by Anton Strout
“Hard to be a worse one,” Caleb said.
The look I shot Caleb shut him down.
“I wish to do it wiser,” Stanis continued. “And kinder. I will see to those who wish for my aid in this modern era.” He looked off across the lush green expanse of my building’s rooftop. “Again, I did not wish to intrude on your time together . . . especially in this place I believe you once said you made for me.”
Was that an actual dig? I would have been impressed if I hadn’t already felt guilty being up here with Caleb.
Caleb raised a hand. “Blame me, big fella,” he said. “Lexi’s little EPCOT version of Gramercy Park here was the closest thing to actually getting her out for the evening. Lexi’s been going too hard. The fatigue of it all is wearing her down.”
“Long has it been since I have felt your human fatigue,” Stanis said, “but if I am recalling it with any clarity, your human body is not meant to be pushed to such limits.”
“And there you have it,” I said, settling back down into my chair once more. “I now officially have it coming at me from all sides.”
“Do not be angry with us, Alexandra,” Stanis said. “Much as I have learned in my short time as a ruler, you cannot take on all challenges at once. Even one such as I cannot do the impossible, and you, Alexandra, are not made of stone. No doubt all who know you care about the state of your well-being. I care.”
Those last words still had the power to cut to my core and I allowed myself the warmth of their glow for a moment.
Stanis made a sudden grab at my waist, and I stepped back, startled. Was he making some kind of move right here, right now, in front of Caleb?
“You have something on you,” Stanis said, which relaxed me a bit. Jesus, I was high-strung. Maybe I needed to take a break more than I thought I did.
Stanis plucked his clawed fingers gently against my side and pulled away a long, green tendril of vine that ran all the way down my leg.
Wrapped around me as it was, I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it earlier. Once Stanis had it fully pulled off of me, I was doubly surprised to see that the tendril was moving all on its own.
“What the hell is that thing?” I asked with a shudder, losing my appetite.
Stanis gathered a length of it in his fist. He closed his clawed hand over it, but Caleb was over to him in a flash, his hands closing around the gargoyle’s wrist.
“No, wait!” he said.
Stanis turned to look at Caleb’s hands, his face an unmoving demonic mask. He said nothing, but the look was enough for Caleb to pull his hands away.
“Please,” Caleb added. “With a cherry on top and everything.”
Stanis looked back and forth between the two of us, but kept his hand open.
“I do not understand,” he said. “Would the addition of fruit be a beneficial motivating factor in your request?”
I couldn’t even laugh at his misunderstanding of modern language this time. I was too squicked out by the still-writhing vine.
Caleb leaned in close, examining it, his nose inches away.
Fearing it might latch onto him or try to snake up his nose into his brain meat, I grabbed his arm to pull him away from it, but he stayed put.
“Well?” I asked.
“This isn’t your garden-variety creeping Jenny,” Caleb said. “Believe it or not, there are a variety of natural magical plants out there,” he added, “but this isn’t one of them. The growth on these leaves is all wrong for this area . . .”
I moved a little closer—but not too close—to examine on my own, but nothing looked out of proportion to me. “You sure about that?”
“You can’t see it,” he said, “because you have an untrained eye. But to me it’s like being able to tell the difference between a guy who works out and a guy who takes steroids.”
“Gotcha,” I said. I knew the subtleties of Spellmasonry and how every word and gesture were super important to pulling off what I had learned so far. It made sense that Caleb and his lifelong study of such things would make it obvious to him if there were something unusual about this plant. Other than it clearly being magical.
He stood up and nodded to Stanis, who gathered up the rest of the plant and crushed it in his claw until all life was out of it.
“If that thing tried to snare you, it looks like you drew the attention of some witch, warlock, or druid tonight,” Caleb said.
“Crap,” I said. “There goes my streak.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Of . . . ?”
“I’ve gone almost a whole week without someone arcane trying to kill me for bringing attention to your community,” I said. “Or for infusing this city with an abundance of grotesques.”
“There’s so many reasons to want to kill you,” Caleb said with a dark smile. “You need to be more careful, Lexi.”
“I was being careful,” I insisted. “Rory and I didn’t see anyone at the Cloisters . . . other than the grotesque monk we turned over to Stanis.”
“You didn’t have to see anyone,” Caleb said. “If the witches and warlocks are catching wind of the gargoyle sightings the same way you are, then they can set traps out there trying to catch you. Remember working smarter, not harder? Working yourself to the bone in this sleep-deprived state of yours is clouding your judgment.”
“Caleb is right,” Stanis said, which I knew was never easy for him to admit, even now. “You should rest. I shall see what I can find out from my people.”
“We’re your people, too,” I reminded him.
He stood in silence, unmoving for a moment, looking more like the statue that daylight transformed him into.
“Yes,” he said, “but it is not the same. The differences between our kinds are great. These newfound men and women of stone are in need of my help. I will look into answers about those who would see to trap you and your . . . friends. Rest well, Alexandra Belarus.”
