The Last Gargoyle

by Paul Durham

  The shadow tilts his head on a boneless neck at the sound of my words, his cheek coming to rest on the folds of his crimson scarf. I see now that his face is ghastly white and entirely featureless, except for a garish red smile that appears to have been scrawled with a blunt crayon.

  But his hollow black eye sockets extend a dark invitation.

  Before I can accept, I’m interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream. I turn back to see the crowd of tourists at the other side of the cemetery. They gasp and point to the ground in alarm. Lizzy Prudence is gone.

  The grave at her feet has opened up and swallowed her whole.

  Lizzy Prudence has broken character, uttering some colorful modern-day language as the paramedics cart her into a waiting ambulance. Her Victorian dress is hiked up past her knee, revealing an ankle swollen to twice its normal size. Aside from the bad foot and a few scrapes, she should be fine. The tourists mill around the double-decker bus, awaiting the arrival of a new guide. They’ll have quite a story to tell their friends, but fortunately they’ve escaped the night unscathed too.

  I step past the yellow police tape and stare down into the hole at my feet. It stinks of sour earth and ancient rot. Lizzy didn’t fall into an actual grave. The ground gave way and she found herself dangling inside one of the not-so-secret tunnels that crisscross under the North End of the city. These tunnels were all sealed up long before my time, and no one is completely sure of their original purpose. I’ve heard that a famous privateer used them to ferry illicit plunder from the harbor, but I wouldn’t bet my wings on it.

  I overhear the banter of a cemetery official and a policeman, who chat casually in front of the blinking blue-and-white lights of the officer’s car. They seem content to chalk the sinkhole up to the unusually wet weather. I beg to differ.

  Viola leans her head over the yellow tape without crossing it and whispers in my ear. “Did the Netherkin do that?”

  I nod and Viola furrows her brow.

  “But I don’t think it was some sort of trap, if that’s what you mean,” I clarify. “It’s just that these grounds have been disturbed by some serious comings and goings. More than just a little rain.”

  I look overhead. The night’s otherworldly light show has come to an end, and the ungodly fist has disappeared like a passing cloud in a quick-moving storm. Big white crystals now fall from the sky. It’s begun to flurry again.

  More October snow.

  I cast an eye over my shoulder at the row of buildings on the far side of the grounds. The Black Rabbit and his wobbly protector have disappeared, but a sinister static fills the air. The static exists on a frequency neither Viola nor the tourists can hear, but I pick it up the way a watchdog hears a whistle. It creeps along the cobblestones, lightly vibrating the trash cans set out on curbs like claws on a tabletop. The air is rich with a lingering sour stench, spoiling the smell of fresh bread from the bakery just down the street.

  “I’ve found who I’m looking for,” I grumble.

  The stumbling specter I first mistook for a man in the Fens? The obscenely smiling scarecrow I just saw with the Black Rabbit outside the cemetery? They are indeed one and the same. Given his odd choice of headwear and limp-necked appearance, I can see why some dim-witted Netherkin might call him a Boneless King. But what exactly he is I can’t put a finger on. He hums with the dark energy of the dead; I felt it much more strongly tonight than when I first met him. And yet there remains something organic—something living—pulsing inside him.

  I’m tempted to rush into the row of buildings and flush him out from wherever he’s now hiding, but I hesitate. If this Boneless King is the one calling these spirits, clearly he has some strong influence.

  No, I’m not frightened—and I’m not sure why you keep thinking that. It’s just that this might require a little more thought. Some careful planning. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to again leave Viola, who’s looking paler than usual at the moment.

  “Are you still feeling sick?” I ask her.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Come on,” I say. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  I don’t want to tell her that she shouldn’t travel alone tonight. The static in the air—I haven’t heard it this strongly in a very long time.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I need to work up an appetite anyway.” I glance around the burial ground and shake my head in disgust. “Netherkin,” I growl. “This whole city has become a crawling buffet.”

  “Goyle, no,” she protests, more sharply. “I’d rather go on my own.”

  I’m taken aback. “Why?”

