by Gwynn White
Her father was the most prominent among those advocating for the ceremony’s postponement, but even the reach of the kovar was not long enough to disrupt the pull of the ritual gathering. His concern was not one of modesty, of course—far from it—but, rather, the overall safety of the community following the death of his second-in-command. Was it an isolated incident? The beginning of a new series of attacks on their kind? Until a threat had been issued or a second attack attempted, there was simply no way to know.
Yet the necessity of the seeding season was not to be denied, nor Sinnestra her place within it. She was a fertile female in the prime of her life, one who yearned to join her community in bringing forth the next generation. Her father knew of her intentions and had done his best to convince her otherwise, but knew ultimately that he could do little to stop either the gathering itself or her attendance. How could he justify doing so, after all? Like so many among their species for thousands of years, he had been conceived during such a ritual, as had she. The notion that her own offspring shouldn’t follow the same course was all but unthinkable.
Sinnestra was well-known among her peers, of course, being her father’s daughter. The most virile males made themselves readily available to her, their shameless preening equal parts amusing and arousing. One by one, she put them through their paces. She enjoyed a variety of positions among a host of partners, including some of each that were new to her. After several hours she excused herself, mentally and physically spent, her body aching in all the most delightful ways. The night was winding down, the frenetic coupling of earlier giving way to reflective toking. The air was thick with yakba smoke and the lingering aroma of mass coitus.
Into that heady brew tumbled an unlikely interloper. At first Sinnestra thought it was some sort of animal—one of the fleeks, perhaps, disoriented and flapping about. Then it came to rest between her feet, lolling onto its side. Only when she looked closer, through the swimming focus of her vision, did the ‘creature’ reveal itself to be an object. Sinnestra retrieved the strange device, regarding it with foggy, occluded interest. Not exactly curiosity; merely to acknowledge it, as one would some obscure trinket or tchotchke. The object sat inert in her hand, an unexceptional thing save for the crude starburst pattern etched into its casing. She was bringing it in for a closer inspection when the casing separated, creating a flare so bright, it was like beholding the birth of a fiery star.
When at last the blinding light had dissipated, Sinnestra Cairn and all the others within its reach had been trapped forever within the prison of their own petrified flesh.
8
Detective Nissa Aziani had worked plenty of terrible scenes in her day, but somehow the shattered remains of dozens of gargoyles ranked highest among the most numbingly horrific. The cruelty of the act was evident from the moment she stepped into the room, bits of stone and what seemed at first blush like gravel crunching beneath her boots. Her first impression was that the floor was strewn with rubble; then the vague shapes of broken limbs and bodies arranged themselves before her eyes as they adjusted to the smoky, strangely scented miasma. So many of them, hands and feet and broken pieces of faces. Some showed their final horror, the realization of their last moment etched in stone for all eternity; others were free of that burden, but not its finality. The light had claimed them all in the end.
But that had not been enough for their attackers. They could have simply left them, content with the abruptness and finality of their enemies’ deaths. There was no reversing the transformation once it was complete; they could have at least allowed the Gargoyle Gjunta the dignity of leaving their dead intact. Instead the attackers had apparently swept through with heavy hammers, smashing and bashing with reckless abandon. Some of the petrified gargoyles had been reduced to little more than gritty powder. Others had been left in rough chunks, still identifiable, as if they were each a life-size puzzle waiting to be put back together. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the destruction. Perhaps the hammer-swingers had simply lost interest after repeated strikes. Perhaps there was some sort of message to be found amongst this morbid quarry of parts and pieces. All she knew for certain was that she didn’t want to be the one dealing with the Gjunta when they got the news.
“Detective Aziani, I think we have a problem out here.”
Nissa followed the young officer through the scene, the source of his concern becoming immediately obvious as they stepped outside. Yes, she thought, that would definitely qualify as a problem.
Somehow, word had gotten out; the gargoyles were at the gate, so to speak.
“We demand to be given access,” said the most towering of the gargoyles threatening the integrity of her scene. “We demand to treat this scene as sacred ground.”
“I can’t do that, sir,” Detective Aziani said. “Now, please, step back.”
“Step back?” Far from it, the gargoyle thrust his chest forward and tipped his chin imperiously. “Do you know whom you are speaking to, woman?”
Nissa fixed him with a hard gaze from beneath her head scarf. Her brothers and sisters in blue took notice, immediately going to ready stances. “What I know is that you are speaking to the ranking detective on scene. My name is Nissa Aziani, I represent Meridia’s Police and Welfare Division, and, right now, I am in command here. Am I making myself clear?”
“The only thing you are making clear is the nature of your mistake. Since we are exchanging pedigrees, I am Crius Frenn, Operations Manager for none other than Gragos Cairn, Kovar of the Gargoyle Gjunta.” He eyed her significantly, dangerously. “Do you intend to stand aside and grant our request for access?”
“Not one bit.”
“Then, I am afraid we are about to have a very difficult situation on our hands.”
