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  Heart of Stone

  Khargals of Duras

  Regine Abel

  Copyright © 2019

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal and punishable by law. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This book uses mature language and explicit sexual content. It is not intended for anyone under the age of 18.

  This book is a work of fiction freely inspired by the Ant and the Grasshopper fable. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Introduction

  A thousand years ago, a Khargal scouting party left Duras, only to crash on a planet called Earth.

  Injured and outnumbered, the stranded Khargals hid among stone effigies and observed the slow evolution of the planet’s primitive inhabitants. With no means of returning to Duras, they watched from their shadowy perches and faded into legend, becoming the mythical gargoyles.

  Until today. Long after any hope for rescue had died, the distress signal has finally been answered.

  It's time to go home.

  Heart Of Stone

  Her winged savior was no angel.

  When death nearly claims Brianna at the tender age of eight, a being that shouldn’t exist saves her. Twenty years later, she becomes an architectural engineer specializing in historic buildings, still searching for evidence that the one who saved her—the one who haunts her increasingly wild dreams—truly exists. When a mystery man hires her for a major project in the catacombs of an old church turned exclusive, gothic nightclub, Brianna believes she may have her chance at long last.

  Alkor has grown weary of this era. Forced to hide in plain sight, forbidden from ever claiming the only woman who ever stirred his mating instincts, he considers going back into hibernation rather than pining for her from afar. But the sudden activation of the beacon changes everything. Rescue is coming at last. With his only means of reaching the rendezvous point trapped in the catacombs, Alkor hires Brianna to help recover his treasure. However, his lost sigil isn’t the only thing he intends to take back home with him.

  Time is running out, and the evil forces conspiring to capture him will stop at nothing to achieve their goal, even using Brianna. Did Alkor save his true mate only to lose her now that they might have a chance at a future together?

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  Glossary

  More Khargals of Duras

  Also by Regine Abel

  About Regine

  Dedication

  To the other six amazing authors who shared this collaborative adventure with me. Thanks for all the laughs, the sprints, the jinxes, and keeping me awake long past my bedtime with your silly banter. A special thanks to Stephanie West for your endless optimist, amazing cheerleading skills, and keeping us all so organized. Heart of Stone made it in large part thanks to you. You were my rock.

  To my wonderful beta readers, you ladies always go above and beyond. Thank you for your continued support and friendship. Consider yourselves hugged and wrapped in my virtual wings!

  1

  Alkor

  The humans hopped, wiggled, and writhed on the dance floor to the thumping sound of the bass. Most of them wore black, dark reds, and purple, each one embracing the temporary illusion of belonging to the Underworld. Goths, Punk-rock, cosplaying witches, warlocks, demons, and the occasional fallen angel, the patrons rivaled each other in the realism of their respective costumes. And yet, none could ever equal or surpass mine.

  Leaning on the railing of the balcony of my private booth, I flexed my wings, their leathery texture brushing against my back. Many of the patrons peered at me from below or from the VIP lounges on each side of my private box which occupied the entire back wall. The dim lights inside The Darkest Hour, the most exclusive themed club in downtown Montreal—although we usually referred to it as a Goth club—allowed me to hide that my horns and wings weren’t prosthetics or part of a costume, but integral parts of my body.

  So many rumors and wild speculations had been spread about Alkor Drayvus, the mysterious owner of The Darkest Hour. I neither denied nor confirmed any of them. Those who had gotten close enough to talk to me, or even touch me, assumed I was one of those ‘eccentric’ people who had gone hardcore with transforming their appearance like Lizardman, Alien Man, or Zombie Boy. That belief served my purpose, allowing me to show my true self, although it wouldn’t pass any up-close examination. My horns, facial bones, or tail could be explained by implants. But I’d never get away with intense scrutiny of my wings.

  I envied the casual abandon with which the patrons danced, drank, and mingled, some finding dark corners to explore other types of pleasures. While fairly tolerant with patrons heavily groping and petting each other, I didn’t allow things to get too steamy as some had tried in the past, especially the vampire wannabes. After all, I’d built this club in an old gothic church right in the heart of downtown Montreal. Such lewd behavior would be unbecoming in a formerly holy place.

  After forty-four years of hibernation, followed by five years of aimless wandering, The Darkest Hour had been an opportunity to let me interact with humans again, while still hiding in plain sight. But nine years of running the successful club was losing its appeal. Although surrounded by hundreds of people, I’d never felt so alone. A haunting face with bright blue eyes and silky, golden-brown hair flashed before my mind’s eye. I chased it away along with the ache that it always stirred in my heart. Yes, hibernation would be good, if only to spare me the torture of longing for the forbidden. If I turned my heart and body to stone in the deep sleep of duramna, I could reawaken at the end of her human lifespan. Why subject myself to useless pain and temptation?