I let go of the dark tone Stanis had used when saying the word friends. Even if I had wanted to call him out on it, it was already too late as I watched him spread his wings and take off into the sky.
Caleb and I stood there in the now-cold remains of what had been date night. Knowing that I was being hunted kind of put a damper on the evening.
Caleb leaned down and picked up the broken remains of the vine Stanis had dropped, now nothing more than a ruined piece of greenery.
“Obviously you’re not staying obscure enough,” Caleb said. “We’re going to have to work on that.”
I shuddered, unable to shake the image of that creeping vine slowly creeping up my body.
“Fricking witches,” I said, and grabbed Caleb’s free hand, dragging him back to the secret entrance to my building. I was damned if I was going to let my night job frustrations go without a little recreational downtime that date night was supposed to provide. As a complimentary bonus to that, it would also bring on that satisfied sense of postcoital rest that everyone thought I so desperately needed.
See? I thought to myself. Already I was working smarter.
Five
Stanis
The human Marshall Blackmoore had once told me not to “fly angry.” Once I had made him explain just what exactly the meaning behind that saying was, I understood the inherent danger in that kind of flight. Tonight, however, I could not help myself. A furious anger had taken root in me upon leaving the Belarus building on Saint Mark’s, and it was difficult to focus on the details of exactly what its source truly was.
I dodged between the buildings of the Bowery at a breakneck pace as I flew down to the southernmost tip of the Isle of Manhattan, throwing my sudden aggression into my maneuvers. In the past, focusing my mind on flying had always helped. I needed that tonight to occupy part of my mind, which would free up the rest to try to home in on just what had bothered me so much about my two encounters with Alexandra.
&nbs
p; At the Cloisters she had been out of sorts, but I was more than capable of withstanding her occasional foul moods, although they had been increasing as of late. Still, I had not liked the tone she had taken with me, but I forgave it for what it was: the stress of dealing with so many of my kind all around the city—both the good and bad grotesques.
So if her mood at the Cloisters was not the sole cause of my frustration, it led me to believe my issue must be over interrupting Alexandra’s dinner with the alchemist Caleb Kennedy.
But surely that was not the case, was it? Months ago, perhaps their closeness might have bothered me, but Alexandra had made her choice. I had even encouraged it after Caleb had talked to me about her future. He had been right in his assessment of the situation. Caleb offered her a better life and more constant companionship due to his being human, more than I could ever be again.
I had thought the matter settled in my heart, but as I passed over the neighborhood known as Tribeca, my battle with my newly found emotions told a different story.
No. Caring about such matters was not something I could allow to happen. There were my people to think of, and those of my kind who were still lost out there around this city. There was already more than enough to occupy my mind beyond these foolish thoughts and wasted emotions. I forced the thoughts out and flew the rest of the way home to Sanctuary in silence.
All along the top of Trinity Church, wings of all shapes and sizes fluttered in the moonlight. It was strange to see so many other grotesques there as I approached it, more so for the years I had spent perched alone reveling in the glory of its architecture. When they caught sight of me, waves, cheers, and cries of warm welcome filled the air. To see my kind living here in such serenity . . . it did my heart good, improving my mood.
But that grand and glorious structure was not my home, no. I banked away from Trinity Church, heading instead toward my true destination, dwarfed by its shadow. Built by my maker long ago, a small disused church sat quietly across the street from the far more iconic one. I flew for the stained glass window adorning the front of it. Pausing, I hovered there, focusing the next few blasts of my wings toward the window. The force pivoted the stained glass open on two fixed points of its frame, creating a space large enough for a creature of my massive build to enter. I flew inside, the window rocking closed behind me, and I dropped down into the old disused church below.
“Welcome back,” Emily said, her yellow marble form coming down the main aisle that led to the front of the church. Most of the standard religious fare of the space had long been removed by the building’s previous occupants. The only hint of their presence was evident from the now-abandoned offices along the left side of the worship space and a caged-off section that ran down the right side.
The echo of Emily’s footsteps rang out in the stillness of the old church.
“It is a quiet night in here,” I said.
“What can I tell you?” she said. “Our brothers and sisters in stone prefer the freedom of the sky.”
“How is he?” I asked, nodding toward the caged area. Once, it had held volumes of arcane files and artifacts, but now the repurposed space held only the angelic-looking monk Alexandra had handed over to me earlier.
“He’s . . . adjusting,” she said.
“Anything violent?”
“He had a fit of grief earlier, taking it out on the cage, but I think that’s to be expected.”
“Let us hope the cage holds, then,” I said. “They were constructed to store books and relics, not preternatural creatures such as our kind.”
“Should I let him out, then?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Until he and I have a chance to talk, I think it would be best that he remain there.”
Emily looked nervous. “You’re sure the Libra Concordia won’t come back to try to reclaim this space?”
