by Anton Strout
“What is it, Stanis?” Alexandra asked, her voice calming.
“If you would stop fighting among yourselves for a moment, there is something I must point out.”
I waited to hear if anyone was going to say anything more.
“So . . . ?” Caleb started. “What is it?”
“What do you hear, now that you are not fighting with each other?”
He listened for a moment. All the humans listened.
Caleb shrugged. “I don’t hear anything,” he said.
“Exactly.”
The humans ran for the stairs leading to the roof, and I followed, stepping out onto it. Empty pedestals marked the entirety of the roof, and the broken forms of far too few gargoyles littered the area. Every other living creature was gone, the night sky filled with dark shadows and the flapping of wings.
“I believe the days of keeping secret the existence of gargoyles may be at an end,” I said.
Twenty-three
Alexandra
Sleep was good. In fact, I might have called it my best friend. A night of ignoring calls from Caleb and not having to think about the events of the previous night was blissful. Sleep even gave me the false hope that maybe I had been dreaming the events of the past few days. But when the door buzzed over and over for a good ten minutes, I finally gave in to waking and checked it out, only to find Desmond Locke at the door, his face full of curiosity.
“Is your father in?” he asked. “I would like to speak with him.”
“No,” I said. “If he wasn’t in the offices here, then I don’t know where he is.”
“Pity,” he said, extending his open palm into the building. “May I?”
Not having seen him since before Caleb and I had liberated my great-great-grandfather’s book, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be talking to a man whose church I had broken into, but compared to the events of last night, it almost felt like a welcome distraction.
I headed upstairs to the kitchen to make myself some coffee but made no effort to offer him any. I sat down at the breakfast bar, leaving him standing.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Locke?” I asked, taking my first sip, coming a bit more alive with it.
“I wonder if you’ve been watching the news,” he said.
My stomach sank. “No,” I said. “I’ve been holed up in bed all morning. Bit under the weather and all.”
“Interesting reporting this morning,” he said. “They say overnight there were many sightings and reporting of angels and demons throughout the city sky. There were hundreds of incidents reported. Even footage on the Internet.”
“Really, now,” I said, a bit of curiosity winning out over my growing fear. “And what do you make of all this?”
“What with all the reports of angel and demon sightings,” he said, “one would think we are seeing the End of Days.”
“Isn’t the Rapture something someone in your line of work is supposed to look forward to?”
“In theory, yes,” he said, “but I am not as dogmatic as most. We both know there are strange things in the world, Miss Belarus. And I think the regular world is catching on to that now because of the meddling of certain people who do not know any better.”
Given the air of superiority coming from him, I resisted the urge to throw my coffee in his face. “And what would be better?” I asked.
“The world would be a better place if these things were kept in check,” he said. “Or at least used on the side of God.”
“Ah, there we have it,” I said. “No one wants to just take this power and put it on the shelf. Maybe that’s what your Libra Concordia thinks to do in theory, but the truth is that theory doesn’t work. There are always men and women who seek power, no matter how altruistic they claim to be.”
“There are those better suited to judge those needs than others,” he spat out.
I walked up to him, tugging on the thick ropes of medallions and talismans he wore around his neck. “No offense, but I find it hard to trust your judgment when I see you wearing and using the very objects you swear to keep out of the hands of others.”
“Sometimes it is better to be forearmed,” he said. “What is going on, Miss Belarus?”
It was true that this man had shared some of his knowledge about my great-great-grandfather with me, but it had all started only after he had a gun in his hand. I was sick of people trying to push me this way and that. I was tired of feeling used. “I don’t think I have anything I want to share with you, Mr. Locke,” I said.
“Oh no?” he said. “I think you have taken advantage for far too long of my goodwill, allowing you to do research at the Libra Concordia.”
“If what you say about the news is true, why not just head out into the streets?” I asked. “I’m sure you could have your pick of whatever’s out there.”
Desmond Locke shook his head, his voice becoming sharper now. “The thing about these creatures is that I do not care about them at the moment,” he said. “What I am interested in—what I have always been interested in—would be the angel that watches over your family.”
“Why is that one so important?” I asked.
“Because before all this other nonsense erupted, it was the singular mystery that brought me to this city, and I have spent much of my life seeking it out.” A bit of madness had entered his voice. “Other mysteries within the Concordia have come after it, but it is the singular thing that has eluded me, and I will not be denied. I will rein this angel in, or I will bend it to my will.”
“There is no angel,” I said, not even hesitating. It was the truth, after all.
Desmond Locke’s voice calmed, but his eyes danced with fire. “Miss Belarus, please. I have offered you my hospitality as a guest at the Libra Concordia in the hope that you would get the answers you seek.”
“And I thank you for that,” I said.
“But that does come with a price,” he said. “A little give-and-take, and I do mean to take. I have more than earned it.”
