The Last Gargoyle

by Paul Durham

  He’s of no use, of course. But this time, I don’t doze off again.

  I’ve resumed my cuddly canine form by the time morning comes. Hetty has overslept and her eyes are at half-mast as she rushes to get ready for school. Her mother needs to leave before her in order to get Tomás to day care and make it to work on time herself, and she heaps Hetty with praise for sleeping through the night as she scrambles to collect her jacket and purse. She reminds Hetty to pack a bag when she gets home from school. Apparently, Mamita is working a double shift and Hetty and Tomás will be spending the night with a relative in the suburbs.

  As soon as her mother and brother are safely on their way, Hetty rushes back to her bedroom with great excitement. She pulls her purple journal from the desk drawer, jumps cross-legged into the chair, and begins scribbling inside.

  “Did you see him, Clover?” she asks excitedly without looking up from the page. “He came again last night.”

  I cock my head warily.

  “He asked if I could open the door so he could come inside and talk.”

  I cringe. Yeah, Hetty, that’s a really bad idea. Never take instructions from voices that whisper in the dark.

  “He didn’t, though,” she says with a hint of disappointment. “It’s like he got distracted by something and left without saying goodbye.”

  Yes, well, you can thank me for that later.

  “You’re looking at me like I’m crazy, Clover, but I think it must be my father. I mean, it doesn’t really look like him—he’s just sort of a scratchy silhouette—but who else could it be?”

  Hetty stops scribbling and looks down at her work. She frowns.

  “It’s not very good—I mean, it’s just a quick sketch.” She hesitates, self-conscious. “Here, do you want to see him?”

  Hetty turns the journal around and spreads the pages. I creep over for a better look, expecting to find a drawing of a hideous, oversized jackrabbit. But she surprises me, and I can’t stifle a low growl.

  “I told you it’s just a quick sketch. I can do better,” she explains, as if hoping for my approval. “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

  Yes, Hetty. I’m afraid it is.

  On the page, a familiar figure looms from Hetty’s rough pencil sketch. He’s long and lanky, in oversized clothes stretched by his spindly limbs. His head is cocked to the side as if balanced on a spineless neck, and a blank face stares at me with hollow black eye sockets. He has no hair, but his skull is topped with the five points of an ill-fitting crown.

  It’s an unmistakable portrait of the Boneless King.

  Fortunately, Hetty realizes that it’s not a great idea to keep a stray animal locked in her apartment all day. On her way to school, she sneaks me into the courtyard and begs me to stay hidden until she returns home. This would seem to be an impossible task for a real dog, but I dutifully hide myself under a stone bench until she leaves. Once she’s gone, I’m relieved to shed my disguise and assume my usual wisp form. I drop myself onto the bench and bury my face in my palms.

  I’m exhausted and would like nothing more than to return to my roof for some much-needed sleep. But I can’t afford to rest. My Domain—and my wards—are under siege. And I don’t know why.

  The Boneless King has proven himself to be a formidable foe. Not only can he summon Netherkin, but he can also visit the sleeping minds of the living. Clearly he’s not alive, and yet he doesn’t feel like the rest of the dead. I don’t believe for one minute that the Boneless King is Hetty’s father, and yet he’s cunning enough to persuade her otherwise. But why? And why, if he’s so determined to get to her, does he need an invitation? A powerful creature of the night who can command the dead but can’t enter the dwelling of the living—what kind of strange abomination is he?

  What was that you were just thinking? Well, stop it. I’m nothing like that gum-legged ghoul.

  The puzzling questions send my gut churning. Either that, or the cat food’s finally catching up with me. What starts as a small burning ember in my stomach quickly grows into a full-blown inferno. I pull my hood over my head and wrap my arms around my body as if that might smother the fire. I’m doubled over in discomfort when I hear Viola’s voice.

  “Goyle,” she calls.

  I glance around the courtyard, but I’m still alone.

  “Goyle? Are you here?” she calls more loudly.

  Viola’s voice comes from the alleyway on the other side of the garden wall.

