Gargoyles I, II, III: Dark Angel Alliance

by Rach Elle

  The gray clouds shifted again, allowing the sun to shine further and another ray of light to slice through the large room. It broke Awilda’s focus and drew her eyes to the beam that now shone parallel to the floor. The dread that seemed so heavy on her shoulders only a second ago suddenly lifted and she exhaled a soft breath. Her head whipped back to the entrance and she shined her flashlight underneath the threshold again but the shadow was gone. Her fear had inexplicably resided and she shook her head as if trying to shake the memory of the figure from her mind.

  Awilda turned to the beam of light that had saved her from the nightmarish paranoia she’d almost spiraled into and followed the visible line of dust particles to a door that sat twelve feet above the ground behind her. A large, wide fabric staircase led the way to the enormous arched double doors. They obviously led outside as the sun sparkled through the cracks. Awilda turned off her flashlight and set it down on the floor. She headed to the stairs and began her ascent. The slim, gold banister lined her path as she finally reached the top landing. It expanded to both the left and the right, creating small balconies that overlooked the storage room. From this height she felt like she was reigning over an expanse that in its glory days held a level of importance in the castle. With a heavy breath she turned and pushed open the double wooden doors. They only opened slightly, barely enough for her to squeeze through. Directly on the other side was a wall of overgrown greenery. She was at ground level, meaning the storage room was half submersed in the ground; much like the stained glass devil.

  Awilda’s eyes narrowed as she noticed among the neglected landscape a single white rose. Her mind instantly played images of her grandmother in her garden; pruning her favorite flowers – white roses. There was no clear path to this flower that sat embedded in the overgrown brush, but Awilda didn’t care. She suddenly felt a pull to it and began creating her own trail. She pushed branches and shrubbery aside as she maneuvered fully into the green; feeling the constant scraping and stinging of thorns against her skin. She hissed in pain as she continued, shielding her eyes from the onslaught of twigs and debris. Finally she stopped and looked around her. Where was the rose? She couldn’t see the clearing from which she came, nor any sight of a clearing up ahead. Was she even moving forward? For all she knew she was moving parallel with the overgrowth. The branches and shrubs she had pushed aside to get here had all reclaimed their positions, as if never disturbed in the first place. She couldn’t retrace her steps.

  Awilda began to panic, her breathing becoming more and more rapid. She could feel the world closing in on her, engulfing her and absorbing her air. She was about to try to scream for help when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Awilda,” Junior called. Her head whipped to the right. She opened her mouth to answer but her throat was too dry from inhaling dust and pollen. “Awilda, are you out here?” Junior called again.

  “Damn it Junior,” she could hear Kingsley curse, “I ask one favor; watch over the girl.”

  “She’s here King,” Junior cut him off, “I can smell her.”

  “Even with all these damn flowers?” They had to be in the rose garden.

  Awilda kept moving. “Yep,” Junior continued. “Her scent is unmistakable.” His voice sounded closer; she was almost free! “Morning dew, sugar cubes,” closer, “and just a hint of…” he paused. She could almost hear the smile play across his lips, “peaches.” Two large, tattooed arms jetted through the greenery and latched onto Awilda’s shoulders, yanking her forward into the clearing and into Junior’s large body. He stared down at her with an arrogant smirk on his face. “Tag; you’re it.”

  “Goddamn it Awilda,” Kingsley appeared by his side. “What were you doing in there?” Junior let go of her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around her torso and shrugged. She didn’t want to tell him what she found; she had a feeling he wouldn’t care anyway. “Did you really think you could hide from us?” He asked, agitated. She shrugged again.

  “Are you hurt?” Junior asked, gently lifting her arm to reveal the scratches that covered her skin. Awilda looked down at her arms and legs, expecting to see trails of blood but only saw white flesh. “No,” she cleared her throat and shook her head, “just lightly scraped, I guess.”

  37

  Portland, Oregon…

  It was mid morning and the day was in full swing; bustling with activity. The clouds filled the sky and not a single ray of sun shined on the ground; but that was the norm in the Pacific Northwest. James hadn’t missed it a single bit. He sat in a parked rental car in the lot of a Wal-Mart; watching as families, young couples, old couples, and rushed singles entered and exited. His head was heavy and filled with sorrow and regret. He didn’t know if he should cry or pull someone aside and kick the living shit out of them; instead he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

  The last twelve hours had been a whirlwind. His past had finally caught up with him. He was reminded of his daughter, Awilda, and that tramp he had knocked up. He could barely remember the party he attended where he met her. Her name was Christy. He couldn’t remember if he was drunk or high; probably both. Either way, their one night stand turned into nine more months of hell. She was crazy; but then again so was he, he supposed. Drugs and alcohol could make the sanest of people completely lose their minds; and they were into all kinds of stupid shit. He wouldn’t have even given a damn if it hadn’t been for Christy’s father; who threatened to cry rape if he didn’t marry her. Oh yeah, that was one detail he managed to forget all these years; Christy was only seventeen. But who gives a shit about age when you’re out of your fucking mind?

