Page 29 of Shadows and Stone

I saw you at the football game, sweet Tea. You looked so pretty under the stadium lights. I brought you something from back when you belonged to all of us... I'm so close now, Teagan. Did you see me?

The stone inside my chest tightens so hard I hear the air hiss through my teeth. The hair clip is something only an obsessive, die-hard fan from his early career would even recognize, let alone possess. But the message is undeniable: the stalker is no longer sending letters from a distance. They’re on campus. They were in the stadium. They were in our residence hall.

My protective instincts snap into hyper-drive, sweeping away every trace of calm logic. I crush the butcher paper in my left fist, grab the box in my right, and turn on my heel. I move with broad, rapid strides. Students instinctively scatter out of my path as I storm up the stairwell, my wings flaring slightly with suppressed fury. How fucking dare they. This stalker will not touch what’s mine!

I burst through the door to our suite and slam it shut behind me.

"Ryker?" Teagan's soft voice calls out from the coffee table, where he's sitting with a highlighter clutched between his fingers. He takes one look at my face and his smile immediately vanishes. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"Stay right there," I growl. “Don’t move.”

I don’t even bother to explain, and I swear, if I wasn’t so pissed, I would kiss him for listening. I sweep through the suite, checking the lock on every window in the common room, tearing back the curtains, and verifying that the bonus room and bedrooms are clear. Once I'm satisfied the perimeter is secure, I walk straight to the kitchen island, set the box down on the counter, and stand between Teagan and the doorway like a mountain of stone.

Teagan stares at the hair clip, his eyebrows scrunching together. He reaches a hand out, but I gently catch his wrist, keeping his fingers inches away from the evidence that piece of shit left.

"Don't touch it," I murmur. My thumb caresses the delicate pulse point on his wrist. "It was left in the mailroom. No stamps. They walked into Karloff Hall, Teagan. They were here."

Teagan’s face loses its color. He leans into my side, his shoulder pressing against my chest. "That's... that's the promo pin from our debut showcase in Seoul," he whispers, staring at the leaf. "Only five hundred of these were made. They were only given to fan-club members who attended the midnight launch..."

"It's the perfect stalker token," I say. "And whoever sent it is watching you on campus. Effective immediately, you don't step outside this room without me. Not for class, not for rehearsals, not to get coffee. No one comes in here except Kieran and Zay."

Teagan looks up at me, his brown eyes wide. Any other time, his bratty, independent streak might have fought back against a full-blown lockdown. But seeing the unyielding wall of protective fury in my posture, and probably realizing how close the threat really is, he just nods.

"Okay," Teagan whispers. "Okay, Ryker. I trust you."

The tension in my shoulders relaxes a fraction, my wing coming around automatically to drape over his back.

For the next two hours, we sit together on the living room sofa chatting softly, pretending we aren’t in lockdown mode. I refuse to sit anywhere near the windows, keeping Teagan tucked securely against my chest while I secretly monitor every tiny noise in the hallway outside. My gargoyle hearing is dialed up to maximum, filtering out the distant hum of the quad to focus on the immediate footsteps passing our door.

Around 4:30 PM, Teagan's phone vibrates on the coffee table. He startles slightly, but reaches out to tap the screen. It’s a notification for a new encrypted email.

"Ryker," Teagan he gasps. "Look at this. It's from my private investigator friend I hired."

I tilt my head down, reading over his shoulder as his fingers swipe across the screen.

Hey Teagan,

I dug into that historical archive records you asked about regarding gargoyle transformation anomalies in the Northeast from ten years ago.

Based on the specific details you gave me—unusual craftsmanship, gargoyle physiology, and missing persons from the time you mentioned—I actually found something. On the ten-year anniversary of the Halloween Wave, this high-end tailoring atelier in Manhattan’s Fashion District completely shut down overnight.

Here's the kicker: it was owned and run by two brothers who both permanently transformed into purple-skinned gargoyles. I don’t have names yet, but there are several local businesses in that area that are still around today.

According to the records, the older brother vanished entirely on the night of the wave and was never seen in New York again. Total ghost. The younger brother made it through, though, and ended up relocating somewhere upstate. I’m going to try and find more information, as well as locate the brother.

I attached the public land registries and photos to this email so you can look through them yourself. Let me know what you think!

The words swim in front of my eyes. The room spins, my heart racing. My claws dig lightly into the fabric of the sofa cushion.

Two gargoyle brothers. An atelier in New York. A tailor who vanished ten years ago.

My muscle memory. The instinctive way my fingers move over fabric. The way I critiqued clothing. The way I sewed Teagan's costume on set without even thinking. My design skills.

"Ryker..." Teagan breathes, turning in my arms. His eyes are shining with a mixture of awe and something tender. He reaches up, his soft hand gently cupping my jaw. "Oh my monster gods! It's you. You were a tailor. You had a shop. You have a brother."

I stare at the phone screen, my monster core trembling beneath my skin. “You did this for me? You actually hired someone to help me find my memories?”

He nods softly. My claw-tipped thumb traces his plush bottom lip with awe. I have a family. A brother. I glance at the email again, then, back at Teagan. If I ever tried to deny my growing feelings, there’s no way to hide them now.