Gargoyles I, II, III: Dark Angel Alliance

by Rach Elle

Mr. Benjamin turned to the old man.

  “How much?”

  Mr. Benjamin shook his head and smiled, “My apologies Mr. Diedre; but Arav is not for sale.”

  “Money is no object,” Mr. Diedre reached into his breast pocket.

  “That’s because this piece is priceless; my most valuable possession. As I said; not for sale.”

  “Oh come now,” Mr. Diedre huffed, “I’m prepared to pay in cash; tonight.”

  Mr. Benjamin laughed, “Save that enthusiasm Mr. Diedre! There are dozens of works here in this very room. In fact, not four meters to your right sits an extraordinary set of jewels that I’m sure would look stunning on Mrs. Diedre.”

  Mrs. Diedre peered around her husband’s shoulder at Mr. Benjamin and smiled playfully, “I like the sound of that,” she mused.

  A member of the security team made his way through the crowd of mingling socialites and reached the back of the room. His face didn’t show any expression as he leaned in and whispered into Mr. Benjamin’s ear, “Your guest has arrived.”

  Mr. Benjamin’s face fell only slightly before he picked it back up again. “Please excuse me Mr. and Mrs. Diedre. I’m afraid I have a matter to attend to.”

  Mr. Benjamin followed his security guard out of the room and the two of them climbed up the stairs. Once on the second story and around the corner into the main corridor the sounds of chatting, laughing and the clinking of silverware and champagne glasses evaporated. Mr. Benjamin stopped his long strides in front of his study. He nodded once to his security guard, prompting him to take a bouncer-like stance against the wall, and pushed through the large white doors.

  Mr. Benjamin shut the doors behind him and exhaled audibly at the guest standing on the other side of the room. The figure was tall and muscular; shirtless and dark skinned. He stood with his wings wrapped around his shoulders and his tail draped to the floor. He turned to face Mr. Benjamin and smiled, revealing his fanged teeth.

  “Hasmukh,” BeStone began, “It’s been a long time.”

  Mr. Benjamin sneered, “Not long enough, I assure you.”

  “We should be in there,” Viattrice mumbled as she stood under a tree a mile away from Hasmukh’s mansion. “If he’s as dangerous as you say…”

  “BeStone will be fine,” Parag said without any emotion.

  “Why are we not even allowed to go near the place?” Viattrice continued, ignoring the tall Indian gargoyle. “I should be there.”

  “BeStone survived a century before you, I’m sure he can manage a half hour.”

  Viattrice put her hands on her hips, “I’m sorry,” she said sarcastically, “Maybe I should just leave this little clan for good. Would you like that?”

  Parag’s eyes lowered to meet hers. Without changing his expression he answered, “No.”

  Parag watched Viattrice relax her shoulders. She had a broad frame and short, curly dark hair that almost concealed her pointed ears entirely. He smiled to himself; he liked the way the pointed tips poked through the sea of curls just slightly. She had long legs, pale skin, and a harsh English accent. She carried a brown pack slung across her body in the event of foraging and she always had a blade tucked into the waistband of her tight, black pants. They were torn at the knee and shredded at the ankles, making way for her large, dinosaur-like feet.

  “I’m sure he’s alright, V,” Amelie cooed.

  Amelie stood in her favorite red dress. A black belt cinched the fabric across her waist and the lower half had three slits; two that liked to play peek-a-boo with her thighs and a third to accommodate her tail. Her hair was dark, long and straight and her skin looked porcelain from a distance; too fragile to touch.

  “BeStone isn’t daft,” Amelie’s soft English accent danced delicately in the air. “If he needed backup he would have asked for it.”

  Viattrice didn’t appear to be any less worried by her friend’s words. She turned back to Parag, “Who is this bloke anyway?”

  Parag eyed the beautiful woman in front of him, “His name is Hasmukh. BeStone and I met him centuries ago.”

  “He’s a shifter?”

  “No.”

  “So he’s a Limrid then?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Viattrice let out an aggravated sigh, “Then what the hell is he?”

