Gargoyles I, II, III: Dark Angel Alliance

by Rach Elle

  The blonde doctor watched as Junior got to his feet. He grabbed Awilda and began running in the opposite direction. Junior picked up his pace when Kingsley appeared out of nowhere and jumped Blondie, sending him hurdling into the pavement.

  Sirens from approaching fire trucks and police cars seared through the Portland air. The two gargoyles looked at each other knowing they couldn’t afford to be seen by anyone else; not like this. Junior ran to the building and began scaling it to get high and out of sight. Kingsley grabbed Awilda’s arm.

  “No! Please!” The girl begged and tried to pull away. “Help!” She screamed.

  “I won’t hurt you.” Kingsley growled. He’d grown tired of the constant fight. He pulled her into him, lifted her off the ground and ran toward the Bain building.

  “No!” Awilda screamed again. “Let me go!”

  Kingsley came to an abrupt and extremely reluctant stop. “You had to say that, didn’t you?” He grumbled and set her down, but not before ripping a lock of hair out of her head. She whimpered at the sharp pain.

  Awilda wanted to run. Every muscle in her body burned and screamed for her to do just that; but she couldn’t bring herself to move; directly in front of her stood a monster reminiscent of the ones in her nightmares. He was larger, stronger, and had the facial features of a typical man; but had extremities only found in fiction. His wings wrapped around his shoulders like a cape and hung to the ground. His feet were dinosaur-like and his ears were pointed at the ends. His short gray beard hid the wrinkles on his face, but his eyes were filled with age. She guessed he was much older than he appeared. His eyes narrowed as they bore into hers, like he was less than enthused to be near her; and yet he came here to kidnap her, didn’t he?

  A fire truck rounded the corner as the cursing gargoyle disappeared into the shadows.

  Elizabeth pushed herself off the ground. Her knees ached and her back was tight. She got to her feet and turned around to see two police cars speed to a halt in front of her. The doors whipped open and policemen jumped out with their guns drawn. “Drop your weapon!” They screamed as she stood in the middle of the street with a pistol and blinding headlights in her eyes. She slowly bent down and laid the gun on the pavement before throwing both hands in the air.

  Sunders and Crisp ran to Awilda. They ushered her away from the scene unnoticed among all the chaos.

  6

  Awilda sat in the back seat of Sunders’ rental car. She stared out the window at the wet ground that shined in the streetlights. They were on the freeway heading north. They had crossed over a large, green bridge into Washington about three hours ago. She knew where they were headed. She’d requested a road trip to the one place she knew outside of the asylum. They were going to the home of her grandmother; the late Gayle Rose. She hoped to find something there that would explain what was happening to her. The illustrations she was shown as a teenager were now real; flesh and blood. They were bigger than she had imagined; and they spoke perfect English. She’d always assumed her monsters spoke gibberish; or the way dogs do – through a series of growls and whimpers; but she clearly heard the old one speak. The question now wasn’t whether or not they existed, but whether or not they were good. According to her grandmother they were meant to protect humans, but according to her nightmares and delusions they were pure evil. Once again she was on a search for answers; at least this time it wasn’t to find out if she was mentally ill. Hopefully this search would actually have results.

  Sunders assured her he’d do everything to help her. She didn’t necessarily believe him. She didn’t know him and thought he was too eager to jump to the rescue; but she trusted Simon wholeheartedly. He was the one man who had always been there for her. Ever since the trauma brought upon by her grandfather eleven years ago, he had been the one constant that made her feel somewhat sane. Over the years she had grown to love him, and always dreamed that one day he would reciprocate. Unfortunately being locked up in a mental institution for five years isn’t exactly a turn-on.

