by Anton Strout
There was anger thick in the woman’s words, the kind that set off my own anger in return, but having come here at the request of Alexandra, I forced myself to choose diplomacy instead.
“Let me be clear about a few things, Detective Rowland,” I said, meeting her eyes. “I have watched this city clash for decades, when humans went at each other simply for having different shades of skin. And while those problems seem to persist, I also have seen your kind move beyond such grand generalizations. I would ask that in matters grotesque and gargoyle, you show the same restraint in lumping all of my kind into the category of being ‘your problem.’ Am I understood?”
Rowland went to speak, her face cross with reciprocal anger, but she stopped herself. Instead, she pressed the palms of her hands against the sockets of her eyes, rubbing at them.
“I’m sorry if I seem insensitive,” she said. “I’ve just been dealing with chasing down cases of arcane violence—ones where gargoyles are involved—for days on end.”
“I understand your plight,” I said. “Consider me an ambassador of goodwill for my kind. Those whom I or my fellow grotesques have been able to speak reason with have been welcome to become part of our peaceful community at a place I refer to as Sanctuary.”
“The whole lot of you are holed up somewhere together, eh?” she asked, her curiosity growing.
“Yes,” I said with reluctance at her reaction, “but perhaps for the time being I think it is best that I leave that location undisclosed. Until I know I can trust you and your fellow officers of the law.”
“Trust us?” she asked with a laugh. “We’re not the ones tearing up the city.”
“Still, you represent the most law-abiding of your kind, yes?”
“Some more so than others, yes,” she said. “Many of my brothers and sisters in law enforcement aren’t angels, that’s for sure, but the people I trust are the cream of the crop. I don’t know how exactly I’m supposed to prove that to you, other than my word.”
“Trust,” I said, “is something to be earned, and then only through time. These are early days, Detective. The course we set now will set the course for how the rest of the world perceives both our kind . . . the best and the worst.”
Detective Rowland visibly relaxed before me, and she placed her hands on her hips as she gave a small smile.
“How did you get to be so smart on such matters?” she asked.
“Long life and a penchant for observation,” I said, relaxing myself. “I’ve watched this city of ours grow over the centuries, and I have seen both the good and bad results of the changes that have occurred. In my human life I came from Europe’s ruling class, and although a quest for power had maddened some of those who came before me, I have learned much in my quest to broker peace before an all-out war erupts. I wish that I could report it an easy task, but there is much I am still learning to contend with even now. Those who have come to Sanctuary are dealing with their new lives and issues of their own, which makes it hard to motivate them while also handling them with compassion.”
“And here I thought you would have a heart of stone,” the detective said.
“I remember my time before taking this form,” I said. “I had the heart of a man. Even now, there are those among your kind that I care for dearly. And they are a constant reminder that even though I conduct myself as a creature of stone, I, too, was once human.”
“How does that work exactly?” she asked, pulling out her phone to type at it.
“All of grotesque kind were once human,” I said, “and while the animation of our bodies may be an arcane matter, the thoughts and actions of each individual creature come from a spirit within each of them. These spirits were once human.”
The detective lowered her phone again. “So . . . what? Let’s say I want to become one of you. My spirit just jumps bodies?”
“In theory, yes,” I said. “Although from what little I know about the process, it is far more complicated. Alexandra’s brother, for instance. Devon Belarus had bargained with my father, Kejetan the Accursed, for an eternal life in stone. His first form was a monstrous one, before many of my father’s followers were finally able to take the forms of Alexander Belarus’s statues. During that process, more than just Kejetan’s men were created, the stonework throughout the city filled by the souls of restless spirits in search of an empty vessel. That is where your—and my—greater issue lies.”
Rowland was back at her phone again, her fingers flying. “Detective Maron and I are going to need as much information as you can give me,” she said. “If I’m to bring any of this in front of my superiors, I need more than what sounds like the next Guillermo del Toro film to present to them.”
I did not know who that was, but her point was clear enough. “Those who have chosen to join Sanctuary seem to share a common theme,” I said. “Their spirits seem to have lingered due to violent or traumatic events that were done to them in their human lives. Most see this rebirth in stone as a way to either help others or do their penance for the life they lived.”
Detective Rowland looked up from her notes. “And those who do not join your Sanctuary?” she asked, but it was clear she already knew.
“You’ve already seen them in action,” I said. “At the armory. They would see harm come to this city. Perhaps their spirits linger on this plane because whatever powers that be . . . Well, neither side wants them, Heaven or Hell. But these creatures are out there and they are organizing under one grotesque.”
“Does this creature have a name?” she asked, pausing from typing. “What does he look like?”
“I have not seen him yet,” I said, “but to those who have been approached or threatened into joining him as I and Alexandra have been, he is called the Butcher of the Bowery. He was once known as the arcane warlock Robert Patrick Dorman. You may recall Alexandra shouting about him at the armory.”
Rowland nodded. “I’ve actually heard of him before that night,” she said.
