by Anton Strout
“Why?” he asked. “What do we have to worry about now?”
“Right now?” I said, my mind still trying to absorb the totality of the evening’s events so far. “Right now I need to convince Marshall that he won’t need to take out an extra fire-insurance policy to cover us.”
“Hope you’re convincing,” Caleb said.
“Hopefully, I can fake it.”
Eleven
Stanis
Days had passed within the darkness of the freighter. There were two voices in my head—my own suppressed true voice and what I had come to call the new dominant one. This new voice tried to discover what game my true mind was playing, but when it could not, its will to dominate me quieted to a steady truce with my true voice.
Despite the downpour of rain tonight, my true self even found a bit of pleasure in the freeing act of flight while the voice that dominated my mind saw it only as a means of accomplishing the tasks set upon me by the Servants of Ruthenia.
I flew over Manhattan in the singular pursuit of Kejetan’s task at hand. The humans down below seemed to mind the falling rain, always running from it or covering their bodies against it, but I welcomed it.
Coolness overwhelmed my senses as I flew higher and higher through the night sky, the air and rain refreshing me in a way my mind could not. I was far too busy walling up the two sides of my thoughts, keeping the dominant voice in my head away from my first contact with Alexandra after long months away.
Given the control the new voice had in my head, I dared not let it put me back in proximity to her. It had been struggle enough that first meeting to bend the new rules set upon me. Who knew what harm might come to her if we should meet again?
Instead, I flew on in search of Kejetan’s other objectives. The large park at the center of Manhattan spread out before me, and along its west side, I found what I needed on one of the buildings below. Spreading my wings as wide as they could go, I dove toward my target.
The skyline of Manhattan was not where one expected to find the depiction of an epic battle with a sea creature, but that was the stone tableau I found atop this particular building.
Swirls of tentacles rose from an enormous, carved monster that served as a base for my target. Perched on one of its thick tentacles was a grotesque similar to me, locked in battle with two of the lesser tentacles before it, its clawed hands midswing. As I closed with the statue, I could see the craftsmanship of the grotesque itself, strikingly similar to my own though its facial features were more demonic than mine.
I landed behind this familiar figure and pulled up on it from beneath the grotesque’s arms, testing the stone. Though it bore the familiar hand of my maker and was therefore strong, I needed to know I would not destroy it in the process of removing it. Finding the statue itself solid, I rocked the figure back and forth on top of the tentacle beneath it, praying it would come free with little damage.
The stone feet of the creature came free from their base with a loud crumble of stone, but even after I was done, the sound continued to grow, my feet slipping as the creature below me shifted into living stone.
The tentacles the grotesque had been combating groaned and flaked away bits of stone as they came alive—flaring up and whipping toward me. Shielding my body from their impact, I pulled my wings in close, but the tentacles were quicker and caught my legs and arms, coiling hard around them. My grip slipped from the slick wetness of the grotesque as I was pulled into the air away from it, my muscles screaming out as the tentacles stretched me to the extent of my reach.
Had I thought these tasks would be easy? No. These creatures were built by my maker’s hands, to be sure. A certain complexity filled them, as it did me. Had I been human, my body would surely have been torn into separate pieces already. Had Alexander meant to protect this grotesque against the strength of another of its kind? I did not think so, hoping that, at best, the tentacled creature was meant to restrain nothing more powerful than a human.
I did not wish to harm it, but my body was giving out. I worked my wings—already spread wide—using the extra power they generated to pull me farther up and away from the monster. As I rose, I contracted my arms toward my body, using all my power. The stone tentacles wrapped around them held at first but then gave way to my superior strength and crumbled away in large, broken chunks.
Arms free, I raised my claws, slicing down hard on the tentacles still bound around my legs. I tore through them with ease, and they fell away, writhing on the rooftop; but more were rising to take their place.
I found it impossible to take further to the air, my wings failing to keep me in the sky, and I dropped, barely able to control my fall back onto the roof. I had my wings to slow my descent, but I still came down hard, driving one of my knees and one clawed foot forcibly into the stone below.
The roof shifted beneath me, and I leapt up as it gave way, caving into the building itself. Landing, I centered myself for battle and stood ready, minding the remaining tentacles whipping back and forth all around me. I needed to reduce their number.
Working my way across the rain-covered roof in a focused pattern, I let my claws loose on the tentacles, striking swiftly before moving along in haste. The pieces fell away, and the tentacles grew shorter and shorter as I went. The monster stilled, and what remained of its tentacles transformed once more to inert stone.
I moved for my hard-won prize—the grotesque. My claws stood at the ready should it also spring to life. Closing in on it swiftly, I wrapped my arms around it, ready for a struggle, but I was met by nothing more than an inert stone figure.
“Hey!” a voice called out from somewhere behind me. I turned, fearing that I had broken one of Alexander’s old rules—that I remain hidden from humanity. Even though I was no longer bound to them, they still pulled at me after all this time. But looking around, there was no one else on the roof.
“Hey!” the voice called out again, and this time I homed in on where it came from—the hole in the roof. “Is anyone hurt up there?”
