The Acropolis

By R.K. Ryals

"We have a new assignment for you, Mr. Reinhardt."

These words are not comforting to me. At eighteen, I am a gargoyle who has been demoted because I broke the rules. Now I have a new mission, a new mark to protect. But I don't expect Emma Chase. I don't expect to question my own race. I don't expect to care for my own mark. And I am not prepared for what I find at The Acropolis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.K. Ryals
• Release date: Jul 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476303079

R.K. Ryals

Born in Jackson, Mississippi, R. K. Ryals is a scatterbrained mother of three whose passion is reading whatever she can get her hands on. She makes her home in Mississippi with her husband, three daughters, a Shitzsu named Tinkerbell, and a coffeepot she couldn't live without.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Conor

We have a new assignment for you, Mr. Reinhardt.

The words are not comforting, and I barely glance at the men and women gathered around the long, newly waxed mahogany table. I can see my reflection in the surface, my jaw tight, my eyes stormy. My dark blond hair is getting a little too long, and I fight not to brush it off my forehead.

I already have an assignment.

It isn't wise to question the Council, but I am tired and overwhelmed. The girl I'd spent most of my life loving is on a foolhardy quest with a Demon, and I had let her go. I had known it wouldn't be long before the Council interfered. It had been my job to protect her, and I had botched it.

"We have a new assignment for you."

The Director's voice is firm, unwavering, his emphasis on the word new accented enough that I finally force myself to meet his gaze. Director Gibson.

At sixty-two, Gibson is powerfully built for his age, his body honed to perfection by a daily regimen that would intimidate most men. His graying hair is still mostly black, and the only wrinkles on his face are around his eyes and lips. He is former military, a retired Navy Seal, and he expects, no demands, attention when he speaks. And I am foolish enough not to give it to him.

Am I to forfeit the mission I'm already on?

The question is more an act of defiance than a necessity. The way Gibson's eyes light up, I know he recognizes this.

Dayton Blainey did the forfeiting for you.

More hurtful words have never been spoken.

I eye Gibson warily. As head of the Council of Gargoyles, he is, by far, one of the most powerful men I know. For one, he is no ordinary gargoyle. In ancient times, a statue of a griffin was carved, and with divine intervention, transformed into reality to protect the weak and the possessed from Satan. In his gargoyle form, Gibson is a terrifying half-lion, half-eagle creature that will stop at nothing to defeat evil. I have only seen him in this form once, at my induction into the Inner Circle, and I'm not particularly keen on seeing it again.

Gibson stands up, his hands resting resolutely on the table's surface. Somewhere a janitor is moaning. The wax job isn't going to hold up.

We have an escort job for you.

I try hard not to groan.

An escort job?

It is one of the more demeaning gargoyle positions, transporting some hapless weak creature to wherever the Council deems necessary. My botched Guardian job is biting me in the ass.

I'm better than that.

My tone is petulant even though I know I shouldn't complain. It's an honor being inducted into the Circle at all. Gargoyles are a protective, familial lot and they don't agree with inducting anyone who hasn't first graduated from high school, but I had come into my powers early and had been hard to ignore. And with the recent developments in my relationship with Dayton Blainey, the Council has decided my education would be better concluded using tutors between missions. It isn't something I can argue.

Escorts are entry level. You haven't earned anything beyond that.

Gibson is thrumming his fingers against the table's top, and I know by the rhythm that he is getting frustrated. Time to back down.

Who's the mark? I ask evenly.

I know resisting will do nothing more than get me suspended, and I can't afford to lose my status, not while both Dayton and Monroe are now as embroiled in the supernatural world as I am. The two girls are my closest friends.

Director Gibson smiles. It is forced, but still evidently approving.

Emma Chase.

He takes a file from a thin, birdlike man next to him and slides it to me from across the table. I catch it easily, my fingers wrapping around the thick manila folder as I use my other hand to pull out an extra chair at the end of the table. I prop my left foot up casually on the seat and brace an arm against the table as I flip the file open.

Gibson raises a brow at my irreverent position, but I prefer him think me flippant rather than weak, and the truth is, my leg is bothering me. I had sustained an injury to it a year before in a car accident. While pulling my friend, Jacin, from a precariously overturned Sentra, my leg had been crushed when the automobile rolled unexpectedly. It had been a rash night of partying, and my friends and I had all been drunk for varying reasons. From the way my leg throbs now, I know it is going to rain. Gargoyles can heal. Without the ability, my leg would have had to have been amputated. I am lucky I only have an occasional limp and only when I'm in human form.

I look down at the folder and pause. Emma Chase. From the photograph now staring up at me, I know she can't be much younger or older than my own eighteen years of age. The picture is awkward, a quick snapshot of a slim girl, dark hair framing high cheekbones and wide, scared eyes. She isn't smiling.

Age: 17

Height: 5'10

Weight: 125

Name: Chase, Emma

I see nothing extraordinary until I flip the page, and then there it is—six years of medical records, all with similar descriptions written in indistinguishable handwriting, all with the same grim prognosis.