  When she reappeared in my life nine years ago as a fully-grown woman, for the first time, she stirred my mating instincts. Thoughts of her have been plaguing me ever since.

  The door of my private balcony opening startled me. Looking over my shoulder, I watched Lana strut her way in, wearing a painted on dress which reminded me of Morticia Addams’ black dress.

  So much for me being an elite warrior.

  I’d be shamed if my battalion knew that a doll-like, human female had so easily gotten the drop on me. But then, I hadn’t made use of my warrior skills in a couple of centuries now.

  “How’s my favorite brooding man?” Lana asked, flicking the tip of one of my wing spurs; an annoying habit she had picked up in the past couple of years.

  “Broodier than ever,” I said, resting my elbow on the balcony railing. “And I’m not a man.”

  “Fine, male gargoyle” she said with a shrug.

  “It’s not gargoyle, it’s Khargal,” I insisted, wondering why I was being so difficult.

  “Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of his pedestal,” Lana said, a teasing glimmer in her eyes.

  “Indeed. I… I’m losing interest in this era,” I admitted, giving her an apologetic look.

  Lana was the firstborn child of the Dalghren h
eir. For generations, the oldest child of that bloodline became my human contact, allowing me to function in a world where I didn’t belong; a burden they voluntarily accepted. Lana was a sister to me, although she often acted more like my mother. She’d gone out of her way to make this era palatable for me. For nine, almost ten years now, she’d nearly succeeded. If not for my unattainable mate, I might actually have enjoyed this era and its booming technological advances.

  “You can’t for at least another four months,” she said, trying to hide the sadness in her eyes. “You promised to take my son on a flight over the St. Lawrence River for his ninth birthday.”

  I nodded, smiling fondly at the thought of the little imp, his mother’s spitting image with his undisciplined mess of red hair and the swarm of freckles stamped all over his face—even on the lips. Lana had made me his godfather.

  To this day, the memory of the priest presiding over little Tommen’s christening eyeing me suspiciously still had me in knots. Although I’d cut off my horns, and hidden the stumps under my hair, my facial bones resembling tiny ivory horns along my jawline, had somewhat given away my ‘otherworldly’ nature. I’d retracted my wings and tucked my tail into my pants. At the time, my perception filter, the camouflage technology that allowed me to take on any appearance I wished, had been defective. As I hadn’t managed to repair it in time, I’d opted not to use it. When a sudden itch had made my tail jerk alongside my legs, looking like a writhing snake, the priest’s eyes had all but popped out of his head. I’d expected him to start throwing holy water at me while chanting exorcism incantations.

  “Of course, I will,” I said, pulling on a strand of her long, reddish hair. “A promise is a promise.”

  “Ow!” she said, swatting my hand with false outrage, scrunching her pretty face. “If you want to pull a woman’s hair, how about you give that Sandy what she wants, and get her off my back?”

  I rolled my eyes in disbelief. “Seriously? Again?” I asked.

  “She’s pretty damn desperate to get you back in the sack. You must have skills, wing-man,” she said, making a disgusted face.

  That made me chuckle. I could see how hearing of my sexual performance would make her cringe. What sister would want to hear other women fawn over her brother’s prowess in bed? I’d kept such encounters to an extreme minimum, with Sandy being my second one-night stand in the nine years since my reawakening. She didn’t want any type of commitment from me or to even have any kind of conversation with me. I was merely an exotic trophy she liked having on her bedpost, and an unusual cock she had liked getting pounded by, propped against the back wall of my private booth.

  But I had no interest in being Sandy’s sex toy, or any other female’s for that matter. Her ego would eventually recover since her heart certainly wasn’t involved. In truth, my kind rarely indulged in such intimacy for fun, our libido remaining rather dormant until we found the person we wanted to mate with. Moments of intense loneliness, and hopeless longing for something I could never have, had driven me to seek comfort in the wrong places. Both times had fulfilled my need for physical closeness, but not the gaping hole in my heart and soul.

  “Tell Sandy to find herself a new stallion. As agreed, it was a one-time deal. I’m happy to go tell her myself,” I added, when Lana rolled her eyes.

  “Hell no, wing-boy! Your diplomatic skills are appalling,” Lana exclaimed. “I’ve got this. Anyway, we have a new patron Sandy will probably chase after. He has everyone staring in awe.”

  “Unicorn boy?” I asked.

  She burst out laughing. “Actually, he’s a dragon wannabe. That’s his first horn implant. His surgeon wouldn’t graft another one before he saw how he reacted to the first one.”

  I shook my head, not understanding these strange human compulsions to change their nature. But I wouldn’t complain; they provided me with the cover I needed to have a semblance of a normal life.

