the big day.”

“What’s Ludares?” I ask. “And is that what that’s for?” I point to the table now taking up space in the center of the library. I didn’t get a good look at it on my way in, but I plan on checking it out later, when I need a research break. From what I saw, it’s filled with all kinds of interesting and magical objects.

“Originally, it was designed as a Trial to compete for spots on the Circle—the governing body for supernaturals—but…since no one on it has died in a thousand years, there haven’t been any new openings to compete for. Which means for now, it’s just a sporting event.

“Of course, the version of Ludares that’s the actual Test is a lot more dangerous than what we play now—and the odds are way stacked against the challenger’s success. Now it’s more for fun and to promote interspecies relations, since the teams are made up of all four of Katmere’s factions.” Her eyes twinkle. “It’s the highlight of every school year.”

“So how do you play?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s something you have to be a part of to understand.”

“That’s so cool. I can’t wait to see it.”

“See it?” Amka laughs. “You should compete in it.”

“Me?” I’m aghast. “No way can I compete against a bunch of vampires and dragons. I mean, what am I going to do? Turn to stone? I’m pretty sure that’s not much help in a competition.”

“Don’t be so negative. Gargoyles can do a lot more than turn to stone, Grace.”

“They can?” Excitement bubbles up in my voice. “Like what?”

“You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

I’m a little annoyed—that’s not much of an answer—and my shoulders sag, but then she turns around and points to one of the heavy wooden tables in the corner of the library. There are about three dozen books piled into several haphazard stacks, plus a laptop sitting right in front of a comfortable-looking armchair in a patchwork of colors.

“I took the liberty of pulling every book we have about gargoyles. The piles on either side of the laptop are the ones I think you should start with—they approach things pretty broadly and give a good overview. The back piles are more nitty-gritty research-oriented stuff and will answer more specific questions you might have as you learn more.

“And the laptop is already signed in to the top three magical databases in the world. If you have any questions about how to use them to research, let me know. But to be honest, they’re pretty self-explanatory. I think you’ll do fine.”

Despite not being a crier—I’ve never been a crier—I can feel tears burning the back of my throat for, like, the third time today. I hate it, absolutely despise it, but I can’t seem to help it. I feel so topsy-turvy, and realizing so many people have my back…it’s just a little overwhelming.

Or a lot overwhelming. I haven’t decided yet.

“Thank you,” I tell her when my throat finally relaxes enough for me to speak. “I…I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, Grace. Anytime.” She smiles. “We bibliophiles need to stick together.”

I grin back. “Yeah, we do.”

“Good.” She reaches behind her to the small, stickered refrigerator she keeps next to her workspace and pulls out a can of lemon La Croix and a Dr Pepper and hands them to me. “Researching is thirsty work.”

“Oh, wow.” I take the cans from her with suddenly shaky hands. “Thank you so much. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Just get to work,” she says with a wink.

“Yes, ma’am.” I give her one last smile and then head toward the table in the corner.

My fingers are itching to dive in to the books—and so is the rest of me, to be honest—but I take a few minutes to get situated before I start. I pull out the notebook I’ve designated just for my research and a handful of my favorite pens.

I put in my earbuds and get my favorite playlist going before pulling out the pack of M&M’s I bought at the vending machine in the student lounge on my way here. Then, and only then, do I settle into what very well might be the most comfortable chair in existence…and finally reach for a book.

I just hope it has some of the answers I need.And I wouldn’t mind a good memory retrieval spell, too…

24

Go Smudge Yourself

“Gra-ace. Come on, time to wake up.” A familiar voice penetrates the hazy fog of sleep that surrounds me. “Come on, Grace. You need to get up.” Someone taps my shoulder.

I swipe a hand across my face. Then roll over and curl up into a ball.

“I don’t know what to do.” This time I’m conscious enough to identify the voice as Macy’s, even though I have no idea who she’s talking to or even what she’s talking about. Nor do I care.

I’m so tired, all I want to do is sleep.

“Let me try.” This time it’s my uncle Finn who bends over me and says, “Grace, I need you to wake up for me, okay? Open your eyes. Come on. Right now.”

I ignore him, curling into an even tighter ball, and when he runs a comforting hand over the top of my head, I moan and try to pull my pillow over my face. But there’s no pillow under my head and no covers for me to yank up and hide beneath.

I’m almost conscious enough to recognize this as strange—almost—and when someone shakes my shoulder more forcefully this time, I manage to crack my eyes open just enough to see Macy, my uncle, and Amka staring down at me, all with worried looks on their faces.

I don’t have a clue what Uncle Finn or Amka is doing in our room, and at the moment, I don’t actually care. I just want them to leave so I can go back to sleep.

“There you are, Grace,” my uncle says. “There you go. Can you sit up for us? Maybe let us get a good look into those pretty eyes of yours? Come on now, Grace. Come back to us.”

“I’m tired,” I whine in a voice I’m sure I’ll be embarrassed about later. “I just want to—” I break off as pain registers for the first time. My throat is so dry that every word I speak feels like a razor blade scraping against my voice box.

Screw mornings. And screw three-person wake-up calls.

I close my eyes again as sleep continues to beckon, but apparently my uncle has had enough. He starts shaking me gently so that I can’t even curl up in peace now. “Come on, Grace.” His voice is firmer than it was before, more no-nonsense than I have ever heard it. “You need to snap out of this. Right now.”

I sigh heavily, but I finally manage to roll over to face him. “What’s the matter?” I rasp, forcing myself to speak, and to swallow, despite the pain. “What do you want?”

I hear a door open and close and then rapid footsteps coming closer. “What’s going on? Is she all right? I came as soon as I got Macy’s text.”

The worry in Jaxon’s voice finally manages to do what the coaxing and shaking couldn’t. I push myself into a sitting position and this time actually manage to pry my eyes all the way open.