“Discipline will strengthen your magic! Archetypes are a dangerous shortcut and are not to be trifled with.”
She stared at the ceiling. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re a gargoyle.”
“I do not see what that has to do with anything,” I said coldly.
“I just want more control, Brigitte. Maybe a little Saturn.”
Was she mad? “You cannot manipulate Saturn, god of structure and boundaries!”
“Oh.”
Satisfied, I ruffled my stone feathers. Flecks of lichen fluttered to the sisal rug. Why did Riga have such difficulty managing her niece? It was simply a matter of explaining things.
“Now,” I said, “you will write the paper on the Tarot.”
She rolled onto one elbow, her eyes narrowing. “Which is based on archetypes.”
I nodded, pleased. My charge would be busy for hours. I did not know why her aunt insisted the fledgling magician be guarded. Riga was overprotective, and I had things to do.
To my favorite mountaintop I flew. Its granite-and-sapphire view always puts life in perspective. Stone is marvelous, as strong, ordered, and unyielding as I.
I returned to Riga’s mansion, leaving only a tiny bit of broken glass and minor scarring on the foyer’s tile floor. Magic hung, thick and acrid in the air.
Uneasy, I flew upstairs and down the hall to Pen’s bedroom. The girl sat upright on the edge of her wooden desk chair. The room was uncharacteristically neat. Bed made. Pencils aligned on the desk. Window shut.
The feathers lifted on the back of my neck. “Where is your paper on the origins of the Tarot? No. Do not answer, I know all. You have been practicing magic instead of research. Riga and I told you to wait, and yet you ignore our wisdom.”
Her head rotated slowly toward me. The girl’s face was expressionless, save for a slight narrowing of the eyes. “Gargoyle,” she boomed.
Alarmed, I edged backwards. “Where?”
“Creature of chaos!” In one, economical motion, she rose from the chair. “Demon of the air, begone!” Pen lifted her hand.
A great wind filled the room. It lifted me, helpless, off my stone claws. I tumbled in the air and slammed into soft plaster.
A painting of a cowboy leapt from the wall and crashed to the carpeted floor. The bedroom door slammed.
Alarmed, I shook plaster from my feathers and inspected them for damage. Naturally, they were perfect.
But my stone heart pounded. “Pen! You invoked an archetype! Do not deny it. I, Brigitte, know all. Which archetype did you summon?” I cursed myself, for Pen could not reply. I was not speaking to Pen. The archetype she had invoked had taken control. “Was it Saturn?”
Silence, then a soft shuffling sound.
“Your aunt, she will be very angry!” Angry with me. It was unfair, but gargoyles, we always got the blame.
Fortunately, my stone, she is harder than the wood. I splintered the door and hurtled into the bedroom.
In my haste, my wings dislodged a painting. A snow globe. A bookcase.
The bed, she collided with me. Bedposts screeched across the floor. The quilt slithered to the rug.
“Bedlam!” The archetype recoiled, its nose wrinkling, and raised Pen’s arms in a warding gesture. “The joy of this form is not worth such pandemonium.”
The girl sagged, straightened. She looked about, blinking, and her jaw jutted forward in a very Pen-like manner.
My gaze flicked to the ceiling. Pen was herself again. No doubt Saturn had recognized my magical prowess, realized the hopelessness of remaining, and fled.
“It didn’t work,” Pen said, disappointment tinging her voice.
I sniffed. Some lessons must be learned the hard way. “It is all a matter of discipline.”
Good Intentions
“I don’t know how you got in here without being seen,” Riga hissed, “but you’d better get out the same way.”
The casino fountain splashed. Gamblers passed, glazed looks upon their faces.
Unmoving, I did not reply. Today, I was a fountain statue. She did not need me – not that I cared. Why should I not be a statue? Humans must see the marvelous upon occasion, even if they do not know it.
A wiry man in a frayed suit paused beside Riga. “Are you talking to that gargoyle?”
“It’s a lucky gargoyle. Make a wish…” She hurried off.
