by Rach Elle
“This is fascinating.” Sunders breathed. He took the flashlight back and shined it on some of the older photos that covered the kitchen cabinetry. His eyes caught a name he recognized from his research in London. “Look!” He called Crisp over to the photograph. “Amazing,” he smiled.
“What?” Crisp asked.
“It’s Romanus; the slayer of La Gargoule.” He stepped back with a sudden realization. “This isn’t a timeline; it’s a family tree. Look, each string shows decedents and each photograph is tagged with a year of birth.” He returned to the picture of Romanus. “And if this photo is any indication, then this is all centered around the prophecy.”
Crisp’s eyes darted to the Scotsman and narrowed, “And what prophecy is that exactly?”
“Arav’s prophecy,” Sunders breathed, “Every half century the devil will rise from the depths of hell to rule on earth, to be thwarted only by the prophesized savior. See,” he shined the light on the photo hanging in front of him, “Romanus was once the chosen one; the warrior who combated the rise of the devil.” He shined his flashlight on another photo. “And Horace before him; now if this family tree is correct – and if the legend really were true, mind you – then the next in the line of saviors is this man; Junior Cross.” He shined the light on the last man’s mug shot.
“Why doesn’t he have a date of birth?” Crisp asked, smirking at the Scotsman’s wild eyed excitement.
Sunders thought for a moment before returning to the photo of Romanus. He studied the worn, artful illustration of the man and frowned, “Because they aren’t years of birth; they’re years of death. Romanus defeated La Gargoule in 1514 AD. This photo is labeled 1535 AD. Junior Cross hasn’t died yet.”
“Then what does this mean?”
Sunders turned around to see Crisp squinting through the darkness at a lone photo hanging on the refrigerator. He seemed to recognize the image but motioned for Sunders to shine the light on it anyway. As the flashlight hit its target the front page image from yesterday’s tabloid illuminated. Awilda Rose was in her blue scrubs with her dark, stringy hair hanging over her face as she stared down at her handcuffed wrists. Both men’s eyes widened when they saw in permanent red marker the old woman had tagged the photo with yesterday’s date.
“Awilda hasn’t died.”
“You said her grandmother was showing signs of the same disease her husband had,” Sunders began. “Do you think she came to finish what he started?”
“I don’t know.” Crisp whispered; and lied.
Awilda stood in the middle of her grandmother’s living room with her arms wrapped around her chest. The air inside the small house wasn’t cold, and yet she shivered uncontrollably. She closed her eyes and tried to remember her life before the incident. This house was happy. The rooms were bright and they always smelled like flowers and homemade cooking. She imagined the furniture that sat before her. The sofa and recliner weren’t old and musty. The end tables held up picture frames and coasters; not cigarette butts and layers of dust. Her mind’s eye scanned the rest of the room, grazing over the glass coffee table, the small television stand and the bookshelf in the corner.
Awilda opened her eyes and strolled across the space to the bookshelf. She could barely see through the dark as she ran her fingers along the spine of each book. Finally she could feel the raised lettering on the spine of the book her grandmother had shown her too many times to count. She pulled it out and headed to the large window, hoping the small amount of lamplight that seeped through would be enough to see by. She crinkled her nose as she read the title, The Complete Works of Arav Dave. She hated this book. Her grandmother would always turn to the same painting as she tried to convince her that her monsters were works of God. Awilda knew the artist did more than a couple of paintings; he was also a writer, but she cared little about some 16th century artist’s imagery of gargoyles. The monsters in this book were not the monsters in her mind. She had wanted as little to do with this book as possible. She couldn’t understand why she was bothering to look at it now; nostalgia, maybe?
Awilda flipped through the pages trying to find the illustration until finally the familiar image came into view. A large gargoyle sat perched on the top of a tall building overlooking a sleeping city. His wings were spread and his claws dug into the brick exterior for balance. His tail lay long and loose behind him. Awilda struggled to read the title of the picture: The Guardian Angel
She flipped through until another familiar image appeared. Her eyes widened as her breathing became deeper and faster. She could feel a surge of anger boiling just under her skin, causing her muscles to shake. Her body quivered as years of torment suddenly escaped her throat in a screeching outcry as she tore the page from the spine and threw the book across the room.