  I push myself up and head for the back gate. “I’m in the courtyard,” I say.

  I crack open the gate and trudge back to my seat on the bench. Viola peeks through hesitantly, then steps inside.

  “Goyle, what happened?” She approaches carefully, then eases herself down alongside me. She sets her violin case between us, but I’m too pained to give it my usual attention.

  “Cat food,” I groan. “Hetty made me eat a big bowl of it.”

  Viola scrunches her face and scratches her wool cap. I haven’t seen her in two days. She still wears the same torn leggings, boots, and old pea coat. Her face is even paler than before. Her eyes probe me.

  “She wouldn’t take no for an answer,” I explain. Viola continues to look at me blankly.

  “I didn’t like it or anything,” I quickly fib. “It was awful—”

  “Goyle,” Viola interrupts, “I’m not asking what you had for dinner.”

  I sigh. Nobody ever appreciates the sacrifices I make.

  “Where have you been?” she asks. “I tried to find you on the roof last night. Do you know how long I talked to your shell before I realized you weren’t just giving me the silent treatment?”

  “I stayed in the apartment.”

  Her eyes brighten. “What did you find?”

  “Well, Hetty’s got some strange stuffed animals and the floor under her bed could use a good dusting….”

  Viola isn’t amused.

  “But, more to your point,” I say, “some visitors have been stopping by after dark. And she’s not exactly discouraging them.”

  Viola raises an eyebrow in alarm.

  “Our friend from the subway tunnels and the cemetery? The Black Rabbit? I’m pretty sure I spotted him outside her window.”

  “What do you mean she’s not discouraging them?” Viola asks.

  “Well, she seems to think that her dead father is communicating with her while she sleeps. He’s been asking her to let him come inside the apartment. She writes all this down in a journal she keeps locked away in a drawer.” I narrow my eyes. “I don’t like that journal one bit. It stinks of danger. At first I thought it was the physical book itself, but now I know it’s her own thoughts that are a threat. She’s being misled.”

  Viola shakes her head in disbelief. “She thinks the Black Rabbit is her father?”

  “No, not him,” I say. “The Boneless King. He’s been whispering to Hetty in her dreams, even though he’s not physically there.” I hold Viola’s eyes. “Netherkin can’t do that—not even Shadow Men. Anything that can is far more sinister.”

  “You’re sure it was the Boneless King?” she asks quietly.

  I nod. “Viola drew a picture in her journal. There’s no mistaking him.”

  I pause, poking my fingers around my stomach. It feels like there’s something swimming in there. Viola’s silent. When I look up, her face has fallen. It’s somewhere far away.

  “Viola?”

  She snaps out of it. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

  I may have shared too much. I think I’ve frightened her.

  “You don’t need to worry about Hetty,” I say, trying to reassure her. “I’ve got this under control. This is what I do,” I add confidently. Although, in truth, I’m plagued by a foreign sensation I can’t seem to shake. Doubt? Is that what’s swishing around in my gut?

  “I know you do,” Viola says. “It’s not that. It’s just…I’m a little preoccupied today.”

  I notice Viola’s fingers. They twitch involuntarily, nervously strok
ing and twisting the crimson streak in her pigtail.

  “I’m already late for rehearsal,” she adds.

  I raise my scarred eyebrow. “For the concert?”

  She steadies her hands and pushes herself to her feet. “Yes…the concert.”

  I examine her violin case. She grabs it before I’m tempted to put a hand on it myself. “Sorry, I have to run.”

  “Okay, if you really have to go,” I say.

  “I’ll come check on you again soon,” she says as she hurries toward the open gate. I notice a waver in her voice. Something’s not right.

  “I’ll be waiting,” I say. “Have a good rehearsal.”

  I see Viola steal a glance at me as she pauses, and I offer her a wave goodbye. She flicks a hand in reply, then disappears into the alley.

  I give her another moment, then spring to my feet and rush after her.

  I hurry along between feet and ankles, resisting the urge to bury my nose in every crack along the sidewalk and investigate the tantalizing smells.