  Viola adjusts her newsboy cap and pulls her coat tight around her. She pinches her lips together and seems to measure her words before speaking.

  “Because I just met you. I don’t want some monster, or gargoyle, or…whatever you are…following me to my house.”

  I’m blindsided. Her words sting, but I’m not about to show it. “Sorry” is all I mutter.

  Viola tightens her grip on the violin case, takes three big strides away, then pauses.

  “I’ll come by to see you tomorrow,” she adds quickly. “But please don’t follow me. And remember, I can see you.” She points her index and middle fingers to her own eyes and then directs them at me like a forked tongue. “I’ll know if you do.”

  She hurries through the cemetery gates. Against my better judgment, I just watch her go.

  I thrust my hands in my pockets and make the long walk back to my Domain. It’s quiet enough to think. Unlike a certain overgrown city that shall remain nameless, this one has the decency to sleep. At this hour the streets are only populated by taxis and small packs of wandering practice-adults. One young couple has etched their initials and a heart in the dusting of snow on the sidewalk. With a sweep of my foot I send their valentine swirling into oblivion.

  I’d say that my encounter with the Boneless King has left me feeling testy, but if I’m being honest, it’s more than just that. Viola’s words weigh heavily. The Twins and I often called one another names, but we never really meant them. Did I say something to offend her? It wasn’t like I was pushy—she’s the one who invited herself along. I was just trying to look out for her.

  Maybe that’s the problem. Not everyone wants to be looked after.

  When I finally reach home I climb over the back wall of my Domain. From the courtyard, I see that the windows are brighter than usual. Except for the practice-adults, my Domain is not home to many night owls. I decide to check on my wards floor by floor.

  There’s a dim light under the crack of the Pandeys’ apartment door, and behind it I can hear the normally happy couple arguing in hushed voices. In the stairwell on my way to the third floor I find a blond practice-adult weeping quietly. Her palms are pressed to mascara-smeared cheeks and a friend has an arm over her shoulder, trying to console her. They don’t notice me as I slip past, of course. No loss. I’m of little use when it comes to tears anyway.

  On the third floor I hear the old Korean lady snoring—she can sleep through a fire alarm without her hearing aid—but her cats are yowling and their anxious paws pad across linoleum as they bicker among themselves. From the end of the hallway I smell a hint of sage and venture down for a closer sniff. It’s Miss Ada’s apartment. I can tell she’s burning a candle and sipping tea.

  It seems that everyone is ill at ease tonight.

  My next stop is the fourth floor.

  The hallway is empty but something is amiss. Hetty’s front door is cracked open, the bolt and chain loose. Sure, I keep a safe house, and in truth no unwanted prowler is going to intrude into my wards’ apartments under my watch. But even so, nobody leaves their doors unlocked anymore. Hetty’s mother probably had her hands full with Tomás and forgot to shut it. I hear him crying and I cringe. Not more tears. But this isn’t the Sob of the Soggy Diaper or the Bellow of the Empty Belly. It’s the inconsolable wail of a terror-stricken infant. I hear Mamita’s urgent w
hispers of reassurance—the March of the Desperate Mother—as she roams from room to room, rocking him in her arms.

  I inch toward the apartment but resist the urge to peek inside—child-rearing is none of my business. I’ll just give the door a little nudge shut to spare her any undue worry come morning.

  But before I can, a loud noise behind me makes my ears prickle.

  There’s a rumble of machinery in the bowels of the building, and the elevator shaft echoes with the clank and clatter of a rusting assembly line. Through the metal lattice, I see belts and conveyors moving.

  I don’t like this one bit. I didn’t hear any of my wards come in. The grating of nails on a chalkboard fills my body.

  The black mechanical beast comes to a stop. I ready myself. There’s a pause, and the iron door slides open like the lid of a coffin. Inside, the elevator would appear empty to any of my wards.

  But it’s really not.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

  Unlike the small Netherkin I found in the basement, this one consumes the entire elevator. It’s as muscled and leathery as a rhino, but instead of four legs it crab-walks on hands and feet like a gymnast bent over backward. Its blocky head is mostly teeth, with a thick horn protruding between eyes that regard me with surprise from their upside-down perch. Two smaller arms and clawed hands protrude from the fiend’s ribs, waggling toward the ceiling like antennas.