The gambler stared after her. “With my luck, the penny would hit me in the face.” He stared awhile, then tossed a coin. It hung for a moment in the air, then splashed into the fountain. Blinking rapidly, he bent toward me. “Maybe you’ll turn my luck. Nothing I do succeeds. My wife….”
His haggard face contorted. He turned and strode, straight-backed, through the ringing, chattering casino.
A black shimmer, shaped like a tiny, winged person, hovered above his thinning hair.
My eyes narrowed. It was no accident the gambler had whispered in my stone ear. I recognized that shimmer – a piseog, an Irish curse. The universe had arranged for Riga’s lack of interest today. I was needed, meant to free the gambler from the unlucky piseog.
Casting a cloaking spell, I soared after him. Riga’s metaphysical detective agency was not the – how do you say? – only game in town. Curse-breaking was simply a matter of cutting the cord between curse and victim.
The luckless man walked into the night, the parking lot glowing with jaundiced lights. His phone rang, and he drew it from his pocket, put it to his ear. A muscle worked in his jaw. “I’m coming home…”
I passed between the closing glass doors and followed.
“Yes,” he said, “you’ll have it.” He pocketed the phone and moaned. “It’s all gone. Not my fault. Can’t help it. God, my wife….”
With a flick of my talons, I sent a bolt of pure white magic between the piseog and the man.
The piseog turned, hissing, and I started with surprise. The curse flew at me, black sparks streaking behind its tiny form.
I swerved, too late.
And then… I saw myself as if from a great distance. I saw myself dive, clanging into a lamp post. I heard the post groan, and it tilted toward the man.
He walked on, hands fisted in his jacket pockets, oblivious to the threat. “Can’t help it. No choice—”
A shriek of metal, and the pole landed on a nearby Buick. The man yelped and leapt sideways. “My car!” He cursed long and colorfully. From his pocket, he drew a phone.
Snap!
At once, I was on the pavement, my stone feathers ruffled. Stunned, I shook my head.
A tiny burble, like a laugh, issued from the piseog. The thing zoomed to hover again above its victim.
I growled with fear and rage. This man, he needed me!
But I remembered that moment when I was not me, and I trembled.
The curse, she would not be broken easily. I needed help. I scrambled to my talons. I would tell Riga.
A Mazda glided to a halt beside the pacing gambler. Like the gambler’s cuffs, its sides were pasted with the muck that comes from traveling through snow.
Man and piseog got inside the car. Strange. After a wreck, most humans would be howling for a mechanic and a tow truck. But the piseog had no doubt crushed the gambler’s spirit so deeply he had given up on material possessions.
I looked toward the casino. If I searched for Riga, I would never find the man again.
A black shimmer pressed against the car’s rear window as it rolled away. I believe the piseog made a rude gesture. Impudent!
But I must not fail this cursed man. So, I followed him to an unassuming log cabin with faded plaid curtains in the windows. Cheerful light streamed through the fabric in welcome.
The man emerged from the car, and it drove off.
I sent another bolt of magic between man and curse.
The piseog chittered angrily and flew at me, but this time, I was ready. I would not flinch. I was needed!
The man d
isappeared inside the cabin, and the door slammed behind him.
Reaching inward for my magic, I touched darkness.
The piseog bulleted toward me.
I swallowed the curse and snapped shut my beak. Again, I was floating, seeing myself from above. It was a magnificent sight. But I remembered my purpose – to save the man. Suddenly, my awareness was inside the cabin, with its flickering television and worn, plaid curtains, a sheepskin rug before an unlit fire, and the man and his wife.
The two gestured violently. She shouted something, but the words came as if from a distance, faint and garbled.
He pulled a gun from his jacket pocket.
The woman cried out, raising her hands in a warding gesture.
In an instant, I understood. The man’s curse had kept the woman safe. And now, the curse, she was trapped inside me, and the man would succeed at murder.
I thought of the piseog’s smoky form beating helplessly within my solid stone.
