April 14, 1995
She holds the hand that holds her down
She will rise above, ooh, ooh
Don't call me daughter, not fit to
The picture kept will remind me
Don't call me daughter, not fit to
The picture kept will remind me
The sun had just set an hour ago, and Dr. Edwin Phobos is inside a bar and grill in Manhattan. The usual happy hour crowd is here, with bartenders and cocktail servers- the female ones wearing low-cut blice- taking and fulfilling orders. Music plays from a jukebox charging twenty-five cents per song.
Few pay any close attention to the nondescript bald bespectacled man wearing a tweed coat and black slacks. Phobos is one a pay telephone near the restrooms.
"Our patient fully died, my lord," he says. "I felt it."
"And you were unable to collect the gargoyle blood sample, I take it," says the man on the other side.
"Sadly, that is correct."
"This is not the news I want to hear before I go to sleep. We do need more than the gargoyle blood sample you retrieved from Gen-U-Tech. We needed one freshly collected from your patient."
"Lavonne was highly experimental, my lord."
"All the more reason we need someone like her to draw blood from a gargoyle. Still, my loyal servant, we must recover what we can from your failure. Send the reports to me, and remain in the employ of Sevarius and Gen-U-Tech."
"Yes, my lord," answers Dr. Phobos.
"One more thing, Edwin. It is true that failure is the best teacher. I myself learned my lesson during my old existence. And yet, I also learned that it always extracts a price. The next time you fail, the price may very well be catastrophic. Understand that."
"I understand, my lord." Phobos places the handset back on the cradle, and then begins his trip back to the Westchester County facility.
Oooooooo
Inside the clock room of the clock tower above the 23rd precinct, Broadway squats in a corner an d cries, surrounded by the others of his Clan.
He still can not believe Lavonne is dead. He had woken up seeing only charred rags.
He can still recall the look in her eyes, the tears flowing down them.
He can recall hearing the sadness in her voice.
It was not fair!
It was not right!
It is clear her human life had been filled with torment, and only to end like this, with her turning to ash during the daytime.
Elisa Maza looks at Broadway, and then she looks once again at a piece of paper with a photograph printed.
It is a capture of a freeze frame from the security feed at Sacrilege, enhanced by the techies working a few floors below.
It is a picture of the murder victim, Price.
And the dark-haired girl next to him is none other than Lavonne herself.
She has no wings nor fangs; she looks like an ordinary human girl.
There is nothing in the databases about this Lavonne. She matches no one that had ever been arrested or wanted as a fugitive, nor did anyone ever report her missing.
Elisa had a feeling Broadway had been the only person she met who truly cared about her.
And there is this new evil apparently kidnapping humans for use in scientific experiments.
And they all can figure whoever is doing this has friends in very high places.