  I clear my throat. “Do you know who I am, Netherkin?” I begin. “This is my Domain. I am the warden of—”

  Oomph. It charges before I can finish, driving me into the wall.

  “Spunky one, aren’t—”

  Oh! One of its smaller arms flails across my face, knocking me down. The formidable Netherkin snarls at me, then redirects its eyes toward Hetty’s open door. It quickly lumbers for it.

  “Not so fast,” I command, and leap after it, grabbing its curly tail.

  When the Netherkin turns to snap at me, I bring a fist down on its head, driving its face into the floor. It pinches its eyes tight in pain and I wrap my arms around it. Summoning my strength, I lift it off the ground and hurl it all the way down the hall. It crashes against the door of a corner apartment and lands upside down, its hands and feet wiggling like the legs of an overturned crab.

  Oops, that move probably woke up the tenant. Do you ever hear strange thumps in the night? Well…never mind. Now’s not the time.

  The Netherkin scrambles to right itself. When it regains its feet, its broad body nearly fills the entire width of the hallway. It narrows its eyes and looks past me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that Hetty’s door is still open. I return my attention to the Netherkin and steady myself. There’s no reasoning with this one. It looks like it’s actually thinking about—

  It charges again. This time I do the same and meet it head-on. The impact rocks us both, but I catch hold of its horn before I fall backward. I bellow a victory laugh and wrap my arms around its throat.

  “Night-night, you—ouch!” I cry, and my hands fall away. I clutch my shoulder. The Netherkin has bitten right through my vest.

  But once again, instead of continuing the fight, it pushes past me, making for Hetty’s door.

  Now all I see is red.

  I tear after the Netherkin and throw myself at its legs like a cannonball. This time, before it hits the floor, I catch its body and sling its weight over my shoulder. With all my might, I haul it to the elevator and dump it inside, collapsing on top of it. The cage is thick with its stink, and we are a tangle of limbs, teeth, and claws.

  But I’m unstoppable in close quarters. The Netherkin’s size works against it as I bite away huge chunks of its leathery body. It thrashes and flails as I pummel, kick, and mash it against the elevator’s walls, until eventually there’s nothing left but a shapeless mass.

  I step out of the elevator.

  Yuck.

  I’m covered in Netherkin. The elevator drips with what’s left of it too.

  The screeching chalkboard nails in my ears are gone, so I know that once again it’s just me and my wards.

  I turn toward the sound of Tomás’s terrified sobs—still desperate and inconsolable. I’m sorry, little guy. I promise to be more careful from now on.

  I make for the apartment door with every intention of easing it shut, but I stop in my tracks. A face appears around the frame.

  Hetty stands in pajamas, the hem of her flannel bottoms falling short of her ankles. Her bare toes wiggle nervously on the hallway’s cold floorboards. She blinks her wide eyes as she peers down the corridor. I try not to move. She seems to catch a glimpse of something and squints. I doubt she can see me, but even if she could, I can tell by her face it’s not me she’s looking for. After a moment, she steps back inside the apartment, pulling the door shut with a click.

  I hear the bolt of the lock slide into place.

  They’re safe now, but don’t try telling that to Tomás. His muffled cries echo down the hall, and I wonder what on earth is going on here.

  I give the messy elevator one last look. I push a button and slide the door shut, sending it on its way.

  I’m not about to clean that up—I’m the Night Warden, not the janitor.

  It snowed all through the night. The stubborn storm of gentle flurries spread a white cloak over my wings and a cold carpet at my feet. A few more practice-adults eventually stumbled home and made their way to the roof, gleefully scraping together a pitiful snowman. He spent the early-morning hours slowly melting by my side.

  Today, autumn has returned and the sad snowman has disappeared into nothingness. Only his wet stocking hat and a couple of bottle-cap eyes remain as evidence that he ever existed at all. I curse him. His soggy pretzel stick of a nose is sure to attract pigeons.