Crisp and Sunders ran into the living room to find a shaking Awilda Rose picking up a table lamp and smashing it against the wall; her face twisted in fury. Crisp ran to her and wrapped his arms around her, trying to calm her down.
“What’s wrong?” He asked.
Her shoulders relaxed as she held up the piece of paper. “I found it; in the book.”
Sunders took the page from her as Crisp continued to console the girl. He shined his flashlight on the paper to see an illustration of an ugly, evil creature staring at him. His eyes widened as he picked up the book she had thrown against the wall.
“That’s the monster from my dreams.” Awilda’s voice quivered. “My grandmother knew about them too and she never told me. All this time, she made me feel like I was crazy; why didn’t she tell me?”
“The Cowardly Imp,” Sunders breathed.
“What?” Awilda snipped.
“This painting; it’s an Arav original.” He looked to the quivering girl and the doctor that held her. “Arav Dave was the first to chronicle the creation of gargoyles. See, this is a painting of a Limrid.” He shined his light on the passage written beneath the image and read. “Unable to please the devil but unwilling to accept God, the Limrids are exiled from both Heaven and Hell. They walk the earth forever in their true forms until claimed. Although they are nearly harmless, once achieving a master they reclaim all powers only to be used at their master’s discretion. Limrids are nothing more than trinkets from the fallout of war and should not be regarded as anything but.”
Awilda furrowed her brow, “What war?”
“The Ultimate War,” Sunders began, “between Heaven and Hell. Arav was a painter by trade, but perhaps his most famous work was a literary piece titled The Ultimate War all about Satan waging war on earth. The story tells of the devil giving life to his children, the gargoyles, to fight and destroy the human race. It says that one gargoyle dropped to his knees and prayed for the power to defy the devil. Once granted he rallied others to fight against their own kind and save humanity. As a form of gratitude, God allowed the gargoyles to remain on earth as strong, fearless protectors. The Limrid shown here is what happened to all gargoyles that didn’t join the revolution but were too scared to return to Hell when Satan ultimately lost. Now they’re doomed to live forever as ugly stepsister versions of the real thing. Only when a human claims one of them as their own do their powers come back.”
“What powers?” Awilda asked.
Sunders shrugged. “Whatever powers Satan gave them to begin with.”
“You’ve done your research.” Crisp glared at Sunders.
“Yes, well, it is just a story. One search online and you’d know the same tale. Unfortunately Arav Dave’s work has been translated and rewritten so many times its hard to differentiate the real from the imposters. I have a number of books that outline Arav’s Ultimate War and each one is slightly different.”
“Quite the hobby for a doctor; you must have a lot of time on your hands.”
Sunders considered his next words carefully. “I do have a confession to make,” he started, “I’m afraid I’ve been lying to you both… I’m not really a doctor.”
“No kidding.”
; Sunders shrugged off Crisp’s sarcasm and took off his jacket. He unbuttoned his wrist cuff and pulled his sleeve up to his elbow. He held out his forearm for the two to see. Embedded in his skin was a small yet distinguishable symbol. A circle with two protruding feathered wings stretching to the sky; the tattoo represented the center of Sunders’ world. “Awilda, I work for a company called The Dark Angel Alliance; or DAA for short.”
“Jesus Christ.” Crisp breathed. “I should have known.”
“How do you know about us?”
“You think in all my years with Awilda that I wouldn’t stumble upon your little underground racket? I’ve done my research too.”
“Well,” Sunders was clearly offended, “I’d hardly call us a racket. We specialize in locating supernatural creatures.”
“Translation: you’re nut jobs.”
“How can you say that when you saw exactly what I did tonight?”
“I don’t know what I saw but I do know it’s time to leave.” He started helping Awilda up off the ground.
