But the time to dwell upon my options is soon over. The three of them are on me, dragging me back, their hard and unrelenting grips on my ankles and flailing arms like steel.

“Fuck off!” I scream as they roll me over onto the dirt, pressing me facedown into the damp moss and earth.

One of the ringleader’s cronies puts his boot on the back of my neck while the other twists my arms behind my back and pins them to the small of my spine.

And it’s then I hear the unmistakable sound of a metal buckle and zip being released. “No!” I scream. “Please!” But even as the words leave my lips, I know my begging will fall on deaf ears. The screams of black women always have.

The ringleader gets down on his knees behind me and spreads my thighs, ripping my panties from me as if they were made of tissue paper.

I feel the chill of the night air against my heat as my pussy is exposed. A moment later and an even more obscene horror fills me as I feel my ass-cheeks being pried apart. I try and kick and scream until I’m hoarse. “You fucking assholes! I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!” I don’t know how, but in the moment it doesn’t matter. My own righteous anger burns with the ferocity of a thousand suns, and I kick and writhe for all I’m worth.

But the jerk with his boot on my neck leans more of his weight into me—until I can scarcely breathe.

I rasp in the dirt, squeezing my eyes shut tight against the horror that’s about to befall me. In my mind, I see the immense and terrifying gargoyle looming above us. If only the beast were real. If only he could help me.

Without warning my half-naked body is buffeted by a gust of wind and a slew of warmth splashes across me, unsettling me to my core. The foot on my neck suddenly disappears and I twist in the dirt, eyes wide as I realize I’m covered in blood—and it’s not mine. Screams fill the air, and they are not those of grown men. They sound more like those of a gaggle of schoolchildren who’ve been jump-scared by someone in a hockey mask. Only the screaming goes on … and on.

A shadow falls over me and I twist, scrambling backward in the damp earth. I press my back to the cold stone mausoleum. Before me, wings outstretched, eyes blazing crimson red, stands a creature of nightmares. My hero. Glancing up, the roof of the mausoleum is bare. My mind reels. The beast roaring into the night, a skinhead upside down in each clawed hand is none other than the gargoyle. He is stone come to life.

The gargoyle shakes the men violently, smashing them together like he’s dusting out a pair of floor mats. A sickening crunch sounds on impact and both men hang limp, their puerile screams silenced forever more. The incredible creature with perfectly defined muscles flings them into the darkness, where I hear them splash down among the reeds. Moments later the sounds of an alligator feeding frenzy ensues, the thrashing of tails and the sloshing of the dark bayou waters resounding through the night.

The final white supremacist tries to crawl away on his hands and knees like the animal he is, but the gargoyle isn’t having it.

He seizes the asshole by the back of his wife-beater and flips him over, before picking him up by his throat, his fingers and claws doubling back on themselves, his grasp impossibly large compared to the puny skinhead’s neck. The gargoyle growls deep in his throat, before he turns to face me. Pointing one long, clawed finger in my direction, he says one word that simultaneously chills me to my bones and thrills me. “Mine.”

The ringleader who would have gladly raped me just moments before pisses himself, gasping as he tries to alleviate the pressure of the stone grip on his throat.

“Mine!” the gargoyle roars again, drawing the skinhead right up to face him.

“Yes,” the would-be-rapist gasps, his eyes rolling back in his head.

The gargoyle roars, spittle flying. In the next instant he tears the skinhead’s pants from his body and gripping his junk, he tears his whole package clean off. Even though it’s what the asshole deserves, a strangled shriek escapes me. The sheer violence overwhelming.

The gargoyle glances back at me, a heavy stone brow rising in curiosity. Then, breaking several of the skinhead’s teeth, he shoves the guy’s cock and sac into his mouth and viciously down his throat, using one large finger to push it down.

The skinhead goes limp, succumbing to the terror, blood loss, and lack of oxygen.

Seemingly satisfied, the great beast tosses the corpse into the bayou, his hands bloody as he turns to face me, his wings flaring dramatically. He brings his finger to his chest and taps it there. “Malachi,” he growls.

With my heart still racing a million miles an hour, I can feel my whole body shaking. Is it with the cold of All Hallows’ Eve, or with fear? I can’t be sure. What I am certain of, however, is that this epic creature of myth and legend saved my life. He butchered the men intent on raping me and for some reason, he’s staked some kind of claim on me. I don’t understand it and I’m not sure just how well Malachi can communicate, but I have to say thank you or demonstrate my gratitude in a way he might comprehend.

Rising unsteadily to my feet using the mausoleum for support, I take a hesitant step forward. “You saved me,” I breathe. “Thank you.” Inhaling deeply through my nose, I venture several more steps toward him. “My name is Lyra.”

Malachi grunts, so immense he hunches over to peer into my eyes. “Lyra. Mate.”

“Mate?” I ask. Unless he’s flown all the way from Australia, I know he doesn’t mean “friend.” Swallowing the fright that has me trembling, I reach tentatively for his bloodstained hand. His claws are like curved knives, and my whole hand can only wrap around one finger. “You want me?” I ask, shuddering internally at the incredible size difference between us.

The gargoyle gently withdraws his hand, standing to his full height.

It’s only then, as I follow his gaze downward, that I notice the enormous cock hanging at half-mast between his powerful and muscular thighs.