“You have earned nothing where my family is concerned,” I said. “You watch over us under false pretenses yet dare call my father ‘friend.’ I find it repulsive.”
“I am simply a curious man,” he said, changing tactics yet again. “I like knowing things, and for the sake of my organization, this is the sort of knowledge and creation that we would like to keep in balance.”
“You expect me to trust you? I think you should leave.”
“You talk about trust,” he said. “Perhaps I should not have trusted you.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, my anger growing.
“It seems we have had a break-in at the Libra Concordia,” he said with his eyes searching my face for a reaction.
I gave him none even though my heart leapt up into my throat. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But there are signs of both breaking in and breaking out, though we cannot determine if anything was taken. But I’m sure you know nothing about that, do you?”
I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said.
“No matter,” he said. “We will get to the bottom of it, I am sure. Your lack of cooperation here will be something I consider when we question Mr. Kennedy once more.”
“So you’ve spoken to him already about it?” I asked.
Desmond nodded.
After dismissing Caleb on trust issues the night before, I could only imagine how fast he’d sell me out for his safety. “What did Caleb say?”
“He says he knows nothing about what happened the night of the break-in,” Desmond said. “But I am not sure I believe him.”
“Why not?”
“Just a hunch,” he said. “He is a freelancer, after all. Not to be trusted. They are profound liars for the right price.”
Was Desmond Locke admitting to s
ome knowledge of Caleb’s working both sides of the good-and-evil fence? Or was he simply trying to draw me out, getting me to make an emotion-driven mistake?
I couldn’t be sure, and in doubt, I held my tongue. When I didn’t answer after a full minute of silence, Desmond Locke gave a pressed-lip smile.
“If I find he had anything to do with the break-in, it will go poorly for him,” he said, heading for the stairs leading back down to the door. “And given your lack of cooperation here with other matters, it will be doubly so.”
I wanted to rage as I watched him go, and I followed him down the stairs until I could shut and lock the door behind him. All the while I kept silent because any other reaction might betray something to him—be it Stanis, the secrets of the Spellmasons, or even something that might get Caleb killed. Yes, I had driven him off and ignored all his calls, but did I want him killed at the hands of a secret society?
I needed to do something with this energy and confusion, so I ran down the basement stairs, heading for the guild hall. I wanted nothing more than to get into my great-great-grandfather’s inner sanctum and, at the very least, get out a good scream.
The secret door was once again propped on its hidden hinges, sitting ajar, despite the warding password I had put upon it. I threw it open, focusing my will to take down whoever had dared enter my family’s sacred space.
Storming in, I quickly surveyed the room. The scattered books I had been reading on the center table of the great hall were now piled in a single tower almost three feet tall. At the top of it sat a small wooden box with ornate, arcane carving on it.
What the hell was it?
A weird prank left by Desmond?
It didn’t seem likely as he had been with me the entire time. I knew of only one person who had the guts to break in here.
I ran to the box, taking it from the top of the stack and laying it down on the table. It was no larger than a cigar box, but there was both weight to it and the sensation of fluid movement from within. Furious at yet another violation of my space, I flipped the lid open, not caring if it was a trick or not.
A large glass orb sat in the middle of a cushioned insert, its contents a swirling mass of liquid. Even as I stood there looking down at it, the liquid maintained its motion, almost hypnotic. Tucked into the lids were several sheets of notebook paper in Caleb’s clean script. One sheet spelled out in detail the use of the concoction, the same mixture he supposedly used to control Stanis while on the payroll for Kejetan Ruthenia.
The other bore a far more simple but ominous message.
Watch your back.—C
PS. Sorry.
Twenty-four
Stanis
My pained transformation to living stone upon the setting of the sun was a welcome one. Even after centuries, it struck me fresh every time, a constant reminder that it was a miracle I was a living creature. I minded the burning sensation even less that night because I awoke on the edge of the roof where I had stood for centuries. I was home, even if my home was littered with the remains of broken grotesques and the lifeless stones that had previously housed the souls of Kejetan’s closest Servants of Ruthenia.
I walked to the edge of the roof, the awakening sensation already fading, and dropped down to the terrace below. It did my soul good to find Alexandra in her great-great-grandfather’s studio, even in the condition I had previously left it in. As I came through the open hole where the doors should be, the floor crunched with the sound of stone and wood, drawing Alexandra’s attention.
She turned, for a second wide-eyed with concern until she saw me standing there and relaxed. That did my soul good as well, and I crossed to her as she returned to working on a mound of clay sitting on a table in front of her. To her left stood a large, solid block of stone taller than I was, which had not been in the space when last I had been there.
“Where are your companions?” I asked. “This building is not safe, not after the events of the other night.”
“Kejetan and his people got what they wanted,” she said, painful as it was for her to admit. “They’re probably off flying the friendly skies or doing a victory lap. As for Rory and Marshall, they’ve got lives. Me? I’ve got work to do. Between cultists and religious fanatics threatening my family, I need to get creating.”
