Tis the Season

by Harvester of Eyes

It's Christmas Eve in Manhattan, and Demona is looking forward to a quiet evening of plotting. Unfortunately, the Children of Oberon have other plans. My satire of A Christmas Carol. Happy Holidays, folks!

1. Chapter 1

'Tis the Season

By Harvester of Eyes Mumbo-Jumbo: All the characters appearing in Gargoylesand Gargoyles: The Goliath Chronicles are copyright Buena Vista Television/The Walt Disney Company. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and is not authorized by the copyright holder. All original characters are the property of the author. This work is being distributed freely and without any financial gain whatsoever.

Warning: What with this being a Christmas tale, I did my very best to make this one enjoyable for all ages, but there might be a few small things that may not be for kids (including a smidge of sacrilege). It's rated PG, but parents: you can judge for yourselves. Hell, that's what you should be doing anyway. They're your kids.

As with everything I write, comments are welcome, but I do ask that you not over-analyze this one. It's intended to be little more than satire, so lighten up and just try to enjoy it. And I apologize in advance to that master of the English language, the late Mr. Dickens.

"Miss Galloway, did you hear what I said?" Dominique Destine rapped her palm hard against the surface of her desk, bringing the attention of her assistant back to the here and now. The younger woman had been staring absently out the large picture window in the CEO's office, watching the snow fall peacefully onto the city below. More than a foot had accumulated already, making the skyline of Manhattan appear as a large wedding cake.

Erin Galloway sighed as she absently tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, and resumed writing on her legal pad. "Yes, Miss Destine, I heard you," she replied. "The quarterly meeting for Research and Development has been pushed back to December 26th. I've already notified Dr. Sevarius and his staff."

Dominique sighed, clearly still annoyed that her assistant could take such an interest in a pointless frivolity as crystallized water. She almost found herself missing her old assistant. True, she had possessed ulterior motives, and the next time they encountered each other, Demona would reduce the human to an oily stain on the wall. But Robyn had been a woman devoted one-hundred percent to business, someone who actually knew what she was being paid to do, and did it. This woman, the one who had been a position below Robyn and risen up a rank after the former Hunter's termination from Nightstone, was barely fit to fill her predecessor's pumps.

Erin sensed her employer's distress, and immediately straightened her posture a bit. "I'm sorry, Miss Destine," she said. "It's just that the last time it snowed on Christmas Eve, I was about five, maybe six. I guess it just…"

"I'm not interested in your childhood, Miss Galloway," Dominique said curtly, cutting the assistant's reminiscence short. "Frankly, I fail to see what makes a simple thing as snow such a big damn deal in the first place."

How could I?Dominique mused silently. At night, when I'm in my true form, snow feels little different than rain, after all.

With that, Dominique immediately resumed shuffling through the stack of memos in her right hand, turning over the one on top and glancing at the one below it. Erin, however, just couldn't understand how Dominique could still take the same humbug attitude she had the year before.

"But this is a Christmas snow, Miss Destine," Erin tried to explain. "This type of thing usually only happens in movies."

"And it can stay in the movies, for all I care," retorted Dominique. "We have work to finish." The CEO glanced at the Rolex on her wrist. Already, it was three-thirty. She would need to leave the office soon.

With reluctance, Erin turned her back to the window and tapped her pen against the pad. "Very well, ma'am," she said with a nod. Dominique's usual humbug attitude aside, the older woman did have a point. The sooner they wrapped up, the sooner Erin could get down to the party taking place on the floor below.

A short while later, their business was concluded and Dominique's calendar had been updated. "And I want the revised reports on my desk in triplicate by New Year's, understand?" the fiery-haired executive asked as she rose from her seat.

"Yes, ma'am," Erin Galloway responded as her pen flew across the pad. She was so preoccupied with her writing that she almost didn't see Dominique get out of her seat. Tucking the pad under her arm and the pen behind her ear, she moved quickly to the office's entrance, making it to the door a step ahead of Dominique. She snatched the brown wool overcoat off of the nearby rack and handed it to her employer with one hand as she opened the door with her other.

"Are you leaving already, Miss Destine?" Erin asked as they stepped out of the office. The assistant paused by her desk to organize all the notes that she had taken and file some things away for later.

Dominique had just finished donning her coat, and paused in the action of pulling on her black gloves to scowl at the younger woman. "Is there something we forgot to review in my office?" she asked as tersely as possible.

"Last year you left at the same time," said Erin. "And, like every other night of the year, it was to go straight home…"

"I believe I have explained myself to you," Dominique interjected. "I have better things to do with my time than attend some social function for a meaningless holiday. The only reason I even let you incompetent fools misbehave on my time is because my accountants have advised me that it's a good tax write-off. As far as I'm concerned, Christmas means less to me than just about any other day of the year. It's just an excuse for humans… I mean, workers, to sleep late." In the back of her mind, Dominique was slapping herself for allowing her already short temper to have caused that fatal slip of the tongue.Perhaps if this naïve human weren't so damn annoying!

Fortunately, Erin seemed too stung by Dominique's barbs against the holiday to notice her employer's curious choice of words. Dominique decided to use the pause to nip this thing in the bud before the human started in on sharing, families, and the birthday of that fictitious half-blooded baby whom Dominique suspected that, even if he really did exist, was just a bastard son of Oberon.

"If you'll excuse me, it's almost four. I'd like to be home before it gets too dark out there." With that, Dominique drew her hood up carefully around the conservative hairstyle she wore during the day, and started for the elevators. She had only gone a few steps when she turned around once more.

"Oh, and Miss Galloway? I expect you to return those calls to the Colorado branch before you leave to go downstairs. Otherwise, don't bother coming in on the morning of the 26th."

Erin Galloway sighed and nodded her head in understanding. "Merry Christmas, Miss Destine," she said with a slight smile. Dominique scowled, using all her restraint to keep from spitting on the carpeting in reply. Instead, she simply turned and continued on to the elevator.

As soon as the CEO was out of sight, Erin allowed her demeanor to become more relaxed. She slipped out of her heels as she sat down at her desk, and started to dial the number for the Nightstone distribution center in Colorado. "If anyone needed to get laid, it's her," she muttered to herself. "Old crank probably has cobwebs on her cobwebs."

It was a few minutes past sunset, and Demona, now as her gargoyle self, snarled in annoyance as she pulled the pins from her hair and tossed them onto her dressertop. That damn driver of hers just had to stop for those carolers instead of honking his horn at them for blocking the road.

Fortunately for him, he'd still gotten her home before sunset. Demona would have hated transforming while she was still in the car, mainly because then she'd need to force the driver to go somewhere secluded, kill him, find some way to dispose of both him and the vehicle, and find some random Nightstone employee with a record to take the rap for it and keep police and press from her doorstep.

She already had plenty to do. After she finished changing, she placed a call to a nearby Chinese restaurant, one of the places she knew would still be open. When the food arrived, she paused from her work to handle the delivery in her customary fashion, by slipping an envelope of money out through a slot in the front door. Her tip was allowing the young man to leave the property with his life.

That done, she went back to the living room, eating dinner as she continued to pore over the files for her meeting with the R and D staff that would take place after Christmas. She would much rather have been poring over a 13th Century tome she'd recently acquired from Mongolia, but she needed to bring herself up to speed on Sevarius's research. There were a few projects he had cooking that might help her recover from the DI-7 debacle.

Finally, even the immortal gargoyle became bored with the scientific terms. She snapped the folio shut, poured another glass of wine and turned on the television, disgusted to find that the business news had been pre-empted for yet another showing of some Christmas movie whose name Demona cared not to remember.

"Please, Clarence!" pleaded the black and white figure on the monitor, tears brimming in his eyes. "I want to live again." Demona watched with contempt, the lo mien in her stomach practically backing up on her as she prepared to change the channel. She'd stumbled across this in some year past, and since then, every time Demona happened upon it at Christmas, she hoped that the human would follow through on his suicide plans. But, the film always disappointed.

She raised the remote, preparing to find some channel that would give her news. "You know," a familiar voice spoke from behind. "Much as I like this movie, a part of me deep down inside wonders if George buying a gun and shooting that bastard Potter would have made for a better ending."

Demona immediately leapt from the couch and pivoted lightly on her feet, wings unfurled to their full, impressive span, her eyes a smoldering crimson. Puck hovered in the living room doorway, leaning casually against the frame, clad in the standard raiment he'd worn in Oberon's court, with one tiny alteration: a floppy red Santa Claus hat was perched atop his head. Framed by his pointed ears, it made him look very much like a worker in Santa's shop.

The trickster seemed to take no notice of his host's aggravated mood, instead watching as the movie on the television reached its happy conclusion. As he listened to the joyous crowd on the screen launch into "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," he couldn't help but smirk. "That reminds me, did I ever tell you I met Christ once?" he said. "He was, or is, the offspring of a union between a human and a member of my race, and he does live on Avalon, and his demeanor is a lot like the way it's depicted in the Bible. But even he's amused by this holiday, mostly because he told me those guys who wrote about him fudged a lot of details. I told him not to sweat it, everything gets lost in translation."

"How did you get in here?" roared Demona, practically ready to lunge. "I placed several magical wards around the edges of this property to keep you and your troublemaking kin out of my life!" Demona had done this not long after Puck had placed his hex on her. After that night, she'd decided that she wanted as few dealings with Oberon's minions as possible.

"How did I get in here?" Puck echoed the question, an amused smile on his face. "That's a very good question, Demona, one that deserves an answer." For a moment, Demona stood there expectantly, arms folded across her breast, tail lashing along the ground in agitation. After a tense period of silence, Puck gave a nod and zipped past Demona, snatching the wine bottle off the coffee table. In the blink of an eye, he was hovering in the doorway again, and took a little swig of the deep red liquid directly from the bottle.

"Good year," he mused silently to himself. Then, turning back to Demona, he said: "Yes, that question definitely does deserve an answer. Yes ma'am, it does. Oh boy howdy, does it ever…"

Demona, now convinced that Puck was not going to give her the answer she wanted, started to edge towards the alcove alongside her fireplace, where the iron poker rested in its stand. "Well, if you're not going to give me the answer willingly," she muttered. "I'll force it out of you."