  But the filthy birds are the least of my worries.

  I peer down at the window of Hetty’s apartment. I’ve been watching it all night and well into this late Sunday morning, but only now are Hetty and her family stirring. Tomás’s restlessness has left them all tired and sluggish. If they only knew how much worse it could have been.

  It’s my fault, of course. I got sloppy. Let down my guard. Netherkin are like cockroaches. If you see one, it usually means more are out there, waiting to follow. I’ve squashed two this weekend already. I need to put an end to this now, before I have an infestation on my hands. My dance with the nasty brute in the elevator has left me hypersensitive. I’m feeling them all around me, lurking in every shadow. I imagine them scuttling in the alleyways even though I know they’d never venture out by day.

  “Goyle?” a voice calls out. It’s not coming from an alley or the street.

  Viola is standing atop the roof on the building next to my Domain. She holds the handle of her violin case in both hands, her shoulders rounded. I’m relieved she made it home safely from Copp’s Hill.

  “Viola, what are you doing up there?”

  “May I come over?” she asks hesitantly.

  “Of course,” I begin, but then realize I shouldn’t sound so eager. After all, she wasn’t very polite to me last night.

  “I mean…if you must,” I say more coolly.

  The neighboring roof is several feet higher than my own, but the buildings on this block are pressed right up against each other, leaving very little gap between their walls. She plops down on her behind and swings her legs over the edge.

  “Wait a minute,” I say in alarm.

  She scoots off, landing hard on the rooftop of my Domain.

  I cringe. “Careful. You’re not a Grotesque. Roof-hopping takes some getting used to.”

  Viola seems unfazed and walks over.

  “Why can’t you use the front door like everyone else?” I ask.

  Viola shrugs, her eyes on the ground. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.” When she looks up, her eyes blink hopefully under the brim of her wool cap.

  I try to regain my stoic demeanor. I’m usually pretty good at it—I am made of stone, after all.
<
br />   “Yes, well, I’m not so sure that I do,” I huff.

  Viola smiles. “I knew you’d forgive me.”

  Obviously not the look I was going for.

  “I didn’t say I did,” I try.

  Viola ignores my ill humor and sits down beside me. She sets the violin case next to her, dangles her boots over the edge, and smooths her leggings. I notice there are holes in each knee. It’s not lost on me that she’s been wearing the same tired-looking clothes for the past three days.

  “Can you come out of there and sit with me?” she asks. “No offense, but I find it easier to talk with you when you don’t look like some grim-faced monkey-dog-dragon monster.”

  “You know, I’ve always found the M-word offensive,” I say. “Grotesques have feelings too.”

  She looks at me, confused.

  “Monster,” I clarify.

  “I’m sorry, Goyle. I don’t mean anything by it. And I apologize for saying it last night. I wasn’t myself. The subway, the graveyard, the…” She pauses and shakes her head. “It was all more than I expected.”

  My feelings are still hurt, but I can understand how she might be overwhelmed. We Grotesques are a special breed. Fearlessness is in our nature.

  “I’m really sorry,” she says, and pats the rooftop next to her. “Will you please come out?”

  “I don’t know.” I steal another glance at her violin case. Every time I see it, I want to peek inside. “Maybe you can play me a song,” I say. “That would help me forgive you.”

  I’m surprised when Viola’s hand darts to the case. “Oh, no,” she objects. “I’m not good enough yet.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I say. “They don’t admit just anyone to the Conservatory….”

  She shakes her head. “No, no, no. Someday. But not today.”

  I frown. Viola raises an eyebrow. “Please sit with me?” she asks hopefully.

  I sigh but accommodate her anyway. I guess I’m not the shrewdest negotiator.

  Slipping free from my shell feels like wiggling out of scratchy, wet wool. If you don’t do it right, it’s as uncomfortable as getting the neck of a tight sweater stuck across your eyes. I sit next to her in my wisp form, dangling my own feet over the roof’s edge and clasping my hands in my lap. We’re quiet for a moment, and I catch Viola trying to peer under the shadows of my hood.