  He could remember Awilda’s birth; it was a bitter sweet day. Awilda was perfectly healthy despite the, well, influence the mother digested on a regular basis; but Christy was not so lucky. He closed his eyes and pictured holding Awilda for only a brief second before the nurse snatched the baby from him as three others ran into the room to tend to the mother seizing on the hospital bed. His eyes were wide with horror as her body convulsed uncontrollably. Amidst the chaos of her wildly bucking body he watched in terror as her head calmly and slowly turned to him; her eyes locking on his as if he was the only other person in the room. She looked maniacal and scared all at the same time. She spoke to him in words barely louder than a whisper.

  James squeezed his eyes shut as his head continued to rest on the steering wheel. He didn’t want to remember this day, but he couldn’t stop the memories from flooding his brain. Christy’s last words seemed to scream at him; “Every five-hundredth year; the prophecy is born.” She repeated those words over and over until finally she took her last breath and collapsed lifelessly on the bed.

  The doctors had explained to him that she had had a brain aneurism.

  “Did you hear what she said?” He asked. The two men in lab coats standing before him looked confused and shook their heads. “What did she say?” The one with the blonde hair and perfect teeth asked.

  “I… I don’t know,” James stuttered, “it didn’t make any sense.”

  The blonde doctor nodded, “Many times during seizures patients will say nonsensical things. Their loved ones would like to think that they were in control of their last words, but unfortunately that’s just not the case.” He put his hand on James’ shoulder and began leading him down the hall and away from the medical doctor. “You should go home and try to relax. I know this is difficult; but you have a beautiful baby girl that needs you to get through this.” He pulled out a card from his pocket and handed it to James. “I’m a grief counselor; if you need anything, here’s my card.”

  James read the little piece of paper, “Dr. Simon Crispin PhD”.

  James was vaguely aware of the tears that were welling in his eyes as he sat in the back of the parking lot. He pictured the day he brought Awilda home from the hospital. She had yet to be named. It was his mother that named her; after his great grandmother. He hated the name but didn’t care enough about his own child to put any real thought
into it. He didn’t want to be a parent; let alone a single one. He resented that little girl for everything that wasn’t even her fault.

  He could remember the house he and Awilda lived in; it was his parent’s house. It was small, understated; but very homey. His mother loved to cook lavish meals every night and her green thumb ruled the household. Plants were everywhere. His father worked two jobs to keep the house afloat; and to earn enough money to send his only son to rehab four times over the next eight years. His parents were saints and he was too stupid to recognize any of it.

  Christy’s last words never stopped haunting him. They would wake him in the middle of the night as if she were reciting them next to him in bed. He would hear the chilling whispers everywhere he went and began to feel a sense of paranoia creeping up his spine. He would experience unexplainable events; a shadow moving out of the corner of his eye; a door slamming shut when there was no breeze; of course no one believed him when he talked about it. They assumed it was the drugs playing with his mind. He couldn’t really blame them; hell, he wasn’t sure that wasn’t the case. Still, he couldn’t get an idea out of his head; Christy may not have been in control of her last words; but what if something else was? The thought scared the shit out of him, but he just couldn’t let it go. He began researching prophecies. The prophecy is born. Much to his dismay there were a lot of prophecies out there, but he was willing to scour each and every one of them to find what he was looking for. He had very little to go off of; except that his prophecy happened every five hundred years; every five-hundredth year; the prophecy is born.

  Years later James finally stumbled upon what he was looking for; Arav Dave’s prophecy in The Ultimate War. He read all about David the First and the war between Heaven and Hell. He read the myths of Limrids and stories of Romanus and Horace; descendants of the blessed bloodline. But what did all this have to do with him? For a very brief moment he entertained the idea that he was of the blessed bloodline; but it wasn’t long before a paralyzing thought played in his mind.

  He could remember the moment he had the realization. He dropped the book he was reading and ran to his bedroom. He opened his closet and began rifling through all his belongings. He flung clothes and shoes and random knickknacks he’d had stored in there for years over his shoulders; trying to reach the depths of his closet. Finally he reached an old shoebox. It sat crunched in the back corner and hadn’t been opened in years. He grabbed it and removed the lid. Inside sat a stack of papers he’d never cared to think about; marriage license, his first rehab certificate, and finally – Awilda’s birth certificate. He knew she was born on June sixth but hadn’t ever considered what time; early morning, he remembered that. He held up the piece of paper and read to himself; three AM. James nearly flung the piece of paper across the room in fear and shock; three AM; the witching hour.

  He could remember a six year old Wills running into his room at that very moment. Her hands were clean but her mouth was covered in chocolate. She laughed uncontrollably as she stood in his doorway. Shortly after, his mother appeared with a washcloth, “Got you!” She said joyfully as she wiped Wills’ face clean. Wills laughed some more then ran back down the hall, his mother following suit.