  Junior was waiting in an alley to the left of a coffee shop on a busy street in Portland. He was trying desperately to fight off the effects of the sedative and growing more and more anxious by the minute. It shouldn’t have taken Kingsley this long. He wanted to run to the police station and take care of the matter himself, but considering the fact that he was a fugitive he figured that would cause even more problems. Not to mention he had a large blood stain on the side of his shirt and no bullet wound in his abdomen to explain it. Shifters healed much faster than humans. He kept his arm wrapped around his waist to hide the large circle of blood from any passerby. He didn’t want to cause alarm. They’d probably have questions about the giant hole in the rear of his jeans and the two smaller ones in the shoulder blades of his shirt, too. He liked to make it a practice to remove his clothing before shifting to prevent awkward moments like these, but when he saw the blonde bastard pull a shotgun on Elizabeth he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Shifting was a conscious decision for the most part; but everyone has a trigger, and his was the threat of harm to his Responsibility. He didn’t even think he was fully morphed before leaping off the roof of the building.

  Moments later, Junior could see the headlights from the station wagon coming his way. The car pulled along the sidewalk and waited for him to climb into the passenger seat. He couldn’t have been more grateful to see Elizabeth sitting in the backseat, smiling and unharmed.

  “I’ve got a change of clothes for you in the back.” Kingsley said as he drove the car away from the coffee shop. He himself had changed into a pair of dark slacks and a white button up. They had wrapped his bullet wound on his arm earlier just in case it decided to seep any blood when trying to bail Elizabeth out of jail. Kingsley played the part of her concerned husband. He explained she always carried a handgun when walking at night. When she saw a bunch of asylum patients running into the street she drew it for protection. The story was an odd one, but believable enough to spring her free.

  “How’d you like jail Lizzie?” Junior asked as the car drove away from the busy streets of Portland.

  “It could use a woman’s touch.” She joked. “I’m really sorry though.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me; ever.”

  “But I shot you.”

  “Barely a flesh wound.” Junior shrugged.

  “I doubt that. I heard you howl.”

  “I wasn’t howling, I was laughing at what a horrible shot you have.” He lied.

  The station wagon pulled into a neighborhood and slowed to a stop. Kingsley lowered the automatic windows to allow the night breeze to fill the car. Junior could tell he was in pain. He probably needed the fresh air to calm his nerves. It was difficult for a shifter to be away from their Responsibility. They had a constant need to protect that one person, and it was nearly impossible to do that from a far distance. He could remember his first day in prison. The pain was so great he almost didn’t make it to nightfall. He had uncontrollable shakes and his stomach cramping was unbearable; but he was strong and muscled through it. He knew his only chance at appeasing Elizabeth’s request was to be locked away.

  Junior scowled to himself as he thought of Elizabeth’s husband. He was a deadbeat; had been since day one, but she loved him anyway. She stood by him through the good times, the bad times, and the black eyes and cracked ribs. Junior had no idea he’d taken to beating her over eleven years ago. She’d hid it well until it landed her in the hospital. He knew what he had to do; kill the shithead. But Elizabeth, while lying in her hospital bed, begged him to leave her husband alone. She even ordered him; she’d never done that before. But he couldn’t get the image of her out of his mind; every bruise, every bandage; he had no choice but to lock himself away. He couldn’t be near her as long as she’d forbidden him to protect her. It went against his nature and was the greatest pain he’d ever felt in his life. When the bastard died seven years later in a car accident he considered breaking out; but he had grown accustomed
to prison life, and he’d endured the separation anxiety - for lack of a better term - for so long that it barely fazed him. So long as Elizabeth was in the same vicinity then he could manage. Thankfully he had a good friend in Kingsley to protect her as if she were his own.

  Now Kingsley was finally experiencing the literal pains of a Responsibility. He was trying hard not to show it, but Junior could see the subtle tremors and hear his rigid breathing. They had to find the girl before the old man gave himself a heart attack.

  “I got something for you kid.” Kingsley coughed and winced as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a dark lock of hair.

  “What’s that?” Junior crinkled his nose.

  “I said we’re not leaving without her, and now that she’s my Responsibility that statement has never been truer; this is her hair.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “You know you can do it.”

  “I’m not a dog.” Junior scowled. He hated it when Kingsley asked him to do things like this.