  “When we met him he was only a man but with a Limrid at his side.”

  “He claimed one?”

  Parag nodded, “The Limrid’s name was Kyran. One day Kyran and Hasmukh got in our way; we had no choice but to fight back.”

  “What do you mean by, got in our way?”

  Parag met Viattrice’s eyes, “They tried to kill a friend of ours. It was truly a battle; a lot of blood loss, but in the end we prevailed. BeStone killed Hasmukh. And by the definition of Limrids, their master is the source of their power so…”

  “Two birds with one stone sort of thing,” Viattrice mused.

  “Precisely, only we didn’t count on one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As Hasmukh lay dying, Kyran made the ultimate sacrifice; he gave his powers to his master.”

  “I didn’t know they could do that,” Amelie chimed in.

  Parag nodded, “It’s the one thing you can’t order a Limrid to do. They have to be the ones to sacrifice themselves.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Hasmukh was so near death that Kyran had to give him all of his powers, thus killing himself. Hasmukh now walks the earth as half man – half Limrid; with one very large added asset...

  “Over the centuries he has become proficient in black magic; witchcraft.” When neither of the girls responded, Parag continued, “Limrids can manipulate tangible objects. They can make things disappear, alter appearances, and only when really agitated they can produce electricity; harness lightning, that sort of thing. But Hasmukh can do much more. He can create anything out of nothing. Fortunately he doesn’t have free reign over his powers. That kind of magic has to be conjured with spells and altars; but it’s still very dangerous. He is not someone you want to piss off.”

  “Then we should at least be nearby; not camped out under a tree some kilometers away.” Viattrice insisted.

  Parag shook his head slowly, “Hasmukh mustn’t know you exist.”

  “Why?”

  Parag pinned Viattrice with his large, dark eyes, “Because then he’ll kill you.”

  BeStone sat down in a large, cream leather chair and watched as Hasmukh poured them both a glass of Scotch. He handed one glass to the gargoyle and took his own seat opposite BeStone.

  “Stone,” Hasmukh began, “this really isn’t a good time. As you can probably tell I’m a little busy tonight.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Hasmukh swirled the scotch in his glass, “Go on then.”

  BeStone smiled, revealing the white of his teeth and let out a small laugh before leaning back in his chair.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “You,” BeStone began in his violent, Egyptian accent, “look at you Hasmukh; or should I say, Mr. Benjamin? Look how far you’ve come. I remember a time when you dwelled in holes and carved crude weapons to hunt your prey. Now you’re waited upon hand and foot and tell people you’re an art collector.”

  “I am an art collector.”

  “And what has happened to your Indian accent? Are you English now? Have you forgotten where you’ve come from?”

  Hasmukh gritted his teeth, “Mari nakhish.”

  BeStone crooked a brow, “I’m sorry, my Gujarati is a little rusty.”

  “Get to the point Stone, I have guests to attend.”

  “I need a favor.”

  Now it was Hasmukh’s turn to laugh, “You’re actually coming to me for a favor?”

  BeStone nodded, “I need you to locate someone for me. They’re in London; shouldn’t be too hard given your, um, skill set.”

  “And why would I help you? It was you, after all, who killed the love of my life.”

 
; BeStone rolled his eyes, “This again? When are you going to get over that? It was centuries ago.”

  “He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Firstly, Kyran was a foul creature; and yes he did.” He heard a deep growl vibrating in Hasmukh’s throat. “And secondly,” he continued, “I didn’t kill him. I killed you, remember?”

  “Oh I remember,” Hasmukh snarled. “And since we’re reminiscing on old times; how is Parag?”

  BeStone’s body wanted to stiffen. It wanted to tense at the mention of that name, but he forced it to remain perfectly still. Instead he sat in his large leather chair, palming a glass of Scotch and holding his stoic expression; careful not to give off any tells. His heart beat heavily in his chest, “Parag is dead.”

