Gargoyles I, II, III: Dark Angel Alliance

by Rach Elle

  “Are you really the savior?” Cypro marveled.

  Viattrice placed her hands on her hips and smirked, “The blessed bloodline just keeps getting better and better.”

  Amelie locked eyes with Zeff, “His mate’s not bad either.”

  BeStone grunted in disapproval of the girls and their gawking. Once they returned their gazes to him he smiled, “This is shaping up to be a great year of war. Not only have we located the savior but he seems to have a Limrid on his side.” He looked at Junior, “Tell me, is he the only one?” He motioned to Tauggle, who glared at the clan’s leader with arms crossed in front of his chest.

  Junior nodded, more interested in his next question, “You said you could help Awilda outlive the year of war.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How?”

  “Well,” BeStone dropped his arms, “perhaps that’s a conversation for indoors? We’d love to meet the rest of your clan, assuming there are more of you.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible right now,” Zeff interrupted.

  “Ah, yes,” BeStone nodded, “I see you’re entertaining at the moment.” His words were laced with bitterness. “We can wait here until the coast is clear.”

  “If you shift then you can just…”

  “No,” BeStone interrupted, “We’ll wait right here.”

  Zeff crooked a brow, “It might be a while.”

  BeStone laughed, “Dear boy, I’ve waited five-hundred years for this moment; a while is hardly worth noting.”

  Cooper sat in the living room with her right knee crossed over her left and her arms folded in front of her chest. She stared upon the two clans that sat before her. Alvin and Mason were sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Zeff sat on the arm of her chair, Bawli stood nervously to the side of the fireplace as Tauggle was perched on the mantle with his legs dangling in front of the flames. Awilda and Junior occupied the large wingchair across the way, sitting on the edge of their seats as they marveled at the horned gargoyle that sat in the middle of the sofa. He was flanked by the two females; one was muscular with thick, curly hair and the other was tall and slender. Sitting in a couple of chairs pulled in from the dining hall were two men – brothers – as evidenced by their similar facial features and the fact that they sat in the exact same position; their right shoulders pulled back and their left ankles resting on their right knees. They looked to be about the same height, both with short, combed brunette hair and dark lips. But one was clearly more muscular than the other; broader frame and chest. She wondered if he was the older of the two. But out of all of the new faces Cooper only had true reservations about one.

  He stood behind the sofa, as if watching over BeStone. He was nearly seven feet tall with dark skin and even darker eyes. His long black hair was straight and matted, like it hadn’t been washed in a while. He stood in his shifted state with his wings unwrapped from around his shoulders. He wore a leather trench coat that accommodated his wings, but underneath he was shirtless with only a primal loincloth that was cinched at his waist with a leather belt. In fact, Cooper took notice, all of them wore clothing similar; pieces that were meant to conform to their shifted bodies.

  BeStone smiled, showing the white of his fangs, “Thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

  “How can you save Awilda?” Junior cut him off, uninterested in pleasantries.

  “Anxious, I see,” BeStone narrowed his eyes. “Understandable, the prophecy’s signal has been growing stronger and stronger by the day. I’m sure you’ve all felt it.”

  Cooper and her clan glanced at each other through their peripheries. As much as they wanted to, they couldn’t deny that they’d all been feeling it; a strange, cosmic pull; a constant hum running through their veins in warning.

  BeStone leaned back on the sofa, “I unfortunately cannot save the destroyer.”

  Junior gritted his teeth, “Then why the hell…”

  “But you can,” he continued, “You see, what will happen to the destroyer is nightmarish; downright horrific. And the savior is never truly prepared. Oh sure, they are aware that the destroyer will become possessed, but what they don’t realize is that Lucifer is much stronger than your typical, run-of-the-mill demon. Not only will Awilda’s body not be her own, but it won’t be a human body at all. She’ll be capable of shape shifting; dark magic. Her arsenal will be unlike anything you’ve ever seen.” His eyes bored into Junior’s. “That’s why the savior has never actually saved the human host. He becomes desperate and just,” BeStone shrugged, “stops looking for a way.”

  “Is that true?” Awilda asked, looking over her shoulder at the pale Limrid sitting on the mantle.

  Tauggle stiffened as everyone in the room looked to him in anticipation, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horned gargoyle directly in front of him. Finally, he spoke cautiously, “I have never witnessed the destruction of the destroyer or Lucifer’s manifestation specifically.”

  Awilda looked back to BeStone, “Then how do you know?”

  “Because,” BeStone smiled, “I have.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cooper’s blunt, English accent sliced through the heavy doomsday speak. “You’re saying that you’ve just been wandering the earth for five-hundred years?”

  “Five-hundred ninety-two, to be exact.”

  “And in all that time you’ve never found your Responsibility?”

  “Oh, I found her,” he winced, “centuries ago.”

  Cooper cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes, “Then how are you still alive?”

  BeStone sat in silence surrounded by his clan and staring upon strangers. They all eyed him with curiosity. He typically didn’t like to relive his past but could plainly see they were not going to accept just because as an answer. He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t shift.” When no one responded he continued, “We all know shifters are suspended in time; it’s the human side of us that ages and the gargoyle side that combats that process. If you’re never human then you never age; not even by a minute.”