  James didn’t want to believe it. How could something as innocent as that little girl be so evil?

  James opened his eyes in the parking lot and leaned back in his car seat; tears now streaming down his face. He remembered trying to tell his father years later. The reaction was more than expected. He had prepared himself for a brush off; maybe laughter or just overall disappointment. Never had he expected anger; but James’ father was a holy man, and like hell he was going to allow his granddaughter to be accused of satanic agendas. He kicked James out of the house and told him not to return until he had his head on straight.

  He didn’t return until after he got a call from his mother. He didn’t know the specifications of his father’s death; but he knew it was untimely. He sat in the back of the church at his funeral, unable to see his immediate family sitting in the front pew. He left before it was over and drove to his parent’s house and let himself in.

  The house was not as he had remembered it. The moment he stepped through the door there was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The place looked dark and almost decrepit; like it had been neglected for years. He entered his parents’ bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, recalling memories from his childhood. His dad was gone. There was no doubt in his mind that he had failed him as a son; now he would never be able to make amends. James was about to leave the bedroom when he noticed a piece of paper barely hanging out of a dresser drawer. He got up and opened it to reveal a massive collection of pictures strewn about haphazardly. He sifted through them until catching an image he had spent so many years poring over; Arav Dave’s painting of Romanus defeating La Gargoule in Paris. He sifted some more and found a handwritten timeline. He could tell by the curvature of the “s” and the angle of the “I” that it was his father’s handwriting. The timeline began with David the First written and underlined at the top of the page. James’ eyes widened in horror; his father believed him. Christy’s words began playing in his mind again and the image of her dead eyes as she recited them was all he could see. He stumbled backwards, catching himself on the foot of the bed, before running to the front door. He escaped the house and headed for a new life somewhere; anywhere; before he had a chance to see his daughter again. Because of her his father was dead.

  A sudden wrapping on his car window startled James and made him jolt forward in his seat. He looked over to see a familiar face just before she opened the passenger door and climbed inside.

  “How the hell did you find me?” James asked.

  Regina reached over and snatched his wallet from his pant pocket. She opened it up and dumped it out on her lap. Cash, club cards, and receipts fell; but she pushed all that aside with her delicate fingers and retrieved a small, round tracer with a Triton logo on it. “I tracked you.” She smiled. “I wanted to apologize for the way I reacted the other night in your condo.”

  “So you bugged me and followed me all the way to Portland?” Crazy bitch.

  “No, I tried calling you for that; but you wouldn’t answer. I followed you because what ever it is you’re mixed up with; I want in.”

  “You have no idea what I’m mixed up in.” James pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off an oncoming headache.

  “There were gargoyles on your balcony.”

  James looked to her in shock. “How do you know what they were?”

  “I’m sort of an expert,” she smiled.

  “Don’t tell me you’re the Van Helsing of gargoyle hunting.”

  Regina laughed, “No, not at all; I’m actually a scientist by trade. Well, I was; but I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of these super beings and the biological differences between them and humans. I had just never seen one in person before; until the other night, at least.”

  James thought for a moment; was this chick for real? “Well, I’m sorry,” he sighed, “but I’m not on a quest to find gargoyles. I’m actually trying to find my daughter.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “Sort of; I haven’t seen her in over a decade; but if I don’t find her now then she could be in some serious trouble; that’s why I came out here.”

  “I’m guessing you haven’t found her yet.”

  James shook his head. “No, but I did find out that my mother is dead; so, you know, great start.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Regina cooed.

  James shrugged. “I haven’t seen her in over a decade either. The thing is; she was the only person who would know where Awilda is.”

  Regina leaned back in her seat. “How can I help?”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  “Well we won’t find out until you give me a little more information. Maybe there’s something you’re missing; sometimes it takes a third party to see it.”

  James sighe
d heavily before reaching into the glove compartment. He pulled out the tabloid he had picked up at the airport early that morning. He dropped it on Regina’s lap and watched as her nose crinkled at the sight of the troubled girl on the cover. “That’s my daughter.” He said flatly.

  Regina tried to regain her composure as quickly as she could. “Oh, well, what an interesting title; I’m the Gargoyle Queen; gripping.” She tried to chuckle. When it was clear James was failing to find the humor she asked, “Have you tried locating the person who wrote the article?” She turned to the page it was on and read the writer’s name. “Daniel Quinn?”

  “Yep,” James slowly nodded his head. “Just came from his parent’s house; he off’d himself last week.”

  “Oh,” Regina scanned the article, “is she no longer at the hospital?”

  “Nope; the receptionist said she left in the middle of the night a few days ago and no one’s heard from her.”

  “They must know where she went.”

  “Well if they do they’re not telling me.”

  “Do they know you’re her father?”

  James thought for a moment, trying to recall whether or not he let that little piece of information slip. “No, I don’t think so; but Awilda isn’t a minor anymore. I doubt they’re obligated to tell me where she went.”