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Souls of the Night

124.

"Good evening, Mother."

Demona flinched, tore off the towel she had just wrapped around herself after her bath, and threw it in her intruder's face as a distraction. But before she could take cover - cover from which she could reach one of her weapons hidden all over the house - it suddenly struck her consciousness how the intruder had just addressed her.

That Angela stood in the hallway and then, after a moment of shock, held the bath towel out to her again with her head turned away also helped. Demona growled.

"Did I miss an e-mail declaring my mansion the common property of every damn gargoyle in New York?"

"Sorry to bother you," Angela said, continuing to hold the towel out to her without looking at her mother. The latter, however, strode past her proud as a queen and unblinking stark naked.

"Too much Christian medieval princess upbringing, daughter," her mother said disapprovingly but also somehow amused at Angela's obvious discomfort at having to see her mother nude. She would probably stay naked. Probably throughout her visit just to show Angela the supposed ridiculousness of her prudish behavior. Angela was not a prude! She even went swimming naked in the park with Katana and the girls during the summer months. And in front of her mate she was also anything but inhibited when they were among themselves and it wasn't breeding season. She was not a prude. She just didn't want to see her own mother naked.

Demona went into her dressing room - expecting Angela to follow her, which she did - and grabbed a towel. Not to cover herself but to dry her hair.

"If Heather sent you- I haven't found a solution."

Angela tried convulsively not to let any of her shock at her mother's statement show. Heather had sought her out? She needed to have a serious word with the hatchling. Of course, Demona was her grandmother and wouldn't do anything to Heather herself - not to mention that since Heather's hatching day, she had displayed a tentative wariness of the child that seemed far from fearful but was just that. Still, Angela didn't like the fact that she had snuck up to her grandmother behind the clan's back and presumably told her all about Nathaniel's condition.

She had never shown any remorse for her numerous crimes - not that Angela knew of. Even if she had been much calmer since Angela's arrival and at the latest since Heather's hatching - really some kind of truce had formed between all of them - she could not be trusted. Not today, and maybe not a year from now- but someday she would use any information that came her way in any given situation against the clan or the people the clan was protecting. A thousand years of hatred could hardly be erased by twenty years of silence. That was still in her. That's why it was more important now for Angela not to let on that there were clan members acting on their own. They had to appear united. Angela shrugged her shoulders.

"I thought the little one could have gotten something out of you. More than me."

"She got the last of the nerve out of me that night. And she owes me a Thuret à Paris table clock. Seventeenth century. Ten thousand dollars."

"Check or cash?"

Demona laughed sonorously and Angela focused on Demona's exceptionally uncovered brow ridge to block out her jiggling breasts. "Ha, you're finally developing a sense of humor, daughter. Transfer it to the company account."

"Regarding the problem-"

"I've been poring over the books, which I had. I contacted the magicians I know or their descendants. No one has ever heard of such a case. Your Fake Gargoyle will very soon be just a gable ornament. I regret that the clan and especially the little techie will not be in my debt for the rest of his life. You know how much I would have liked that."

"Would you really have helped him? If you could have?"

"You make it sound like I'm not a good sorceress." Demona looked contemplatively out the window. No neighbor would see the naked gargoyle. The windows were mirrored and Demona had told Angela that years ago she had bought up all the apartments that gave a view of her property. Soon the morning would dawn. Another day in which she would turn into a human. By a spell of Puck, whose ridiculously playful nature had been able to hide the fact that he was one of the most powerful children of Oberon. A spell that she could not break, could not override, could not weaken. God knows she had tried. Turning into a human every day was useful and had relieved her of one of the most obvious weaknesses of a gargoyle. But it also took away a lot from her. For example, her ability to carry an egg herself, which would never have survived her transformation to human.

"How long does the fake have?" She asked quietly and serious.

"His name is Nathaniel Sharif. We estimate he has another ten days. Maybe only a week."

Demona turned around with her arms crossed. She could tell her daughter had no idea Sharif himself had been at her house. Presumably, she had had no idea about Heather either. They weren't united, didn't talk to each other, didn't really trust each other in everything for whatever reason. They were so weak and humanized - it should have basically amused her. But it didn't. It only pained her. There would have been nothing like this in the old Wywern clan. That the adults didn't know what their weakest and youngest members were up to. Too many dangers lurked back then and especially the youngest and weakest had trembled and kowtowed before the commands of the clan leaders, the second and the elders. But then the clan had been bigger. More individuals to watch out for and to keep order.

And it wasn't as if Heather was helpless, thanks to her abilities. Unlike Sharif. She had really made a call or two the last few nights - even though she didn't feel like it. Not because the hatchling had made it palatable to her, or because she somehow liked this joke of a fake gargoyle a little bit and really wanted to help him. But finding a solution to his Fey induced "illness" could have turned into a solution to her own problem. That and her pride as a sorceress had occupied her the last nights - more than she now wanted to admit in front of her daughter. That's why she answered only briefly:

"I might have been able to help him if he had more time," she admitted without a trace of sarcasm.

When she turned her head, she could tell that her daughter was trying to figure out how much truth there was in her words. And somehow that look annoyed her and made her defend herself.

"I have no sympathy for your ridiculous clan or for the web-wing. But it's dreadful to lose one's mate. This I know."

Her daughter's look turned mild, even pitying. Something that should make her jump out of her skin. But before she could do that Angela had overcome the distance between her and herself, put a hand on her shoulder without caring about her nakedness and breathed a kiss on her cheek.

"Thank you mother."

"Don't thank me, child. Go."

She looked longingly at the diminishing silhouette of her daughter in the night sky.

Then she went to one of her closets and pulled out her dearest and fluffiest bathrobe. Following her path led her down to the basement, past her prizewinning, upscale collection of wine bottles, of artwork that had found no place on the upper floors, through her weapons room with its attached escape tunnel. Behind it was a room that had been intended as a panic room - as if she, Demona! ever really panicked. But now she sat down in the only chair in the room and stared at her collection there, which had often given her comfort more than alcohol or weapons or riches ever could. She looked at the dozens of severed skulls of Quarrymen and Hunters, neatly displayed on shelves, and already tidily cleaned by maggots years ago. Insane and deluded arrogant humans who had made life difficult for her and her kin in the past and who had all met their death because they had made the mistake of stalking her or her daughter.

Her eyes skimmed the bloody and tattered hoods and uniforms hanging on the walls and stopped briefly at the man's head, which was the only one that appeared to be in perfect condition. How could it not be - she had him stuffed and then got rid of the taxidermist herself. And to see his head hanging there, like the taxidermy of an elk or a wolf - although she did not want to insult these noble animals by comparing them with this little human - always did her good even if she had not hunted him down herself. Beneath his head hung a dozen of the old electric stone hammers. Demona's eyes lingered for a long time - much longer than usual on these exhibits. Never had she used them to smash a stone statue. During the Lost Nights, she had used a normal sledgehammer because the Quarrymen had not yet existed. She thought about how it would feel to smash the statue of a gargoyle with it. Although this Fake was not really a gargoyle. She thought about it until the morning dawned and she fell off the chair in pain as all the bones in her body broke, retracted along with flesh, skin and muscle, and reassembled, leaving a sorrowful human body.

Thanks for reading, Q.T.