I look up at Gibson.

Shouldn't you be calling in the Angel of Death?

Gibson shakes his head.

Not necessary. He gestures to the file in front of me. Flip past the medical.

I did as ordered and sit up so quickly, I'm sure the whole room hears my protesting knee pop as I pull my leg from the chair. My eyes fly to the director.

This is a job for the S.O.S.

Gargoyles are divine protectors, assigned to guard against Satan and evil, but the S.O.S., short for the Swords of Solomon, is a special group of men and women trained to protect artifacts attributed to King Solomon from the Bible. There are other groups assigned to other artifacts, but the file I'm looking at now definitely belongs to the S.O.S.

Gibson sits back down, his fingers now still against the table's surface.

The girl is not an artifact.

I know this, but . . .

Have you mentioned this to Alessandro?

Alessandro is the head of the S.O.S. His operation is based out of Italy, but he has spies all over the world. Gargoyles operate in a similar fashion. Our Center is based in France, but we have families living everywhere.

We've met on the subject, and he agrees with me, Gibson says as I close the folder only to pull the cover back open.

There, again, is the awkward photo. There is nothing remarkable about the girl, nothing to make a person look twice.

My eyes flick from the photo to Gibson to the photo again.

Does the mark know?

Someone clears a throat a few seats away from Gibson, and I let my eyes wander to the source. It is a brunette woman of average height, her hair cut in a severe bob that does nothing to diminish the sharp angles of her face. Her eyes are heavily made up with mascara. Delilah Simpson.

Delilah is a member of the Council because she had single-handedly taken out a group of rogue Demons who had taken over a community in the Northwestern United States. Her gargoyle form is much more impressive than her human one.

"The girl, Emma, does not know."

The way Delilah enunciates the girl's name, I know she has a personal interest in the mark. I stare at her the same way my mother always stares at me when she knows I'm hiding something. Mom has a vicious truth-inducing gaze. It's obviously hereditary. By the way Delilah squirms, I know she has spoken out of turn.

I handled her adoption, Delilah mumbles before looking away.

That catches me off guard.

Adoption?

I look down at the folder and flip past the girl's dossier. Sure enough, there are the appropriate documents.

I don't understand. How long has this mark been in the system? I ask.

It is unusual for a gargoyle to be assigned to a person for life. It has happened, but the cases are rare.

Since birth.

It is Gibson who answers, his eyes on Delilah. She stares back defiantly.

The girl shouldn't have been allowed to live, Gibson points out.

Delilah didn't look the least bit fazed.

Infants are allowed immunity.

A man I know only as Rainey grunts from across the table.

Despite the possible danger she could pose? Both to herself and to society?

Rainey pats the table angrily. The wax job is definitely done for.

She has never been a danger, Delilah argues.

I watch the proceedings with growing interest while working a piece of spearmint gum from my pocket and popping it into my mouth. I had flipped the girl's picture back into view, and her scared eyes stare back at me. A school picture maybe? It isn't a surveillance shot. She had known this photo was being taken.

Conor?

Huh? I look up to discover the whole Council has turned toward me. I straighten.

I'm sorry.

Gibson sighs but doesn't reprimand me.

You'll need to use caution when approaching her. The girl is a little . . . shy.

A few Council members snicker. Delilah glares at them. I just lift a brow.

Shy?

Rainey can't seem to help himself. He snorts. A tall man with thick, brown hair and wide shoulders, Rainey isn't the type to skirt an issue.

Terrified may be the better description, Rainey replies.

I glance around the boardroom and realize the Council members are all avoiding my gaze. What kind of Escort job is this?

Where am I supposed to take her? I ask when it becomes obvious nothing more is going to be said on the whole shy but better described as terrified subject.

The Acropolis.

Gibson says the word firmly as if he's expecting an argument, and by the looks shot his way, he's right. The Acropolis.

There are ancient Greek ruins called the Acropolis of Athens, but we all know he isn't referring to those. No, the Acropolis is a project set in motion by a collaboration of gargoyles, the S.O.S., and other groups devoted to protecting mankind. It is a fairly new idea, a school, which has only been in operation for two years with minimal success. It seems only plausible the mark be sent there considering her records. But while I look at Gibson with approval, the rest of the table stares at him with expressions akin to horror. Were they not aware of Gibson's plans?

She wouldn't make it a week, Delilah practically hisses.

The Council's reaction is beginning to worry me.

It's either that or we destroy her.

Gibson's words are final, and when he stands, we all stand with him.

You'll take her to the Acropolis.

This last command is meant for me, and I nod as Gibson adjourns the meeting among sighs of discontent.

You'll need to provide the school with extra protection, Rainey calls out as Gibson leaves the table. The Director doesn't turn around.

It's taken care of.

Delilah moves up beside me as we watch Gibson exit the room.

Is she that dangerous? I ask.

Delilah gives me a sympathetic smile.

