Stone Cold Bastards

by Jake Bible

  Valac turned his gaze from the bluing sky to Morty. The demon’s eyes were made of flesh, but were infinitely harder than those of the creature made of pure stone.

  “I say so,” Valac replied. “You should know by now, Mordecai, that I do not mince words.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Morty said. “But you’re also a demon, which means you’re hiding the truth.”

  “Is something coming?” Jack asked. “Something must be coming. Why else would they send the Treasure Hunter to sit with us?”

  Valac only smiled and returned to staring up into the dawn sky. Wisps of white clouds, lazy and ephemeral, floated away from the mountains.

  “Yes, it looks to be a beautiful day,” Valac said after several minutes.

  Morty grunted then relit his cigar. He puffed at it until it was nearly non-existent, then put it out permanently before tossing the stub into the grass at his feet next to the hundreds of other stubs.

  “What will you do when you run out of cigars, Mordecai?” Valac asked.

  “Get more,” Morty replied, extending his granite wings.

  “As if it is that easy,” Valac replied.

  “If it was, then it wouldn’t be fun,” Morty said.

  “Our ideas of fun differ,” Valac said.

  “That ain’t the half of it,” Morty said and laughed.

  “No, I suppose it is not,” Valac said without looking away from the sky. “Nowhere near the half of it, as you say.”

  2

  “VALAC,” MORTY SAID to another grotesque as his watch ended, and he walked up the hill toward the great stone cathedral that topped the rise.

  The sun was almost set behind the building, framing it in an orange light that bordered on heavenly. The stained glass windows, the alternating colors of intricate stonework, the towers and tiled roof, were highlighted by a sunset perfectly framed between two mountain peaks. It was an idyllic image that people used to drive for hours to witness. A chance to see a piece of European history set in the middle of rural Appalachia.

  Morty wished he could appreciate the countryside’s beauty more, but it was hard when faced with the ugliness of the possessed and the demons that controlled them.

  “Be careful,” Morty warned.

  The other stone creature, one cut to look like an elegantly dressed woman—although from a time several centuries earlier—paused and held a hand against Morty’s chest. Her features were finely chiseled, shaped into an exquisite beauty that Morty’s features completely lacked. He was the monster; she was the angel.

  Yet she did not possess the wings Morty did; instead, her back was draped in a long, stone shawl that flowed and drifted in her wake. An impossible feat considering the shawl should be too heavy to be influenced by any air current she produced when she moved.

  “Why would they send Valac?” she asked, the shawl settling silently into place as she stopped.

  Five feet tall, a good foot shorter than Morty, the stone woman did not look to have the strength and bulk to stop a creature the size and breadth of Morty, but he had come to an instant halt at her touch. She withdrew her hand and frowned up at him.

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Morty replied. Her frown deepened. “Seriously, Olivia, he said nothing. I tried.” Her frown twitched at the corners. “Okay, I didn’t try. But Jack did, of course. He hates silence.”

  “I am aware of that,” Olivia replied. “Valac really said nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about Todd? Did he say anything?” Olivia pressed as she saw Morty’s features darken. “Mordecai? What did Todd say between shifts?”

  “New York fell,” Morty replied. “They finally took down St. Luke’s.”

  Olivia sighed with a pain as old as the stone she was cut from.

  “New York,” she whispered. “They are winning.”

  “Looks like it,” Morty said and produced a fresh cigar from one of the crags in his stone body. He plucked his Zippo from another crag, lit the cigar, exhaled a long stream of smoke, then smiled down at Olivia as he clacked the lighter closed with a flick of his wrist and tucked it back into its hiding spot. “But, honestly? There is no winning or losing in this war, Olivia. Only won or lost. As long as we’re here, and the cathedral still stands, then they haven’t won and we haven’t lost.”

  Olivia turned to look over her shoulder at the cathedral. She shook her head, but when she looked back at Morty, the frown was replaced with a smile.

  “As long as we have your optimism, then perhaps we aren’t losing,” Olivia said. She patted him on the chest and moved on. “Artus would like to see you when you go in. He knows you are low on cigars and wants to speak with you before you foolishly go searching for more.”

  “How does he know?” Morty asked without expecting an answer. “I swear, for a gargoyle stuck in a courtyard, that guy knows everything.”

  “It is his job, Mordecai,” Olivia said. “Without him, we would be lost.”

  “Maybe not lost,” Morty said and waved the hand that held his cigar around the grounds. “But we wouldn’t have this. That G is all that keeps us from dealing with our own horde of demons.”

  “He is our protector,” Olivia said. “His power keeps the abominations at bay and our wards safe. Wards that could be the last of their kind very soon.”

  “Wards,” Morty scoffed. “This job would be a lot easier without the humans to babysit.”

  “You don’t mean that. Part of this job is keeping the humans alive,” Olivia admonished. “And it is not supposed to be easy, Mordecai.”

  “Says you,” he replied, smirking around the cigar which was back in place between his lips. “I could sure go for a vacation.”

