by Anton Strout
“You went out to Second Avenue?” I asked, opening the box. Black olives and artichoke hearts beckoned from within the cheesy, saucy goodness that met my eyes.
“It just seemed easier than sorting out your kitchen,” she said, grabbing a slice before pulling herself up on the one clean spot at the far end of the massive table.
“Fair enough,” I said, digging into a slice while looking over my notes.
By the time I pulled my face out of my notebook, I was surprised to see more than half the pizza was gone, four discarded crusts on my plate alone.
“Whatever happened to you not working so obsessively?” Rory asked.
“This is my non-obsessive pace,” I said with a smile. I pointed at my face. “But I’m in a good mood, despite having lost a day of research.”
Rory gave me a funny but suspicious look. “You are smiling; I’ll grant you that,” she said, “but this doesn’t seem like the kind of letting up you promised me and Marshall, Lexi.”
“It is,” I insisted. “First of all, you’re here by choice, right?”
She nodded. “You didn’t nag me into participation today, so yes.”
“Getting the band back together doesn’t mean less work,” I said. “It just means I have more support when I need to get things done. And besides, my promise to relax more was made before last night’s Witchapalooza.”
Rory gave me a thumbs-up. “More work, less bitching,” she said. “Got it. What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” I said as I headed off to the ever-growing wall of books that had overtaken one entire side of the guildhall. My current top-shelf titles had little room left for them. I whispered out to the stone, willing a piece of it to protrude farther out of the wall so I could force my latest addition into place. “In the same way Alexander had discreetly recorded the secrets of the Spellmasons in dozens of cross-referenced books to ensure their safety, his historical notes on his lifetime are also stretched out over the same number of volumes. If what Laurien told me about Alexander is true, I need to find out the truth about my great-great-grandfather. He built this guildhall, I assume with the intent of using it, but there’s no record of an actual guild forming, as far as I can tell. He simply closed up shop and set about building the grand old architecture of this city instead. If I can figure out why, then maybe that’s one more way to get the Convocation on our side, by changing their minds.”
As I placed the book upon the newly formed shelf, something scraped across my shin. I startled, looking down to find my trusty golem Bricksley there, his tiny arms cradling a different book.
“Thank you, Bricksley,” I said, taking the book from him, slotting it into its space upon the wall.
“All hands on deck, I see,” Rory said, picking him up. “Even the tiny ones.”
“I could use a little help from someone a bit more advanced than Bricksley, though,” I said, offering Rory a stack of books I had noted as I pulled them from various spots on the wall.
Rory did not look stoked as she took the pile from me with some reluctance and picked up my brick golem, but nevertheless she settled in at the end of the table.
“What am I looking for exactly?” she asked, setting Bricksley down on the table next to her. He set about straightening things in that OCD, paranormal-automaton way of his.
I set down a pile of books I had pulled for myself as a starting point. “I think we can kill several birds here with one stone,” I said. “We’re looking for anything you see that references my great-great-grandfather either talking about the guild he wanted to form . . . or maybe an apprentice he took in.”
“Got it,” she said, and flipped open one of the ancient tomes in front of her.
“And while we’re at it, keep an eye out for anything that mentions Robert Patrick Dorman.”
“The one who has a rage on for Warren,” she said. “The one who destroyed the family tomb.”
I nodded. “Look for mentions of Warren, too, while you’re at it.”
Rory looked up from her book at me. “I’m surprised you’re so focused on this warlock’s case,” she said.
“Why?”
Rory shrugged. “Your dance card was already pretty full,” she said. “But I get it. He’s a bit eccentric looking, but Warren’s not too hard on the eyes . . . in a magical-hipster sort of way.”
“What?” I asked, somewhat astonished. “No. He’s strictly business for me. And don’t let him hear you call him a magical hipster. I’m not sure what he can or can’t turn you into if he hears that, but trust me, it won’t be good.”
“You sure he’s not dating material?” she asked, more as a gentle dig than anything by her tone.
“Like I need another man in my life,” I said.
“But he is in your life,” she reminded me. “Why go out of your way to do anything for this new guy when you’ve already got more than you can handle going on?”
“Because he’s a finite set of problems that intersects with my interests,” I snapped. “Okay? Most of the gargoyle violence in this city is random. They hadn’t been organized until the Butcher started forming his hand of cultish cronies. Warren O’Shea is an actual target of the Butcher. That’s something I can focus on.”
“Easy,” she said. “I was just kidding about him being more than a business thing. Don’t be so touchy.”
“Sorry,” I said, calming myself.
“Why does the Butcher even want him anyway?” Rory asked.
While Caleb and I had been the ones who dealt with Warren initially, I realized there was much I hadn’t told Rory. And, it dawned on me, I realized why.
“To settle a score with the family who helped take him down the first time,” I said. “But . . . there’s another reason that’s really driving me on this.”
Rory hopped up on the edge of the table. “Okay . . . Spill it, Lexi. I know that look. You’re hesitating.”