Puck seemed to take no notice of the danger he was in. Instead, he regarded the remains of Demona's supper, which rested on the table in the form of several empty cartons. "Hmm, interesting choice for Christmas dinner," he said as he did a few flips in mid-air. "I'm actually a little surprised and disappointed that you're not eating gruel, Miss Ebenezer. I mean, they both have mystery meat, but I think gruel would still be more nourishing. And far more befitting of your mood, wouldn't you agree?"

Demona had almost closed the distance between herself and the fireplace, her back turned to Puck, when she heard a loud zipping noise. She spun around, and saw Puck floating in front of her face once more. "You got any kumquats?" he asked the irate gargoyle. "Mind if I take a look?"

With that, he zipped from the room without waiting for an answer. Demona growled in frustration, snatched the poker off its stand and dashed after him with an idea of where he would be going. Sure enough, she found him down the hallway in the kitchen, standing before the open refrigerator. His eyes skimmed across the shelves, clearly dismayed at their contents.

"No veggies?" he asked his host, plucking the cap from atop his flowing white hair to scratch at his scalp. "Don't you know how bad that is for you? Fresh veggies contain iron. Which doesn't mean much to me, but can do wonders for your energy level, my dear."

He grinned devilishly as he took a kielbasa from one of the shelves and waved it in front of his face. "Ah, well, I don't blame you for stocking so much meat. After all, you have been alone for the past thousand years and when you finally met your mate again, the two of you never even got to consummate your reunion. Guess you should have held off trying to kill him for just a teensy bit longer. Hah! Longer! Get it?" Puck snapped the air in front of him with the kielbasa for emphasis.

The phallic joke turned out to be more than Demona could stand. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU OBNOXIOUS LITTLE VERMIN!" she roared as she charged Puck, brandishing the poker wildly. Puck stepped aside from Demona's path at the last second, making the azure gargoyle crash face-first into the shelves of her still open refrigerator.

The red faded from her vision momentarily as she got a face-full of her catering service's chicken croquettes. Not even pausing to wipe the gravy from her face and tiara, her eyes flared again and she swung blindly with the poker. With each swing, she was rewarded with the sound of shattering glass and ceramic, and the splintering of wood. Puck dodged each of her blows easily, the expression on his face suggesting that he thought this was all some wonderful new game his reluctant host had devised.

Twenty minutes later, Demona's kitchen, which was normally the coziest room in her otherwise Spartan residence, looked more like a war zone. The shattered remains of dishes and furniture littered the checkerboard-tiled floor and countertop. Stains from all manner of food and condiments spattered the walls. In the midst of it, Demona crouched on the floor on her hands and knees, chest heaving, the muscles in her powerful limbs shaking from exertion. The poker was still clenched in her talons, but she no longer possessed much energy to wield it.

Hovering cautiously above her, Puck surveyed the chaos with a look of utter delight on his face. "That was fun!" he cried raucously. "We have got to do this with more players next time! You wanna help me organize a tournament? I'll make the T-Shirts, you can over-inflate the prices on tickets and beer!"

Demona trembled with a mixture of rage and fatigue. "Please," she spoke in a tired whisper, not bothering to look up at the trickster. "Just leave me alone."

All at once, his expression turned serious. "Sorry, not until I do what I came here for. I'd love to play more, but as my fearless leader is so fond of saying, time is money. So, down to business." He moved into a sitting position in mid-air, crossing his legs and arms like a psychiatrist. To anyone but Demona, he might have looked comical. "You know, Demona, we're not that different, you and I."

Slowly, Demona stood, made her way to the one piece of furniture still intact in the room: a wooden chair that, like an old bomb shelter, had somehow survived the devastation around it. She gave an exhausted sigh as she plunked her shapely frame into it. She found a dishrag lying in arm's reach and grabbed it, taking a moment to compose herself as she used it to wipe partially-congealed food from her face and arms. "We are nothing alike," she scowled.

"Not completely true," Puck argued. "We do have one very important thing in common: we're both outcasts. Me, I've been kicked out a place where it's always summer, and I'm probably banned until the end of time. And you, well even if you did turn into the Empress of Nice overnight, I doubt even Angela would start trusting you until she was…" Puck began rapidly ticking off his fingertips, pausing after a moment to declare the answer. "…One-hundred and three! In human years, I mean. Heck, maybe even gargoyle!"

Demona growled, and straightened herself in the chair. Already, she hated where this was going. "I didn't want any of that! I tried to reason with them to get them to see the truth, I really did. I never wanted to hurt…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Puck interjected. "I've seen this movie before. No offense, hon, but I gave it one and a half stars the first time I saw it. The thing I came here to tell you is that I accepted what happened to me, and things couldn't be better. True, I have regrets. But every time I feel one, I just look at Xanatos's kid. Smart as a whip, that boy, and he's barely out of his diapers. I couldn't ask for a better protégé. Or a better job, for that matter."

Demona swatted at Puck in annoyance, but as usual, the trickster zipped out of harm's way just in time. Scowling, the gargoyle finally threw the poker to the ground. "So what then, Puck? Are you going to bore me to tears trying to convince me that it's a wonderful life?"

Puck smiled and shook his head, the white bobble on his cap swaying from side to side. "No one would like that more than me, hon, but there's this pesky little decree from Lord Oberon that's limiting the use of my power these days. Heck, it's a miracle I haven't been spanked by him yet just for floating here chatting with you. Maybe if I could find a way to turn it into a lesson for Alexander, but I don't think he's quite ready to meet someone with your colorful background. But fortunately for both of us, I have some friends who owe me a favor. They'll be the ones boring you to tears about how precious life is. And honestly, one of them is so boring you'll be wishing it was me giving you the lecture. I mean, Future could give Preston Vogel lessons on being wooden."

Puck stopped there when he realized that Demona's glare was turning slightly quizzical. "But perhaps I say too much. Anyway, my friends will be dropping by later on, the first one probably a short while after midnight. I can't really say for sure, though. You know as well as I that punctuality is not a trickster's strong suit. You'd do good to listen to them when they do come. Maybe then, you could finally try doing what I've done, and taking what life gives you with a smile."

With that, Puck swept the cap from his head and gave a theatrical bow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm supposed to be at Grandpa X's in Maine right now with Mr. and Mrs. X, and the kid. We're having pheasant this year! Well, see ya. Oh, and don't forget to work on that serve, Demona." Puck re-donned his cap and started to spin around in mid-air, vanishing from the room a split second later.

For a moment, Demona just sat there. Her heart had stopped racing from the excitement a moment ago, but her blood still boiled beneath her sapphire skin. She growled in the back of her throat as she surveyed the ravaged kitchen. Pity the cleaning service would be closed all day tomorrow. She might actually have to do this herself.

Finally, Demona got up, shut the door to the fridge, and went back to the living room to pour herself another drink. She would check the wards around her house later, but for now, all she wanted was to banish the memory of her most recent meeting with the trickster.

One hour past midnight found Demona immersed in a fitful sleep. After finishing her glass of wine, she'd rechecked the wards surrounding the property and found them untampered with. So she took a few minutes to strengthen their magical aura, even though she was still physically tired from her altercation with Puck, and the spellcasting exhausted her further.

When it was done, she went upstairs to grab a hot shower, hoping it would both relax her and wash away the last remnants of food still clinging to her hair and wings. Now she was in bed, and even though her sleep was blessedly dreamless, Demona still tossed and turned from one side of the mattress to the other.

During one of the moments when she hovered between wakefulness and unconsciousness, Demona thought she smelled the presence of another in the room. Someone standing in the corner of her chamber, close to the bed, just standing and watching. Beneath the silk sheets, Demona moved her hand slowly underneath the pillow resting alongside her head until she felt her talons close around the handle of the compact laser rifle she kept there.

Once she held the gun, she came suddenly awake and sat bolt upright in bed, one hand holding the sheets to cover her bare body as the other swung the rifle out in front of her, aiming its barrel directly at the intruder. Demona gave a feral growl and flashed her fangs… at herself.

The light faded from the immortal's eyes, and for a moment she sat there, stunned. The being that stood before her, regarding her with a curious look, was her exact mirror image, right down to the jewelry.

No. Not completely a reflection, the gargoyle realized. Although Demona was well over a thousand years old, the enchantment placed on her by the Weird Sisters meant that biologically, she was forever a gargoyle in her mid-thirties.

The copy of Demona who stood by the bed looked to be about fifteen or twenty years younger than that, an adolescent in a gargoyle's age. But there was something else about her. Demona peered closer, and found that the jade eyes of her double still bore the innocence of her youth, that Demona had thought lost forever, reflected beneath their sparkling green surfaces. Eyes that did not tell the story of a millennium of solitude, of pain, of bitterness, sustained only by hatred and revenge.

Demona blinked rapidly and glanced down at the feet of her doppelganger. Its eyes, filled with everything Demona had lost through the centuries, were making her uncomfortable.

Her younger self pointed a talon at the gun in Demona's hand. "Don't you realize how dangerous that is?" She asked, sincere concern in her voice. "Although, I suppose that when you can't be killed, except by one man, accidents should not worry you." The figure shrugged, dismissing the thought almost as quickly as it had come to her.

"Who are you?" Demona snapped. Already, her bafflement was melting into anger that someone had invaded the most private room in her house.

"I'm your past," the younger-looking Demona explained as she folded her wings about herself. "Well, not literally, but the past is an area I happen to specialize in. I'm currently borrowing this form, because I thought that it would remind you of things that you're trying to forget. Which is beneficial, given why I am here."

Demona clenched her fangs and pulled the sheets up higher around herself, though her gun remained fixed on the changeling. "You're one of Puck's friends, then?" She spit the words out icily. "Show me your true form!"

The younger version of herself shook her head. "I am of the Puck's race, you are correct. And like my kin, I can take almost any face. But I am different from them in that they actually have a form that they exist in from their moment of creation. It's a little difficult to explain, actually, but see if this helps a little. When Queen Titania is not Anastasia Renard, she is Titania. When Puck is not Owen Burnett, he is Puck. The Third Race can assume many such forms, but always there is one form which represents who they really are. I have no such default. I am what is known as a trueshapeshifter."

