by Anton Strout
Fletcher was standing at the top of the hill by the time the two of us joined him there. The hilltop was nothing more than what looked like a pile of rocks.
“Is this a cairn?” Caleb asked.
Fletcher shook his head. “It is not supposed to be, no.”
There was no rhyme or reason to the assemblage of stones up there. Only one explanation made sense. Whatever had been up here had been destroyed.
“Where’s the gravestone?” I asked. “Or the grave, for that matter.”
“Well, this is a bit problematic,” Caleb said, letting his bundle of sage fall to the ground and kicking over one of the stones.
The letters ORMA were carved distinctly into one of the broken pieces at his feet.
“Here be the last resting place of Robert Patrick Dorman,” I said. “Guess there’s nothing left but to see if the ancient psychotic is still resting here.”
I gathered myself closer to the pile of debris as I slid off my backpack and switched my sage for my family’s stone spell book. Pressing my palm to it, I whispered the word of opening and the rock transformed to its natural book state of leather and paper. My will snapped to that of the stones scattered before me, and I pulled at them with my will in large groups, forcing them up and away from what remained of the grave site.
When the dust settled after the initial dig, Fletcher plunged his arms into what little dirt was left in the hole. Using the preternatural strength he had exhibited earlier, the forest spirit hefted out the coffin beneath. When the dirt fell away from it, all that was left was the twisted remains of what looked like a metal coffin.
I knocked my knuckles against it as I moved closer to confirm it.
“Iron,” Caleb said. “To ward off certain types of supernatural creatures.”
“But clearly not gargoyles,” I said, running my hand along the clawed-up iron of the lid. I held my phone’s flashlight up to the opening. “Empty. That takes care of one of the things we came here to check on. We can confirm that the Butcher’s body is indeed missing. That’s going to make it harder to track his gargoyle form down.”
“No bones about it,” Caleb said with a smirk.
I stared daggers at him, so not in the mood for levity right then.
“And correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, unable to hide my testiness, “but according to what Fletcher said, won’t we need the Butcher’s body if we’re going to stop him?”
Caleb’s joviality died on his lips. “We do,” he said as the realization sunk in. “No body, no ritual. We can’t smudge his bones if we can’t find them.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and take a guess that maybe the Butcher came here and reclaimed his own body so that no one could do what we were about to do,” I said. “What do you think, Fletch?”
My question was met with silence.
“Fletch?” I repeated, turning around. The man was nowhere to be seen.
“He’s like Batman, I swear,” Caleb said, starting down the hill. “Come on. He’s got to be around here somewhere.”
Having learned a lot from watching Scooby-Doo, I decided it was best that the two of us stick together while wandering a cemetery. Working ourselves away from the Butcher’s tomb at the center of it, we circled out and around, calling Fletcher’s name as we went until we got an answer.
“Over here, man,” his voice shouted out from somewhere far off to our left. “I think.”
Caleb and I scrambled up over the next hill, and then the next one, in pursuit of it.
“Over where?” I said, hoping to course-correct ourselves as we went.
“What did you say the family’s name was again?” Fletch called out from just over the next hill, a little more to our right than I had thought.
“O’Shea,” I said.
“Then I found it!”
“That was quick,” I said, heading up and over the hill with Caleb behind me.
“It’s kind of hard to miss,” Fletcher said, and when I saw what he had found, it was most definitely true.
One entire hill among all the rest of them had been removed in its entirety. In its place was a massive domed structure, the designs and carvings all along it of a Gothic yet Celtic nature. It had to be at least the size of the Church at Saint Mark’s Place. Over its entrance the word O’SHEA was carved in two-feet-tall letters. The entrance itself was an elaborately carved archway that stood at least twenty feet across. Bits of the archway were crumbling, but not from signs of age or wear. Two massive gold-leafed doors lay crumbled mere feet away from it, the hardware that had been holding them in place still attached to pieces of crumbling rock.
“You really need to hire a groundskeeper for this place,” I said.
Fletcher shook his head. “No, man, this graveyard wasn’t like this the other day.”
“All this damage is new?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Let’s just hope no one is still inside,” I said, starting toward it. “And, against my better judgment, let’s check it out. It’s quiet, so there should be no surprises, right . . . ?”
Caleb paused at the entrance. “Until someone jumps out of a coffin at us,” he said, and turned to look out the archway where Fletcher was still standing. “You coming?”
“No, man,” he said. “I like it out here better. Buildings and enclosed spaces give me the creeps. I only promised you I’d take you to the cemetery. I’ve done that.”
“Fine,” I said, “but if you hear a bloodcurdling scream out of me, you’d better be prepared to get your ass in here.”
“If you hear a bloodcurdling scream out of me, too,” Caleb said. “And remember, you’ve known me longer. You keep that in mind when you think about who to rescue first.”
I tugged at Caleb’s arm and the two of us headed into the depths of the mausoleum together. “Nice,” I said. “Ass.”
“Hey, I’m just worried about preserving myself for you,” he said.
