The Last Gargoyle

by Paul Durham

  The old memory tumbles into focus. The world is at war. And so are we. Men are being shipped by boat to fight overseas, but for us the battle is here on our streets and rooftops.

  An unexpected October snowstorm has paralyzed the city. Fortunately, it came by night, and most residents remain huddled in their buildings. The streets are deserted—empty of the horses and buggies that still share the road with primitive automobiles.

  I’m perched on a rooftop that’s not my own. The brownstone is one of many along a street of ornate buildings modeled after a famous boulevard in France. Wallace and Winnie are at my side. Across the wide roadway, I see our other friends at their posts among the gables, snow collecting on mighty stone shoulders.

  We’re not wisps, but hardened granite warriors. Those of us with wings have taken flight and assumed new posts. Those without, fortify the streets and subway tunnels. And now we wait.

  Our enemies are coming. We can feel them.

  I look overhead, where thick clouds swirl black and blue, squatting over the city like a smothering blanket. There are no glass-and-steel towers. The buildings are pillars of brick and mortar that look like failing tent poles trying to prop up the canopy of gloom.

  We hear the calls and cries of our comrades up ahead on the front lines, their voices nearly drowned by the deafening static that fills the air. Today’s battle hasn’t gone as well as expected. Our enemies will be here soon.

  None of us knows exactly who started this war. Or why. There have been whispers and gossip, of course—of a mysterious and powerful warlord who’s risen from the earth and summoned an army of undead soldiers to do his bidding. While there are always a few Netherkin lurking outside our Domains or hounding our wards, this is entirely different. Seldom do they unite in such force. All we really know for sure is that battles such as this have been waged on and off throughout the centuries. Nobody is here to lead us or explain the stakes, but we understand that the consequences of failure will be grave…and will upend our wards’ world. Our elders throughout Europe have defended many onslaughts. For us here, the terrible children, this one’s our first. I’m glad I don’t have to fight it alone.

  “How are you feeling, Penhallow?” Winnie asks, turning her head. Wallace’s eyes remain fixed on the road.

  I think before answering. I’m alert but exhausted. Like I haven’t slept in days. I know the fatigue will be crushing when this is all over, but the excitement makes my tail twitchy.

  “Alive,” I say.

  Winnie gives me a tight smile and flexes a claw. “Me too.”

  It’s then that the first swarm of the Netherkin appears at the far end of the avenue. So many gather that they are soon crawling over each other like a giant colony of black ants. The collective mass of their bodies begins to rise up like a wave, before cresting and spilling toward us.

  The air goes sour with their stench.

  We’re outnumbered a hundred to one, but that won’t deter us. We may not know who started this war, but we have no choice but to win it.

  I hear the flap of heavy wings as gray forms take flight. I beat my own wings, feel them catch the breeze, and push my claws off the edge. Our small squadron of Grotesques hovers together in formation for a moment, before we dive down and throw ourselves into the sea of Netherkin.

  The sky disappears as I’m surrounded by their creeping swarm. Best-laid plans and tactics are abandoned in the chaos. The melee itself is all a fleeting blur now, but when the conflict’s over, we’ve done our job.

  It’s not without cost.

  The battle leaves a wasteland of fallen and battered friends. Some who survive are too weak to return to their Domains and can only collapse on the streets, finding themselves buried in snowdrifts so deep they won’t be uncovered until spring. Helpless and hibernating, they’ll be smashed into movable pieces, then shoveled up and collected in trucks and wheelbarrows, dumped into quarries or ground into asphalt. It’s an inglorious ending for heroes who fought so bravely.

  I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m able to stagger back to my Domain before exhaustion overtakes me. I just want to drag myself to my roof and sleep, but in my absence, something has gone terribly wrong.

  There are Netherkin here.

  We may have thwarted their army, but a few stragglers remain fragmented across the city, looting and pillaging before retreating into the depths from which they came.

  I’ve no time or energy for stealth. I crash through the window of the apartment where I sense them. My stone form does real damage to the glass-and-wood frame, but my wards will just assume it was the windstorm. The two shapes I find inside the small room are familiar. It’s been a while since I’ve last seen them, but not long enough.