Demona nodded, though her look of annoyance still did not fade. "I understand what you mean. But I don't think you understand me. If you have no true form, at least assume something else. I don't like the form you're in now!"

The being that looked like Demona moved to the foot of the bed, and picked Demona's evening ensemble of halter and loincloth off the floor where the gargoyle had dropped them. "As if you would like me more if I were something else? Besides, I told you, I am assuming this form because I am trying to help you. And it certainly is more pleasing than some other shapes I have taken." For a moment, the innocence dropped from its eyes and it tugged at the edges of its own halter. "Amazing how your species is able to defy gravity. How do you do it?"

The glow returned to Demona's eyes and she bared her fangs once more. Yes, this was definitely a friend of Puck's. And as such, Demona had no more love for it than she did for Xanatos's assistant. She sat up straighter in the bed, and fired several shots from her rifle at the being.

The fay, far from looking alarmed, simply waved its free hand as the shots streaked towards it. A glowing field of energy leapt up a few inches from its face, catching the laser blasts and dissipating them into harmless fragments that scorched the surrounding carpeting and walls.

"You still think everything can be solved with violence?" The being posing as Demona shook its head sadly. It waved its hand again, and suddenly, the gun in Demona's talons became very hot, far too hot to touch. Demona cried out in pain and alarm as she flung the weapon across the bedroom.

"You didn't always think that way, you know," said the shapeshifter as it levitated Demona's clothing in the air before it. It gave a slight nudge with its talons, and the scraps of cloth flew across the bed, landing in Demona's still-throbbing palms.

"There was a time when you believed in something more pure, actually," the shapeshifter continued. "I mean, you were apprentice to the Archmage, and that involved its share of underhandedness, but you never allowed it to consume you at your very core."

The being nodded its head at the clothing it had passed to Demona. "Now, get dressed. We're going on a trip. Unless you want to go outside as you are." It smirked and then turned its back to Demona, allowing the enraged gargoyle a slight modicum of privacy.

For a moment, Demona sat there, trying to think of what else she might use against this creature. With its back exposed, it did present a target. Demona still wore her jewelry, but that was not made of iron. The fireplace poker was downstairs where she'd left it, and aside from the laser rifle smoldering on the other side of the room, she had no immediate armaments. Not even a vellum through which to channel an incantation.

Finally, she gave a resigned sigh, stepped out of the bed, and started to pull on her clothes, never taking her eyes off the changeling's back. "No, I don't think so," Demona growled as she finished tightening her belt. "I've suffered quite enough indignity already, thank you."

For a moment, the trickster thought about mentioning that Demona's evening-wear left little to the imagination anyway. But its self-control was better than Puck's, back in the days before Puck's banishment. The shapeshifter's demeanor turned serious again, the innocent light back in its faux-gargoyle eyes. "It was something you need not have suffered, if you had just controlled your temper. But denial is still your strongest suit."

The being moved over to one of the large windows and threw it open. It was still snowing outside. A few errant flakes drifted in on the breeze. But as always when she was in gargoyle form, Demona did not even feel the cold. "Spare me your sermon," Demona scowled at the trickster. "I'm only entertaining your stupid little games because I have no other weapons to use on you at the moment. I have a feeling that the sooner I cooperate with you, the sooner you will get out of here and leave me in peace."

The shapeshifter looked amused for a moment. "Peace is something I doubt you are familiar with anymore, but I promise: if you come with me, and see what I want to show you, I will never bother you again."

"Fine," Demona spat at the shapeshifter. With that, the true gargoyle and the false both leapt from the open window, catching a breeze and gliding off into the sparkling winter night.

Even at this late hour, the city below still radiated a myriad variety of soft pastel colors. Multi-colored Christmas lights were draped across terraces and inside store windows, and other bright, festive decorations seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the already crowded city.

Demona flew slightly behind her younger self, who seemed to be engrossed in the holiday spirit radiating upward from the normally frantic city streets. Almost too engrossed…

Demona smiled slyly, shifting her position on the current so she was gliding just behind her faux self, perfectly aligned with its back. She curled the talons on both hands into hooks, preparing to strike.

Suddenly, without warning, the shapeshifter veered off to the left at a precise perpendicular angle. Demona turned her head for a moment, wondering at its change in direction. Too late, she realized that it had altered its course to avoid hitting the side of a building. Demona struck the vertical brick surface with an ugly smack, and plummeted several feet onto a terrace below, where she became tangled unceremoniously in a patio umbrella.

"Ah, ah, ah," the shapeshifter admonished as it hovered a few feet above the terrace, waving a single talon back and forth. "I told you, we have a schedule to keep. These attempts to incapacitate me will only create delays, which means that it will take you longer to get back home."

Demona roared as she tore the umbrella to shreds, finally freeing herself. She then leapt onto the railing of the terrace and balanced there for a moment. "If I had my way, I would kill you very slowly," she grumbled.

For a moment, the trickster looked like it would say something else. Then, the innocence that Demona did not like seeing returned to its eyes. "Come along, Demona," she said curtly. "We have a lot to see. A thousand years is a very long time, as mortals reckon, after all." So saying, it began flying towards the distant shape of the Empire State Building, lit up red and green against the night.

Demona leapt from the railing and glided after the shapeshifter. But as she trailed behind, she thought she noticed the brightly-lit building before her start to shimmer. Even the snowflakes that drifted past her vision seemed to take on that same ethereal quality, like they were bending in and out of reality. The skyline of Manhattan started to twirl, and Demona shut her eyes against it, but even that did nothing to quell the hazy, disorienting sensation that swam through her body.

She continued to glide forward even as her eyes were shut, although her wings began to feel very heavy, like she were gliding directly into a hurricane-force gale. Despite the fact that it felt like she were being shoved violently into reverse, her wings somehow managed to carry her forward with little effort. Finally, after an endless minute, Demona summoned enough curiosity to open her eyes again…

She looked around in awe. Where once it had been early Christmas morning in Manhattan, suddenly the air around her felt slightly warmer, as that of an early autumn. Also, the glass and concrete cityscape was gone, replaced by a sprawling forest that smelled strangely familiar.

Demona cast her eyes to the horizon, and saw the deep darkness of the ocean glittering in the moonlight. But as she looked towards the sea, all her attention immediately became drawn to what she saw resting on the clifftops in front of the dark waters.

Castle Wyvern. Her old home. Even from here, the braziers could be seen flickering in the windows. But that was impossible. The castle hadn't been lived in since that night she'd lost everything to human treachery, and even then it would be a thousand years before Xanatos made it his base of operations. For that matter, what was it doing back in Scotland? Unless…

"I know what you're thinking," the trickster, gliding slightly to the left of her, declared. "No, we haven't gone back in time. This is merely a shadow of what was, created from your memories. We cannot interact with anyone in it. All we can do is watch."

Demona blinked rapidly, still trying to figure out how she could be seeing her old life on the clifftops of Scotland. Not even one as versed in magic as her could think that such a thing was possible. "How…?" she breathed.

"It's complicated," said the shapeshifter. "And besides, I don't have time to explain it now. We must hurry, or we'll miss the wedding."

"Wedding?" Demona echoed.

"Prince Malcolm's," explained her double, already picking up speed as it glided towards the castle. Demona shook her head, still in a daze, and did her best to follow. A few moments later, she arrived at the battlements of the castle to find her shadow already standing there, its wings caped. Demona landed next to it and followed suit.

"Right on schedule," the shapeshifter declared as it looked around. "Such a lovely home. I can see why one would want it all for their clan."

Demona barely heard its words. Her mind was still trying to make sense of what was happening. The wind through her hair, the sound of owls in the distant forest, the feel of the stones beneath her taloned feet, the smell of the wild game that was roasting in the kitchens for the wedding feast… it couldn't be real, but at the same time, it felt real.

Demona nearly jumped in surprise when a stocky gray gargoyle marched past her, its mind occupied on its patrol of the battlements. She knewhim. In her younger days, he had attempted to teach her how to play chess, but Demona had usually managed to find excuses to avoid learning some silly human game.

"Rookery brother!" Demona called after him, but he continued on his path, not even acknowledging that he had heard her.

"I told you," the shapeshifter spoke up behind her. "This is but a shadow. It may feel real, but I assure you, it is not. We cannot interact with anything."

Demona sighed wistfully as the gray gargoyle rounded the corner and disappeared from view. She almost didn't notice as the changeling gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Come, Demona," said her fay guide. "What we're here to see is this way." Demona turned, and saw the shapeshifter walking towards the far end of the battlements. Demona followed cautiously, her mind still trying to cope with everything she was seeing. Faces of those long dead were all around her. But her doppelganger seemed to be focused on only one pair. It was peering over the wall, across the courtyard to one of the chapel windows.

Demona came up alongside it, following its gaze. Standing in the archway of one window, she spotted two gargoyles. She did not need a closer look, she already knew that they were herself and Goliath.

Then she was seeing the year 975. A moment later, this suspicion was confirmed when she heard the self in her memory illusion speaking to her former love.

"Take this token of my love," the memory-Demona spoke, its voice containing none of the bitterness that it would eventually come to possess. "Cherish it always, as I will cherish my half. Upon this, I pledge my heart to you forever."

For a moment, every sight, sound, and smell of her old home seemed to fade into the background as Demona watched the scene she knew too well play out before her. Her teenage self offered half of the Phoenix Gate to the memory-Goliath, who accepted it gladly.

"I accept your token, my Angel of the Night," Goliath spoke softly as he wrapped his then-beloved in the warm embrace of his wings. "And vow that you and I are one…"

"Now and forever," Demona whispered from her vantage point on the battlements, finishing the line that she'd heard so often in her dreams during the long millennium of loneliness she'd spent waiting for the castle to rise above the clouds. She didn't dream of Goliath so much anymore. Ah, well. What did it matter? He'd ended it, not her.

"That was beautiful," the shapeshifter spoke beside her, suppressing a mock-tear. "I never knew you could be so poetic. Whatever happened to that side of you, anyway? Oh, I think I remember. It was about twenty years after this."