  I’ve assumed the wisp form of a dog again. It’s not a bad way to get around and helps me keep a low profile. Viola is less likely to spot me.

  No, I’m not spying, just following her. There’s a difference—sort of.

  The important part is that I’m worried about her. It’s a strange thing to admit. Viola’s not my ward and I’ve known her less than a week, but she is my friend. I’ve never had a human friend before, but with the Twins gone she’s the only one I’ve got. Friends stick together, right? She said so herself. And she’s definitely gone out of her way to help me with my wards. Sometimes, just having someone to talk to can make all the difference. Besides, it’s not lost on me that my words deeply troubled her this morning. Or that she hasn’t changed her clothes in days. Or that her parents have no problem with her coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I’m beginning to wonder if Viola has anyone else who cares about her at all.

  Fortunately, in a city full of practice-adults, the music students are easy to spot. They roam the streets with steaming cups of coffee, black instrument cases slung over their shoulders or pulled behind them on wheels. Their hair is more likely to be dyed in shades of blue, green, and other colors that don’t grow naturally. Their skin tones reflect backgrounds that are far-flung and diverse. Right now, the sidewalk in front of the Conservatory is bustling as they head inside for class and rehearsals.

  Viola is by far the shortest and youngest of the bunch. I’ve kept a healthy distance, but I can see that she doesn’t speak to any of the other students who busily chat in small groups as they walk. I wonder if it’s hard for her to make friends with this older crowd. I know what it’s like to be an outsider. I suddenly feel guilty about intruding on a part of her life she’s seemed reluctant to share.

  Still, my guilt turns to anticipation as the young musicians hurry inside. Since I’m here anyway, maybe I’ll slip in for a quick listen. I’m eager to hear Viola—she must be a rare talent to be admitted among these more experienced peers. But I’m surprised to see her break away from the pack and continue down the street. I think she might stop at a corner convenience store, but she walks right past that too, leaving the Conservatory far behind. She’s walking purposefully, as if it was never her destination at all.

  I pick up my pace to match her own as she hurries across a busy intersection, but I’m stopped midstride by a familiar sensation. I turn quickly and spot a rattling newspaper box that appears to shudder with the breeze. Inside, a small white imp the size of a squirrel is devouring copies of the Sunday Herald.

  Nuisance. I’ve no time for you right now.

  I turn my attention back to Viola only to find that I’ve lost sight of her.

  Bricks and mortar!

  She’s disappeared into the bowels of the city.

  I glower through the little glass window of the newspaper box. The imp looks up, a mouthful of the sports pages dangling from his teeth. Realizing I’m no mere dog, his bloodshot eyes widen in terror.

  It’s your lucky day, imp. I’ve got no stomach for you. At this moment, there’s only one thing on my mind.

  Viola lied to me.

  My keen nose sniffs the air for clues. I double back and retrace my steps to where I last saw Viola. I hop a curb. Hurdle a storm drain. And then, to my relief, I spot her. Her wool cap is low on her head, her eyes glued down on the sidewalk as she hurries away from the neighborhood.

  This time I have no intention of losing her. She glances over her shoulder once or twice, but I’m too good at this. A century of sneaking up on imps has made me a skilled tracker. I keep a healthy distance between us.

  I’m not sure what any of this means. Is Viola lying about rehearsal or did she just decide to skip it? Maybe this has all just become a bit too much for her. The world of Grotesques and Netherkin and Boneless Kings would be enough to send the bravest children running home for the security of their beds.

  Her path takes us through the theater district and out the other side. She’s making an erratic, circular loop, then doubling back, as if aware that someone could be following her. Of course, I am following her, but I don’t think it’s me she’s worried about. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t try to guess what Viola is thinking. It occurs to me that we’ve spent plenty of time talking about me and my wards these past few days, but I hardly know any more about Viola than I did the first night we met.