  Hasmukh narrowed his eyes, reading the gargoyle before him. After a moment of silence he placed his glass on the small granite table next to him, “That’s a shame.” He crossed his right knee over his left and folded his hands in his lap. “You know,” he began, calm yet severe, “I should kill you now, once and for all.”

  “But you won’t.”

  The Indian art collector crooked his brow, “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because revenge is a lie; you know that after it is done you won’t feel whole and vindicated; you’ll feel emptier than before because now you won’t have anything to strive for. As long as I’m alive you can fantasize about my demise and wish for unspeakable things to land on my doorstep. I give you something to look forward to. Face it Hasmukh,” BeStone grinned, “I’m the reason you smile every day.”

  Hasmukh leaned back in his leather chair and chuckled, “If I help you; what’s in it for me?”

  BeStone’s lips curled upward, “Let’s call it a mutual interest.”

  14

  London, England…

  Sunders sat at his desk, trying to will his eyes to stay open. He’d had a full night’s sleep, but as usual his hangover plagued his body. His limbs were heavy and his head was clogged. He wanted to waste the day with his head resting on his desk, but he knew he couldn’t. The Protectors were watching him intently; every now and again poking their heads into his office just to make sure he was still working on their investigation. He scowled quietly, he hated those bastards.

  The idea crossed his mind again; he wanted to bring Bill Maines into the loop. He knew Bill; he knew what he stood for and what his intentions were. If he could just get one of the gargoyles to agree to meet with Bill, there was a very good chance that all of this would go away. Everyone could resume their normal lives. Hell, Bill would probably feel fulfilled in having actually discovered a true gargoyle that he’d finally retire.

  But of course, the idea was shot down almost instantly. Still, the thought continued to nag him.

  Sunders stood, forcing his stiff knees to loosen and straighten. He slowly made his way to his office door and exited.

  Once in the hall he was smacked every which way with noise, clutter, and overpopulation. Six more Protectors had arrived from various parts of Europe as well as Asia. They were loud, obnoxious and downright messy. As he walked down the corridor he could see fast food wrappers crumpled and thrown haphazardly on the red carpet beneath his feet. All the Finders were on edge, being bossed around by a bunch of wallapers who hadn’t the slightest clue what they were talking about.

  Sunders rounded the corner and passed the receptionist’s desk. He managed a half smile in Madge’s direction as he continued on his path. As he neared the break room the noise dissipated almost entirely. It was a nice reprieve for his headache. He entered the break room to see he still wasn’t alone.

  Rue sat at the round table in the corner with a cuppa nearby. She stared downward at the classifieds unfolded in front of her. Sunders smiled to his self. Rue had definitely changed since she admitted she’d been putting on a front when she first arrived at the Finders. Gone were the days of pencil skirts, blouses that could barely contain her breasts, and six-inch heels. Today she wore a pair of dark, skinny jeans tucked into her combat boots and a t-shirt with the Batman logo on it. Her hair was in a standard ponytail and her makeup was light and nearly non-existent. He almost preferred it that way though. She was a natural beauty. The pounds of makeup she used to wear did more to hide the gentle curvatures of her cheekbones and eyebrows than accentuate them.

  As if sensing she was being studied, Rue lifted her head and smiled at her audience. “Hi Mr. Harper; I was just finishing up my break.” She began to fold the classifieds back up.

  “Nah, nah; stay where you are,” Sunders grabbed the coffee pot and proceeded to fill his mug. He pulled out a chair and sat at the little round table. “It’s nice to be around someone who doesn’t make me want to pull my hair out.”

  Rue chuckled, the slight lilt of her voice dancing in the air, “The Protectors are driving you crazy, huh?”

  Sunders widened his eyes in response and took a sip of coffee.

  “Yeah,” Rue nodded, “we tend to have that affect on people.”

  “We? You mean they; you’re not a Protector anymore, remember?”

  Rue shrugged, “I guess old habits die hard.”

  “So tell me,” Sunders put his mug down, “any luck getting to know anyone around here?”

  “Not really; Corey is real nice. Madge at least says a couple of words to me every once in a while. And Roderick is… well… he’s Roderick.”