Demona knew where this was heading, and she didn't like it. The joyful reminiscence of the night of Prince Malcolm's wedding dissipated rapidly. "No!" she snapped at the changeling. "Don't take me there! Please…"

The faux-gargoyle shook its head sadly. "I'm afraid I can't change what you see. These are your memories, Demona. You created them. Like it or not, they are a part of you."

Demona growled low in her throat and dropped into a fighting stance, tail raised off the ground in a defensive posture. "I am trying to ask you politely."

"And I appreciate that," said her double. For a moment, the two eyed each other warily. Then, the shapeshifter snapped its talons, and the scenery around them changed instantly.

The sky over their heads turned from a peaceful shade of midnight to a smoldering, blood-red hue, a battle sky stained by the smoke from many fires. The masonry beneath their feet became cracked in odd places, battered by a recent siege. Chunks of debris littered both the battlements and the courtyard below.

Some of it was pieces of the walls, knocked loose by the sacking it had suffered at the hands of the Vikings. But it only took Demona an instant of horror to realize that most of the debris was the fragments of her dead clan. Once proud warriors who were living and breathing, they now lay scattered unceremoniously as piles of rubble. The sadistic changeling had done it. It was making her relive the night of the massacre.

"NOOOOOOO!!" From the far wall, a cry suddenly resounded from the highest parapets to the depths of the cellars, cutting through Demona's heart like a dagger of ice. Though she knew what had caused it, she dashed around the battlements to the opposite side of the wall, where the source of the cry waited. There, she saw the memory image of herself, crouched among the remains of her fallen rookery kin, weeping bitterly.

Demona felt a tear forming in the corner of her eye. She clenched her eyelids shut, fighting to keep it in. Centuries of discipline helped her to succeed. After a moment, she reopened her eyes, only to find the shapeshifter standing next to her.

"I'm sorry, Demona," it said, its voice heavy. "I wish I could have shown you something more pleasant. But you, more than anyone, should know that history cannot be changed."

Demona fought hard to keep another tear at bay as she eyed her reflection coldly. "Get me out of here," she rasped. "NOW."

"Very well," the being that took her form said with a nod. "But first, we need to jump forward a bit. You already know how Goliath and Hudson returned, about how you fled the castle, planning to come back a few hours later, to tell your mate that you had gone out looking for him."

"I don't need to be reminded of this," snarled Demona, practically ready to lose it. "I lived it. And for making me live it again, someday I vow that I will make you suffer for your insult."

The changeling sighed. "I'm starting to get the feeling that the things I'll show you won't do much to improve you. But, I do owe the Puck a favor. Just remember that, will you, should you ever come looking for revenge. I didn't volunteer for this. Frankly, I can think of better ways to spend the holiday." The being shrugged, and then snapped its talons again.

Instantly, the fires in the castle started to burn lower. Much of the crimson haze cleared from the starry sky overhead. The moon changed position in less time than it took to blink. The memory image of Demona sobbing her heart out amidst the dead vanished, only to reappear a short distance away on the parapet.

As Demona turned her gaze, she realized her memory-self was looking up in horror at something perched on the flagstones. Demona glanced up as well, though she remembered what was causing her memory image's look of dread. The statue of her mate, turned into stone by night now as well as day, sat in a pose of brooding contemplation.

Fresh tears brimmed in the eyes of her memory-self, nearly causing Demona to release one as well. Angrily she whirled about, grabbing her double with both hands and slamming it against the stone wall.

"You sadistic witch!" she yelled at it. "Stop torturing me! I already told you I don't need to be reminded of this!"

"Don't get angry at me, Demona," said the changeling. Much to Demona's alarm, its voice was not defensive, but rather it was soft, almost piteous. "I told you, I can only show you what you yourself created. Deny it all you like, but everything we've seen so far is a part of you. My magic can only conjure the shadows of what was, and these things did happen. Not even threatening me will change that."

Demona's lip curled angrily, but she still relaxed her grip on the shapeshifter. Cautiously, the being removed Demona's hands from its shoulders and straightened itself out. "Now watch," it said, pointing back to the memory-Demona on the parapet. "I don't want you to miss this next part."

But Demona did not want to watch. There was no need for her to turn her head. She knew what was coming. Sure enough, she then heard herself cry out: "What have I… what have THEY done to you?!" Demona did not even turn around to see her memory image climb to the flagstones to touch its lips against the cold, lifeless face of her imprisoned lover.

Demona sighed, remembering in vivid detail the tear that had fallen onto Goliath's stone form. It was the last she would shed for many a year. The Demona doppelganger was leaning against the wall behind it now, talons hooked into its belt, casually watching the scene play out.

"Yes, I remember this," Demona told the changeling. "But so what? I was right when I said that the humans did this to him. Murdering us in our sleep wasn't good enough for them. Then they needed to curse those who survived and steal our children!"

"Really?" the fay posing as Demona replied, amusement starting to creep into its voice. "Well, you had no way of knowing this, since I doubt that even after you got your talons on the Grimorum you even bothered to read the Magus's account, but Goliath asked to be put under the spell. The Magus had already cursed the other survivors, thinking the Princess to be dead. Between them, the rest of his charges, and his 'Angel of the Night,' Goliath thought he had lost everything. He didn't feel like living anymore. Of course, you had no way of knowing this. You were busy trying to keep suspicion from yourself."

Demona snorted, unwilling to face another lecture on morality. "Please. I'm familiar with the fabrication written down by that pathetic excuse for a sorcerer! He was simply trying to make himself sound like less of a villain by pretending to be sorry, no doubt to try and elicit sympathy from anyone reading the story. His account might actually have made me laugh had he not been such a sniveling little foot-licker! Frankly, I was overjoyed when I found out from Angela what had happened to him."

The changeling nodded. "Yes. We all know how well that conversation went. But we'll explore that later. True, this was a bad night for you, but fortunately, you soon learned to find something else to love." So saying, it gave another signature snap of its talons, and the scenery around them changed again.

Demona was then shown several more scenes from her life in rapid succession: the wounding of a young boy that the shapeshifter thought to be very significant for some reason, but Demona seemed to have little recollection of; her meeting and eventual alliance with the Scottish noble, Macbeth; their covenant that eternally bound one to the other; Macbeth's succession to the throne of Scotland, and his appointment of Demona as primary advisor.

In truth, Demona had usually remembered the times of Macbeth's rule, before his betrayal, fondly. The remnants of gargoyle clans from all over Scotland had assembled beneath the banner of Moray, and were thriving under Demona's leadership. But the shapeshifter had assured her that what they saw was mostly preliminary, meant to lead up to a very significant night.

Finally, the pair found themselves standing atop Castle Moray, where a gray-haired man with roughly-chiseled features stood expectantly by the edge of the ramparts. Demona knew who it was a memory image of, and she also had a feeling she knew what was to come.

Sure enough, a moment later, a familiar figure glided out of the mists, red hair streaming behind it like a blazing fire, and landed atop one of the stone turrets. Macbeth turned eagerly to face his ally.

"Macbeth!" the memory image of Demona called as it alighted upon the turret.

"The Hunter is defeated?" the Scottish monarch asked memory-Demona, an eager edge to his voice.

Memory-Demona smiled warmly as she leapt to the cobbled ground of the ramparts and grasped her ally on the shoulders. "Not this night, but soon, Macbeth!" Laughter danced in her voice as she lifted the old king bodily off the ground and spun him around in the air. "Together we will triumph!"

For a moment, Demona regarded herself in 1057 like she was regarding a stranger. There was a lightness to its step, a sense of excitement that seemed to radiate like electricity from its wingtips. The next time Demona would feel as giddy as a hatchling would be the night in 1994 when she met Goliath again, and she only hoped that her guide would not take her there.

"Hey! Leave off!" Macbeth chided her memory image with a slight laugh, though from the lines on his brow, one could tell he looked preoccupied by something. "I have business to attend," he explained as memory-Demona set him back down on the stones.

"My lady," he bowed curtly to her, and proceeded inside.

Demona watched her 1057 self watch Macbeth leave, and then she turned to face the changeling. "If you're about to accuse me of something else, you're wasting your breath," she told her double. "Goliath and his brainwashed rabble blame me for the Wyvern massacre, and are too blind to see the truth. That doesn't bother me. Much. Fools are fools, after all. But if you're about to prattle on about Macbeth being some great and noble human who was wronged by a sinister bitch of a gargoyle, I'll have you know that I was right to break all ties with him. It would have been suicide to stay here."

The whole time the being had been listening to Demona's tirade, an amused light was growing in its eyes. "Would it, now?" she asked. "We all know how great the alternative worked out."

Immediately, the fires leapt into Demona's eyes. "No! Don't you dare show me that!"

"Don't worry," said the changeling. "You're getting a reprieve. For now. There's something else we need to see first." So saying, it snapped its talons, and instantly, both it and Demona found themselves in Castle Moray's Great Hall, where Macbeth was holding council with his father-in-law and son. Lulach sat at the table while Macbeth stood close by, casting an annoyed look at Bodhe.

"What have you to tell me that Demona cannot hear, Bodhe?" Macbeth asked his elder. "Quickly, before Lulach leaves to gather reinforcements."

Bodhe began to explain the benefits of Macbeth breaking his alliance with the gargoyles to appease the English, but Demona was hardly listening. She'd already heard this before. If anything, it proved she was right.

"You see?" Demona triumphantly gloated to her doppelganger, which had seated itself at the opposite end of the table to Lulach, and was engrossed in the conversation. "I heard it myself. Macbeth was going to betray me! Me and all of my kind. I did what I had to do!"

Now it was the shapeshifter's turn to be annoyed. She turned her head slightly and sighed. "You were eavesdropping on this conversation, yes, but not all of it. You missed a very important thing because you were so sure of yourself."

"Don't patronize me!" Demona growled. "I was there! I know what I heard."

The shapeshifter raised a talon to it lips. "Be quiet, Demona," it snapped in a commanding voice. Then it gestured at the three humans who were arguing nearby. "Watch."