  “But why didn’t you turn into human when your Responsibility died?” Awilda’s small voice asked.

  BeStone softened his posture as he looked at the thin girl. “Most of us think we are humans with the ability to shift into gargoyle, but just the opposite is true. This,” he motioned to his physique, “is our natural state. Becoming human was merely a gift from God; so that we may blend in on earth and not experience the tyranny that would come as a result of our monstrous forms. But shifting to human, although second nature to all of you now,” he looked around at the clan, “was not always so simple. It was a trait that you had to learn; to practice. One day I simply stopped practicing. I lost my ability to shift into human and became what you see today permanently. Never aging, never shifting; forced to live in the shadows, yes; but a living being, nonetheless.”

  Everyone turned their heads and looked toward the entrance to the main corridor. Two pairs of footsteps approached, creating a slight echo against the stone floor. Less than a moment later Kingsley and Elizabeth rounded the corner, having changed out of their formal attire.

  “I see you started the powwow without us,” King said flatly.

  The old man headed for Awilda’s chair and stood on the side opposite Junior while Elizabeth leaned against the wall next to Bawli. She observed the new clan, confused as to why they were all in their shifted states. Finally, her eyes landed on the one in the center; the gargoyle with horns that curled backward like a ram. Suddenly the images of Bawli’s art closet flashed in her mind.

  He had shown her his hidden works a while ago. They were images he had dreamt about in nightmares; the colors, the depictions of death and horror. They all centered around a gargoyle with horns exactly like the creature before her – and exactly like the creature painted in Arav Dave’s The Guardian Angel. She gasped, “It’s him.”

  The humans in the room were oblivious but each and every shifter heard her small, breathy whisper.
Their eyes landed on her and she was suddenly the center of attention.

  “Who?” Kingsley asked.

  Elizabeth couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dark skinned gargoyle. She could feel Bawli gently place his hand on her lower back, reassuring her it was okay to respond.

  “Um,” she searched for her words, “He’s the guardian angel.” She managed to rip her eyes away from him as he smiled with his sharp fangs. She could see the confused faces on her friends. “From the painting,” she clarified, “The one in the ballroom.”

  There was a moment of dead silence before BeStone’s riotous laughter filled the room. He clapped three times in congratulations of the old woman. “My dear I’m afraid you’ve got me!” He didn’t pay any attention to the stares that now marveled at his presence. “Was it the horns that gave it away?”

  “You can’t be serious,” Kingsley said, unbelieving.

  “Oh, but I am.”

  “You knew Arav Dave?” Cooper asked.

  “Knew him? I was his muse.” He could tell the others wanted more of the story, “Well, not me physically; although there were times when he used my likeness; The Guardian Angel for one, the since demolished statue of The Praying Gargoyle, as well as a host of other works. But the most notable inspiration he took from me was my stories.” He looked around the room as no one said a word, “How do you think he knew about The Ultimate War? And The Cowardly Imp? Did you think he just ran across a Limrid one day and wrote about it? Of course not.”

  Awilda sat in awe of the gargoyle before her. He was impressive looking. He seemed to match Junior in every quality; height, mass, frame. But there was something much darker about him; much more dangerous. He intrigued her. And the fact that he had witnessed the prophecy firsthand made her want to be near him even more.

  Her mind flashed to a memory of her and Sunders staring upon The Guardian Angel. Sunders had pointed out the small, Egyptian pyramid in the background and told the story of the gargoyle in the piece. He had revealed himself to his Responsibility – the Egyptian princess – and she had him locked away. The villagers cursed him and stoned him for his hideous appearance until one day he finally escaped; never to return to Egypt.

  “Why didn’t you shift?” She heard herself ask.

  The small clusters of chatting all stopped and everyone looked at Awilda, who stared intently upon BeStone.

  “I beg your pardon?” BeStone asked in his harsh, Egyptian accent.

  “When the princess locked you away.”

  BeStone lost all joviality in his expression. A pang of hurt surfaced in his eyes and suddenly his chest ached. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

  “Except why you didn’t just shift to get out of there.”

  Without wanting to delve into too much detail about his sorrowful past, BeStone answered, “Because we can’t shift when we’re restrained. I know I’ve made it seem like it’s easy to stop shifting, but the truth is; it’s the worst pain one could ever experience. The urge to transform becomes all encompassing. You want to scratch your skin off or gouge your eyes out just to divert the pain to something you’re in control of, but you can’t.

  “The princess had me restrained and I was forced to endure that pain; screaming, shouting in agony in an otherwise empty dungeon where no one could hear me.” His eyes grew distant, “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,” he looked around at his clan, “None of us would.”

  Zeff creased his brow, “You’re all permanent shifters?”

  BeStone nodded, “Yes. We’ve all gone through the torment and made the sacrifice for the ultimate purpose.”

  “Which is?” Cooper asked.

  BeStone’s eyes landed on hers, “To ensure a victory every five-hundred years.”

  “Does it still hurt?” Awilda asked.