A beam of light shone up through the hole, catching the fall of rain in a glimmering cone. Despite the old rules no longer governing me, my need to leave before discovery took over.
I turned back to the grotesque, securing my arms around its chest. My wings strained hard as I forced them into action, pressing their limits in my effort to lift the extra weight. Burdened as I was, I rose into the night with part of my task complete, heading high over Central Park and away from Manhattan and out to sea.
• • •
I came down hard on the deck of the ship, using my claws to grab at the wet metal beneath my feet and steadying myself as I lowered the grotesque. It rang out with a dull echo, lost to the sounds of the heavy storm and waves of the ocean.
Kejetan, Devon, and the blond human met me on the deck, the one who had bound me immediately securing the new grotesque to the deck with chains.
His hair, once a spiked muss, lay plastered to his head, but he did not seem to mind working in the rain, unlike the other humans on board, who had made themselves scarce. They might be the Servants of Ruthenia, but only this lone human dared work on the open deck, my father watching.
When the man was done, he stepped away, and Devon walked over and gave me a rough slap on my shoulder.
“Good,” Devon said. “Our dog can fetch.”
I stood there, a silent sentinel. My true voice urged me to strike him for such an insult, but the new one kept me from doing so.
Kejetan circled the figure I had brought him. Even in his jagged form, I could sense an air of approval coming from him.
“Excellent,” he said, further confirming my suspicion. “This will do.” Halfway around the grotesque, he caught my eyes and stopped, shifting his focus to me. “And?”
“And what?” I asked back, unsure.
Kejetan stepped around the statue, heading for me, his face going dark. “What are you still doing here?”
“Where should I take myself?” I asked. �
��Back to the chains in your hold?”
We were face-to-face by then, the dark pits of his eyes meeting mine. “Are you mocking me?”
“I do not understand,” I said.
Kejetan grabbed my shoulders and pressed me across the ship’s deck before shoving me through the railings of the ship, snapping them like thin branches. My wings fought to take the air, but before I could, my father’s hand closed hard around my throat, holding me in place out over the water.
Deep within me, my voice spoke up. It called out for me to fight back, but the dominant voice held it back.
“I ask you again,” he said, the jagged rocks of his hand digging into the stone of my throat. “Are you mocking me? Where are the rest?”
I said nothing, still unsure of what he meant or what I was meant to say.
We stared at each other until the blond human approached us at the edge of the ship. He reached up and put his hands on Kejetan’s arm.
“Easy, easy,” he said, trying to press down on it, but there was no way the human could move him. “He’s not doing anything. It’s . . . it’s my fault.”
Kejetan turned to him, his eyes first going to the human’s hands, which the man removed in an instant.
“Your fault?” Devon called out. “How?”
The man backed away from both the stone men, hands raised. “This isn’t easy, you know? I’m forcing a new will upon the golem. His previous one is still in there, and it makes it harder to get him to do my bidding.”
“But that is what we are paying you for,” Devon argued.
“This isn’t an exact science,” the man said. “If it were, you’d be able to go and hire someone on every corner who can do this, but you still wouldn’t find anyone better than me. I guarantee you that. I just need time to tweak how we handle your gargoyle here.”
The human waved for Kejetan to pull me back onto the deck of the ship, which he did before dropping me. I slumped to the cold, wet metal.
“Fix him,” he said, dismissive.
The human waited for me to stand before speaking directly to me. “Why did you only bring one?”
“Because that was the task set upon me,” I said.
“Shit,” the human said.
“What is it?” Devon asked.
The human sighed. “It’s what I feared,” he said. “I wasn’t specific enough.” He looked up into my eyes. “Do you understand what we’re doing here?”
“You wanted a statue,” I said.
“But why?”
“For Kejetan to inhabit.”
“Correct,” my father said, “but what about the rest of my people? The Servants of Ruthenia have long held their place at my side with the promise of a new form. We need more than just one. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, but my true self did not wish to do such a thing. I spread my wings.
“Hold on,” the human said, undoing the chain around the other grotesque. “Hold on. Take this statue with you.”
“Why?” Kejetan asked.
“Because I can’t do what I need to do out here at sea,” the human said. “This needs to be grounded to its element, set up on land. Find a discreet location that can hold the other gargoyle statues. Gather as many as you can.”
“I know of a place suited for this,” I said, the true voice speaking up from within, and the dominant one let it.
I grabbed the statue and once more forced myself into the night sky, the heft of it feeling much greater than before, but I did as I was told and set my sights on the far-off shore of Manhattan.
Twelve
Alexandra
It took almost a week to convince Marshall to let me borrow the back room of his store for a meeting with Caleb. In the meantime, I kept feeding a steady diet of misdirection to Desmond Locke and his Libra Concordia. He seemed happy to see many of the private notes on the carved angels in Alexander’s repertoire, but nothing I gave him had a thing to do with the Spellmasonry that went into making Stanis.