“What about him?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear her answer.
“Caleb?” she said. She wiped her hands off on a piece of cloth and reached into her bag, pulling out a decorative box I would have expected Kejetan or one of his lords to have owned in life. “He’s out of the club. After the other night, I’m not at all sure I can trust him. But he did send me this as a peace offering.” She lifted the lid to reveal a small sphere filled with a glittering gold liquid.
“Is it true as it was in my century that women love to receive that which shines?”
She smiled at that.
“That we do,” she said. “I prefer the kind I can wear, personally, but it’s a start.”
I watched the liquid dance within the sphere. “What is it?”
She lowered the lid and slid it back into her bag.
“Let’s just say if you develop any other personality disorders, I should be able to cope with it on my own. It’s what he mixed when he freed you. It even came with instructions.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” I said.
“Let’s hope,” she said, crossing her fingers. As she went back to the clay she was working, the box she had just held out slid out of her bag.
“What the hell?” she said, tentatively pushing it back in, but finding resistance.
I moved closer, wings involuntarily spreading as I worried, but when Alexandra’s tiny brick creature crawled out from behind the box out of the bag, I lowered my wings.
“Hey, Bricksley!” she said. “I wondered where you had gone off to.” She picked him up and set him down on the floor. “Not now, buddy. Mama needs her time to get her creative art on. Can’t beat the baddies without some goodies, and since New York is crawling with every other Belarus statue in motion right now, looks like I’m back at square one crafting my own.”
I could not help but watch the little animated brick as it moved around the room, its wire arms and clay hands moving about freely, set to no actual task that I could make sense of.
“I wonder if perhaps your charge should have wings,” I said after watching him stumble around for a few more minutes.
Alexandra turned from her work and looked down to the floor at him. “Who? Bricksley?” She shook her head. “Not sure a flying brick is such a great idea.”
“It is a shame.”
My maker’s kin stopped working and turned to me. “Is it?”
“You have flown, Alexandra,” I said. “Both with me and of your own accord.” I picked up the miniature brick man and looked him over as he squirmed in my hands. Painted eyes and a smiling mouth stared up at me, unmoving. “Seeing him earthbound as he is, I feel . . . sorry for him.”
Alexandra walked over and took him from me, placing Bricksley on the table next to her. “Don’t,” she said. “He’s got a pretty good life. And look how happy he looks!”
“His face is painted on,” I said. “Of course he would seem that way.”
She leaned forward, looking him over.
“I’ll consider it,” she said, setting back to work on the mound of clay next to him. In silence, she sculpted it as I stood there watching, marveling at the grotesque figure that began to emerge before my eyes.
I could have stood watching her work for a century if my guilt over the sad state of my creator’s studio had not taken over, so I set about undoing what damage I could. Even the creature known as Bricksley moved about the space, returning randomly scattered books to the shelves in the library. Only when the heavy thump of footsteps on the roof sounded did I stop.
Alexandra looked u
p, then turned to me.
“Continue,” I said, heading off to the terrace, barely needing to retract my wings as I went out through the opening. “I will see to whoever is distracting us.”
“Thanks,” she said.
I nodded and took to the sky, rising just high enough to come down on the roof above.
A lone carved figure stood among the broken ruins of other grotesques, its body lean and serpentine features on its face. Its wings were wide, flapping in a nervous rhythm, betraying its mood. The stone itself was finer than mine, more of a textured yellow marble, and despite the new and strange feeling it still was to see others like myself, I could not help but feel my anger rise toward the intruder.
What business it had here was a mystery, but it was one I meant to solve.
Months of frustration, servitude, and not being able to crush Caleb’s head the other night had left me wanting conflict. I ran for the other grotesque, but was only halfway across the rooftop when it spied me and leapt into the air, taking flight.
I took off after it as I had Alexandra the other night, the grotesque even heading uptown the same way, but its flight was not nearly as stable. Its wings fought to strike a steady beat, the creature’s flying only improving when it forced itself into a glide. I was determined not to be outdone by a grotesque that was at best days old. Centuries should give me the upper hand here, and I fought to push myself through the sky even faster in pursuit.
The distance closed between us with every block, but even then it took minutes to catch up, and we were halfway over Central Park before the grotesque was nearly in my grasp.
When the grotesque looked back to find me so close, it dropped lower over the park, hoping perhaps to lose me under the cover of the trees, and that was its crucial mistake. The centuries had taught me how to maneuver through this city, its parks as well, and I dove after the creature, gliding with little effort between the branches and boughs that it struggled to get through.
Only its strength and claws kept its path clear, but even that was enough to slow it down. I pushed my wings harder in flight, closing the gap, and the closer my prey, the more fury I pushed into my pursuit of it. With a final burst, I pulled my wings in close to maximize my speed, slamming into the grotesque and wrapping my arms around it.
