Deaths Excellent Vacation

first time, it was an idle curiosity. He had loved her as well as he was able and knew she had loved him in return, but she was gone now and would never be able to give him the forgiveness he sought. He would have to claim it for himself. And he would. Tim had done his penance.
    Tonight most of all.

The Heart Is Always Right
    LILITH SAINTCROW
     
     
    Lilith Saintcrow is the author of the Dante Valentine, Jill Kismet, and Strange Angels series. She lives in Vancouver, Washington, with her two children and assorted other strays.

    MOST gargoyles go to Paris. It’s ridiculous. When you spend all your time hanging on the sides of buildings, why go to a place where you just do more of the same? Even if the Heart is there beating under the streets. Even if it is, for pretty much any stoneskin, home .
    No, I didn’t want to spend two weeks of vacation hanging on to the side of a building. I was gonna go to Bermuda. Had my plane tickets and everything. I was even packing. Suntan lotion, BluBlocker sunglasses, flip-flops. It was an adventure buying the flip-flops at EvilMart. I was thinking about how in my trueform I only had three toes, and flip- flops are built wrong for that kind of foot. Then I figured I wasn’t going to be fighting any evil on the beach, so it didn’t matter that there aren’t three-toe flip-flops out there. It’s too bad there aren’t. Someone could make a killing.
    I guess I shouldn’t say things like that, should I?
    I got to the front of the EvilMart, wincing at the bright fluorescent light, and for once the Heart was kind to me. She was there.
    Blond. The kind of blond that looks dishwater under tubes of buzzing EvilMart light but lights up in island sunlight. Blue eyes, usually tired and bloodshot, and an aristocratic nose under them. She’s got a pretty mouth, too, though it’s always pulled tight with something like pain. I think if she ever relaxed, she’d be a knockout.
    Who am I kidding? Even in a blue polyester EvilMart vest that does nothing for her va-va-vooms, she’s a knockout. I like ’em juicy. Give me a girl with real hips any day, not a stick with mosquito bites.
    As if I’ve ever gotten close enough to smell a girl. But I can still look, right?
    I’m not dead. Just gargoyle.
    Her nametag says Kate . And there are always dark circles under her eyes.
    She was just reaching up to turn off the light over her register when I shambled up. It was about two A.M., quitting time. She hesitated, one hand in the air, and I wished I were shorter. Or at least less broad in the shoulders. We stoneskin are built like linebackers—wide and stupid. The sloppy brown hair, hat pulled down to hide my ears, stubble to hide my gnarled skin, and the smell of concrete and rain on me probably isn’t very pretty either.
    A tendril of that blond hair was falling in her face, and I stopped dead, planting my cheap canvas shoes. My heart made a funny jumping noise inside my ribs, knocking at the cathedral arches.
    Then she smiled. It was her usual pained smile, the mouth pulled tight, but her eyes lit up and my heart not only banged on the old ribs, but splashed in my guts. My skin felt too tingling-small, and I had to take a deep breath, reminding myself that my real form wasn’t something anyone here would want to see.
    “Come on up,” she said, and flipped her light off. “I’m just about to go, but I can fit in one more.”
    “Oh. I . . . Gee. Thanks.” Yeah, I actually said gee . Her smile widened a bit, and I had to make my feet move. They were tingling, too, just like the rest of me.
    I stumped up to her checkout stand and started unloading the carrying basket. Two beach towels, both printed in big block colors. Two pairs of orange flip-flops, size fourteen wide. White socks—you can’t ever have too many socks. Two family-size bags of CornNuts. Sunblock. A two- liter of Coke. A pair of ragg-wool gloves. And three jumbo tins of Bag Balm.
    Hey, when your skin rasps against rock and concrete all the time, it gets cracked and stuff. Bag Balm is the best .
    Her hands sorted the items without any real effort on her part, the checkstand beeping and booping. Her nails were bitten down, and she wore a thin gold necklace. It looked cheap but it smelled real—I’ve got a nose for metal. The small gold ball earrings she wore were real, too. And this close her skin was dewy even under the glare.
    I bulged shapelessly, like a balloon without quite enough air. I’ve got a boxer’s face,