  “What will we do with you?” Olivia asked as she continued toward the fence, the gate, and her scheduled watch of the rotting bar beyond. “Do not forget to speak with Artus immediately. He seemed tired and will need his rest tonight, so do not make him wait.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll go see him,” Morty called after her then continued his way up to the impressive building.

  Despite his need to hurry, Morty slowed his walk as he puffed on his cigar and studied the only home he’d ever known.

  Originally built as a Norman castle in Wales in the thirteenth century, the cathedral was often abandoned, cycling through many hands—including the Benedictine monks who had created an exquisite abbey, which became a bishop’s seat, necessitating the transformation from a simple structure into a grand cathedral befitting a bishop’s title and privilege. As the inhabitants of the county abandoned their homes and farms for the possibility of a more prosperous life in England or the United States, the castle sat for decades, moldering and falling apart until a bootlegger named Byrne, second generation Irish-American, found it during a detour on his first trip to the home country with his new wife.

  Morty knew the story well, having heard it repeated plenty of times as new humans arrived at the sanctuary seeking safety.

  Byrne’s wife, daughter of one of the more successful moonshiners in the Appalachian region of the Southeast, insisted that the cathedral be placed not outside Boston on the estate land Byrne had purchased for them, but on the miles of acreage comprising her family’s land and which straddled the mountainous, rural border of Western North Carolina and Eastern Tennessee.

  Piece by piece, stone by stone, the cathedral was moved across the Atlantic to be reassembled on ground officially known on maps as Hickok’s Knoll. But the locals called the place Margaret’s Patch, a gorgeous tract of hilled meadow with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the surrounding mountains. Less than a decade later, Prohibition ended, as did Byrne’s fortune, and the cathedral lay empty once again, a stolid landmark on the knoll.

  The cathedral led many lives—army hospital, sana
torium, arts college, and hotel—and had many deaths before it was purchased and restored to its original cathedral state by the Hickok’s Knoll Preservation Society.

  Yet, during those many lives, one thing remained a constant: the grotesques.

  When the HKPS got their hands on the cathedral, there were close to three hundred grotesques adorning the walls, the arches, the corners, the columns, and the courtyard of the historical building.

  But amongst all of those grotesques, only one true gargoyle survived the years of neglect and change. A six-foot-long form carved into the likeness of a praying monk, Artus stuck out from one of the four corners in the cathedral’s central courtyard, spilling water from his mouth into a wide, deep basin below when it rained, or just looking down with patience and piety on those who enjoyed the sunny, private space that was surrounded by the cathedral’s internal walls, arched windows and doorways.

  It was toward that courtyard Morty headed as he stepped through the cathedral’s wide, double doors, which were flanked by two towers reaching four stories into the sky. Two thin, but healthy-looking, men stopped him in the gallery. Morty’s eyes flicked to the nave, beyond which was the courtyard. If he wanted to get there anytime soon, he’d best listen to whatever complaints the humans had.

  “Parsons, Birchstein,” Morty said, taking out the omnipresent cigar and tapping ash between the feet of the two men. “What can I do for you two this evening?”

  “We hear you’re going on a cigar run,” Parsons blurted. “We got a couple items for you to look for.”

  A man in his mid-forties, Parsons looked like he would have been at home in some Depression-era photograph of dustbowl farmers. All skinny limbs and angular joints, Parsons had a perpetual squint that made him look either stupid or constantly questioning the world around him. Unfortunately for the man, he was both.

  Birchstein was just as angular and skinny, but he was half a foot taller and his eyes never squinted. His gaze held a wealth of knowledge that reflected his former profession as a social analyst for one of the most well-known, nonpartisan think tanks in Washington D.C. Back when Washington D.C. wasn’t overrun with demons and nearly burned to the ground.

  “What he means to say, Morty, is that we would truly appreciate it if you could look for a couple of needed items,” Birchstein said. “Only if you have the time, of course.”

  “Get me a list,” Morty said, and pushed past the two men. For a creature made of stone, it was like pushing past a couple of weak saplings. “If I have time, I’ll look. No promises.”

  “Of course,” Birchstein said.

  “Artus told us you’d look!” Parsons snapped as Morty walked from the gallery into the nave.

  Morty stopped and slowly turned around. Birchstein had a hand over his face and was shaking his head while Parsons looked like he was ready to argue.

  “Birch,” Morty said. “Explain to your friend how well I respond to orders by wards.”

  “Come on,” Birchstein said, tugging at Parsons’s arm. “Let’s make the list. If he can get the items, then he can get them. If not, then not.”

  “Artus said—” Parsons started, but was cut off by a hard slap from Birchstein. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

  “For wasting Morty’s time,” Birchstein said. He tugged harder on Parsons’s arm and gave Morty a shy, apologetic smile.

  “If I was Elisa, he’d listen,” Parsons muttered as Birchstein dragged him away.

  Morty watched them leave the gallery, headed around to the avenue lining the south side of the building. Once they were out of sight, he tapped off more ash from his cigar and turned back to the nave.

  “They never learn, do they?” a voice called from the top of the column to the left of the nave’s entry. “Can’t push Morty. No, sir. Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Push Morty and he gets pissed,” a second voice said. “P-I-S-S-E-D. Pissed!”