“While the Butcher may want Warren dead, he also has this thing called the Cagliostro Medallion now. When Caleb and I went to the cemetery, we weren’t just looking for the Butcher’s remains. I wanted to check the O’Sheas’ family plot. It had been destroyed. The Butcher tore the whole mausoleum apart, in search of the medallion, and it’s most likely in his possession now.”
“Why do you care so much about that damned piece of jewelry?” she asked.
“It does something that I want.”
Rory hopped down off the table and came right up to me. “What, Lexi?”
“It has the power to turn stone into flesh,” I said. My face rushed red as I awaited her judgment, but all my friend did was stare at me with surprise in her eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “I see.”
“Do you?” I asked with sincerity.
“That’s . . . that’s a game changer, Alexandra, now, isn’t it?” she asked. “Have you told Stanis?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked. “If he knew, maybe it would help motivate him, help get his people working double time looking for this Butcher.”
“I don’t know why I haven’t told him,” I said. “What if it’s something he doesn’t want?”
Rory shook her head, almost laughing. “Why wouldn’t he want it?”
“He’s got Emily,” I said.
“Emily?” she repeated. “Are you kidding? Look, I liked the lady gargoyle well enough the few times we’ve met, but she’s charity work. She’s Stanis’s pet project, a broken person locked in stone form. Don’t mistake that for anything more than it is.”
“And what about Caleb and m—” I started, but Rory cut me off with a raise of her hand.
“As your oldest friend, I’m going to support you no matter what, but let me just say this one thing,” Rory said. “And I say it with love: Caleb is no Stanis.”
“I know,” I s
aid with a laugh. “Believe me, I know.”
That stopped my best friend short. “I’m surprised to hear you say that,” she said.
“So am I,” I said. “But after what I found out last night . . .”
“What?” Rory asked.
“I’m done with Caleb,” I said. “He manipulated Stanis into keeping his distance. I don’t know if I can forgive him for that.”
“Yeah, that sounds like the Caleb we met,” Rory said. “Sorry, Lex.”
“I’m the fool,” I said. “I thought he had more than proved his worth. He always proved helpful and atoned for the mistakes he’s made. Sure, he used to run with a bit more dangerous crowd, if those witches and warlocks we saw were any indication, but I guess some people are incapable of real change. We were good for each other.”
Rory grabbed my shoulders and locked eyes with me. “Who are you trying to convince here, Alexandra? Me or you?”
I fell silent. When the girl was right, the girl was right. For as long-lived as our friendship was, it was one that rarely got into a cycle of guy talk. Oddballs that we were, our dating lives had both been less than interesting and our conversations always gravitated to more fascinating subject matter like books, music, and, as of late, the arcane world.
A talk like this seemed long overdue, and I couldn’t argue about which of us I was trying to convince more.
I realized Rory was still waiting for a response in the growing silence that was passing. Instead, I stepped past her, scooping up Bricksley and the book he was carrying.
“We should get back to work,” I said.
“Oh, no, no,” Rory said, grabbing my arm and spinning me around so hard I almost clocked her with our little brick friend. “You’ve had enough braining for one day.”
“I have?”
Rory nodded, handing me my backpack. “Yes,” she said. “You have. I’m getting us out of here.”
“But there’s so much more I need to look up, trails I need to follow through these books and the ones up at my parents’ building on Gramercy.”
“That can all wait until later,” she said, dragging me toward the door that led out of the guildhall. “All work and no play makes Lexi a dull girl, remember?”
“Okay, fine, fine,” I said, finally giving in and walking without being dragged along. “But where are we going?”
Rory pushed me through the door hidden behind the bookcase leading out into the basement library of my building. She pirouetted as she passed through the arch of the doorway.
“It’s just a jump to the left,” she said, and ran for the stairs leading up to the door that opened up onto Saint Mark’s.
I slid Bricksley into my backpack, giving him a little smile. “Dammit, Janet,” I said, then shoved him down in the bag before throwing it onto my shoulders and running after Rory.
Sometimes your friends were the only ones that could remind you to be sane, especially when your own brain was so far down an obsessive rabbit hole that you thought about changing your name to Alice.
Twenty-one
Alexandra
I had forgotten there was actually such a thing as a good kind of exhaustion, but there we were—Rory and I—covered in post–Rocky Horror Picture Show rice, newspaper, confetti, and bits of toilet paper. I might pay for it all come morning, but getting my cult music theater on was still an easier task than reading my arcane brains out or running all over Manhattan playing superhero. I hated to admit it, but Rory had been right to pull me away from my day-to-day insanity.
Tired as we were, I chose for us to walk across the Village like we were all of sixteen again, when the worst that would have happened was a stern talking-to from my parents. The stretch of Fourteenth Street between Fifth and Sixth was relatively quiet at three a.m., and I couldn’t help but yawn over and over as we moved crosstown.
“Not to alarm you,” I said, my voice cracked and shot from singing along with the show tonight, “but I may start snoring as I walk.”