There was a wrench, and I looked through my own, true eyes again. I tumbled to the snow-covered ground and opened my beak.
The piseog flew from my throat and into the cabin.
A flash.
A bang that shook the windows.
I flew to peer between the curtains.
The man lay silent and bleeding on the sheepskin rug.
The gun had exploded.
I shook snow from my wings. It seems I was not needed after all.
In Which I Bravely Battle Tahoe Tessie
I stared, unblinking, into the moonless night.
An unnatural ripple stirred the massive lake’s waters.
I craned forward, claws clenching and unclenching on the shingled roof.
Abruptly, the wind died in the pines. The waves fell silent, the winter air thickening with magic.
A glistening gray ribbon sliced the lake’s ink-stain surface and vanished.
My head jerked back, my stone feathers standing on end. Horrible!
I scrambled onto a windowsill and through my mistress’s open bedroom window.
Riga stood before an oval mirror. “Brigitte, you’re back. How do I look?” She fiddled with an earring.
“Human.” I panted and fluttered onto the footboard. “The lake monster, she has returned. Make haste. You must send it away!”
“Why?” Riga frowned into the mirror and adjusted a strand of auburn hair. “I doubt it means any harm. It did save my life once.”
I growled. “I save your life nearly every day!”
Riga turned, a single brow raised.
“Nearly every week!” I shifted on the headboard. This house did not need another magical creature. “What matters is the beast lurks outside our home.”
“Lake Tahoe is her – his – whatever’s home.”
“This is our home! What business does it have near our shore?” I glanced toward the window. The filmy curtain stirred, and I shuddered, half expecting a groping tentacle to slither inside.
“What do you want me to do?” Riga smoothed the front of her flowing slacks. “My protective wards don’t work over water, and Tessie can’t come on shore.”
Tessie. Such a derivative name. I raised my chin. “It wants something.”
“If it does, it will let us know.”
“And if it wants to drown us?” Annoyed, I clicked my beak shut.
“Stone gargoyles can’t drown. And as I said—”
“It once saved your life, yes, yes…” My eyes narrowed. “And Monsieur Mosse? What if it wants him?” Riga, she is not the jealous type, but she has strong feelings for that man.
One corner of her mouth curved upward. “He’d love the attention.” She sailed from the room. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
My magic bound me to obey, but Riga had left me wide latitude. For once, I was glad she was loose with her words. It was a terrible habit for a magician but convenient for a familiar.
A dangerous creature of deep and powerful magic lurked outside. I straightened. It was my duty to protect Riga, even – especially when she was being intensely stupid.
But she was correct. Magic is notoriously unreliable over water. And yet, this magical creature dwelled inside a lake…. I needed a spell that operated on the monster’s own watery wavelength.
Soon, I hit upon a brilliant plan. The monster had grown accustomed to the intense cold of the lake. If I heated the water, the monster would find our corner of the lake inhospitable and leave.
I flew to the shore, where the white line of snow vanished against ebony waters. Reaching into the Great Nothing, I touched the source of my magic. “Calida aqua!”
Power flowed through me and rippled outward.
Steam rose on the lake, strange whispers echoing off the low waves.
My spell, she was working!
A massive swell formed. The creature’s gray back broke the surface, and a wave rushed toward shore, shattering my magic. Icy water drenched me.
I sputtered, dripping from crest to claws. “Faugh!” Enraged, I soared low over the beast. If magic would not do, brute force would suffice.
The creature half submerged, zig-zagging through the lake.
I pursued the thing, slashing at the beast only to grasp droplets of water.
Casually, the creature flicked its tail upward and batted me into the lake.
Gargoyles cannot drown, but neither can we swim. I sank, revolving, helpless, into the midnight depths.
The creature coiled around me, its skin horribly soft.
What tragedy, my end! Riga would never know my sacrifice! But such was a gargoyle’s lot.
We drifted downward, the creature and me. The monster made a strange, sighing noise, and it released its grip.
Silently, I floated to the lake’s bottom.