  The One with the Horns.

  The One in the Hat.

  Their shadow bodies huddle over a crib. It’s not the same crib or baby as the first time I encountered them; that one is long since grown and moved away. But for undead fiends like the One with the Horns and the One in the Hat, any infant will do. Shapeshifters, they’re masters of guile and stealth, and their prizes are priceless and irreplaceable. When the Shadow Men look up, the One in the Hat is clutching a tiny blue bundle greedily in his arms. The shimmery sphere pulses meekly in his tight grip, its softly glowing edges as delicate as a dandelion’s fluff.

  I lunge at them, but it feels like I’m carrying the weight of an entire building on my shoulders. They easily outpace me, and I’m still far behind them as they flee from the apartment and down the hallway. They leap into the elevator shaft, the stolen bundle tucked under the shadowy arm of the One in the Hat. I dive in after them. I can no longer lift my wings to fly, so I climb desperately, my claws tearing cables and gears.

  I follow the Shadow Men all the way to the roof. It’s my last hope to stop them. But they’ve reached the parapet by the time I burst through the ceiling in a cloud of dust and broken bricks. With my last gasp, I hurl myself at them to snare their legs.

  But I fall short. And hard. So hard I break my tooth and smash my brow.

  The One in the Hat realizes they’ve got me beat. I hear him snicker as he glances back over his shoulder with a narrow slit of an eye. Then they both disappear off the edge of the roof with the little blue sphere.

  They leave me as crushed as the Grotesques left behind on the streets.

  I’m helpless and can no longer move. Soon my fatigue will overtake me and I’ll have no choice but to sleep for a very long time. I can’t make it inside the apartment for one last look in the crib. I know the baby still lies there, wiggling fitfully in his sleep. They didn’t take his body, but they’ve made off with a piece of him that’s far more precious. His life will be one of sickness and sadness, of fear and depression. Neither his parents nor his doctors will ever know why.

  Unfortunately, I will. And I’ve never forgotten. I wasn’t there when my ward needed me most.

  That’s the story I couldn’t share with Viola.

  The story of how I got my scars.

  And my memory of the last time the city swirled in darkness and hummed with the threat of permanent night.

  I’ve adopted my new canine form again. Wads of old gum hover precariously above me. White, gray, orange, brown. What flavor is brown? I shake my head in disappointment. My wards can be a disgusting bunch. I lie flat on my belly, furry chin resting on my front paws.

  I hide under the bench in the courtyard of my Domain. It’s mid-afternoon on Monday and our sad little oasis is deserted, which is typical for this time of day. But Hetty should be home from school any minute. After she arrives, she’ll wander out here and sit on this bench. She won’t do anything except stare at the gray clouds, watch, and wait. I’m not sure why, but she’s done it every day since she moved in.

  I expect this will be my best chance to catch Hetty alone. I hope I’m right. Adults complicate things…and tend to frown upon taking in strange creatures off the street.

  From inside, I hear the jingle of keys and the heavy fro
nt door of my Domain. Footsteps approach the back exit of the building.

  I ready myself—it’s time for my big reveal. This part is tricky. I puff out my jowls and belly. I push my insides against the contours of my wisp form. Imagine pinching your nose just in time to trap an enormous sneeze. It’s about as comfortable as that.

  I hear a girl’s voice and the rear door of my Domain squeaks open.

  I push harder, until it feels like my ears might burst. My whiskers twitch and my round eyes bulge even wider than they already look. I only stop when my ears are ringing so loudly that I can’t possibly take any more. Finally, I gasp in relief. That should do it.

  I glance down, where the contours of my wisp body have become flushed with color and life. All right, so maybe they’re mostly just black and white, but it’s not like I’m masquerading as a peacock. I’ve done a fine job, if you ask me, and the real point is that I should now be visible to anyone who looks my way.

  Sneakers walk into the courtyard and step into view. Now’s my chance.

  I creep out from my hiding place, plastering on the meekest, most harmless expression I can muster.

  Uh-oh.