“Wait!” Sunders stood. “Awilda, I have a house in London. You’ll be safe there and together we can draw these creatures out of the shadows and get some real answers. What do you say?”
“You mean you’ll use her as bait.” Crisp cut in.
Sunders weighed his words, “More or less.” Crisp began leading Awilda to the door. Sunders wouldn’t back down. “Clearly these creatures are after you. For what purpose, I don’t know, but you can’t deny what happened at the asylum tonight. I can take you to a place where not only will you be around people who actually believe you, but people who know what these things are capable of and are prepared to fight. Now, again, what do you say?”
Moments later Sunders was more than pleased as he watched Dr. Crispin and Awilda Rose walk to his rental car in compliance. He had achieved what he’d come here for; interaction with a gargoyle. Now he was returning home with a fair amount of certainty that he would have another. He could finally prove beyond a shadow of a doubt his value to his organization as a whole. The Finders he worked with understood his passion and devotion to the DAA, but the other faction did not. They believed him to be a joke. Not that he could blame them, he’d had a blunder or two over the years; but his mistakes were about to be overshadowed by triumph; and Awilda Rose was to thank. He watched as Dr. Crispin opened the car door for the girl and helped her inside like she was a senior citizen.
Sunders furrowed his brow. The extra weight of the doctor wasn’t in the plan. He was too protective over her and Sunders was growing tired of their constant bickering; but he couldn’t let him ruin the opportunity that lay just beyond his fingertips. For the first time in years he was overflowing with anticipation. He felt alive. For too long he’d walked the streets of any given city, a stotter blending into the crowd as a forgetful no one. There were days he didn’t even recognize his own reflection. He’d been beaten down for too many years; sometimes by others, but mostly by himself. He wanted his exuberance, his energy and determination back. He wanted definition; and Awilda Rose was going to give it to him; regardless of the sacrifice.
Before leaving the old house Sunders left an object in plain sight; something he hoped would be found very shortly.
8
The station wagon sped down the freeway through Seattle. The windows were rolled up making it difficult for Junior to track the whereabouts of Awilda; but the night air was violently cold as it whisked past them, threatening to chill Elizabeth to the bone. Junior and Kingsley sat in the front seats unfazed. Their regulated body temperatures came in handy on nights like these. It made them less subservient to Mother Nature. Kingsley knew exactly where to go anyway. He’d learned all about Awilda’s horrific past and knew where her only living relative resided; Bellingham, Washington. After an hour on the freeway he figured that was the only place she’d go.
Two hours later the station wagon turned onto an off ramp and slowed as it approached a fork in the road. Junior rolled down his window to confirm Kingsley’s suspicions. He lifted the lock of hair to his nose to reaffirm the girl’s scent.
“She was definitely here.” He said.
“Good, we’re on the right track. Right or left?”
Junior inhaled deeply, trying to hide the joy he took in reveling in the girl’s scent, “Right.”
Kingsley smiled as he turned the steering wheel. He could finally get rid of these nervous shakes and stomach cramping. He’d made it this far without buckling over in pain; it wouldn’t be long before he saw his Responsibility again.
The station wagon pulled up to a dark, small cottage style house. Only one streetlamp shined on the gray-blue exterior but still managed to highlight all the neglect. The front lawn was covered in dry, dead grass despite the rainy Washington climate; the paint was chipped, the roof was missing shingles and the mailbox was overflowing with mail.
“Looks like no one’s home.” Junior said as he, Kingsley and Elizabeth stepped out of the car. He inhaled deeply. “She’s not here. Shit.” He cursed under his breath.
“But she was here.” Kingsley observed as he knelt down and eyed the damp driveway. “These tire tracks are fresh. You don’t suppose we’d be able to follow them.”
“Nah, as soon as we get out on the main road we’ll lose them.”
“Why doesn’t Junior just try following her smell again?” Elizabeth asked.
Junior shook his head, “they must be backtracking. I can’t pick up anything new.”
“You can’t just follow their new trail?”
“I can’t distinguish where they are from where they’ve been if the paths are crossing.” Junior sighed in defeat. “We would have been better off with a dog.”