  The grand old theaters are all empty on a weekday, and the nearby restaurants currently draw all the crowds. Viola finally stops at the brick and limestone façade of a six-story building that looks as old as me. I’m unfamiliar with it—my travels don’t bring me this way often. But I have a vague recollection that they once sold pianos here.

  The street-level storefront is boarded up and abandoned. A FOR LEASE sign is nailed to the plywood, but I doubt there’ll be any takers. The bricks are charred. The fabric awning is gone and only a thin metal frame remains. Over the door, engraved letters in the limestone are blackened but still legible.

  OLD CROAK’S STONE

  WORK AND ENGRAVING

  Viola looks up and down the street one last time. When there’s a break in pedestrian traffic, she slips through a thin gap in the plywood sheets. I give her a few seconds, then follow close behind.

  The shop hasn’t just been burned—it’s obliterated. Black and scorched from floor to ceiling; if there were ever walls or furnishings, they’ve been reduced to piles of ash. I might as well be standing inside a cast-iron stove after a long winter.

  I feel another pang of discomfort in my stomach. If this bleak tomb is where Viola lives, she’s in far worse shape than I imagined.

  “Viola,” I whisper, although there’s no need to lower my voice. She’s the only one who can hear me anyway.

  “Viola,” I call more loudly, but there’s no reply.

  I check the floor for her footprints, but I can’t make any sense of the patterns in the soot. Yes, I know I said I was an expert tracker, but imps don’t leave footprints—I don’t have a lot of practice in this area.

  I do find the remains of some stacked granite slabs half buried in the debris. They pop up in piles like ancient stalagmites. Upon closer inspection, I see that they are naked headstones waiting to be carved and engraved. It makes sense. This was an engraver’s shop. Given the number of stones, he must have been a busy one.

  I look closer. The granite headstones are actually scorched. As the owner of a granite shell myself, I can tell you that stone doesn’t burn easily. That tells me how hot the blaze must have been.

  I creep toward the back of the shop, but Viola is nowhere to be found. I spot an old freight elevator. You already know my disdain for elevators, but this one is out of order anyway. I know this because its door has been torn free and lies on its side, the interior gears and buttons already picked clean by looters. But it means there’s another floor here and gives me a hint as to where Viola may have gone. Another moment and I find a small doorway and a narrow
flight of stairs descending into some sort of basement.

  The stairway is steep and narrow, built in a time when the average person didn’t take up so much space. It smells of mold and baked-in smoke, but the stairs themselves seem structurally sound. They continue for what must be several stories, and I’m surprised that they lead much deeper than what would normally be basement level.

  Finally, I reach the end. And a heavy steel door.

  Thinking it might be locked, I give it a shove with all my strength. But it just eases open, as if it’s been expecting me. I step through.

  “Bricks,” I whisper in awe.

  A cavernous subterranean theater looms all around me.

  The stucco walls and tall Corinthian pillars are crumbling and pockmarked. The balconies are deserted. Most of the seats have been removed. In their place, the floor is littered with the smashed remains of granite statues.

  The wreckage is everywhere.

  “You found me, Goyle,” a small voice says.

  I turn quickly at the sound. It’s coming from a stage that isn’t home to instruments or music stands, but is instead cluttered with stacks of shipping crates and boxes covered with dusty tarps. Viola sits on one of the crates, her violin case in her lap.

  “Viola,” I say, still casting my eyes around. “What is this place?”

  “It used to be a concert hall,” she says. “Once the finest in the city.”

  Viola glances up at the balconies and the vaulted ceiling high above us. The paint is now peeling and its peak is crisscrossed with a maze of corroded sprinkler pipes.

  “The acoustics are still perfect,” she says, and cups a hand to her ear. “Listen. No street noise. We’re deeper than the subway tunnels.”

  With my keen hearing, I can tell what she means. We’re insulated from the outside world down here. Viola’s voice carries perfectly in this haunting place.

  “There was a huge fire at a nightclub,” she says. “Back in the thirties or forties, I think. It was so bad the city changed all the fire codes. Unfortunately, the theater couldn’t meet them. It had to be shut down and never reopened.”