“You have?” I asked. “I thought you and Detective Maron were only recently put to the task of dealing with the supernatural.”
“Everyone who goes through the regular old police academy knows of Dorman,” she said. “Although the word warlock never came up, that’s for sure. His crimes were many, it appears. At first he was thought to be a bit of an eccentric playboy, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. Eventually he was pegged for a series of ritualistic murders that started with women he had been with but branched out much further than that.”
“Blood magic,” I said. “Alexandra explained it to me. His hedonism only helped fuel the fire that led to the rest of his darkness.”
“You need to find this grotesque,” the detective said. “Maron and I can get some of the department to pay attention to the type of things we’re asking them to look for, but not without some kind of real evidence. The best he and I have been able to do is going out during the day to rooftops in search of these creatures and taking a sledgehammer to them when we come across one.”
“What?” I asked with a growl, my wings fluttering with a sudden rage.
“Daylight is the only advantage we have!” the detective fired back, defensive. “Don’t look at me like that. We’ve got zero chance in hell of capturing one of them when they can just fly away. But when they’re dormant by the light of day . . .”
I stepped closer, unable to stop myself from trying to intimidate her. My wings flared wide behind me. “Tell me, Detective,” I growled. “Since minutes ago you said we all looked alike to you, how do you know who exactly you are destroying in your efforts? Some of those may be my own people. You need to stop this practice. Immediately.”
There was anger in her eyes, which turned to fear the longer I stared at her with my stone-still eyes.
“Absolutely,” she said, finally giving a nod. “I can see how maybe that might be read the wrong way by your people.
”
“Good,” I said, settling myself down once more, bringing my wings back in close to me.
“But Alexandra did offer your help,” she reminded me. “And we do need it. We won’t find the Butcher on our own.”
“I will set my people to the task of flushing him out,” I said. “We will find him, and his people will either be made to see reason or be dealt with accordingly.”
The fear slowly faded from Detective Rowland’s eyes as she slid her phone back into her pocket. I had hated using such obvious theatrics to put that fear in her, but I could not help myself at the thought of one of my kind being destroyed by her ignorant ways.
“Why do I have a feeling that your ‘dealing with accordingly’ is going to prove to be strikingly similar to what we were doing with our sledgehammers?” she asked.
“Let me worry about my people,” I said. “You will have my cooperation in your investigation.”
“Good,” she said with a look of satisfaction. “That’s all I was looking for.”
“I would, however, ask a favor of your law enforcement in return,” I said, letting all the growl go out of my tone.
Detective Rowland eyed me with suspicion. “The New York Police Department isn’t really known for doing favors,” she said, looking up at me, “but in your case I’ll make an exception. Lay it on me.”
I raised my hand and gestured toward the roof of the building across the way. A shadow at the top of it came to life, and with a spread of dragonlike wings, Emily flew down from it and landed hard on the roof behind me.
Rowland’s face grew wary at the approach of my more snake-featured companion, but made no effort to leave or back away.
Emily stopped when she stood next to me, wings folded close to her in a calm, relaxed pose despite the fact that I knew how nervous she must have been waiting in the wings while I had made sure the meeting with Detective Rowland was safe enough for her to join.
“Hello,” she said.
Rowland nodded. “Hello yourself,” the detective said, then looked to me. “This is your favor?”
“No,” I said. “This is Emily, but yes, I would ask a favor of you on her behalf.” I gestured to Emily for her to speak.
“Thank you, Stanis,” she said, almost shy now as she turned to address Detective Rowland. “I . . . I . . . I’m sorry. This is difficult for me.”
Detective Rowland laughed. “Sorry about that,” she said as she composed herself. “I’m used to watching creatures like you destroy my city or throw a bus or cars about. Not used to seeing one so . . . timid.”
“Then I suggest you learn the finer points of our differences,” I said, a snap of anger filling me.
“All right, all right,” Rowland said, holding her hands up. “I get it. What is it you want?”
“I don’t recall much of my life before I took this form,” Emily said. “I remember Kennedy was my president, and how Manhattan looked much different when I had been human, but beyond that, I am afraid my memory fails me.”
“It is that way with many of the other creatures I have taken in at Sanctuary,” I said. “Most have decided to leave the past just that—in the past. There are others, however, who have sought out who they were in life or have tried to track down their relatives on their own. Emily, however, has too little a recollection of her past to even begin such a task.”
“Is that important to you?” Rowland asked her.
Emily cocked her head at the detective. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen a lot of cases over the years, before I got busted down to the Spook Squad,” she said. “And when I see the looks on some of the victims’ faces, I can’t help but think that they’d be better off if they could just forget what happened to them. Start life anew, move forward without looking back. They could be happy. You could be happy, without ever finding out what happened. You sure you want to know your past?”
“My past is a blank,” Emily said, “but it is part of who I am. Who I was. Now I have this form, and all I can think is that I must be here for a reason. How can I figure that out without knowing who I was?”