Kingsley slowly and subtly wrapped his arm around his torso and hugged it, hoping to stabilize the pain, “Looks like we’re stuck.” He looked up at the old house. “We know one thing for sure, she was here. I say we go inside and see if we can find something that’ll tell us where she went.”
“We can try it.” Junior shrugged. “But I doubt we’ll find anything other than doilies and candy jars.”
Kingsley was preparing to forcefully open the door. He was ready to break it down and off its hinges if he had to; but as he got closer he realized the door wasn’t even shut. The three stopped abruptly, unsure what to make of the situation. It was all too easy.
Cautiously, Kingsley approached the door. He placed his hand on the wood and slowly pushed it open further. The creaking of the hinges dared them to enter.
Junior, Kingsley and Elizabeth stepped into the house one by one. Elizabeth could hardly see anything; but the shifters could see everything.
“Holy shit,” Junior cursed under his breath. “Her grandma’s bat shit crazy too.”
“Yeah, looks like she’s half a bubble off plum.” Kingsley said as he surveyed the walls. Junior headed through the dining room and into the kitchen. His eyes narrowed and his jaw dropped. Slowly, he exclaimed, “What the fuck?”
Kingsley was by his side almost instantly, staring at the same photograph of Junior hanging on the old woman’s kitchen wall.
“What the hell is going on here?” Junior whispered.
Kingsley followed the line of photographs that covered every inch of the cabinetry. “I’ll be damned.” He breathed. “It’s the lineage.”
“The what?”
“All of this,” Kingsley motioned to the display, “It’s your family history. It’s proof Junior.” Kingsley’s eyes grew wide as he stared in awe of his young friend. “You’re a direct descendent of the First Gargoyle. You’re the savior.” A cloud of cold air escaped Kingsley’s mouth. He couldn’t feel it, but it was almost illuminated as it swirled in front of him before disappearing. His smile stretched across his face. “It’s amazing.”
“It’s incriminating.” Junior was stoic as he tore down the mug shot of him and the label of ‘Toby Pierce (Junior Cross)’. “We don’t need any officials knowing they’re looking for an alias.”
<
br /> “You can’t be serious.” Kingsley lost his excitement. “The proof is here; in front of your face. You can’t deny it. Look, there’s your mother; and your grandparents. This entire room is your family tree.”
“And what about her,” Junior pointed to the picture hanging on the refrigerator. “Is she a part of my family?”
Kingsley turned around to see the front page of yesterday’s tabloid with yesterday’s date written on it. He frowned as he looked at the skinny girl in handcuffs. “No,” He scowled. “She’s the prophesized destroyer; she just doesn’t know it yet.” He turned back to his tall, muscular friend. Junior looked even more enormous in the shadows. His shoulders were broad and square and his thighs were too big to stand with his feet together. Kingsley knew Junior wouldn’t accept any of this as fact, but he didn’t have to. He would learn in time. “With your help,” he started softly, “she doesn’t have to know. You can protect her.”
“She’s your Responsibility.”
“I’m only a patsy. I can’t protect her from what really haunts her. I’m hers to control. Whatever she demands I’ll do. You know I don’t have a choice in the matter. That’s why she’s not with us right now; but you’re your own man. You’re the one who needs to watch over her; not me.”
Junior pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t believe any of this; and some obsessive hobby of a crazy old woman isn’t going to change that.”
“I know, and I understand.” Kingsley lied. He couldn’t understand why Junior wouldn’t just accept his fate; but he was the kind of man who needed concrete evidence; even more concrete than a physical family history connecting his bloodline to that of some of the most famous shifters in history; Romanus, Horace, and ultimately David the First. “I didn’t want to believe it when someone first told me so many years ago.” he continued, “but after researching and wading through all the imposter theories and bullshit conspiracies I realized that at their core the legends are true. All those bedtime stories you were told as a child about dragon slayers were fantastical versions of real life events. The prophecy is real; and you are the only one that can stop it.”