The call for backup came in across all open channels. Realizing she was only blocks away as the harried voice crackled over the speaker in her cruiser—“The gargoyles have us surrounded! They’re coming closer!”—Ann flipped on the sirens and put the pedal to the metal. The city wasn’t falling on her watch, she vowed, not if she had anything to say about it.
In some respects, Ann had never accepted the fact she wasn’t a foot soldier or even a gumshoe anymore. She still enjoyed kicking down doors and feeling the satisfying click of the cuffs after a takedown. She’d told Dolan she wouldn’t do her job from behind a desk, and she’d meant it. She waded recklessly into the scrum, determined to protect and defend her people to the best of her ability.
Instead, she caught an errant backhand meant for one of her compatriots as she charged headfirst into the fray. The weight of the gargoyle’s hammer-like strike caught her square across the side, and like that, the world tipped over its axis and tumbled over itself as she tried to make sense of the sudden, confusing motion. She had all of half a second to realize she was the one pinwheeling through the air, not the world around her, before her body slammed into an extremely unforgiving surface, dropped, and crumpled into an unconscious heap.
Hank and Cato were only minutes behind. The call for backup had come in over the radio as they were headed back to the office. All it took was one look between them for Hank to execute a daring U-turn, fire the sirens, and drop the hammer.
The roadster came screaming around the corner a block away from the conflagration, just in time for the two of them to catch sight of something—no, someone—tumbling head over heels before its flight path abruptly intersected with a brick wall.
“Holy hell,” Hank said, squinting from behind the wheel. “Was that a person?”
“C’mon, c’mon,” Cato growled, gritting his teeth and white-knuckling the dash even as a PWD SWAT van came barreling around the corner ahead of them. The van was traveling so quickly that two of its wheels briefly left purchase with the road before plonking down again, its armored frame rocking violently as it accelerated once more. For a moment, it would have appeared to onlookers that the SWAT van and roadster were playing a dangerously one-sided game of chicken, at least until the S
WAT van swung to a halt behind the advancing gargoyles and disgorged half a dozen heavily armed commandos.
That quickly, the tables had turned. The gargoyles were surrounded within a potentially lethal ring of fire. Emboldened by the presence of so much heavy artillery, the officers backed against the wall pressed the advantage, advancing and ordering the gargoyles to their knees. With no other choice, the gargoyles relented as the circle closed tighter around them.
The situation appeared more or less under control by the time Hank and Cato reached the scene. Only one gargoyle remained on his feet, standing defiantly against the ring of angry officers barking conflicting orders at the winged monster. They were playing right into his hands, Cato realized. He had watched a single gargoyle take out an entire platoon in much the same fashion during the Nothnocti Wars, the soldiers’ hubris getting the better of them as they surrounded the surrendering beast. But he wasn’t surrendering; he was merely drawing them in before flexing his wings straight out and enveloping them. Half the squad was killed or incapacitated by the unexpected strike; the rest expended all their ammunition in a futile attempt to penetrate the creature’s armor-like wings. The moment their weapons clicked dry, the gargoyle set upon them, all teeth and claws, gnashing and slashing. The entire platoon was reduced to its constituent parts in less than a minute, their blood and gore and severed limbs mingling together in a grotesque heap.
Only after the frenzy had subsided and every last man and woman had been torn to shreds was Corporal Ryen Cato able to put a .50-caliber bullet through the thing’s eye, his aim aided by the exceptional sight and calculations of his spotter, one Corporal Henry ‘Hank’ Smiley.
Now, decades later, Cato and Hank appeared to be on the verge of witnessing the scene a second time. The difference this time was that it would be seen not through the clinical detachment of their scopes, but point blank, as up close and personal as possible.
Not today, he decided.
Cato snatched one of the SWAT batons he kept under the roadster’s seats for special occasions and leaped out of the passenger side. Vaulting its hood with the speed and determination of a man half his age, he charged the scene. He had five, ten seconds, maybe less; any moment now, the gargoyle would deploy his razor-spiked wings, and then things were really going to get messy.
“Clear a path, you idiots!” he heard Hank yell from behind him, followed by several hard blasts of the roadster’s horn. The commotion did the trick, distracting the officers, SWAT personnel, and even the resisting gargoyle long enough for Cato to shoulder his way into the fray. What he did next was not particularly elegant, nor did it require any great skill or proficiency. Cato brained the great creature, bringing the SWAT baton down upon the area above the gargoyle’s brainstem with as much force as he could muster. The severity of the blow would have killed a fellow wight; for the gargoyle, it had the effect of briefly knocking him cold. All the strength went out of his limbs and the creature fell onto all fours, the impact vibrating through the ground beneath Cato’s feet.
A moment of confusion ensued, the other gargoyles strenuously objecting to the treatment of their leader before the officers and SWAT personnel reminded them who was in charge.
“What the blighting hell?” Cato blurted, upbraiding the officers and detectives as he showed them his spector’s badge. “Are you mopes just out of basic? Another foot or two closer and this bastard would have flexed his wings and cut the lot of you down to size.”
Already rousing, the gargoyle said in a pained voice, “I can assure you, Spector, that I intended to do no such thing.”
Cato was about to call bullshit when he recognized the gargoyle in question. “Well, well, well. Crius Frenn. What a coincidence. My partner and I have been looking for you all day.”