  The two voices broke into cackling laughter. Morty ignored them, refusing to look up at the two carved forms of sneering, twisted faces that were the capitals resting between the columns and the ends of a stone arch that separated the gallery from the nave.

  “Artus wants to see ya!” the first cried out, loud enough for anyone within a couple of miles to hear.

  “He’s waiting!” the other yelled, trying to beat the first’s volume.

  “I know, I know,” Morty said, waving his cigar at them.

  “Bye, Morty!” one called.

  “See ya later, big guy!” the other shouted.

  Morty put his cigar back between his lips and steadied himself for the gauntlet he was about to walk.

  The nave.

  A hundred feet long, and lined entirely with small, narrow makeshift beds up and down each side, the nave was the main living space for the humans that were housed inside the cathedral. The wards, as the stone creatures called them. They, in turn, were called Gs by the wards. An easy way not to make the mistake of calling a grotesque a gargoyle. Grotesques hated being called gargoyles.

  “Morty?” a slight woman of about fifty asked from her cot. Hers was the closest to the archway that designated the end of the gallery and the beginning of the nave. “Would you mind talking briefly when you are done with Artus?”

  “I’ll try, Hannah,” Morty replied. “I’ve been on duty since dawn and have a lot to do before I can stand still. If I’m able to stay animate, I’ll come find you.”

  “Please do,” Hannah said, a sad smile on her face. She looked down the length of the nave and her eyes fell on a group of teenagers busy chatting loudly. “It’s important.”

  Morty’s eyes followed hers, and he could tell the teenagers were intentionally pretending not to be interested in him. It was their little dance. They were very interested in him, and all the other Gs, but wouldn’t dare show it. That just wouldn’t be cool.

  “Is it important enough that I need to stay and chat now?” Morty asked.

  “Not yet,” Hannah answered. “But it will be soon.”

  “I’ll swing by when I’m done with Artus,” Morty said. “I promise.”

  Hannah’s bloodshot eyes went wide then softened as her smile grew. “Thank you, Morty. You didn’t have to promise, but I appreciate it.”

  “Just wanted you to know I wasn’t blowing you off,” Morty said, his gaze still on the teens. “I’m bound by my promise now.”

  Hannah nodded then went back to a game of solitaire she was playing on the thin blanket of her cot. Morty moved on, a sad look on his face. He felt sorry for Hannah. That deck of cards was missing the eight of clubs. She’d never win the game.

  Morty suspected she knew the card was missing. It would be classic Hannah. Aware of the negative, but still able to push forward and make do with what was at hand. The act of play was what she needed, not the act of winning.

  It was a concept that Morty understood completely. He had a duty to perform and that duty was to protect the wards that dwelled within the sanctuary’s walls. The job was perpetual, there was no endgame, no winning, just the constant play as hero and protector. It was a role he felt comfortable with despite his inclination to gruffness and occasional impatience with wards.

  Technically, the magic that infused and animated the Gs only required them to protect the sanctuary, the wards inside simply being an extension of the building. If the wards left the sanctuary, then they were supposed to be on their own. But he had a hard time reconciling that with the reality. He suspected most of the Gs did too, despite their occasional gray opinions to the contrary.

  As he walked, the sunset lit up the stained glass windows that lined the top of the nave, bathing Morty and the others in a multicolored light show. Many of the wards who had been heavy in conversation stopped to look up at the windows, their sad, distressed faces warming instantly.

  The
flood of color in their mostly gray lives was a small relief that came each day, a hint that the world could still be beautiful. Morty wasn’t immune to it, despite being made entirely of stone. He might have looked like a monster, but he was far from it. He knew beauty when he saw it.

  How could he not protect all those who saw the beauty as well?

  Especially when a portion of that beauty sat cross-legged on a couple of cots pulled together. A young woman, encircled by some of the young children who had been lucky enough to find the sanctuary, laughed and teased those children, joking about something that Morty couldn’t quite hear. There was nothing romantic about his appreciation of her beauty. And it wasn’t because he was a grotesque and she was a human. He, as well as the other Gs, simply weren’t made that way. Romance was for the flesh, not for the stone.

  It was simply that, in spite of the technicality of their magic, there was affection for the wards from the Gs. Their bodies were stone-cold, but their hearts weren’t. Not always, at least.

  Morty smiled around his cigar at the same moment she looked his way. He tried to pretend he hadn’t been watching, but he failed miserably as he did a half turn one way then a half turn the other way, finally deciding to keep moving toward the courtyard as the woman smiled back and gave him a quick wave. His bluff and bluster had never had the slightest effect on Elisa. She spoke briefly to the children then hopped off the cots and hurried his way.

  He’d almost reached the end of the nave and the archway to the courtyard outside, but the young woman was quick and blocked his way before he could take more than a few steps. She was in her early twenties, a tiny fraction of the years Morty had spent on Earth, but the look on her face told the world around her that she had lived more life than many of the people in that nave combined. Morty wondered if what he liked most about her was the contradiction of her, or her similarity to him. Both kind and gruff, hard as a rock, but giving when it counted. Not an ounce of quit.