I rolled my eyes and hunkered down to the floor. The dust of ages lay on the stonework everywhere, which made it easy to see that it had recently been disturbed by footprints and claw marks. “There’s been more than one gargoyle here.”
“You’re sure?” Caleb asked, scanning the shadows.
“Positive,” I said. “For instance, I know Stanis’s tracks by heart. The width of his foot imprint, where the claw marks fall from the way he was carved. All the prints here are varied. There’s some claw marks, paw prints, more human-looking ones.”
When I stood back up, Caleb’s hands were full of vials, his thumb and forefinger on each hand ready to uncap them at a moment’s notice.
We continued on, and as my eyes adjusted to the interior darkness, I could see we were alone, if you didn’t count the stench of rot and decay that grew the deeper in we went. All around the edges of the space, large stone sarcophagi lay, looking much like the ones from my family crypt in the Belarus building on Gramercy. Unlike the ones in my family’s tomb, however, all of these had been opened. Heavy stone lids lay off-kilter on some, others broken in pieces on the floor or lying against the wall of the chamber. Bodies in various states of decay protruded from several of them.
I could no longer contain myself and allowed another shudder. Cemeteries were creepy enough on their own, just the idea that the dead were buried there out of sight, but to actually see the sad mortal remains of these bodies . . . It made the idea of being immortal like a grotesque all the more intriguing to me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, steeling myself. “You know what we have to do.”
“Look for the Cagliostro Medallion,” he said, his face full of concern. “If you’re freaking, though, my offer still stands . . . I can go it alone.”
“No,” I said, almost snapping. Caleb might be far more seasoned in this world, but I had no intention of le
aving him to do this by himself. “I was the one who made the deal with Warren. It’s my responsibility. I won’t shirk it, no matter how unpleasant.”
Caleb nodded without further comment and the two of us moved from sarcophagus to sarcophagus, searching their contents, respectfully laying the dead back in their last resting places as we went. Although I hadn’t caused any of this damage, I still felt like we were grave robbers. A place like this was private, not meant to be looked upon except by the O’Sheas, and this kind of intimacy with the dead made me uneasy at best.
There were rings and jewelry on all the dead—the O’Sheas buried in one kind of ceremonial robe or another—and some of them had been hastily thrown to the floor of the mausoleum by the previous visitors. Caleb went about the business of collecting broken, bony fingers and their rings from all over the floor, for which I was thankful. Still, despite our thorough search, nothing that looked even remotely close to what Warren had described to us as the Cagliostro Medallion was present.
“Well, that appears to be everything,” I said when we had been through the entire place.
“No luck, then,” Caleb said. “Still, who knows what some of the stuff on these people does . . . Imagine . . .”
“Stop yourself right there,” I said, snapping. “Don’t even think it.”
“Wait, what?” Caleb said, his face going red, noticeable even in this darkness. “Lexi! I wouldn’t . . . How can you even—”
“I saw the glimmer in your eye just now when you were talking!”
“Hey,” he said, sounding genuinely offended. “I may be an opportunist, but I’m not a ghoul.”
“You sure about that?” I asked, unable to hide the venom in my question.
“Excuse me?!” he fired back, offense filling his face, which only fueled my agitation with him.
Exhaustion and frustration with a lack of results tonight had let the words just slip out, and once the dam was broken, there was no stopping it.
“Were you simply being an opportunist when you manipulated Stanis?”
“What are you talking about, Alexandra?” he asked. Already I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes as he fought to no doubt figure out which particular thing I might be calling him out on.
“When you ran your biggest con against him,” I said. “To win me, like I’m a prize to be had. Telling him he should back off, that there was no future with me for a man of stone, that I should stick to my own kind if I wanted to be happy.”
I expected him to be ashamed or at least surprised, but instead his brow furrowed and he glared at me.
“And I stand by what I said,” he shouted just as angrily right back in my face. “What kind of life would you have had with him? Tell me. Skulking around at night, scratching your face up on his stone skin trying to make out with him? And long after you and I are gone, he’ll still be here unchanged. In the long expanse of his time, you would be a blip on his radar. Nothing more. I did it for you.”
“No,” I corrected. “You did it for you. Just like you’ve always done. Conning your way through your entire life.”
“He can’t make you happy,” he said. “I can.”
“Well, I’ll never know now, will I?” I spat out. “You made sure of that.”
Caleb looked confused. “How?”
“You always pride yourself on your ability as an arcane freelancer,” I said, “talking your way into this deal or that deal to make the highest dollar. You’re such a natural at making a case for something that benefits you that Stanis fell for what you told him. Maybe being just a blip on the radar of his long life would have been enough. Your con was so convincing he’s committed himself to his cause, to his people. Thanks to you, I never stood a chance of being on his radar. You manipulated the whole situation.” My anger flew from my lips with every word, and my breath caught in my throat as the truth of what was really bothering me hit me. “You manipulated me.”
“Lexi,” he started. “Come on . . .”
I held up a hand to silence him. “Can we just get out of here?”