“It appears that you have found me.”
“So it does.” To the nearest PWD officer, Cato said, “Get some binders on these bastards. I need to have a word with Mr. Frenn once he’s been booked.”
“And call a bus!” Hank added. He had gone to check on their fallen comrade, realizing all too quickly she was no mere officer. “We’ve got the Chief of Ds over here, and she’s down!”
She wasn’t dead, but she had definitely seen better days. Hank had volunteered to ride with her in the ambulance, and Cato agreed that was probably for the best. Their little tête-à-tête earlier notwithstanding, Cato was under no delusions. He and Ann might be able to put aside old grudges to work together for the good of Meridia, but they were hardly each other’s favorite person in the world.
That, and hospitals gave him the creeps. Always had, always would.
Instead, he stayed on the scene at the invitation of Detective Nissa Aziani, one of Ann’s top deputies. She was a compact, tightly wound woman, mid-thirties, short on words, long on action. It was easy to see why she had made an impression on Ann. Hell, he might have even tried to poach her to work the spector side of the fence if he thought he had half a shot of her accepting, but she was obviously dedicated as much to her job as to her boss.
“Thank you for your assistance, Spector,” the detective said as they watched the ambulance depart, followed by the SWAT van. PWD had loaded the bound gargoyles into the back of the van—the only vehicle on site large enough to accommodate them—which required the SWAT members to ride standing atop the vehicle’s running boards as it moved ponderously around the corner before disappearing entirely. “That was a somewhat unorthodox tactic, though I don’t suppose much about your position would be considered orthodox, would it?”
At that, Cato couldn’t help smiling. “You’ve been talking with your boss, haven’t you?”
“Not in an official capacity, per se. Sometimes we do enjoy a drink in her office after a particularly eventful day. The topic has come up from time to time.”
Cato nodded absently. “Only good things, I hope.”
Detective Aziani snort-laughed at his comment before quickly composing herself. “Apologies. That was unprofessional.”
“None required. It’s no secret we’re not on the best of terms.”
“No, it’s not,” the detective agreed. A pensive beat passed before she spoke up again. Cato expected her to wonder about the source of their acrimony. Instead, she asked, “Do you think she’ll be all right?”
“I wouldn’t go measuring her office for drapes just yet, if that’s what you’re asking.” Cato raised a hand between them, forestalling a professional objection. “Kidding,” he said in his best attempt at reassuring her. “Sorry—poor taste. As for Ann, she’ll be fine, I’m sure. She’s the toughest person I know.”
Whatever else Detective Aziani might have expected him to say, it clearly wasn’t that. “Yes,” she agreed after a moment, “she is.” There was something unspoken in that statement, almost underscoring it. Pride, perhaps? “That said, I spoke with Chief Banner earlier today. She informed me of your renewed commitment to working together. I have every intention of honoring that commitment in her stead. Would you care to tour the scene, Spector Cato?”
“I suppose I might as well, since I’m here and all,” he said, then accepted a pair of gloves and booties from a nearby officer. “Fair warning, though: I have no idea what happened here.”
For only the second time since he’d made her acquaintance, the detective broke character. Wrinkling her nose and looking at him as if he’d asked where he might find someone capable of sewing a second head onto his shoulders, she said, “Seriously? How is that even possible?”
“My partner and I have been chasing leads on the Stone case all day. I assume it has something to do with that.” After pausing for a moment to awkwardly balance on each foot as he stretched the booties over his shoes, Cato continued. “We were headed back to the office when we heard the call for backup. We were in the area, so we responded. Never even heard the original call. Someone probably tried to put one in, but, like I said, it’s been one of those days.”
Detective Aziani composed herself once more. “Then I
dare say you should brace yourself,” she informed him stolidly. “Because the day is far from over.”
9
Bruised ribs, contusions to the head, neck, back, and pelvis, to say nothing of an assortment of other troubling injuries over the years…”
“So, you’re saying she’s going to be all right,” Hank prompted.
“I should say so, yes.”
“Sooner than later?”
“More than likely.”
“And she’ll still be able to do her job?”
“Barring anything unexpected, yes.”
“Good. You can go now.”
“As you say, Spector. Good day to you.”
Hank regretted sending the doctor off so abruptly. That was more Cato’s style than his. He was supposed to be the calm one, the circumspect one, the one who swept in after Cato had scorched the earth to smooth it over and make it arable again. He and Ann had no special history together, no partnership or dirty secret to share between themselves. He just admired her. He’d watched her from afar, learning as much as he possibly could from her example after Cato had invited him to be his partner. Hank thought himself a ridiculous choice, having been out of law enforcement for so long, but Cato had been adamant.
“You were the best spotter I ever had,” Cato had told him at the time, “and experience isn’t an issue.”
“I just don’t know if it’s for me.”
“It probably isn’t. I’m not going to lie. We’ll have more crap days than not, more losses than wins, but, Hank—we can do something here. Something more than just pulling triggers or sighting through scopes.”
Several beats had passed before the operator reminded them the charge was running low. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid—”