Ancient Magic (Dragon's Gift: The Huntress #1)(19)

An enormous griffon stood at the side of the room, twice as big as a lion. It was beautiful, if you didn’t mind being terrified. Enormous wings stretched out from its powerful back, arching up over a massive, leonine body. Its head was almost birdlike, but that was no delicate beak. It could pick up cows with that thing.

Where the hell had it come from? I glanced around.

Aidan was gone.

Oh, hell no.

But of course. That was Aidan. My sidekick was a freaking griffon. Though if he was a griffon, I was probably the sidekick in this situation.

Beast-Aidan launched himself off the floor and leapt upon two demons, grabbing each in a powerful front claw and smashing them against the ground.

Since it seemed Aidan had that side of the room well taken care of, I spun and eyed the other side. A demon was shaking a monk by his robe, demanding, “Where is it?”

The monk babbled in Irish, seeming unable to understand English.

Rage seethed in my chest. I didn’t like bullies. This was the demon I’d save for questioning. I couldn’t be sure the griffon would keep any alive.

I pushed aside the pain that throbbed at my back and side and charged the demon, flinging Righty as I ran. It sank into his arm. The demon grunted and looked up at me, then glanced around at the carnage Aidan and I had wrought. Only one of its brethren remained.

Nope, none. Aidan had ripped its head off with his beak. The head bounced across the stone before finally disappearing. I swallowed bile and looked at the remaining demon.

His eyes widened. I lunged at him, tackling him to the ground. He was enormous and sweaty beneath me.

When I opened my mouth to demand why he was there, something huge and golden flew in front of my face and slammed into the demon’s head. I surged backwards as blood sprayed. Panting, I looked up at the monk who’d slammed an enormous ornamental candlestick onto the demon’s skull.

The monk grinned proudly at me and said in Irish, “I saved you, lass. Sent that demon straight back to hell!”

Damn it. That was the last one we could have questioned.

“Uh, thank you,” I said in Irish. I didn’t want to piss off the monk who could give me answers about the scroll. And he was so proud of himself that I didn’t have the heart.

Strong arms pulled me up. Shock sent my heart slamming into my ribs. Was there another demon still alive? I lashed out with Righty. Aidan caught my arm, the blade an inch from his face. I stepped back, breathing hard. He was human again, dressed in the same clothes.

“Are they all dead?” I sheathed Righty and Lefty. The adrenaline of the fight faded, and pain seared through me again. I pressed my arm to the wound in my side, wincing.

“Yes.” Aidan glanced at my arm. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.” At least, I thought I was. “Mostly I’m pissed we didn’t keep one alive. I want to know why they were here.”

“Me too. Though if I had to guess, it might have been for the scroll.” He touched my arm, the one that was covering my wound. “Let me see that.”

“Later,” I said as I turned back to the monk who’d crushed the last demon’s skull.

Three other monks approached us. All were breathing heavily, fear in their eyes.

Around us, the rest climbed to their feet. The interior of their cathedral was a mess. Turned over tables and shattered chairs littered the ground. At least none of the torches had started a fire.

“Thank you,” the tallest monk said in Irish. “We were overwhelmed. Our warrior brother is away on a pilgrimage. We were not prepared for an attack. Normally, he would protect us. Though we are supernaturals, we do not practice our skills.”

“It was our pleasure,” Aidan said, his voice smooth.

Our pleasure? It was hard to reconcile that this was the same guy who’d torn off a demon’s head with his beak. Either way, I’d want him at my back in any fight.

“Do you know why the demons were here?” I asked in Irish.

“No. We only speak Irish, but they did not speak our tongue. They seemed to be demanding something, but I do not know what.”

So they hadn’t gotten the information they’d come for because they couldn’t speak Irish. Good. “Do you often have attacks like this?”

The monk nodded. “Thieves and raiders come every few years. Sometimes as infrequently as a decade. It was worse with the Vikings, but even modern brigands would like to steal our holy relics.”

He gestured to several large chests that sat at one side of the room. My dragon sense tugged at me as I looked at them. Logic said that they were full of golden goodies. My sense for treasure confirmed it.

Oh, how I’d love to poke around in those chests. Though my personal brand of treasure ran along the lines of quality leather goods and sharp, pointy things, I couldn’t help but get a tingly sense of desire whenever I saw gold. I’d always feared that if I took some, I’d really turn into a FireSoul, crouched on my horde of gold like Scrooge McDuck.

“You think they were here for the gold?” I asked, though I doubted it.

The monk nodded. “It’s what most thieves want.”

True enough.

“But why are you here?” the monk asked.

“We’re looking for the Scroll of Truth,” Aidan said.

“Ah, yes. An interesting document.” The monk folded his hands in front of him, the long brown sleeves of his robe draping to the floor. “That was stolen long ago. But we do not know where it is.”