A gloved fist angrily pounded the tabletop just as the shapeshifter finished speaking. "Father, why are you listening to this?" Lulach was protesting as he rose from his seat. "The gargoyles fought with great courage! We might not have won this night, but neither did we lose. To betray them…"

Sternly, Macbeth placed both hands on his son's shoulders, silencing him. "A wise king considers all his options, Lulach," he said with a firm, yet loving tone. "And then makes his choice."

Lulach seemed ready to disagree, but there was a look in his father's eyes like the man knew what he was doing. So he simply gave a slight bow of his head, and left the hall.

For a few moments after the prince had gone, both Macbeth and Bodhe stood there in silence. Then, Macbeth turned to the older man. "Now then, Bodhe," he said. "I know you are concerned with the fate of this country, and of your family. Lord knows, so am I. It preys upon me day and night. But we are not going to forswear Demona and her kin. They've never been anything but brave and worthy allies. I certainly won't abandon them for the likes of the English."

From where she stood on the other side of the table, Demona's mouth drifted towards the floor. He was defending her? This couldn't be.

"The price of peace is always high, Macbeth," his father-in-law persisted. "Would you rather it come from losing the gargoyles, or at the deaths of untold numbers of your own countrymen? Because if you don't consider ending your alliance with the gargoyles, that's what the cost will be."

Macbeth shook his head and laid a hand gently on the old man's shoulder. "There's no honor in selling out our allies just to save our own hides, Bodhe," he said. "Besides, seventeen years ago I made a promise to Demona that I would keep her and the other gargoyles safe. I will not go back on my word."

"Be reasonable, Macbeth…" Bodhe began, but stopped when he saw the monarch's eyes narrow. The hand on his bony shoulder became a bit more firm.

"I have made my decision, old man," Macbeth snapped. "The matter is now closed. You will speak no more of it to anyone. Do I make myself clear?"

For a moment Bodhe stood there, the arguments hovering on the tip of his tongue. But finally, the weakness in his own heart won out over any other desire to press his point. He took a step back from Macbeth, bowed his head towards the floor. "Aye, my lord," he grumbled, and then stalked from the hall.

Throughout their entire conversation, Demona had not closed her mouth once. It still hung open as her mind grappled with the shock of what she'd just heard. Could this really be true? She looked at her doppelganger, who sat there in silence, watching as the memory image of Macbeth took a seat at the table and refilled his wine goblet.

The sight of Oberon's subject made suspicion creep into her once again. She had never heard Macbeth say this. She remembered vividly what happened that night: Macbeth had taken the advice of that silly old human, to destroy her and her clan. Right after hearing that, she'd gone off in order to notify her lieutenants of her change in plans.

"This never happened," she whispered to herself, just loud enough for the shapeshifter to hear. Her mirror image looked up at the gargoyle curiously.

Demona glanced down at it and folded her arms across her breast. "This never happened," she declared more firmly. "I never heard Macbeth say this. This is just a lie you've concocted to try and make it look like I was the villain. This is certainly a low blow, changeling, even for one of your conniving race."

The shapeshifter shook its head, slowly rising to its feet. "I'm not saying that you're a villain, Demona. Just remember that you didn't hear all of the conversation, you simply heard exactly what you wanted to, and then left. But whether you choose to believe what you just saw or not, at least consider this: in seventeen years, did Macbeth ever smash a sleeping gargoyle under his banner? In all the nights that you and your kin took part in matters of state, did he ever dismiss your advice just because of your race?

"Princess Katherine wouldn't even let you in the dining hall, and Macbeth invited you and yours to dine at the same table as himself and the highest-ranking human advisors in his court. He even saved your life twice."

The second Demona heard that, she knew that the shapeshifter was lying. "Once, changeling! Macbeth only saved my life once. And that was simply to repay a favor that I now regret rendering."

"You're wrong," insisted her doppelganger. "You weren't awake for the second time, but King Duncan found your hiding place in the cavern not far from Moray, while you and your clan were asleep in stone. Duncan wanted to destroy you right then and there, but Macbeth stopped him."

"Another lie!" growled Demona, bringing her talons down hard on the tabletop. The image of Macbeth, seated down at the other end, continued to stare at the fire with goblet in hand, taking no notice.

The changeling shrugged. "All right. Say I am lying. But getting back to my original point. You already know how long yours and Macbeth's people managed to co-exist. But when you made a deal with Canmore, how long did it take him to slaughter your kin behind your back? Less than twenty-four hours, wasn't it?"

Demona already did not like where this was heading. Her eyes glowed threateningly as she tightened her grip on the edges of the table. "Even if what I just saw is true, it still changes nothing! The Captain of the Guard at Wyvern sang the same song as Macbeth, and he still let the Vikings destroy my clan! Macbeth's words might have been decent, but he too would have betrayed us, given enough time. Humans can never be trusted!"

Once again, the changeling adopted that amused look that Demona didn't like. "Sure. The deaths of the gargoyles at Wyvern were entirely the captain's fault. You just keep telling yourself that."

Demona growled and reared her wings to their full span. "How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you mock the death of my clan! Unlike Goliath, I actually tried to do what was best for them!"

The shapeshifter nodded, looking non-plussed. "And when you had leadership of your own clan, you tried to do the same thing. And again, it didn't work too well." Before Demona could react, the being waved a hand in front of its face in a circular fashion. Instantly, the hall of Castle Moray became enveloped in a cold mist that blocked everything from view.

After several tense seconds, the mist parted, or at least retreated several feet. When it did, both Demona and the shapeshifter found themselves standing in the clearing of a moonlit forest, the edges of which were shrouded in fog. More memory images were gathered not far away: Demona saw herself in 1057 standing a few feet from Gruoch, who was crouched over the slain form of her husband, the former king of Scotland.

"You fool!" Gruoch snapped at Demona's memory-image, her sparkling green eyes blurred with tears of grief and anger. "Macbeth did not betray you! Canmore did! He destroyed your clan! You are the last of your treacherous kind!"

"You lie!" Memory-Demona hissed, the tips of her talons quivering in anticipation.

"See for yourself, then!" said Gruoch, showing no sign of fear at the wrath that stewed within the gargoyle. "Go and search for your kin. Search until you and your kind are but a nightmare memory!"

Demona watched her 1057 self, poised to strike at Gruoch, and felt like berating the memory image for not leaping at the old woman and tearing her to pieces. But the gargoyle did remember how the urgency in the former queen's words had struck a chord in her.

Memory-Demona gave Gruoch another growl, then brushed past her and left, racing off into the forest. Demona knew what she would find, and she also knew that her doppelganger would likely torture her with that next.

She whirled to face her tormenter. "I've already seen what you're going to show me next," Demona said, keeping her voice level through some miracle. "Please, don't make me see it again."

The changeling's expression had once more turned serious. That same innocent glint was in its eyes. For all intents and purposes, it was back in character. "You saw it," it said with a heavy sigh. "But I don't think you really saw it." So saying, it snapped its talons, and instantly both it and Demona were transported to another clearing in the forest.

The first thing Demona noticed were the crows that filled the night sky overhead both with their numbers and incessant cawing. Most of them seemed to be landing on a small hill that rested a few yards from where the two immortals stood. But Demona did not need a closer look to know that it was no hill.

The bodies of dozens of fallen gargoyles, slain by Canmore and his English allies, had been unceremoniously stacked in the forest clearing and left to rot. Occasionally, one of the many birds circling overhead would swoop down to peck ravenously at their flesh.

Not far from the mountain of slaughter crouched a familiar azure gargoyle, weeping as she'd not done since the massacre at Wyvern. Her face was buried in her talons, but tears still poured freely out from in between them to fall on the parched soil below.

For a brief moment, any animosity towards the shapeshifter was forgotten. Demona stepped up beside her memory image, her heart heavy. Even as she watched herself bawling, she felt a lump form in her throat. Her legs grew weak. A tear sprang into her eye, forcing its way to the surface. Reliving two massacres in one night proved too much for the normally disciplined immortal. She dropped meekly to her knees without a sound as tears began to run down her cheeks. She did not sob nor make any other noise, just knelt there, hands in her lap, and allowed her grief to flow out quietly.

The shapeshifter kept its distance, standing back on the edge of the clearing, letting Demona have her moment. From where it stood, it saw Demona reach out, and try to place a hand on the shoulder of her memory-image. Demona's talons passed through it as if it was not there, which only elicited a fresh wave of tears from the immortal gargoyle.

Finally, when it appeared that Demona had spent her sorrow for the time being, the shapeshifter stepped cautiously towards the gargoyle, who was still on her knees. "I am truly sorry, Demona," it said softly. "It seems that every time you try to do what you think is right, the ones that you care about always suffer for it."

Demona knelt on the ground, focusing on her memory-self, not wanting to face the accusatory stares from the dull, sightless eyes of her slain brethren, stacked close by. After a few more minutes, the 1057 Demona rose to its feet, its body still wracked by sobs. It walked numbly off into the woods, but Demona knew that it was going to gather wood for a funeral pyre. The thought of it made Demona's eyes brim with tears once more.

"The humans did this," Demona whispered.

"And just like Wyvern, who was the one who bargained with those humans?"

"This wasn't my fault. I was in a situation where I couldn't win. If Canmore hadn't destroyed them, Macbeth would have, in time. Maybe not this night, but someday. All humans are treacherous animals at heart. It is their nature."

The shapeshifter sighed. "I suppose hating every human in the world makes it easier for you to deny your own involvement in what happened." Once again, its tone was not lecturing, nor preachy, simply matter-of-fact. "Humans and gargoyles have more in common than you think. Both of them are capable of choosing between either good or evil, including that universal weakness: hatred."

A spark ignited in the back of Demona's brain upon hearing those words. She rose swiftly to her feet, her eyes ablaze even though her face was still damp with tears. Before the changeling could react, Demona's tail whipped along the ground, tripping it and sending it sprawling to the semi-frozen earth.

"I WILL STAND FOR NO MORE OF YOUR LIES, CHANGELING!" she roared at her doppelganger. "We are NOTHING like humans!Humans are weak, incompetent creatures who care only about themselves! If anything, what you've shown me tonight only proves how untrustworthy they are! And since you seem to delight in torturing me, perhaps it's time I returned the favor!"