  Sunders nodded, “Aye.”

  “But other than that; no,” she fiddled with her pen between her fingertips. “But like I said, it’s nothing new. I’m used to being a loner. It’s kind of a requirement when you’re a part of the Protectors.”

  “I thought most of them worked in teams of two?”

  “Technically,” Rue nodded, “but you learn quickly that in the end it’s every man for his self.”

  Sunders thought back to the night at the park; when he had led Chase and Wade right to Junior, Kingsley and Awilda. He could remember lying on the ground with Wade hovering over him, preparing to drive a blade into his chest. Rue’s words rang true as he nodded in agreement. “Well, it’s not like that here,” he smiled, “we look out for one another in the Finders.”

  His eyes narrowed in on the classifieds as Rue took a sip of her coffee. “I thought you found a place?”

  She furrowed her brow, “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re looking at places for rent. I thought you just moved into a flat.”

  “Oh, I did, but I don’t think it’s working out.”

  “Why not?”

  Rue couldn’t stop herself from cracking a smile. This was the first time anyone had really tried to have a conversation with her since arriving in London. Well, except for Corey, but his conversations were mostly one-sided; and about him. But sitting here in this small, stark break room devoid of any warmth, she couldn’t help but feel comforted by the tall Scotsman sitting in front of her. He was older than she; probably by ten years. His hair was naturally dark but had long since been laced with gray. He had small crows feet even when he wasn’t smiling. They defined his aged eyes with a hint of whimsy, she thought.

  She shrugged, “My roommate is a little weird. I caught her the other day trying on my clothes.”

  Sunders pursed his lips, “Isn’t that what girlfriends do?”

  Rue slowly shook her head, “Not these kinds of clothes.”

  It took Sunders a minute but he eventually realized what she was referring to. Her roommate was trying on her unmentionables, which was creepy, he couldn’t argue with that. But it did also prompt him to imagine Rue wearing her unmentionables and if he was honest with himself; he didn’t hate it. She was smart, witty, and rough around the edges, but she was also bonnie. His impure thoughts about her were innocent, though. He would never act on them. And they were never enough to get him hard. Although, that was probably because of the shandies. He never could get an erection when he was pissed. And since he was pretty much buzzed all day every day he hadn’t had the urge to touch himself in alm
ost a decade.

  “So anyway,” Rue continued, “it’s a little more single-white-female than I expected. I’m looking for something else.”

  “Understandable.”

  “It’s too bad though, right now I’m living so close to here I can actually walk to work every day.”

  “Really?” Sunders’ brows popped, “where do you live?”

  “About six blocks west; in the Bright Lights neighborhood.”

  Sunders was shocked, “You definitely need to move then. That’s a terrible place to live.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I live there.”

  “Seriously?” Rue couldn’t believe the coincidence, “Where?”

  “Over on ‘M’.”

  “No shit,” she exclaimed.

  A large smile plastered across Sunders’ face. He loved her American bluntness. That term would have sounded so odd being filtered through his Scottish accent and European upbringing; but coming out of her mouth it was honest and smooth.

  “I probably jog by your house every morning then.”

  Sunders’ smile dropped, “What?”

  “Yeah, I go jogging every morning and I head straight down ‘M’. Which house are you in?”

  Sunders could feel his head beginning to swim. Rue was his jogger? How could he have not realized it before? He had never seen his jogger’s face, but he knew her body; every curve, every muscle; the way her skin looked when it was coated with a light sheet of sweat. His mind raced with images of her long strides carrying her past his flat and soon landed on the sight of his neighbors; watching her. A sudden pain pierced his chest as he considered the idea that one day someone was going to do more than just watch. One day someone was going to approach her and…

  “You definitely have to move,” he heard himself say.

  “Are you okay?” She asked.

  Sunders looked up and met her big green eyes. “I’m fine; it’s just a worthless place to live, ‘tis all.”

  “Then why do you live there?”

  Because I’m a worthless human being. “Because I can’t afford otherwise,” he lied.