Levet grimaced. Home, sweet home.
Waddling up the stairs that led to the door, he felt a familiar sense of bleak yearning tug at his heart, swiftly followed by a bitter sense of betrayal.
There were no happy memories to ease his return. No sense of comfort.
His childhood had been a miserable fight for survival among his brutal siblings. Oh, and the last time he’d seen his mother, she’d tried to kill him.
Hardly the ingredients for a happy family reunion. Reaching the door, he wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked. What demon would be stupid enough to enter the lair of the doyenne of the gargoyle nest?
He stepped into the large room with a lofted, cathedral ceiling and plenty of room for a gargoyle to spread her wings. The floors were made of hardwood and deeply gouged by his mother’s five-inch claws. And high above were wide windows that offered a view of the night sky.
The rest of the interior was something out of an Arabian Nights nightmare.
Crimson painted walls, gold and black silk pillows piled in the middle of the floor with a large hookah set beside them.
Levet had never been sure if his mother’s fantasy was to be the sheikh or the harem girl.
And not knowing was the only thing that kept him out of therapy.
“So it’s true,” a female voice boomed through the air, the floor shuddering beneath the weight of the approaching gargoyle. “The prodigal son returns.”
Levet froze. He would not run. He would not run. He would not run.
Reaching up, he tugged off the amulet that had obviously been deactivated by the spells of protection that surrounded the lair.
His mother was nothing if not thorough.
And cruel.
Excessively, spectacularly cruel.
The thought whispered through his mind as his gaze skimmed up the stout legs that were heavily muscled and covered by a reptilian gray skin. A long, surprisingly thin tail curled around the feet tipped with claws. His gaze lifted to his dear old maman’s hefty body, which had grown even wider since Levet had last seen her, with wide leathery wings that spread in a ten-foot span from her back. Up ever higher, Berthe’s face was a perfect example of gargoyle beauty.
A short, thick snout. Small gray eyes that peered at the world from beneath a heavy brow. Two fangs that were big enough to be called tusks curved from her upper gums to reach her pointed chin. And on top of her broad head she had two sharp horns that were polished to gleam in the candlelight.
Levet forced a stiff smile to his lips. “Bonsoir, Maman. You are looking . . .” He allowed his gaze to shift back down to her wide girth. “Well fed.”
Berthe shrugged. Unlike most females, gargoyles had no issues with weight.
Their philosophy was the bigger the better.
“Gregor proved to be a disappointment so I had him basted in a lovely rosemary and garlic sauce and roasted over an open fire,” she said with a light French accent. “He was far more satisfying as dinner than he ever was as a lover.”
“Charming.” Levet ignored his mother’s jaundiced glare at his pretty, fairy wings. “Did you eat my father as well?”
“Do not be disgusting,” the female growled. “I am not a cannibal.”
Levet kept his expression guarded. Gargoyles were like most demons. They were willing to take lovers from many different species, although they usually chose a gargoyle when they were in heat.
Halflings weren’t unheard of, but they were rare.
The fact that his mother had always refused to name his father had made Levet assume his parentage was yet another source of shame to the family.
“So my father was a gargoyle?”
Berthe snorted, thankfully unaware of how much the information meant to her son.
If she knew it could be a weapon to hurt him, she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
“What sort of question is that?”
“A rather obvious one, I would think.” Levet spread his stunted arms. “Just look at me.”
Berthe narrowed her eyes to beady slits. “Your father was a fearsome warrior who sired many sons who brought him nothing but pride.”
Levet’s tail twitched. He didn’t know if he was pleased or disappointed by the information.
He was demon enough to take pride in the thought that his father was admired among gargoyles. Bloodlines were always important.
But for centuries he’d blamed his lack of gargoyle-ness on his father.
Now who was he supposed to hold responsible?
“So what happened to me?” he demanded.
Berthe curled her snort in blatant disdain. “A freak of nature.”
Levet grimly pretended her words didn’t cut. “Or perhaps your bloodlines are not as pure as you thought?”