So saying, she grabbed the fay by the hair, and dragged it roughly to its feet. With her talons still clenched around its scalp, Demona cocked her other hand back, balled into a fist, and cruelly drove it home into the center of the shapeshifter's face. She brought her fist back and then forward again several times, earning a moist crunch each time she connected. Her arm moved mechanically, pure rage coursing through her like an opiate as she battered her doppelganger's flesh. After she'd finished smashing its face almost to pulp, Demona flung it towards the edge of the clearing with all her strength, where its back slammed brutally against a tree trunk.

With a shrill cry that split the air like the howl of a damned soul, Demona charged at the shapeshifter's crumpled form. Despite the blood that flowed freely from its broken nose, and the bruises that were rapidly puffing its face and swelling one eye shut, the being's other eye was calm as it rose shakily to its feet. Demona was only a few paces from it, her talons ready to tear it open like a landed fish, when it calmly waved its hand.

All at once, Demona found herself frozen in place. Her arms were tensed in mid-strike, but she could no longer move them. She attempted to move her legs, but those too refused to obey her commands. For several minutes, she strained against the invisible bonds of magic that held her, to no avail. She realized that while she could still speak, and move her eyes and head, the rest of her was transfixed.

"Release me, changeling!" she screamed at it. The shapeshifter regarded her for a moment with its good eye, then spit blood from its mouth onto the ground at its feet.

"I'm afraid that I can't honor your request," it said.

"RELEASE ME!" Demona screamed again. Then, in a slightly calmer, though no less dangerous voice, she went on. "Release me, or I promise that I will make your death even more painful than it has to be. By the time I'm through with you, you will be begging me to end your life!"

The shapeshifter stood there for another moment. Then, its form seemed to shimmer. The face of Demona that it had been wearing, bruised and bloodied now, faded away, to be replaced by a face that was pale and featureless. After a minute spent wearing the formless visage, it then re-assumed Demona's face, but all traces of the savage beating it had endured were erased.

It gave a weary sigh, as if the action of healing itself had taken something out of it, and then spoke. "You misunderstand me. I want to release you, but first I need to be sure that you will refrain from using more violence. It takes a great deal of concentration to maintain the illusion that you see all around you. If something were to break that concentration, such as an act of aggression against me, the illusion might fall apart too quickly and you'd be thrust back into normal reality at an unsafe pace. The consequences can be unpleasant, sometimes fatal. Now, even though I know it won't kill you, it might have some other nasty side effects. I doubt even the incantation of Puck or that of the Sisters would be able to completely restore you if you were to lose an arm, or a wing, or several appendages at once."

Demona pored over its words for a moment. She had tinkered in magic for most of her life, and was well aware of the hazards inherent in breaking a spellcaster's concentration. Her survival instinct was enough to bring her rage down by a few degrees, but the dangerous light did not leave her eyes. "I understand," she growled.

"No, I don't think you do," said the shapeshifter. "We still have a few more things we need to see, and we can't keep having these interruptions. I'm going to leave you like that for a while. You'll regain the use of your limbs when I think you're ready to behave yourself."

Demona snarled, muscles flexing futilely as she tried to find some leeway against the magical prison. But her efforts appeared to be useless. She sighed, resigned to her fate for the moment. Giving this being what it wanted (or appearing to give it anyway) seemed to be the best way out of her predicament.

The shapeshifter took no notice of Demona's annoyance. Instead it snapped its talons, and instantly they were transported away from the forest to some more recent events in the timeline.

They were back at Castle Wyvern, in the courtyard. Only now, the sounds of horns, sirens, and other ambience of city life could be heard in the background. It was 1994. David Xanatos had moved the castle from the coast of Scotland to his skyscraper in Manhattan, and the rest of her clan had been awakened.

Demona stood frozen in place alongside her doppelganger, and watched as memory images of herself and Goliath alighted in the courtyard. Despite the indignity of being immobilized and scolded like a hatchling, Demona actually found herself giving a small smile out of one corner of her mouth at the memory of gliding with Goliath again after 1,000 years of dreaming about it. True, he and the others were being used for a grander purpose by herself and Xanatos, but she had still been happy to see the survivors of her clan again. That happiness, however, was short-lived.

"It's touching, in a way," said the changeling. "Even after 1,000 years, you still loved him. But there was something tainting that love, because the mistakes you made had taught you to hate something as passionately as you once loved Goliath."

"Oh, shut up!" snapped Demona. "If you're going to tell me that the break-up was my fault, you're wrong again. He ended it when he showed that he cared more for humans than he did for me and the others, just like it was back in Scotland. It should come as no surprise to me that he's fucking one now!"

"Watch your language, Demona," the changeling admonished. "Unless you want me to magically gag you, as well. I don't want you to miss what happens next."

Demona's eyes flared at the fay, but she still complied. No sense in suffering any more humiliation this night. The two of them watched as, not far from where they stood, Demona's memory-self walked over to where Xanatos stood amidst the other gargoyles, and handed the disk to him.

"My friends," said Xanatos as he accepted it happily. "You have my profound thanks! Rest assured that the knowledge on these disks will be put to beneficial use for humans and gargoyles alike." So saying, he turned and headed across the courtyard towards the doorway to the Great Hall.

Goliath and Demona's memory images watched him go, and then Goliath looked down at his then-beloved. "I have promised to meet a friend," he told her. "I'll be back soon."

Memory-Demona eyed him warily. "A friend?" she asked. "Who? Not one of us!"

Goliath shook his head. "No, a human. Elisa Maza."

Memory-Demona then gave him a cold look, one which appeared to put the larger gargoyle in a state of unease. "Aside from Xanatos, we have no human friends, nor should we," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Humanity is our enemy, Goliath. I thought you learned that a millennium ago."

"I cannot make war upon an entire world," Goliath protested. "Doesn't Xanatos prove that there are good humans as well as bad?" He started to turn towards the steps leading up the tower, but memory-Demona intercepted him.

"Can you forgive the humans for what they did to our kind?" She retorted.

"The ones responsible for that have been dead for a thousand years," said Goliath.

"Then their descendants shall pay!" Memory-Demona pounded the air with her fist. "I will have blood for blood!"

For a moment, Goliath regarded his then-beloved, a sad, faraway look in his eyes. Then he spoke. "You said the centuries have changed me. They've changed you too. You've become hard, unforgiving. You're not as I remember you. I'm going to see my friend now." With that, he moved past her and out of the courtyard towards the tower.

"So be it," Memory-Demona hissed as he left, the ice never leaving her eyes. She watched him for another second, then turned and stalked past the rest of the clan, not even noticing the stunned looks on their faces.

From where they stood at the other end of the courtyard, neither Demona nor the changeling spoke for another minute. Then her doppelganger cleared its throat. "You did love him," it explained. "Down through the centuries, you hoped to be reunited with him someday, but you also hoped that the Wyvern massacre would have twisted his heart in the same way that it twisted your own, so that he would have shared your hatred of humanity. Sharing that was more important to you than sharing his love. Yet, even after you pushed him away, he still loved you for a time."

"I pushed him away?" growled Demona. "More like the opposite! I tried to make him see that no good would ever come from trusting humans. He didn't listen, just as he never listened back then! He was the one who ended it!"

The changeling shook its head. "Believe what you will, Demona," it said. "But do you remember that night that you tried to poison his detective friend? One of the reasons that he came to meet you was because he wanted to talk. True, he was concerned for the life of Elisa, even though your plan failed, but he was also concerned for you. You never even gave him a chance to reach out to you, instead you just opened fire."

"Oh, please," said Demona. "He didn't give one whit about me. He just came out there to make me think that I had succeeded in poisoning the detective."

"As I said, Demona, you can believe whatever you will. You're very good at it already." The changeling scratched its chin thoughtfully for a moment, and then the amused light came back to its eyes. "By the way, if you're ready to behave, I'd be willing to release you now. Promise you won't try anything?"

Demona growled in agitation. "I promise I won't try anything," she said. At least, not while the illusion spell is in place, she thought to herself.

The shapeshifter regarded Demona for another second, then it cocked its head and winked at her. Demona fell forward as motion returned to her limbs, regaining control just in time to keep from tripping and falling facefirst onto the courtyard stones. For a moment she glowered at her fay guide, then she straightened herself a bit and caped her wings.

"So, what next?" Demona asked. "Are you going to blame Angela's naïveté on me as well?"

The shapeshifter shook her head. "Angela is on our agenda, even though I won't blame you for anything. First, there's something very important we need to see." Another signature talon-snap, and suddenly Demona found that both herself and the fay were passing through the floorstones of the courtyard. The rooms of the castle rushed by in a blur, and then they found themselves down in the atrium.

The gardens all around looked very peaceful, something which put the lush greenery at odds with the chaotic scene Demona saw about a hundred yards before her. Debris from the castle strewed the tiled walkway. Demona's memory image stood amidst the masonry, looking as if under a trance. Three elderly looking gargoyles surrounded her, one blond, one silver-haired, the third with hair as black as moonless night. A short distance away, overlooking the scene, were Goliath and Xanatos, the latter clad in his Steel Clan exoframe.

Demona remembered this night up to a point. Mostly, she remembered how whatever elation she had gotten from dealing retribution to the sleeping humans was spoiled by Goliath and those damned sisters tricking her. She chose not to voice this out loud, but as she watched, she wondered why the shapeshifter wasn't allowing her to relive the night before this one, when she'd shattered all those statues. That at least would have been enjoyable.

"I will have vengeance for the betrayal of my clan," declared memory-Demona. "Vengeance for my pain."

"But who betrayed your clan?" the dark-haired gargoyle asked.

"And who caused this pain?" added her silver-haired sister.

"The Vikings destroyed my clan!" memory-Demona snapped.

"Who betrayed the castle to the Vikings?" the black-haired gargoyle asked calmly.

"The Hunter hunted us down."

"Who created the Hunter?" chimed in the blond one.

"Canmore destroyed the last of us!"

"Who betrayed Macbeth to Canmore?" the silver-haired fay practically whispered the question to her. In an instant, Demona's hard expression seemed to change with a profound realization.