  The girl standing in front of me isn’t Hetty. She’s tall and thin, with a backpack slung over her shoulder, but she’s blond—and much older. She’s gabbing into a little white headset that dangles from her ear while quickly plucking the buttons of an impossibly thin telephone in her hands. I recognize her as the weepy practice-adult from the stairwell this past weekend.

  “He still hasn’t apologized yet,” she laments to the friend in her ear. “I mean, who does that? It’s not like we—” Her voice stops as she glances up and catches sight of me.

  “Ohhhhh,” she drawls, in the tone of someone who has just laid eyes on a sleeping baby or playful kitten.

  Oh, I grunt to myself, in the tone of someone who has just discovered a Netherkin hair in his soup.

  “Sarah, there’s the cutest little dog in our courtyard,” she says with a smile. “I don’t know, some sort of bulldog, maybe. Hi, boy,” she coos, in a high falsetto voice.

  She crouches and steps closer. I backpedal on my paws.

  “He doesn’t have a collar. Maybe he’s a stray. Are you a stray, little guy?”

  I glance under the bench. Maybe if I hide there again she’ll go away.

  “I can’t just leave him here. What time are you coming home?” she’s saying. It’s getting hard to tell who she is talking to. “Would you like to come home with me?” she asks, looking my way.

  Nope, that won’t be necessary.

  The practice-adult reaches as if she might pick me up.

  I summon my ferocious animal voice and bellow an intimidating, wolflike bark to keep her at bay.

  It comes out as an excitable yip.

  “He wants to play!” she gushes into her phone.

  Oh, bricks.

  I turn tail and run. I scamper across the courtyard but she follows, babbling to both me and the invisible friend chattering in her ear. Fortunately, my short legs are quick. When she goes left, I go right. When she follows right, I pivot left. But the practice-adult is relentless. After several minutes of this nonsense, I realize I have no other option. I have to get rid of her before Hetty arrives.

  I stop and let her get close. Then, when she’s in arm’s reach, I squat. And deposit a little present for her right on the concrete. It smells like Netherkin.

  The practice-adult halts abruptly and her face contorts in a look of horror. I’m not proud of any of this, but sometimes we do what we must.

  “Gross!” she squeals. “Gross, gross, gross,” she repeats, hurrying away as if my gift might grow legs and chase her.

  I scamper behind a planter and watch her go.

  “Oh my god, Sarah,” I hear her muttering as she flees. “He just took a big—”

  The door clicks shut behind her.

  I carefully peek out from between the leaves of a potted fern. I’m alone, but this isn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Maybe I need to come up with a better plan.

  Unexpectedly, the door opens again, and I quickly duck back behind the planter, afraid she’s changed her mind.

  But the girl who appears this time isn’t chattering to any invisible friends. Her hair bounces in loose ringlets that match her dark eyes. She wears a green raincoat and rubber boots that she taps nervously as she takes a seat on the bench.

  What a relief. It’s Hetty. She pulls her backpack off her shoulder and holds it in her lap, her fingers drumming the buckle and strap as her eyes dart around, studying the walls and windows above her.

  Well, it’s now or never. No sense waiting for another practice-adult to make an unwelcome appearance.

  I venture from my hiding place once again, offering the same meek face that was so effective before. I creep close before Hetty finally looks down and sees me, and when she does she looks surprised but not startled. She doesn’t squeak or squeal, but her face brightens. She gently extends a palm.

  I guess I’m supposed to sniff it.

  I lean in and twitch my nose. Yuck. Peanut butter and fifth-grade germs. I do my best not to appear disgusted.

  Satisfied that I won’t bite, she reaches out to scratch my head. I quickly lurch away so I don’t blow my cover. Hetty may be able to see me now, but remember, I still can’t touch or be touched by the living.

  “I’m sorry, you must be frightened,” she says. Her voice is soft and soothing. “What’s your name, little guy?”

  Penhallow, I’d like to reply. But Hetty’s not some preschooler who believes in fairy tales. I’m pretty sure a talking terrier would earn a call to the dogcatcher.

