A hint of smoke drifted from a flared nostril. Berthe was one of the rare gargoyles who could breathe fire. Which, of course, explained her position as doyenne.
“More likely a curse from the gods,” she countered, hate glinting her gray eyes. A hate that had been more destructive to Levet as a child than any of the vicious beatings. “I was warned to have your head removed the minute you were born.” She gave a flap of her enormous wings, nearly sending Levet tumbling backward. “Unfortunately I was too tenderhearted to follow the wise advice.”
Levet gave a snort, refusing to acknowledge the age-old sense of betrayal.
“Tenderhearted?”
“Oui.” Berthe moved to settle her bulk on the satin pillows, her wings draped over the floor and her tail swishing around her feet. She portrayed the image of languid indifference, but Levet wasn’t fooled. She might look like a lumbering brute, but she could move with the speed of a striking viper. “I allowed you to survive with the hope that you would overcome your disfigurements and grow into a prince worthy of standing at my side. You should be grateful.”
Grateful.
The word echoed through Levet, abruptly altering the pain he’d sworn he’d never feel again to a rush of fury.
“Grateful for what? I spent my childhood being brutalized by my siblings.”
His mother shrugged. “Did you expect to be coddled like a human baby?”
He ignored her taunt. “And when I at last left the nursery I became the target of every gargoyle who thought it was amusing to toss me into the fighting pits and see how many demons could beat the heebie-jeebies out of me before I passed out,” he hissed.
Bertha furrowed her brow in confusion. “The . . .” She made a sound of impatience. “Oh, la la. It is bejesus, you ridiculous pest.”
Levet waved off her sharp words. “You did nothing to protect me.”
“Only the strong survive in our world.”
Levet planted his fists on his hips. “Is that your excuse for trying to kill me when I hit puberty?”
She trailed a claw over a scarlet pillow, her expression devoid of regret.
“It was obvious you were permanently deformed. It was my duty to rid the nest of such a blatant weakness. Every doyenne understands the necessity of pruning the deadwood from the family tree.”
Enough.
He hadn’t come here to resolve his childhood trauma. He might be immortal, but not even an eternity would be enough time to work through his mommy issues.
It was time to get down to business.
“So what if I was to prove that I am more than deadwood?” he challenged. “That I am a prince in the truest sense of the word?”
“Impossible.”
Having expected scorn, Levet wasn’t prepared for the sudden unease that rippled over his mother’s ugly features. As if she was afraid of what he might say.
And he most certainly wasn’t prepared for the lethal flames that she burped in his direction.
“Sacrebleu,” he cried, diving behind his mother’s favorite Moroccan chest. She would never fry the camel leather inset with enough precious gems to rival the crown jewels. “What are you doing?”
She was on her feet, her tail quivering with an unreasonable fury.
“Finishing what I began when you were young.”
Levet hunkered behind the chest.
Merde. This could be going better.
It was time to pull out his only weapon.
“I demand a tribunal,” he said in shaky tones.
A tribunal was the gargoyle equivalent of People’s Court. Or a pirate’s parlay.
“Denied.” Another belch of fire, nearly singeing the tips of his stunted horns.
Levet tucked his wings tight against his shivering body. Had he once said that vampires were the most unreasonable creatures to walk the earth?
He clearly owed Viper and Styx and all the rest of the bloodsuckers an apology.
Not that they would ever hear it from his lips.
He did have his pride.
Even if it was a little scorched.
“You cannot deny me,” he said, as the fire died. “I am a pure-blooded gargoyle despite my . . . deformities.”
“I shunned you.”
Levet was prepared.
“Ah, but I am a prince.” He peeked around the corner, meeting his mother’s infuriated glare. “Those of royal blood can demand a hearing regardless of their sentence.”
Berthe was forced to hesitate.
Gargoyles might be savages in many ways, but the Guild was ruled by a strict code of laws.
There was a long silence as his mother ground her teeth, smoke still curling from her nostril. Then, her eyes narrowed with a cunning satisfaction.
“The elders are not in Paris. There can be no tribunal without them.”
Levet made a sound of disgust. How many demons had stood shoulder to shoulder to battle the Dark Lord while the gargoyles had been MIA?
“You mean the cowards are still in hiding?”
Berthe stomped a massive foot, making the entire building shake.