  “No, you’re better; and you’re the only chance we’ve got right now.”

  Junior sat in silence for a moment, staring into the side mirror at his own reflection. He felt degraded, but he knew Kingsley was right; and he had to help his friend. He inhaled the crisp breeze that blew through his window and exhaled any pride he had left. “Get me to a rooftop.” He grumbled.

  In a clean change of clothes Junior stood on the rooftop of a tall building in downtown Portland with Kingsley. He had a panoramic view of the city, including the I-5 that bridged over the Columbia River into Washington. The air circled around him, as if enticing him to do what he was about to do. Reluctantly, he took the lock of hair in the palm of his hand and lifted it to his nose. He could feel the strands grace his nostril as he breathed in Awilda’s scent. His chest tightened at the smell. His heart pounded louder and his muscles hardened to keep from falling over. He loved the scent and suddenly wanted nothing more than to find Awilda Rose. He pulled the hair from his face and inhaled deeply the soft Portland wind. His eyes flicked open and instantly locked on the bridge. “She’s in Washington, heading north.”

  7

  Sunders’ rental car pulled off the freeway onto the streets of Bellingham, WA. Five years hadn’t erased Awilda’s memory. She knew exactly where to go and gave Sunders precise directions. The car finally reached an old cottage style home that looked like it had been neglected for years.

  The three got out of the rental and walked up to the front door. Awilda’s nerves began to get the best of her. She was entering her deceased grandmother’s house. She could remember her life here. She remembered lying on the floor watching television while her grandma cooked dinner and her grandpa snored in his recliner. She remembered her room. It was painted light pink with framed pictures of flowers hanging on the walls. She loved that room when she was little. It had a large picture window perfect for watching rain and thunder storms.

  Awilda’s nostalgia began to wear off as she thought back to that night. She was twelve years old and drifting off to sleep on a school night when she heard something in the kitchen. She got up to see what it was, thinking another bird had flown down the chimney flu. What she found was her deranged grandfather, poring over pieces of paper that had been strewn all over the floor. She could tell they were mostly pictures, but she couldn’t make them out. Only the light from a table lamp in the adjacent living room was on. It was too dark for her grandfather to see, and yet his eyes were scanning every page rapidly as if they were pages from a novel. She had sensed that he had been slowly losing his mind over the past year. He had become distant and at times acted as though he didn’t even know who she was. Now it was more obvious than ever.

  She approached him cautiously and said he needed to go back to bed. He didn’t even acknowledge that she was there; but when she reached out and touched his arm he jumped back and screamed as if he was afraid of her. She tried to reach for him again as he got to his feet and backed up against the kitchen counter. He reached back and pulled a large knife from the knife block. Awilda screamed for her grandma and tried to run away, but her grandfather grabbed her by the shoulder and slammed her into the cabinetry. She tried to wriggle free but he was too strong. He began reciting biblical passages so fast that his words were indistinguishable. His eyes were maniacal and his knife lifted in preparation to kill his only grandchild as she cried and shivered and begged. She could remember his last words, “May God take you anyway,” before blood splattered on her face. She could feel the warm liquid run down her cheeks as three bullets hit her grandfather in the chest. He stood for only a second more before falling to the linoleum floor.

  Her grandmother ran to her and made sure she was alright. She told her to go wash up while she called the police. When the police arrived and her grandfather had been carted away, Awilda reemerged in the kitchen. “Where did all the papers go?” She asked her grandmother. Gayle kneeled in front of her young, innocent grandchild and whispered, “They’re gone, and you are not to speak of them again, okay?”

  “Why? What was on them?”

  “The work of the devil; they allowed him into this house to possess your grandfather. We mustn’t let him into us, understand?”

  Awilda didn’t, but she nodded her head anyway. Much to her grandmother’s dismay, there would be a lot more talk of Satan in years to come. Awilda’s nightmares and hallucinations would start; a punishment by the devil for having seen those papers, she assumed. And overtime she would watch first hand her dear, sweet grandmother slowly lose touch with reality.