  “But getting you to do the horizontal dance with Sandy isn’t why I came to pester you,” Lana said, becoming serious again. “I’m getting a lot of requests for opening another Goth club, but this time in Helsinki.”

  “There are no Khargals there,” I countered, frowning slightly.

  “I know, but don’t forget that 99.9% of your clientele isn’t Khargal,” Lana said with a shrug. “The concept really appeals to people, especially now that you’ve relaxed the rules… in other locations.”

  I harrumphed, which made Lana smile mockingly at me. I was a bit of a stickler for rules and protocols. It bothered me that every Goth club in the chain I had now established wasn’t built in an abandoned church, and that the customers weren’t held to the strict dress code demanded here at The Darkest Hour. But some of the other locations, such as the Evensong in New York, had a more laidback clientele. A single Khargal frequently mingled with humans there—my old friend Frelinray.

  “With the Fins having only five hours of daylight during a part of winter, it’s the perfect setting for people with vampire fetishes,” Lana said, matter-of-factly.

  “And what happens when summer comes rolling in and then it switches to only five hours of nighttime a day?” I asked.

  “Then the vampire customers can cover themselves in pixie dust so they can sparkle in the sun,” Lana deadpanned.

  I laughed out loud and shook my head again. “Well, you’re the one managing all this stuff. So if you want to open one there, go right ahead. Just tell me where to sign.”

  “I wanted to give you the heads up since I just hung up with the potential partner over there,” Lana said, cautiously. “It’s worth putting the business proposal together to see if it’s a viable option.”

  I nodded, my mind wandering, thinking of the interesting opportunities a trip to Finland would grant me. With the long hours of darkness, I could fly around more frequently with fewer risks of being spotted, at least for part of the year. Settling down in downtown Montreal had not been the smartest idea on that front. At least, a short drive to the South Shore brought me to wide open fields where I could take flight in relative security.

  A sudden wave of dizziness washed over me, and an odd tingling at the base of my neck spread over my scalp. My synapses all seemed to fire at the same time as a long-forgotten sensation buzzed through my brain.

  “No gracking way!” I whispered, leaning on the railing for support.

  “Al, are you okay?” Lana asked, a worried expression on her face.

  “It activated,” I breathed out. “My gracking sigil just activated.”

  “Your sigil?” Lana asked, hesitantly. “As in your lost homing device?”

  “It’s not lost,” I said absent-mindedly, my mind reeling. “It’s buried in the rubble in the catacombs underneath us. We need to get it back. Quickly!”

  I fisted my hair, looking at the dancing crowd below, unseeing. A thousand years… One thousand gracking years my brothers and I had been stranded on this planet after our ship had crashed. Why was the rescue mission finally coming now? How was it even possible with our beacon destroyed? Had one of the surviving Khargals built a new one? Did our original one, lost in orbit around the planet, finally fall back to Earth?

  But those questions were of little importance. All that mattered was that our people had finally received our distress signal and would be coming to rescue us. Except, I needed my sigil not only to get the location, the time, and date of our pickup, but also because it served as the teleport device they would lock onto in order to transport me to the ship.

  “Based on previous rescues, the ship will give us a 24-hour window for the pick-up which will take place two to four weeks from now, considering the required travel time from Duras,” I said, my heart beating harder than the bass thumping beneath my feet. “I need to retrieve my sigil within the week so that I have enough time to make it to the rendezvous point.”

  “Well, it’s too late tonight,” Lana said, pensively, “I will have some people come over first thing in the morning to inspect the catacombs. But
Al, one week…”

  “Make it happen, Lana,” I said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I know exactly where I hid the sigil before the collapse. They only need to clear a path.”

  “Fair enough, but we’ll need a construction permit, and…”

  The look on my face must have said it all. Lana sighed heavily, not bothering to list the countless—very valid—arguments as to why this timeline would prove challenging.

  I never thought we’d be rescued, or I would have had the catacombs cleared years ago. A botched underground pipe and sewage job along the road outside the church had caused the collapse of sections of the catacombs of the already old building. I’d hidden my sigil within it during the mid-1800s and stood watch over the building as one of the gargoyles adorning its roof. With the population’s waning interest in religion and the rising costs of operating the building, the church was eventually put up for sale in the late 1900s. Through some major wheeling and dealing, Lana’s father had managed to prevent the church from being classified a historical building, although with some heavy promises that it wouldn’t be torn down or heavily modified to the point of making it unrecognizable.

  I’d had no need or desire to defile the building nor to turn it into another business or apartment complex. I only required a safe place to keep my sigil and the few remaining pieces of Khargal equipment and technology I still possessed, as well as a place I could hibernate in stone form without anyone questioning my presence.