Sticks and Stones (Paperback)

Gargoyles are not what you think...

Sten's ship crashed on Earth centuries ago, and since then, he's been hiding in plain sight, awaiting rescue. But a thousand years is a long time to go without companionship, even for a long-lived alien, and the human female he's guarded since childhood has grown into an alluring woman.

When a mysterious man offers to buy the "statue" in Angie's garden, Sten knows he's been discovered. The Rose Syndicate has hunted his kind for centuries, capturing and torturing his fellow Khargals in the name of science. But simply fleeing isn't an option; Angie has a secret. One he's sworn to protect.

Forced to reveal himself, Sten is confronted with a new truth. Impossible as it seems, Angie is his mate.

And the urge to claim her may be his undoing.

STICKS AND STONES is a standalone story in the collaborative Khargals of Duras series, with no cliffhangers and a guaranteed HEA. Enjoy the books in any order!

Angie lay stiff beneath the covers, unsure if the sound she’d heard was a dream or her half-stray cat, Sally, getting rowdy with the dust bunnies. She was used to the creaks and groans of the old house, and usually slept like a rock, but she could swear she’d been woken by the awful sound of her gate hinges. Exhausted from a long day in the sun, she didn’t want to get out of bed to check. The sound came again. Definitely the hinges. Ugh. Was that York guy back to fondle her gargoyle? The statue was too heavy to steal, but if that asshole was crushing more of her flowers, she might just shoot him.

Slipping from beneath the covers, she set her bare feet onto the chilly hardwood floor and tiptoed to the open window. The honey-almond scent from the bed of heirloom night phlox wafted in on the night breeze. Her bedroom was in the turret, its leaded glass panes overlooking the garden. She sometimes liked to just sit up here and admire her flower beds and the monstrous yet strangely sexy gargoyle that dominated the foliage.

She squinted over the shadows of flowers and leaves. The moon was a mere crescent hanging low in the sky, but she knew right where to look to see her gargoyle’s broad shoulders.

The space there was empty. She rubbed her eyes, pressing her nose against the glass. Where was he? The darkness must be playing tricks on her.

A creak and a thud came from downstairs. She jumped, twisting away from the window and pressing herself into the heavy damask curtain. Was someone inside? Turnbull had zero crime, and she’d never worried much about locking up. They didn’t even have a police station, relying on the county sheriff for the few incidents that arose. If she called 911, it might be an hour or more before someone arrived.

She tiptoed to the shelf where she kept her father’s old rifle. Her father’d taught her to shoot from an early age, and the gun was loaded in case a bear or mountain lion decided to come sniffing around. She hadn’t fired it since she’d purchased it back from the pawn shop a few years ago, and she hoped she didn’t have to tonight; blood on her carpet and holes in her walls were the last thing she wanted.

Hoping to chase the intruder off, she moved down the narrow hallway to the stairwell and called, “Whoever’s down there, I’m dialing 911.”

Breaking glass tinkled in the parlor, and a man’s voice said, “Oh, shit!”

Oh, hell no. What’d just broken? Maybe she’d rather shoot the bastard after all. She’d been buying back heirlooms as she could afford them and the few things she’d managed to acquire were precious. The sound of something heavy toppled below. “Fuck,” she muttered. Clenching her teeth, she started down the stairs, not bothering with the lights. She knew every inch of this place, and right now, darkness was her friend. “You’d better leave now! I have a gun!”

She rounded the corner, heart in her throat. Against the dark backdrop of the parlor windows a huge silhouette of a man lunged toward her. Before she even thought about it, she fired, the stock slamming painfully against her shoulder and driving her backward. She’d forgotten what the kick of a rifle felt like, and the report left her ears ringing. Had she hit him? It took her a moment to reorient herself and bring the weapon back up. God, she hoped she didn’t have to shoot a second time.

To her relief, the door to the porch wrenched open and whoever had been inside fled into the night.

“That’s right, asshole!” She took a few steps after him but was forced to pause when her bare foot met broken pottery. Dammit, that better not be from her curio cabinet. She backtracked and flicked on the light switch.

The sight of her ransacked parlor was sickening, but that’s not what froze her in place; across the collapsed remains of her Queen Anne sofa lay her gargoyle.

And he was getting blood on her carpet.