It was a long walk home along the lake floor. The great, silly beast circled all the while, crooning. Occasionally, it swooped low to knock playfully into me and send me tumbling through the silt.
Well.
Perhaps I cannot blame the creature. After all, I am quite irresistible.
Me Time
As a gargoyle, it is my fate to serve my magician’s whims. Day after day after day, I train Riga’s niece, research arcane knowledge, spy on my mistress’s enemies. It is very dull. Little wonder if I escape to books for adventures of my own.
So, when a stargazer reported sighting the Bigfoot beside a nearby creek, I knew it was my chance for, how do you say? Me time. I would meet the creature beneath the moon and have, I hoped, a conversation with someone of intelligence. A solitary creature of the forest, he could only be a sensitive soul. Did the Bigfoot answer to a magician? What form of magic did he work?
I fluttered to the balcony overlooking Lake Tahoe. A harvest moon rippled on its dark waters. Soon snow would cap its unforgiving mountains.
“Brigitte?” Flipping through envelopes, Riga strode onto the deck, a paisley shawl wrapped about her shoulders. I believe she is considered beautiful for a human, but I do not understand the attraction. There are no hard angles. “I need you to run an errand.”
“But, the Bigfoot—”
“Will wait. I need you to deliver this – secretly – to the address on the envelope. Can you do that?” She extended an envelope.
I grasped it in my stone talons. “Of course, I can do this. I am a gargoyle, no?”
“You can’t be seen.”
“Yes, yes, I am not deaf.” But I was in a hurry. The Bigfoot, he was seen at midnight, and does not stay in one place long.
I glanced at the address, though I did not need to. My mistress’s will was enough to send me to the location. But Riga did not have to know that. I must keep some secrets, no?
She drew breath. “And—”
I launched myself into the sky before she could order me to come right back and flew west, the wind whistling beneath my wings. The log cabin Riga had sent me to was secluded and not far from the Bi
gfoot’s creek. Two men moved about in the nearby woods, but they would not see me in the dark Sierra night. So unfair. Humans should see the marvelous upon occasion, no?
Alighting on the cabin’s moss-covered roof, I dropped lithely to the deck. I pushed the envelope beneath the door, nudging it with my limestone beak.
The door swung wide. No one was home.
I cocked my head.
Or, I could leave the letter where it would be more easily seen. Snatching the envelope off the floor, I hopped into the cabin. Where should Riga’s missive go? On the wooden table, perhaps? In the antlers of the deer mounted above the fireplace? Or in the kitchen…?
Outside, a branch snapped.
I narrowed my eyes and extended my senses.
The men converged on the cabin.
My beak tightened. Faugh! Curse my helpful nature that had driven me indoors. But I must not be seen.
I fluttered to the brick fireplace and perched upon its mantle. The wood shifted, groaning beneath my weight. I stilled and became a statue.
Grunting, the men hefted a long metal object into the cabin and set it upon a rag rug. One opened its plastic lid and pressed buttons. Red numbers flashed, blinking on its screen.
Had I blood pressure, it would have been rising. The Bigfoot, he awaited.
“How many hours to escape the blast zone?” the narrow, blond man, asked.
Blast? Noise might frighten the Bigfoot! A sensitive creature, he would be easily startled.
“One hour,” the other said. “If you don’t mind me saying, this seems like overkill for a frameup. Aren’t you worried about fallout?”
“I’m not worried.” The blond man drew a gun from inside his thick jacket. Three shots, and his companion crumpled, leaking scarlet fluid from chest and skull. Humans, they are sadly fragile.
With his boot, the man nudged his companion, smiled and departed.
My stomach lurched as I studied the tube. But this was technology and beyond me. I focused on the infernal device. Riga says I am good at breaking things. Perhaps…? The numbers counted down. 04… 03… Brow furrowing, I sent a burst of magic into the metal tube. The numbers stopped, and my stone joints relaxed.
The Gargoyle Chronicles: A Riga Hayworth Mystery (Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 8) Page 11
