Free Bound by Alan Baxter

with a sound like a gunshot.
    Alex stood panting, shaking, bruised and bleeding. He looked from one gargoyle corpse to the other as they both lost colour. Pale grey seeped across their skins and in moments they were broken granite grotesques. They shivered and shattered into dust and gravel.
    ‘Defeating two gargoyles barehanded? Impressive.’
    With a gasp Alex looked up into the blue eyes of the blonde. His vision swam. She stepped forward, reached out for him. ‘Easy there,’ he heard. ‘Looks like you …’
    Strange sounds washed in Alex’s ears, a soft whump, whump, whump. Keeping his eyes closed, breathing deeply, he realised it was his heartbeat. Every inch of his body burned with pain, as though he had been flayed. The image of the blonde swam into his mind and his heart rate increased. As his senses came online, he knew he lay on something soft and she was still there, right beside him. She felt strong.
    ‘I know you’re awake,’ she said softly. Her voice had a Scottish lilt, almost lost but defiant.
    Without opening his eyes Alex assessed his energy levels and the extent of his injuries.
    ‘You’re safe for now,’ the girl said.
    He had just had a fight to the death, almost his own, with two living, moving, deadly creatures that should be nothing more than adornment on gothic buildings. What the hell was happening to him? A flash of realisation branded another image on his mind: Welby’s corpse, broken on the landing above. That fucker Peacock had gone medieval with all the wrong assumptions and left Patrick Welby dead and Alex lost and broken. All because of this fucking book. He should never have left Sydney.
    The stone against his chest, like a second heart, pulsed in its locket. What would it be like to open the locket, wear it right against his skin? Power throbbed through the tiny shard. Only a third of the whole? If only it was a wishing stone and he could wish himself back to his peaceful house surrounded by paddocks and cows, with no knowledge of it or the grimoire or Welby. Or magic and gargoyles and idiot booksellers. Or beautiful, mysterious blondes.
    ‘You going to open your eyes and talk to me?’ Her voice had an amused edge. He could imagine her crooked smile and it fired his desire.
    His eyes flickered open. Even his eyelids hurt. He lay on a sofa in the front room, the blonde kneeling beside him. She watched him with humour. ‘Hello there.’
    ‘Hey.’ He sounded like a wino after thirty years on the streets with meths and old cigarette butts.
    ‘I’ve patched you up a bit. Luckily there was a pretty good first aid kit in the kitchen. I’m sure you hurt all over, but it’s all pretty superficial, nothing broken. Which is a surprise, given what you were hitting.’
    ‘Lots of practice.’
    She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
    Alex laughed softly and winced at the pain it put through his chest. ‘Well, not against … those things. It’s always been people before now. But the conditioning still counts, it seems. Who are you?’
    ‘You can call me Silhouette.’
    ‘Which isn’t your real name, I’m guessing.’
    ‘It’s what everyone calls me.’
    ‘Fair enough. I’m Alex. Alex Caine.’
    They watched each other for several moments. Alex had to assume he had an ally in this girl, though he was still suspicious. She hadn’t helped with the fight, but she had fixed him up afterwards. At the very least she was no immediate enemy. He felt lost and keen to hang on to anyone friendly, but remained wary. More than anything he wanted to be back home, on his own. He was fairly sure he would never again enjoy the simplicity of the life he had known.
    Without a word Silhouette stood and left the room. He heard her in the kitchen. She returned with a glass of water. ‘Hold this.’
    He struggled up into a sitting position, grimacing at the needles of pain in his body. He gritted his teeth, took the glass.
    Silhouette dug around in a small leather pouch on her belt and pulled out