"Your thirst for vengeance has only created more sorrow," pleaded Goliath's memory-image. "End the cycle, Demona. Give us the code."

Tears trickled from the edges of memory-Demona's eyes as she spoke. "The access code… is 'alone,'" she said with a heavy voice.

Xanatos immediately took off for the Great Hall. Shortly after he left, Demona's memory image seemed to snap out of her trance. The sorrow in her eyes quickly reverted to anger as she glared at Goliath and the immortal trio that stood in front of him.

"You tricked me!" she snapped. "You had me under a spell! None of this was my fault! It was the humans… always the humans!"

Goliath regarded his former mate with a mixture of pity and disgust. "You have learned nothing," he said with a sigh.

"Nothing but your lies!" memory-Demona retorted. "I will still have my revenge!"

From the vantage point where she and the fay stood watching, Demona's eyes flared with anger. Bad enough she'd been tricked into thwarting her own plan, then that arrogant fool had to rub down his damn nose at her.

"I find it interesting," the changeling spoke up behind her. "That access code that you chose. Out of the millions of words you could have picked, why that one?"

Demona readied yet another scathing remark to fire at the shapeshifter… and realized that she couldn't think of one. Her mind grasped fervently for something, anything to say, and all it could come up with was a single response. "I don't know," she said softly. "It… was just a word."

"A very significant word, considering everything we've seen tonight. So what made you think of it?"

Again, Demona struggled for an answer. She had barely thought about it that night as she punched the code into the computer terminal. She just needed a new word to lock Xanatos and Goliath out of the system. But why had it been that word? "I just needed a new word to change the passcode," she protested. "One that would prevent the countdown from being overridden."

Once again the shapeshifter was wearing that annoying look of innocence. "And again, it could have been any word. So why 'alone'? Could it be that, on a subconscious level, you're not as happy in the life you've chosen as you'd like to think you are? Is there a part of you, locked away deep inside, that's crying for help, Demona?"

Demona stared uncomfortably down at the polished floor, which shimmered coldly underneath the overhead lights. She suddenly didn't want to look at her memory-image, now held fast by Oberon's vassals. "Take me somewhere else," she demanded, her voice shaky. "I don't like looking at this."

The changeling nodded. "All right. I wasn't looking for any answers from you. It was just something to think about, that's all."

"I don't want to think about it."

"And perhaps therein lies the real problem. But we won't dwell on it. For now." The changeling snapped its talons again, and again time leapt forward by a small span.

In an instant, both Demona and the shapeshifter were thousands of miles away from the Eyrie Building, standing atop the Arc de Triomphe overlooking the city of Paris. For a moment, Demona gazed about the city, which appeared to be in the early throes of summer. She didn't know what it was, but for some reason, she felt more at home here than in most other places.

But any pleasant feeling Demona had soon turned sour in the back of her throat, as she imagined what she and her doppelganger were doing here. That suspicion was confirmed when she saw a memory-image of herself seated on the edge of the arc, nuzzling against the armored chest of a white-haired male gargoyle with skin as dark as pitch.

"Thailog!" Demona hissed, recognizing the other figure instantly.

"Indeed," said the shapeshifter. "The best of both worlds. Just as attractive as Goliath, with none of that damn, preachy self-righteousness to sour the taste. Small wonder the two of you hit it off."

Demona's talons curled menacingly into hooks as she turned to face her fay antagonist. "Hardly! That motherless freak of nature used me from the moment he saw me!"

"You had much in common, then," said the changeling, not feeling at all threatened by the crimson glare in Demona's eyes. "Anyway, it's important that you pay attention here. Otherwise, you won't hear yourself think."

As if on cue, the memory image of Thailog took that moment to speak. "Hmmm, what are you thinking about, my dear?" he growled in a low voice as he ran his talons through the fiery silk of memory-Demona's hair.

The image of Demona turned to gaze at the image of her lover. "Angela," she said in a voice even lower than Thailog's. "I just can't believe it's true. My daughter has survived."

"But that's not all, is it?" asked the opaque gargoyle.

Memory-Demona shook her head, and momentarily pulled back from Thailog's advances. "You're right," she said. "I'm just worried about her. She's new to this world. Her mind is no doubt overwhelmed by its sights, its sounds, its technological advances. She's impressionable. That fool Goliath could easily corrupt her with his idealistic drivel about humanity someday being our friend. Maybe he already has."

Thailog regarded Demona's memory-image for a moment, his own brow creased in thought. He'd fought Angela on the rooftop of Demona's chateau, and had to admit that underneath her malignant naïveté, she did have fire. Maybe there was a possibility…

"Thinking of recruiting, then?" he asked as he inched closer to her and rubbed her chin against his brow.

"I want to save her from Goliath and his clan before their lies get her killed," said memory-Demona, nuzzling against his broad chest. "But I suppose that would also be a definite advantage. Expanding on our own little clan…"

Thailog pulled her closer and draped one wing across her shapely form. "Funny you should mention that," he said. "I've had an idea simmering in the back of my mind for a while now. I suppose now is as good as a time as any to share it. Nightstone's American headquarters will be completing construction soon, anyway…"

From where she stood alongside the shapeshifter, Demona turned her head away. The taste of bile in her throat had become stronger the more she'd watched her memory-self cozying up to that double-crossing sadist.

"And what a plan that was," said the changeling. "You tried and tried to get Angela to see things your way, but she just didn't know how to hate the way that you do. Or maybe she did, and just needed the right thing to nudge it out into the open." So saying, it snapped its talons yet again, sending both it and Demona back across the ocean… to Coney Island.

Demona and the shapeshifter found themselves in one of the funhouse chambers, which Demona remembered had been specially altered by herself and Thailog. The clones of the Manhattan gargoyles had made quick work of the originals. Goliath and his clan, as well as the bastard gargoyle that was the detective's brother, were shackled tightly to the damp stone walls and floor.

The memory images of Demona and Thailog were showing off the clones to Goliath and the others, who had already seen them in action. Finally, the banter was over.

"It's time to get rid of all of you," growled Thailog, brandishing his laser cannon as he stalked towards the gargoyles. He stopped before Angela's bound form, and leveled the rifle. "Starting with her!"

"No!" Shouted Demona's memory-image. She stepped in front of Angela, coming between her daughter and Thailog's gun. "She belongs to me!"

"My dear," argued Goliath's clone. "You've known she was your daughter since before we staged your capture, and you've still been unable to turn her!"

The true Demona stood in the corner with the shapeshifter and watched as Thailog's words elicited a very unkind response from Angela. "You knew the whole time?" Angela shouted at her mother's memory-image.

"I had to make you understand," memory-Demona pleaded.

"I understand perfectly," said Angela. "All this was a charade staged to turn me against my father, to trap and destroy my clan!" Her voice became low, almost menacing as she glared at memory-Demona. "You are capable of anything. I hate you!" For the briefest of moments, her eyes burned red as she spoke. Memory-Demona cringed at the sight of her daughter's face, alive with a deep loathing that did not seem to become her, and turned sadly away.

"You see?" said Thailog triumphantly. "You're better off without her!" So saying, he raised the laser gun once more, preparing to slay the young gargoyle.

Demona's memory-image turned suddenly on her heels, and leapt at the black-skinned clone. "No!" she cried as she latched onto Thailog from behind, and jerked the gun's barrel away from Angela. The shot went wide, striking the ceiling and sending dust and debris raining down on all assembled.

Memory-Demona grappled with Thailog for a few more moments, but the larger gargoyle succeeded at casting his soon-to-be ex-flame to the ground. "You disappoint me, my dear," he said with a wistful tone. "Fortunately, I prepared for such a development." He turned his head slightly and called: "Delilah!"

As if on cue, a section of the far wall began to slide upwards. Both the real Demona and her memory image watched, the former seething with unfathomable rage, the latter staring in alarm, as the wall slid up to reveal a slender, tan-colored gargoyle. Her brow-ridges were very much like Demona's, but the rest of her face resembled someone else entirely, the face of Demona's most-hated enemy, Elisa.

"Yes, Master Thailog?" Delilah spoke as she stepped into the chamber, her voice an eerie pantomime of the human detective's.

"Look familiar, my ex-love?" Thailog gloated to the memory image of Demona. "I combined your DNA with that of the human, Elisa Maza, to create Delilah!" As he was speaking, Delilah stepped past memory-Demona to her master's side. "She's the perfect programmed companion: obedient, and lovely." He took one hand off the gun to cup Delilah's chin affectionately in his talons.

"She'll do anything for me," he purred. Then, gesturing at the captive gargoyles with his rifle, he snapped: "Destroy them, Delilah!"

"As you command," the programmed gargoyle replied without hesitation. She picked Demona's gun off the ground, where her genetic "parent" had dropped it, and started towards Angela.

Over in the corner, Demona's talons were clenched hard enough to draw blood from her palms as she relived the memory of this night. She wished that the genetic freak were more than just a memory image. Demona had not seen Delilah since this night, which was fortunate for the beige-skinned hybrid. If she ever encountered that thing again, Demona would definitely pull her mace out and smash in its skull without thinking twice. The very idea that the essence of a gargoyle should be tainted by mixing it with such an inferior life form…

"I can't believe you missed it!" The shapeshifter cried in an exasperated tone, momentarily dimming the light in Demona's eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Demona growled. "I saw everything! Thailog's betrayal, that hybrid bitch that he created whose very existence is an insult to gargoyle-kind!"

The shapeshifter shook its head. "No, you completely missed what I wanted you to see." It pointed a single talon out in front of it and made a small gesture, as if it were pushing an invisible button. "Rewind!" it spoke. Suddenly, the events of that night began to play backwards. It would have been amusing, but Demona did not find herself in the mood to be amused by it.

"Now this time, Demona," advised the shapeshifter. "I want you to pay closer attention to yourself, and not your hate child." Once the events had reversed back to the point where Delilah aimed her laser gun at Angela, the changeling stabbed the air with its talon again. "Resume!" It snapped.