“As long as you’re sure,” the detective said.
Emily nodded.
“Okay, then,” the detective said, pulling out her phone once more. “Why don’t you tell me what you do know?”
“My name is Emily Hoffert,” she said. “Although I do not recall who I was, I believe my life was taken from me.”
“You were murdered?” Rowland asked as she typed.
“Yes,” Emily said, her voice soft now, barely audible. I laid a hand on her shoulder and she reached up to squeeze it.
“Do you know how?” the detective asked.
“That I do not know,” she said. “All I know is that when I try to think back to my earliest memory, my stomach clenches and my mind fills with an unexplainable horror.”
My heart ached for Emily, but Rowland’s face betrayed nothing. She simply kept typing away at her phone until she was done, then looked up.
“Anything else?”
Emily had gone quiet and shook her head.
Detective Rowland turned to me.
“So just to be clear,” she said. “I’ve got metric tons of your kind tearing apart my city and you want me to take the time to investigate a decades-old murder?”
“That is correct,” I said. “I would consider it a gesture of good faith between our two people.”
“And I would be most thankful,” Emily said with a smile that exposed her fangs.
I leapt into the night air, hovering above Detective Rowland. “I will see what I can find concerning the Butcher and his people,” I said. “This has been a good meeting.”
“It has?” Rowland asked, craning her neck up at me.
I bowed my head to her. “History will look on it well,” I said. “A day when our people first came together. And, most important, no one had to die.”
“That is a plus,” I heard the detective say from far away as I rose higher and higher, Emily already catching up.
The detective wanted answers, and so did I. Hopefully we would both get what we wanted. I banked into a turn south and headed for Sanctuary, eager to get some answers if only to gain Emily some closure on who she had been.
Knowing the past was the first step to moving beyond it—or learning from it—and more than anything I wanted my near-constant companion to be granted some peace.
Fifteen
Alexandra
The press of tourists was thicker in the surprising midday heat of an early October morning when Caleb and I crossed Central Park West at Seventy-second Street. I made it as far as the park’s entrance before I doubled over with a yawn so powerful that it stopped me in my tracks. The sea of tourists and locals continued to wash around me as Caleb stopped and turned back, watching with bemusement.
“You okay?” Caleb asked. “Did crossing the street wipe you out?”
“I’m fine,” I said, finishing off my yawn with an uncontrolled stretch that ran through my whole body. “Just not used to being awake during daylight hours these days, what with so much happening during my night shifts.”
Caleb nodded. “Sleepy is the head that wears the crown,” he said, then took my hand in his before leading us into Central Park.
It seemed like such a normal couple’s activity—just a day out in the sunshine—that for a moment I allowed myself to forget the troubles of the arcane world that were taking over more and more of my life. For a brief moment all my worries about that or the more mundane but soul-crushing fact I hadn’t produced a lick of artwork in months were gone. The two of us simply flowed down the crosstown path until Caleb took the lead and wandered up a side trail to a small open circle nestled inside a ring of trees.
Benches surrounded the outer edges of the space, most of them filled with guitar players, drummers,
and what looked like sixties-era flower children. Below our feet the pavement gave way to a mosaic of light and dark green tiles arranged in a radiant sun pattern with the word “Imagine” spelled out at its center.
“You brought me to a drum circle?” I asked, leaning down to scoop up one of the wilting flowers that had been laid on top of the mosaic.
A bearded hippie wearing just an open vest, no shirt, and what looked like forest-colored pajama/yoga pants locked eyes with me, and before I could look away, he was up off his bench heading for me.
“Oh, crap,” I said, turning to face Caleb to the exclusion of all else. “Incoming crazy, twelve o’clock.”
He looked over my shoulder and chuckled. “I told you I knew a guy,” he said, stepping around me.
Caleb opened his arms and the man came in close, giving Caleb a bear hug filled with such strength I feared all the vials lining his jacket would crack and melt him as the potions mixed. Despite my worry, I could not help but notice the genuine warmth radiating from the man giving him the hug.
Caleb broke away from the embrace a few seconds before the stranger and waited until the hippie clapped him hard on the back several times before releasing him. When the moment was over, Caleb turned back to me and extended his arm in my direction.
“This is the guy,” he said. “Fletcher, this is Alexandra, a good friend of mine.”
“Hello,” I said, giving him an unsure smile and a small wave.
Fletcher looked at my hand, shook his head at it, and started for me. “Oh, no, that’s not how we do it here,” he said. “Bring it on in.”
He stretched his arms wide, hands waving me in toward him, and despite my reservations at hugging a wild-eyed stranger, I found myself giving in to the warmth of the gesture. His arms closed around me and the embrace was comforting, the man himself smelling like an earthier and more pleasant form of patchouli. His beard itched against my cheek, tickling me while he tightened his bear hug. While the grip should have felt intimidating or overly familiar from a stranger, it simply made me feel safe.