  “I know, it’s not like you can tell me,” she says with an understanding smile. “So for now, maybe I’ll call you…” She pauses to think. “Clover.”

  Oh, that’s awful. I think I’d even prefer Goyle to that. I squish my face into what I hope is a mopey look of disapproval.

  “You look hungry, Clover.”

  Not exactly the expression I was going for. This is going to take some practice.

  Hetty checks over her shoulder to confirm we’re alone. “I don’t know where you came from,” she says. “They don’t allow dogs in the building.”

  Her tone tells me it’s not a rule she approves of.

  “I’ve never seen you before, and I sit here almost every day.”

  I cock my head. Yes, I’ve been wondering about that. Among other things.

  “We had a little garden at my old apartment,” Hetty says. “My dad always used to wait for me there when I came home from school. It didn’t matter if it was raining or snowing, I knew he’d always be in that garden…waiting.” She glances around the courtyard with a shrug. “It’s not the same, but sometimes I like to sit here, and just…remember.”

  Hetty shivers and pulls the collar of her raincoat tighter around her neck. “It’s getting colder every day, though,” she says, and casts an eye my way. “You must be cold too.”

  I muster a sad little whimper, then plop down on my side. I roll over so she can see my adorable belly in need of love and scratching. I see her face melt, and a look of quiet rebellion flashes in her eyes.

  “Do you want to come inside?” she whispers. “Just for a minute. I can get you something to eat.”

  Now this is more like it. I told Viola I’d be irresistible. So ugly it’s cute, my tail. I wag it affirmatively.

  Hetty pats her thigh and gestures for me to follow her to the door. “Come on,” she coaxes. I hesitate so that I don’t seem too eager, then follow her inside.

  I’ve never seen my Domain from this perspective before. As my claws click across the tiles, I notice that the grout could use a good scrubbing. And my wards should really learn to use the doormat to wipe their feet.

  Hetty checks the entryway to be sure we’re alone, then hurries for the elevator and presses the button. Somewhere above us the black beast rumbles to life.

  No way. Not under the best of circ
umstances. And definitely not after what I left in there the other night.

  I scurry toward the door to the stairwell instead.

  “You don’t have to be afraid. It’s just an elevator,” she says.

  But I’m adamant, and eventually she shrugs her backpack over her shoulder. We head up the three flights of stairs.

  A quick check of the hallway, and Hetty ushers me toward her apartment. She removes her keys and unlocks it.

  “Come on,” she whispers, with another pat on her thigh.

  She doesn’t need to ask me twice.

  I sit on the linoleum while Hetty rummages through the cupboards in search of something a stray dog might like to eat. The apartment is what I expected. It’s simply furnished; a well-worn sofa is joined by a small bouncing chair and a netted playpen designed to corral a wandering one-year-old. A calendar and pencil sketches decorate the refrigerator and a few dishes from this morning’s breakfast line the sink. Cardboard boxes that still await unpacking have been pushed into corners. Overall, it’s a friendly sort of clutter.

  But there’s a foul odor in the air that I didn’t expect. And I don’t mean Captain Poopy-Pants’s diaper pail. My sense of smell is even keener than a real dog’s, and the unpleasant scent cuts through the aroma of baby powder and a bouquet of fading lilies.

  Hetty places a cup of water and a cereal bowl full of stinky brown mush on the floor in front of me. I lean over and put my nose in it. It smells like the fishermen’s pushcarts at Haymarket on a hot Saturday afternoon, but the bowl’s not the source of the troubling odor either.

  “Cod, pork liver, brewer’s yeast, carrageenan…” Hetty is squinting and reading the label of the emptied tin can between her fingers. “Calcium pan-toe-thee-nate,” she sounds out, and frowns. “Sorry, we don’t have any dog food. This was for our cat. It died.”

  With a diet like that, I can see why.

  Hetty looks at me expectantly. I want to investigate that other smell—the one coming from down the hall—but she’s insistent that I eat something first. This is a problem. I’m not built to digest stuff like this. Netherkin, imps, the occasional poltergeist, for sure. But if I eat that bowl of slop, I’m going to pay for it tomorrow, and probably the next day too.