“I am fairly certain,” I said, recalling how I had dangled their leader, Desmond Locke, several miles above the building to warn their arcane-curious cult away from the Belarus family. “It would be foolish of them if they tried to take what was once theirs but is now mine.” I looked around the space. Office furniture and library tables still filled the main area, all of them empty. “I know this is still not fully our home, but I will endeavor further to make it so. I promise.”
My words brought a smile to Emily’s face, and seeing it brought one to mine as well. Given the evening I had had so far, it was good to not feel so heavyhearted even if just for a moment, but it passed all too quick. There was work to be done and I glanced over at the cage.
“Do you think our recent acquisition is ready to hear what we have to say?” I asked her.
Emily nodded. “I believe so.”
Together we walked over to the holding area. The angelic monk stood there, his fingers threaded through the metal of the cage. His stone-feathered wings twitched, his nerves betraying what looked like an otherwise expressionless face.
“Hello, Jonathan,” I said, opening the gated door to the cage. “Welcome to Sanctuary. Come. Walk with me.”
Too wary to leave the cage at first, the monk took his time coming out after a long moment of hesitation.
“What is this place?” he asked, his face taking in the whole of the space. “A church?”
“Once, it housed those who sought to understand our kind,” I said. “Those who wished to catalog us alongside the other arcane artifacts they kept here. Now this church is as close to a place as we dare call home.”
I continued walking, leading Jonathan and Emily to the back of the cathedral.
As we approached what I wanted to show him, I found I did not even need to gesture toward the object in question. The monk’s eyes rose to what had once been the altar. All religious iconography had been removed. Instead, what remained of a broken statue hung suspended from the ceiling.
“What is that?” he said, marveling at the figure.
Even I found the statue haunting the way it hung there . . . which was the reason, I suppose, I had put it there in the first place.
“Not what,” I corrected. “Who. Emily . . . ?”
“He is one of the first,” she said as if speaking a litany. “Not as old as Stanis here, mind you, but one of the first like you and I, one of our newborn kind.”
The monk turned to me. “Is this meant to be a warning?” he asked with rising horror in his voice. “Do not cross you or this will be our fate?”
I held my hand up, hoping to calm him.
“I am afraid you have the wrong Ruthenia for that,” I said with a grim smile, unable to suppress the nervous ruffle of my wings at the thought of my family’s dark past. “I am Stanis Ruthenia. My father, Kejetan, would have perhaps made an example out of this shattered creature in the name of fear, to intimidate. I prefer to look on this broken form as a lesson, a cautionary tale, if you will.”
“This creature you see before you was once the brother of the woman who gave you over to us tonight,” Emily said.
“She made him, too?” the monk asked.
“No,” I said. “Devon Belarus was never supposed to be like us. He assumed this form—the living version of it, anyway—through deception. Alexandra had no part in it. However, the way you see Devon Belarus hanging here now. . . That young woman was responsible for her brother’s final fate.”
“What was his crime?” the monk asked, unable to hide the nerves in his voice.
I shook my head. “You speak of crime,” I said, “but I wish to be clear with you, Jonathan. I am not the law here. I simply offer guidance as the oldest of my kind that I am aware of. Whether it is a foolish notion or not, I am of a mind that my longevity has perhaps given me some insight into our existence that those like you might find of use.”
The monk’s eyes stayed on the broken form of Devon Belarus high overhead.
“We know this transition must be dif
ficult for you,” Emily said. “As it was for me.”
The three of us stood there in silence. I gave the monk time to consider my words, Jonathan’s eyes never leaving the static creature above.
“How, then, did this fate befall him?” Jonathan asked after several minutes.
“Through treachery,” I said. “He and others like him used trickery to take the form you see. It happened, in fact, the very night that you and others like you were drawn as restless souls into the stonework statues by the kin of my creator.”
Emily stepped closer to him, her voice soft now. “Devon used his new form to exact vengeance on his family, even using me as a tool in his efforts,” she said, and I could hear the hint of shame in her words. “He and others like him wished harm upon humanity.”
“And that, perhaps, is my point here, Jonathan,” I added, “the one thing I will not abide. You see, before this . . . great awakening, I was alone.” Emily took my hand in hers, the smooth stone of it calming. “At times I hoped for different, imagining that I occasionally saw others out there, but no. I was a singular creation, and I had but one purpose: to watch over the Belarus family. For centuries I observed humanity. I have come to love these creatures . . . and I will not watch any of them come to harm. Every last one of our kind comes from humanity . . . We are them, and I will not abide any attack against our forebears.”
“Forgive me,” the monk asked, his voice quiet, “but in my human life, I knew well of the corruption of man. They are not this paragon you make them out to be.”
“You speak true,” I said, “but we are gargoyles, grotesques. Given the strength of our kind, I believe it is our responsibility to err on the side of protecting humanity first, and then seeking out the corrupt among them second.”
I let go of Emily’s hand and turned my full attention to the monk.
“You are welcome here, Jonathan,” I said. “You may consider Sanctuary your home, and those around you your family.”
The angel looked around the space with both reverence and relief on his face. “Thank you,” he said. “That is most generous.”