  BeStone allowed a small grin to play on his lips, “No. In time the pain subsides. It is nothing but a distant memory now.” He waited for the girl to process his words, to be calmed by the fact that his clan lived in a peaceful state before opening his mouth to speak again. “Since we’re admitting we know more about each other than expected,” he watched as Awilda’s brown eyes lifted to meet his. “I happen to know you came to London with a travel companion.”

  Awilda crinkled her nose in question.

  “I believe he was your doctor,” BeStone pressed further.

  “How did you know that?”

  He shrugged, “I had to do a lot of homework in order to find you, my dear.”

  “And now you’ve found her,” Tauggle interrupted, his tone carrying a hint of intensity. “Perhaps you should leave it there.”

  BeStone smiled at the Limrid, “I simply want to meet the man that protected Miss Rose all these years.”

  Dr. Simon Crispin sat on the windowsill in his bedroom. He had the window open and reveled in the breeze that rustled through his hair as he took another drag from his cigarette. He had a feeling the small, female gargoyle would throw a tantrum if she knew he was smoking inside the castle. She probably had a million rules for every little thing around here. For instance, if she knew he took a piss in the shower the other day she’d probably lose her mind.

  Crisp finished his cig, flicked the dead butt to the ground below and closed the window. He casually crossed the bedroom and stopped in front of a full length mirror. He stretched his arms upward, feeling the pull on his muscles before releasing with a sigh.

  Awilda was right, he did look much better than he had in recent days. The past couple of weeks of doing nothing but resting had done him some serious good. In fact, moments after turning down her offer to join the wedding reception, he had reconsidered. But he had ultimately decided it would have been too much of a hassle. He would have had to find a suit and probably taken a shower first. But a big part of him wanted to stroll through the ballroom with Awilda on his arm. Maybe they could have even shared a dance. More than likely Junior would have asked to cut in, to which Crisp would have begrudgingly let her go; like a proud, yet saddened father.

  He could remember Awilda’s words earlier in the evening. She said that he looked powerful. He had to agree. In fact, as he stared upon his reflection in the dimly lit bedroom he realized he looked healthier than he had in years.

  A sinking feeling ravaged the pit of Crisp’s stomach. No, he thought; something was very wrong. He pivoted around and locked his eyes on the lamp sitting on the end table. He held his breath and squinted through the dimness. Suddenly, the lamp began to shake. Crisp gasped violently, threw on his shoes and tore out of the bedroom as quickly as he could.

  “Why would you want to meet him?” Tauggle asked suspiciously.

  BeStone wasn’t enthralled by the Limrid’s questions. He wanted to see Simon Crispin for reasons he didn’t care to share. “To thank him, of course,” he forced a smile. “Without him its very possible Awilda would have lost her way and possibly tried to take her own life before realizing there was a solution.”

  Awilda couldn’t argue with that logic. She’d contemplated killing herself numerous times in the past. What else was there to think about when you were locked away in solitary confinement for five years?

  “Awilda!”

  Everyone could hear the frantic, terrified call coming from the ballroom.

  “Where are you?” Crisp called again.

  Awilda stood instantly and ran out of the living room.

  Crisp stood at the top of the balcony overlooking the ballroom. The space was empty. The reception had to have ended within the past hour. They hadn’t even gotten a cleaning crew to correct the mess yet. Crisp’s heart was beating rapidly and his breathing was shallow as he called for Awilda again. He had just checked her bedroom to see that it was empty. Where is she?

  Suddenly the calming, familiar face appeared around the corner. Awilda looked up to see Crisp as he began running down the steps toward her at a neck breaking speed.

  “What’s going on?” She asked, reciprocating his panic.

  “We have to
go; now.” He grabbed her by the arm without stopping his strides and yanked her in his direction.

  “Why?” She asked, trying to keep up with him.

  Crisp didn’t slow. He continued to pull her toward the main corridor. “I’ll explain later.”

  The blonde doctor passed through the dining hall. He had the main corridor in his sights. All he had to do was cut through the living room…

  Crisp came to a sudden halt at the threshold of the living room. His eyes were wide as he stared upon the strange clan of shifted gargoyles before him. There were two he didn’t recognize, two he’d never met personally, one he had hoped never to see again; and then there was the one in the middle. Chills played Crisp’s spine like an accordion as he tried to act nonchalant. He adjusted his grip on Awilda’s arm and backed out of the threshold before turning and heading in the opposite direction.

  “We’ll go out through the rose garden,” he mumbled to her.

  BeStone stood from the sofa, his dark eyes intent and severe. His voice boomed, “Fazal!”

  Crisp stopped dead in his tracks and let go of the girl.

  A small growl resonated, but Awilda didn’t know where from. She could have sworn it was coming from… “Simon?” She asked, concerned.

  Crisp turned his head slowly, his blonde hair moving to reveal his features one by one. She could see his jaw was set and his teeth were clenched; a deep scowl etched into his skin. She looked up just as his hair no longer shielded his expression and gasped violently. She cupped her hands over her mouth and stumbled backward as she stared into Simon’s bright, blood orange eyes.

  Junior was by her side in an instant, helping her catch her balance.