Caleb knew better than to speak. He nodded and without another word led the way back out of the mausoleum with a heavy, angry gait. Once outside, the graveyard felt almost homey in comparison to the super creepy interior and emotional whirlwind I had stirred up in the O’Shea family plot.
Fletcher, however, was nowhere to be seen, and the two of us stood in awkward silence for a long moment.
“I guess we’re supposed to show ourselves out,” Caleb said finally, but there was still bitterness in his words. “Presuming another tree monster doesn’t get all hungry up on us.”
Free of the mausoleum, I snapped. I craned my head up to the sky and gave a feral-sounding cry.
“Why can’t this for once just be easy?” I shouted to the heavens. “This gargoyle situation, my situation with you.”
Caleb shrugged. “What part of alchemy, arcana, witches, and warlocks made you think any part of this life would be a cakewalk?”
“A girl can dream,” I said. “Or in this case, a girl can nightmare.” I looked at him until he met my eyes, and I did not turn away. As the weight of everything hit me at once, I couldn’t help but laugh as I fought back tears. “We’re good and tangled in all of this now, aren’t we? We live through this whole thing, I’m seriously going to reevaluate if we’re even friends then.”
I turned to walk away.
“Lexi—” he said, stopping me, but when he couldn’t follow it with anything, I simply walked off.
Caleb wasn’t dumb. He knew there was nothing he could say or do right now that I could trust.
I picked my way past the crumpled doors of the mausoleum that lay nearby and headed off in what I thought—what I hoped—was the right direction out of the cemetery.
“For the sake of everyone’s involvement and well-being, let’s just keep this business right now,” I called back to him, calming myself in an attempt to regain some semblance of composure. “Let’s hope Warren has secured us our meeting with the Convocation. Outside of getting them off my back, maybe they can help with our gargoyle problem and recovering the medallion.” I stopped and turned back to him. “And make no mistake about it: You’re going to help me get it and then you’re going to give it to Stanis. I don’t think that’s asking too much, do you? It’s the least you can do.”
Caleb remained silent as I walked off, but he had been right earlier.
I should have known involving myself in the affairs of witches and warlocks—and especially freelancing alchemists—was something that would not prove easy.
Eighteen
Stanis
I knew the concrete canyons of Hell’s Kitchen as well as any of my Manhattan neighborhoods. Nonetheless when Emily called out, “Heads-up,” I looked up only to catch Detective Rowland’s building coming up fast in front of me. I spread my wings to the extent of their span to slow myself, but I had simply picked up too much speed in my distracted state. I arched my back as far as I could, twisting my body as I banked upward just enough that I felt the bricks of the building’s side scrape against my chest.
My momentum slowed the higher I rose until I set myself into a hover once I had cleared the building. Moments later Emily joined me, the effort of her wings bringing her into a hover of her own that had become much improved as of late.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I did not realize we were already here.”
“You’re distracted,” she said, with understanding kindness in her words. “It’s understandable.”
“Is it?”
She nodded. “Of course,” she said. “You have everyone at Sanctuary to think about, not just me. Your mind must not get a second of rest or much of a thought all your own.”
She was right, of course. There were all those things in my mind, as well as thoughts about finding the Butcher, keeping my people safe . . . and
of course, Alexandra.
There was less and less time to help out my maker’s kin track down the warlock Warren O’Shea’s leads, but Alexandra was not something I felt comfortable discussing with Emily. My gargoyle companion had enough worries of her own to contend with without having to contend with my feelings for the last of the Spellmasons.
I reached out to Emily, taking her clawed hands in mine.
“Hopefully tonight shall give you the answers you seek,” I said.
“I hope so,” she said, her expression worried. Despite her serpentine features being hard to read, I had still been able to learn all the subtleties of her face over the past few months and it pained me to see her unhappy.
“You know who you are, why you are here,” she continued. “I do not.”
I gave a dark smile to her. “Patience,” I said. “Do not forget . . . I spent several centuries not knowing, not even considering what or who I had been. My having ever been a part of humanity did not seem possible.”
“You’re right,” she said with a smile of her own. “I know it. But knowing something and suppressing the emotions about it are two different things.”
“Come,” I said, holding my wings open in place.
The two of us descended down along the side of the building below, our wings spread wide to slow our fall until the windows of Detective Chloe Rowland’s apartment were in front of us. I latched onto the brick of the building with my claws, and moved along the row of glass panes until I spotted the detective.
Her long red hair was down, and the clothes she wore were far more casual this time. Rowland sat on her couch in an oversized T-shirt and what Aurora called sweatpants. The detective’s striped sock feet sat upon a low table that was covered with paperback books. A book with two humans in an embrace lay on her chest, her face awash in the glow of her television set, her eyes half-shut.
I tapped on the glass of the window but despite my quiet, gentle approach, the human jumped from the couch, knocking over the stack of books, and had her gun out of the waistband of her clothes faster than I would have imagined. When she saw it was Emily and me, the gun remained out but she lowered it as she approached the window, sliding it open.