Rory laughed. “That tired?” she asked. “You’re the night owl.”
“Relaxing is exhausting,” I said, leaning my head on Rory’s shoulder. “Seriously. It’s like my brain doesn’t know what to do with itself when it’s not soaking up arcana. I miss the simple life of just wanting to be an artist, but truth be told? I’m not sure I’d know what to do with only that on my plate.”
“You are an artist still,” Rory insisted. “Just in a different medium than you expected.”
“I suppose,” I said. “I just wish my creations didn’t tear up the city so much. The sooner I figure out the truth about my great-great-grandfather, the sooner I can get the Convocation on board with our greater efforts with Stanis to bring this gargoyle population under control.”
“And if you happen to score the Cagliostro Medallion along the way, well, that’s just a bonus.”
“Please,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Stop. It’s hurting my brain just thinking about it right now.”
We walked east in silent exhaustion down the rest of the block, but as we turned the corner onto Broadway, the sight there woke both of us in an instant.
For three a.m. I expected Union Square Park to be at best filled with a few late-night stoners and students drunk off their asses. I certainly wasn’t prepared to find it filled to overflowing with people everywhere.
“What the sweet crap is all this?” Rory asked. “Some kind of late-night NYU rally?”
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing the magical loop of cloth around my neck that Marshall had given me, “but hoodies up, okay? We don’t need this many eyes on us.”
I pulled mine into place, which I was surprised to find so relaxing. There was a comfort in anonymity, and thanks to Marshall, Rory and I could walk among the crowd without drawing any undue attention to ourselves.
“There,” Rory said, pointing off to our right far ahead.
At the north end of the park the crowd was even thicker where the pathways and benches gave way to a large paved section. I knew it well, having explored the spray-painted labyrinth mazes that now were underneath the mad crush of people.
But not just people. Towering shapes several feet higher than the tallest person in the crowd moved among them.
“Gargoyles,” I said. “Look at them all.”
“There have to be at least a dozen,” Rory said.
The grotesques moved like slow ships among the sea of humanity, a sight that was hard to absorb given the general state of relationships between our two species.
“What are they doing?” I asked, and without waiting for an answer, I started pushing my way north toward the far end of the park. Though the going was slow against the tide of people, moving closer made it easier to make out the details of the individual gargoyles involved here.
When I saw a familiar angel among them, I relaxed and smiled. I leaned over to Rory, lowering my voice. “That’s the one Stanis and I met,” I said. “Nathaniel.” The angel meandered through the crowd, taking his time as he strode along in silence. “It looks like someone decided he is a joiner, after all.”
“Yeah,” Rory added. “A real gargoyle of the people.”
The other gargoyles came to rest, simply standing silent and still among the crowd. If I didn’t recognize my great-great-grandfather’s artistry in their carving, I would have thought them just statues.
Nathaniel alone moved through the crowd then. People pressed closer and closer, their arms and hands stretched out just to touch him as he passed. Stanis’s father would have torn them apart, but Nathaniel’s face was awash with patience, not shying away from their touch.
I turned to Rory for her reaction, but she gave a simple shrug.
“I guess it’s a unique approach,” she said. “You wouldn’t find Stanis doing this.”
“True,” I said, “but he spent centuries avoiding contact wit
h humans because of the rules my great-great-grandfather bonded him with. I do think, however, that the gargoyle Stanis is now would have eventually gotten around to something like this.”
“I don’t know about that,” Rory said.
“He’s just cautious. I would be, too, if I had the maniacal mad-lord father he had. He’s one to choose to err on the side of caution first.”
“This doesn’t seem all that cautious, either,” Rory said. “I’m not sure causing a mob at three a.m. is such a smart idea on the part of Nathaniel and his friends.”
“Me, either,” I said, “but the crowd seems to be enjoying it. I think Stanis would be jealous.”
Rory cocked her head at me. “How so?”
“Just of the acceptance.”
“I’m not sure this is acceptance, Lexi. Look at everyone’s faces.”
I examined the bunched-up areas of the crowd that pressed in closest to the gargoyles. There was awe in the eyes of those people, the kind usually reserved for the faces of celebrity stalkers on TMZ.
“It’s like a cult,” I said.
“Yeah,” Rory said. “It begs the question, doesn’t it? Why are these gargoyles doing this? Why is this crowd so enthralled? I don’t get it.”
“I do,” I said. “In a city as big as ours, everyone is looking for something, some kind of meaning, right? To these people . . . Well, who knows what they make of these grotesques? It’s the closest thing to superheroes they’ve got, right? Imagine what Marshall would be like if he ever met Spider-Man.”
“I don’t have to imagine,” she said. “He was pretty unbearable the time he met Stan Lee.”
Two people shoved past me in the crowd as they headed toward the gathering of gargoyles, nearly knocking me over. I was about to yell at them, until I realized I recognized their faces.
Detective Rowland hobbled through the parting crowd like a train pushing its cattle catcher. Even with the limp, she was still outpacing her partner as he followed after her.
