The following night Macbeth awoke with a start: he looked about, disoriented. As the years went on names, faces, rooms, castles all became a dizzying blur to him. Where was he now? What year was it? He sat in his favorite armchair by a roaring fire…the chair was a piece dating back to the French Revolution. He knew because he had collected it himself from a recently deceased nobleman's house shortly before the execution of Robespierre himself, at which point he'd thought it best to retire from France for a few years. Ever since, the chair had a place of prominence in all of his residences. Macbeth looked down at the book in his lap and immediately recalled himself: he was in New York. He must have dozed off…what time was it?
Macbeth stood to stir the coals of the fire, placing the ancient tome on the mantel piece. He'd been going over the spell again. By his calculations it would take just a little under a week to make all the necessary preparations. The spell itself was fairly uncomplicated: it would create a safe haven just outside known time and space, a paradise where they would remain unseen, concealed from all eyes until the very end of time itself…a permanent sanctuary where he and his daughter could live forever, beyond the reach of treachery, pain or death.
Picking up the poker, Macbeth stirred the fire, gazing thoughtfully at the glowing embers. He still hadn't fully explained what the spell actually entailed to his young charge, but that didn't matter to her…Bianca had the utmost faith in him. She knew Macbeth had only her best interests at heart. He could still remember the day he'd found her…
At some point later on in his meanderings through the world, almost forty years ago now, Macbeth had decided to take up a more permanent homestead on the relatively secluded island of Elba, just off the coast of Italy. He had originally been drawn there again by a desire to retrace the exploits of Napoleon, an old friend of his, but found the place so charming on rediscovery that he decided to settle there for a time. One day, while he was exploring the mainland of Italy just by the coast, he'd happened upon a small, isolated village that had only just recently rid itself of an infestation of vermin, as one of the villagers described it. These vermin, Macbeth soon discovered, were the last of an unfortunate, dwindling clan of gargoyles. All over Europe their numbers had been fading. It was a wonder this group had lasted as long as they had…the last clan of gargoyles he'd come across had been well over two hundred years ago in Belgium. By some miraculous intervention Macbeth had come across this village just as the townsfolk were setting off to hunt down the gargoyle rookery and permanently wipe their clan from existence. Although Macbeth had no real love for the gargoyle species, he had no problem with them, save one, and the thought of destroying innocent lives seemed so patently dishonest, so ignoble to him, he decided to intervene if he could. It wasn't hard to find the rookery, if you were well acquainted with the habits of gargoyles as Macbeth was…he had no trouble seeking it out before the villagers. To save them all was impossible; he was only one man, and had no intention of becoming a nursemaid to a litter of children, so he selected two eggs and took off with them.
Escape wasn't quite as simple as he had imagined and, after a minor scuffle with the villagers and the consequent unfortunate loss of one of the eggs, Macbeth managed to get away relatively unscathed. He kept the egg safe in his home at Elba, intending to watch it hatch, look after it for a few months and then set it loose to follow its own bent in the world.
His plans changed when the egg finally hatched. Macbeth found himself strangely taken with the small helpless gargoyle, the flutter of her tiny little wings, the gentle pressure of her claw squeezing his finger. Her presence both pleased and comforted him in a way he hadn't felt in decades. Macbeth soon decided to keep the creature, carefully confined of course, and set about finding little Bianca an exceptional nursemaid and, eventually, a governess. It took him well over a year of careful searching to find a qualified, competent, dedicated, and most of all, loyal woman to fill the position. The governess remained Bianca's constant companion, watching over her while Macbeth conducted business elsewhere around the world. Despite his frequent, lengthy absences Bianca developed the understanding and feeling, as he had secretly hoped she would, that likened Macbeth to a father in her eyes. She'd referred to him as such from almost the earliest moments of her childhood. Bianca grew to embrace all of the values Macbeth had instilled in her from her infancy: a quick intellect, a lively wit, the ability to defend herself, a keen sense of honor, and most of all unswerving loyalty and devotion to those she loved. True, she was a bit wild at times, but Macbeth, being a slightly indulgent father, found her spirit, like everything else about her, nothing but charming and endearing. He considered Bianca his own darling child. Yet despite his connection to her, Macbeth continued in his hunt for Demona. He spent a principal amount of his time living in and operating out of his various other homes, tracking Demona down as best he could, visiting Bianca at her home on Elba three or four times a year for a month at a time. Even his Bianca could not fully alter his desire for vengeance and death. After all, she had a loving governess to look after her and she would eventually grow accustomed to the idea of him passing away, like all other children had to. Losing the ones you loved was simply a part of growing up. The coming of Goliath's clan to New York, and the events of this past year had changed Macbeth's mind somewhat, leaving him doubting the one conviction that had steadfastly carried him through the centuries…if Goliath was right about Demona, if suicide wasn't the answer…then what was?
It was upon the recent death of Bianca's governess, by now a very valued, loyal friend to Macbeth, that he finally got his revelation: life had simply become too painful for him to carry on like this. He couldn't end it all and leave Bianca alone in the world, but he also couldn't bear the pain of living through her death. He'd already suffered the pain of watching a child die once…he couldn't bear it again. She was all Macbeth had now…and he would safeguard her life and his comfort once and for all with this spell.
Macbeth looked up as the clock struck four, suddenly alarmed. Sunrise was only an hour away…Bianca should have been back by now. He made his way over to the window and scanned the skies for her, his mind racing. Could she have gotten lost? It wasn't likely, Macbeth had taken pains to show her the way himself. And Bianca was too conscientious to lose track of the time. Suddenly seized with fear, Macbeth dashed down to his armory. She wouldn't be hard to find; he'd told her to stay in Central Park for tonight. As he loaded his gun Macbeth silently prayed he was just being paranoid…