This time, Demona watched as the bastard gargoyle prepared to do its master's bidding. She watched her memory image tense, and Thailog notice the movement out of the corner of his eye. Watched Thailog turn towards her memory-self, ready to fire. Watched as the image of herself unexpectedly leapt to the side, instead of towards Delilah as Thailog had anticipated, making his shot miss. And finally, watched as memory-Demona pulled up an ornate copper decoration on the wall, revealing a large button.

"Goliath, save our daughter!" Her memory-self called out as it slammed its fist down on the button, releasing the shackles from Goliath and Angela's wrists. Chaos erupted in the room shortly after Goliath and his daughter were freed, but it was clear that Demona had already seen what the changeling wanted her to.

"Well, well, well," spoke the shapeshifter, as it folded its arms before its breast. "Isn't this intriguing? Your own daughter admitted that she hated you. And yet you still cared for her well-being. Why?"

Demona only half-heard the question. She was more interested in watching as Angela made short work of that damned monstrosity that dared to call itself a gargoyle. For a moment, a look of pride shined in her eyes as Angela tripped it with her tail, and then brought her elbow down hard against Delilah's abdomen, knocking the wind from the hybrid.

But her double persisted. "Demona, you haven't answered my question. After that cruel thing Angela said to you, why in the world would you even bother sticking your neck out for her like that?"

Demona reluctantly turned from watching as Angela picked up a length of chain lying nearby and started the bind the clone with it. "I had to," she snapped at her mirror image.

"No you didn't," said the changeling. "You could have just let Thailog shoot her. Thailog said it himself: Angela will never be the gargoyle you want her to be. She'll never hate humans like you do, and even if she does, she'll never allow her hatred to dominate her. So why did you do it?"

Demona swallowed nervously. "I already told you why."

"No you haven't," the fay pressed her. "Why did you have to do that for her?"

As they'd stood there arguing, Demona's daughter had since led her captive off in search of the others. The memory-image of the dungeon was empty now, save for Demona and the fay that wore Demona's face. Demona was starting to feel uncomfortable at the shapeshifter's prodding. Finally, though her face contorted slightly, she spoke what was in her heart. "Because I love her," Demona told the being. Demona was accustomed to telling people what they wanted to hear, but this time, she meant it.

The fay seemed to realize this, but for some reason, the answer did not satisfy. "So?" it asked. "How can you love her? She's just like her father in many ways, and you don't seem to love himanymore. She shares Goliath's nauseating sentiments about humans. The human you hate the most has become like clan to her. Why, then, should you care about her at all?"

Demona snapped her wings and took a step towards the shapeshifter, her eyes afire. "I don't know!" She shouted. "I can't explain what I feel! Despite everything she believes in, I still love Angela! I don't know why, but I love her!"

For a moment, the fay was wearing its amused look. Then, the innocence came back to its eyes. "Perhaps there's hope for you, after all," it mused. "There is still good in you. But in the thousand years spent looking after yourself, you've learned to mask it well."

Demona sighed and resettled her wings about her shoulders. "Can we go home now?" she asked in a tired voice.

"Sorry, Demona," said the shapeshifter, "but there's still a few more things we need to see." It snapped its talons again, triggering another change in scene, and a new batch of memories.

In the wake of the Hunter's Moon back in 1996, a new organization devoted to the extermination of gargoyles had arisen in Manhattan. Demona had hoped that this would finally make Angela and Goliath see that humanity needed to be wiped from the earth, but instead, they and the rest of the clan had soldiered on.

Demona's own methods in trying to stop the Quarrymen had been a bit more brutal, and also generally included humanity as a whole, but Demona made no apologies for doing what needed to be done. Of course, her cutthroat approach constantly put her at odds with Angela and the rest, who still attempted to thwart her at every turn.

Demona was shown several things almost at once: the devastation resulting from her efforts against the Quarrymen, more encounters with Goliath's clan that usually ended on a sour note, shouting matches between her and Angela on the rooftops of Manhattan. Finally, she and her fay guide came to one particular sortie that occurred only a few months ago.

Demona watched with increasing discomfort as her memory-image berated her daughter.

"When are you going to get it through your head?" she snapped. "Humans and gargoyles are at war! The Quarrymen won't be satisfied until we've all been pounded to dust beneath their hammers! Our only chance is to kill them before they kill us!"

"As if your methods are helping?" Angela snapped back. "Don't you see that as long as you keep this attitude up, you're only giving them a weapon they can use against us? It can't go on like this! Things will only get worse!"

"Well, what are we supposed to do? Cling to the hope that humans will someday accept us with open arms? I've been alive for centuries, and I've yet to see that happen! You and Goliath are grasping at a silly pipe dream, child!"

Angela sighed as the scarlet faded from her vision. "You're wrong, mother," she said. "People can change. I've heard from father about how Princess Katherine and the Magus once were. And they wound up becoming an adopted family to me and my rookery siblings. Magus even sacrificed his life to save us!"

Memory-Demona started to ready another retort, but then her mind registered what Angela had said, and a smile crept onto her features. So, the man who cursed her clan was dead. The smile spreading across her mother's lips seemed to horrify Angela, but the memory image of Demona was too elated to notice. From her vantage point, the real Demona saw her daughter's expression more clearly, and had to shift her gaze to the gravel of the rooftop.

"So, that bastard sorcerer really is dead," memory-Demona said, more to herself than to Angela. "I only wish that I could have killed him myself."

Angela's mouth fell open. "You can't mean that," she breathed.

"I do," snapped memory-Demona. "I'm glad that he's gone, and I hope that wretched princess joins him soon."

Without warning, Angela slapped her mother, the sound reverberating in the crisp autumn night. Both Demona and her memory-image looked stunned by the action. Demona even raised her talons to her cheek in sympathy as her memory-self winced from the blow.

After a moment of shock, memory-Demona's expression became unreadable. Almost as if she were trying to comprehend the appropriate response, either to apologize to her daughter or to slap her back. Even Angela looked startled by what she had just done. She started to back away from memory-Demona even as her eyes grew moist.

"Angela," memory-Demona stated flatly. "You shouldn't care about them so much. They're human. You're better than they are…"

"I'm sorry, Demona," Angela cut her off. "I love you, but… there are times when I wish you were dead." A tear ran down her lavender cheek as she raced to the edge of the rooftop and took off into the neon-hazed night.

Both Demona and her memory image watched Angela leave, becoming smaller as she flew off towards the Eyrie Building that towered above the Manhattan skyline. For a moment, Demona's memory-self seemed ready to follow. It raised a hand as if preparing to call out, but no words came. Finally, it too turned and leapt off the roof in the opposite direction, gliding towards home.

Demona and the shapeshifter were alone on the rooftop now. Demona remembered this night, but she had been too shocked at what Angela had just done to really see her daughter's reaction to those hurtful words. Plus, her mind had been working to understand how Angela could care so much for those two humans. After all, she'd never seen their true faces, because she and the rest of her rookery were just eggs back in 10th Century Scotland. The princess had thought of Demona and the other warriors in her clan as housepets, a sentiment shared by that prissy weakling who dared to call himself a sorcerer.

Now that Demona saw from a distance, her mind had actually registered Angela's words, and did not like them. There was actually a part of Angela, no matter how small, that wanted her mother dead. Why couldn't she just understand what Demona was trying to do for her? For the second time that night, a tear sprang into Demona's hard green eyes and slid down her face, followed shortly by several more.

"Youdo love her," spoke the shapeshifter, after it had allowed Demona to cry silently for a few minutes. "But you still love something else even more. That same love, or rather hate, pushed you away from Goliath. Will it be the same with Angela?"

Demona turned from the shapeshifter, one hand covering her eyes. "Take me home," she said in a tired voice. "Please. I don't want to see any more."

The changeling gave out a frustrated sigh. "For the last time, Demona, if you wanted to see better memories, you shouldn't have let me turn into you."

As the shapeshifter had wanted, its words reminded Demona of her meeting with her younger self in 975, and its rejection of her. Despite the tears still in her eyes, Demona gave a snarl of rage and turned on the changeling. The being waved its hand just as Demona was inches from its throat. Instantly, the azure gargoyle became frozen again, her hands trapped in a ridiculous position, like she was trying to wring an invisible neck.

The fay took a step back from Demona, and actually gave a shudder of revulsion. "I have to say, this evening has disturbed me somewhat. If anything, our little soiree back in your memory of 1057 shows me just how messed up your life has become. During your little adventure with the Phoenix Gate, you really would have beaten your younger self into a pulp if Goliath hadn't stopped you." The changeling shuddered again.

Demona struggled futilely against the fay's magic, trying to move. She noted with dismay that this time, her double had also frozen her lips in place. She tried to yell, to scream, to curse at it, but no words could be formed.

The shapeshifter regarded her for another second, and then said, "But you are right. We have seen enough. I'll take you home now. But before I go, here's a little something to think about: Everything we have seen tonight is a product of your own making. There's a difference between doing what you want and doing what is right. That's how memories are created. In the end, Demona, all anyone has are memories, and memories are the sum of the choices you make. No one else makes those choices for you. Farewell…" It gave a slight nod, then it snapped the talons on both hands and vanished from sight.

The second that it vanished, Demona was released from her invisible bonds, and toppled unceremoniously to the cold gravel of the rooftop. She glanced around angrily for any sign of the shapeshifter, but it was gone. For a moment, she crouched there, vision blurred with anger and unshed tears. Demona wiped the latter from her eyes, but for some reason, the world around her was still hazy. And it was starting to move.

The Manhattan skyline seemed to be rotating around her, faster and faster until it was a blur of color. The stars overhead and the ground beneath her seemed to be doing the same thing as well, but Demona could swear that they were also spiraling in on her.

A horrified minute later, she realized that the swirling miasma did indeed appear to be closing in. Demona ran towards the edge of the rooftop, but found that she could gain no traction on the ground. She slipped and fell to her knees, frantically trying to scramble forward on all fours. But although she could move freely, she still seemed held in one place.

A moment later, the rapidly spinning memory-world pressed in all around, so tight that Demona could almost feel it push the air from her lungs. For the briefest of seconds, it was as if the weight of the universe bore down upon her. Then everything went black and silent.

To be continued in Part 2…