  This old cottage house was never the same after that night. The sun never seemed to shine through the windows; and despite Gayle’s attempts to plant flowers and water the grass, nothing ever grew. Now, standing outside of the house after five years of absence, it felt just as shrouded in darkness and haunted with nightmares as ever.

  Awilda began to shiver more from nerves than actual cold. Simon wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into his torso. She hugged her body to his as Sunders turned the front door knob only to find it unlocked. The door creaked as it slowly swung open and the three headed inside.

  They entered the living room and Sunders felt along the wall for a light switch. He flipped it upward but no lights turned on.

  “There’s no power.” He said.

  Crisp looked around and noticed the floor lamp and two table lamps. “No, there aren’t any bulbs in the lamps.”

  “Why would she do that?” Sunders asked.

  Awilda broke free from Simon and walked over to her grandfather’s recliner. She didn’t touch it; no one had since the tragedy. “Because this house was always dark,” she began, “no matter what we tried, there was never enough light. She finally gave up.”

  “Okay,” Sunders said, “what are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know. I wanted answers, but I don’t know how to find them.” Awilda wanted to cry. She hated being here.

  “Well we’re not going to find anything like this. I have a flashlight in my bag. I’ll be right back.” Sunders ran out the front door and to the rental.

  “Are you okay?” Crisp asked softly.

  “Yeah, it’s just a lot of memories.” Awilda said as she made her way down the hall and to the first room on the left. She took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. Tears began streaming instantly when she saw her old bedroom; completely untouched.

  Her bed was made and the curtains were open. The dresser supported a boom box, a hair brush and some loose hair ties, and a large vanity mirror that had a string of beads from her Mardi gras themed prom hanging off the side. A rocking chair sat in the corner with an oversized stuffed Easter bunny given by her dad when she was seven. Her grandmother was upset when she left to move into Bain Asylum; but she assured her there would always be a place for her here; and she kept that promise. Awilda continued to cry silently. How could she leave her grandmother here to suffer alone?

  Her torment was quickly interrup
ted by cursing in the living room. She ran down the hall to see Sunders shining a flashlight on a wall. She halted suddenly and gasped. The living room wall, once painted a light yellow, had been vandalized. Her anxiety began to kick in as she wished like hell it was an act of delinquents; but as she stepped closer she could clearly see her grandmother’s writing in ballpoint pen covering every inch of the surface. She tried to read some of it but it was impossible. There were no complete sentences or punctuation to separate one thought from another. Sunders slowly scanned the rest of the room with his flashlight, revealing the same nonsensical ramblings covering every wall. Awilda could barely swallow the lump in her throat. Not only did she leave her grandmother to suffer, but she left her to go completely insane.

  “There’s more over here.” Crisp called to Sunders, who followed him into the dining room. He shined the light on the walls. “What is it?” He asked.

  “Looks like some sort of timeline.” Crisp answered as he grabbed the flashlight and followed the crudely drawn timeline that wrapped around the dining room. It came to an abrupt stop just before entering the kitchen. It was labeled but hard to read through the faded, poor handwriting. Both Crisp and Sunders stared at it for a moment, trying to make it out.

  “Junior Cross,” Sunders read. “What’s that?”

  Crisp took a step into the kitchen and shined the light on the upper cabinetry. “I’m guessing him.”

  Sunders followed the blonde doctor into the kitchen where hundreds of photos were tacked on every surface; some old and some new. Some of them looked ancient, like photos you’d find in an archeological discovery. Although at first it seemed chaotic and random, Sunders quickly realized each and every photo had been carefully placed. Strings ran from picture to picture to show relationship and order. They all led to one photo; a mug shot of a young man with short brown hair and bright blue eyes. He looked strong with a chiseled jaw and a small dimple on his chin. Underneath in permanent marker had the name ‘Toby Pierce’ and in parenthesis, ‘Junior Cross’.