No, not Emma.

Chapter 2

Emma

I was dying.

The doctors told me I was an aberration, afflicted with an illness that had never been documented. I was then all of eleven, a thin wisp of a girl with a dark braid down my back, my face ashen with horror. I wasn't supposed to live out the year.

But that was then. I have been dying now for six years, and I am constantly under the scrutiny of medical experts and therapists. It is a miracle, they say, that I have lived as long as I have, but I am beginning to believe they are wrong. Maybe I wasn't meant to die, only live in misery for the rest of my life.

It's going to be fine, my mother whispers.

We are sitting in an elegant, overdone sitting area waiting to see yet another specialist, and I know my face is pinched, not with nervousness but with disgust. No one is going to be able to help me. I am beyond saving. But my mother is desperate. I am her only child, adopted when I was three months old. Two years after the adoption, her husband, my adopted father, was diagnosed with lung cancer. Four months later, he passed away while hooked to machines pumping him with morphine. My mother has never fully recovered.

They say optimism prolongs life, my mother chirps as she flips through a homeopathic magazine. When all treatments failed, mom turned to natural and experimental medicines. I am sick of being sick.

Maybe it's time to let go, I mumble.

My mother gives me a sharp look, her once young face lined by years of stress. Her auburn hair is pulled back from her face and pinned up at the back of her head. She wears glasses perched on the tip of her nose. They are only for reading, but she rarely takes them off. The spectacles are made up of red-rimmed frames that clash badly with my mother's baggy khaki pants and tucked, blue silk shirt. She has lost weight.

I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.

I hadn't expected any less.

Emma Chase!

My mother and I stand as one, although I tower over her by a foot as we saunter over to the large African-American woman who has called my name. I like her instantly. She has on red scrubs with a name tag shaped like kissing lips, and she smells like cotton candy. The tag says her name is Grace.

Hi, sweetheart! You Emma?

I nod shyly. Emma is such an unassuming name, very plain and utterly unromantic, unless one is a fan of Jane Austen. Which my mother is. But the name suits me.

I am the epitome of almost but not quite. I am almost, but not quite six feet tall. I have almost, but not quite black hair, ranging somewhere in the very dark brown vicinity. I am almost, but not quite too thin. And I have almost, but not quite brown eyes. My mother calls them russet. But I am utterly offended by that particular color description. My eyes, in my opinion, are the one sure thing about me. They are amber.

Grace is chattering in front of me, and I paste on my best I'm sure I will be delighted by the facility smile. I have the new doctor routine down to a science. I am going to be seeing two different professionals today, both part of the same hospital.

Grace leads me to a scale, and I step onto it without her asking me to, even though I can give her my stats without her needing to check. I am 125 pounds with a temperature of 103.0.

Grace sticks a thermometer just inside my ear and then gives me a look before writing the numbers down carefully. It is a look I know well. The constant fever is part of the reason the doctors are so baffled. I have been living with a body temperature ranging from 103.0 to 105.0 for years now with no physical side effects. Point blank, I am abnormal.

Are you on any medications? Grace asks as she leads us into an empty room.

I am immediately impressed. The room is large with thick, mocha-colored carpet and caramel walls. There is a dark brown leather sofa in front of another smaller chair of the same material. Abstract portraits of varying swirls of color are interspersed with several diplomas on the wall. The color scheme has me craving a caramel frappucino.

I have a list, my mother answers, and I turn my attention back to the nurse as she motions for us to sit. We stay standing.

Mom takes a small memo pad out of her purse, flips to the first page, and hands it to Grace. The nurse starts scribbling furiously on her clipboard.

And these meds are having no effect on the fever?

I can't keep them down, I interrupt. It is yet another reason I am freakishly abnormal. My body seems to reject medications. They make me violently ill. Even Tylenol.

My mother gives me a pained look. Grace just nods and scribbles more notes. She smiles at me before looking at my mother, her eyes encouraging.

Dr. Reed will be with you in a moment. I'll send this paperwork downstairs for her physical evaluation.

Mom nods, her eyes taking in the room anxiously as Grace exits. I place an arm across Mom's shoulders.

Looks like therapists have better digs than the docs with the stethoscopes. You think she uses the couch for naps or to seduce really hot patients?

Emma Renee Chase!

Her voice is high and scolding, but I don't miss the smile she tries to hide. I want to punch the air triumphantly. Mom doesn't smile nearly as much as she should.

You look ten years younger when you do that, I murmur.

Mom grins crookedly, using her finger to push her glasses further up her nose just as a knock sounds on the door. The smile vanishes instantly.

Emma Chase? Dr. Reed says dully as she enters the room.

I turn toward the voice and grimace. While Grace

Reviews for The Acropolis

[larissaleescribbles · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is written in first-person present tense, which is extremely odd and took some getting used to.

That said, I absolutely loved the plot! I'm invested in not only the main characters, but the plight of the half-demons in a changing world. I'm definitely going to continue reading this series!