The rest of that week was spent focusing on two things: poring through the records on Alexander Belarus at the Libra Concordia and spending some alone time continuing to craft the gargoyle form I had started in the destroyed studio back at the Belarus Building.
The former left me with more questions about the Spellmasons, and the latter helped calm my mind and made me feel like I was actually making some kind of progress. Now, here in Marshall’s store, it was time to see if any of the research Caleb and I had been doing was going to pay off.
The back room of Roll for Initiative was just as strange as it should be, stranger still with Marshall, Rory, and two alchemists in it. The surrounding shelves were full of games I had never heard of, rows of tiny, painted figurines, and an odd assortment of nerd-world stuff that I thought maybe I had seen on one or another of Marshall’s rotating array of geek shirts.
As odd as all that was, it still felt more odd that I had invited the man who had stolen from me and nearly head-traumaed Rory in the process to be there. She, at least, seemed to be handling it civilly enough. Her pole arm was put away, broken down into its component pieces in the art tube across her back, but more than anything I still worried about the look of mistrust in her eyes toward my fellow alchemist. I only hoped the pole arm stayed put away.
Marshall stood next to her, nervously wringing his hands together, while Caleb and I both watched with mutual concern.
“You sure this isn’t a problem?” Caleb asked, looking from Marshall back to me.
“Don’t mind Marshall,” I said. “He’s just worried about his toys.”
Marshall looked like I had just slapped him—but I met his look with a steady gaze, and the offended wind went out of his sails.
“Just try not to destroy anything or set my store on fire,” he said quietly.
“Relax,” Caleb said, slapping him on the shoulder reassuringly. His eyes sparkled with a charm and confidence that none of us seemed to find fully convincing. The alchemist pulled a few glass vials from within his long brown coat, holding them up to the light, checking the colors within. “This is a science . . . sort of. And it’s all in control. Mostly.”
Marshall’s face when white, and Rory clapped her roommate on the other shoulder. “Comforting, right, pal?” she asked.
“We need to test the version of Kimiya Caleb reverse engineered on his own,” I said. “This is only going to be a small-scale experiment, okay? Just to see if it works so we have some jumping-in point if we’re going to re-create it.”
“And you’re sure it’s not explosive?” Marshall asked, still looking unconvinced.
“It’s just my home brew,” Caleb said. “My prototype version of the ever-dwindling concoction that Alexander Belarus mastered centuries ago.”
“Your store’s going to be fine,” I said. “We’re just going to test his version to snap an arcane connection all Spellmason like. It’s not explosive.”
“Probably not,” Caleb added. “Never say never.”
I shot him a look but resisted the urge to bark at him. If he was half as punchy as I was from poring over the notes in the Libra Concordia, it was best to let it lie.
Marshall turned to me, grabbed my arm, and dragged me out through the heavy curtain that blocked the door into the customer side of the store. “You are taking responsibility for him, right?”
“He’s not a pet,” I said, easily pulling free from his nervous grasp.
“Just say it, then,” he said. “If only to give me a little reassurance. Humor me.”
“Fine,” I said. “Caleb breaks it, I buy it. Fair enough?”
Marshall’s face calmed a bit, but there was still worry in his eyes. “You couldn’t do this at either one of your alchemy labs?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve got the same trust issues that you and Rory both do,” I said. “I didn’t want us working at the Libra Concordia. Not the way Desmond Locke is pursuing his interest in Stanis. And until I have the feeling that I can trust this Caleb,
I don’t want him near either of my great-great-grandfather’s workspaces.”
Marshall sighed and gave a glance toward the small crowd gathered at the front of the store. “I just don’t want any damage while I’m trying to run our Magic: The Gathering tournament.”
I nodded even though I had zero idea what the last part of his sentence meant. From the group of people chattering away at the front of the store, it apparently involved consuming bucketloads of soda and a variety of snack foods while arranging colorful playing cards on tables.
“You go have fun,” I said, pushing him off toward his people. “Go. Mingle. Get your nerd on.”
Marshall started to protest just as Rory poked her head out of the back room through the curtain.
“Everything okay out here?” she asked.
“Do me a favor,” I said, grabbing her arm and pulling her out from behind the curtain. “Go up front with Marshall, will you? Make sure he enjoys himself.”
Rory shook her head and looked toward the back room. “And leave you alone with the guy who nearly gave me a concussion?” she said. “No way. What if he concusses you? I won’t have you getting concussed on my watch.”
“I’ll be fine with Caleb Kennedy,” I said, mustering as convincing a tone as I could. “I can handle myself.”
Both of my friends met me with blank stares and raised eyebrows.
“Okay, fine, sometimes I can handle myself.” I lowered my voice and pulled the two of them farther away from the curtain. “Listen. I need to work with this guy. He knows things I don’t about Alexander and the arcane, and I have to access that knowledge. I’ll be safe. Besides, do you really think he’s going to start something here?”
“Yeah,” they said in unison, which I couldn’t help laughing at.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “At the tiniest hint of trouble, I’ll scream. All right?”
Marshall still didn’t look entirely convinced, but Rory grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him toward the front of the store.
