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Brood of a New Age
16.
Nashville glided over the Bronx. Yes- this is how a gargoyle had to live! Feeling the warm wind under his wings and following his destiny. It was only a little after eleven, but on Saturday nights there was plenty for any crime fighter - human or otherwise - to do in New York.
He'd already gotten a pickpocket to hand over his loot by just hissing and roaring, and stopped a burglary before more than a window could be broken. A guy who had robbed a liquor store and even pulled a gun when he had confronted him running out had been so shaken by the sight of him that he had been able to take the gun from him with ease and crush it as Broadway or Brooklyn would have done. Then he'd knocked him unconscious with a well-aimed-but-not-long-lasting blow to the temple and stuffed him into a garbage can while the shopkeeper had watched in horror from behind the window of his store. On the roof opposite he had waited for the police - just so that the criminal would not somehow peel himself out of the trash can and run away. But then came the best part!
He had slashed the tires of a civilian patrol car of Quarrymen as they questioned the liquor store owner about the monster. These idiots were listening to police radio transmissions and had been lured in by the comment that a gargoyle had been involved. And while the hooded retards were "questioning" the owner - as hurriedly and crudely as possible that they were gone before the police arrived - Nashville had crawled down the storefront, dragged his claws across the tires and taken off before the jumping jacks, despite their hammers, had been chased out the door by the store owner with a broom. How stupid those guys had looked when they realized their car was barely drivable! And yet they had run off at the expense of the rims. That would be expensive. Would Castaway reimburse expenses incurred due to stupidity?
This evening was a complete success! Fear? Phaa! He laughed in the face of fear.
He was there! He made a difference! None of the adults would have done better. Soon he had to go back, but maybe he could do one more small good deed. Around half past twelve, the patrol teams met at the castle to take an interim stock of the missions. Nashville regretted that he couldn't share any of his highlights with the others, but he was in shadow warrior mode and incognito. Going on a solo manhunt was actually a no-go - an ironclad rule already established under Goliath. But he had no partner. However, he didn't estimate the danger too high. Of course, the Bronx was a tough area, but for him, even as a Gargoyle, the risk was almost calculable. The Quarrymen lurked for the most part only in Manhattan where the clan operated most. And Nashville knew the outer routes that Goliath and his father had set up by heart. And only the second patrol made a detour to the Bronx. So he was safe - at least from parental wrath and punishment from the clan leaders - that was the most important thing. If he didn't get shot yet - which was a piece of cake for him because, as he had been taught from an early age, he never glided over open terrain for long but rather under the protection of the roofs - everything was cool. If you had been trained since earliest childhood to be a prowling ninja, none of these loud, clumsy and inept humans could surprise you. His little excursion would not be noticed by anyone. He would get away with it and would repeat it - he was sure of that.
Nashville heard youthful shouts below him and curiously landed on one of the roofs to - as is usually the case - first get a feel for his surroundings.
But the shouts and laughter had no threatening reason.
Nashville grinned and sniffed around for a snack he could enjoy with the show, and sure enough, below a ventilation shaft was a pigeon's nest with a sleeping pigeon. He had grabbed it before it could feel his presence in its sleepiness. Nashville hurriedly took a look into the nest - for he could not bring himself to kill pigeons he knew had eggs (eggs tiny and also tasty as Hudson said but still eggs like Eggwardo's in the brood cavity). The nest was empty and the neck of the twitching pigeon immediately broken without causing pain. With his prey, Nashville crouched at the edge of the roof and watched the four young men playing basketball at the edge of a park, dribbling back and forth and throwing the ball again and again in the baskets. Celebrity field hockey was fun because the famous participants usually made pretty much monkeys of themselves there but otherwise he wasn't too keen on human games and sports.
"Probably ... my feet would be in the way too if I tried to play basketball. Or my claws would slash the ball before I could even aim for the basket," Nash muttered quietly to himself, after cracking the pigeon's ribcage, removing the digestive tract, and stuffing the rest into his beak like other kids stuffed a handful of M and Ms in their mouths.
Apart from the meat, which tasted like a mixture of chicken and duck, he liked the crackling of the small bones between his teeth and the fact that the feathers - of which he only tore out the largest ones because they made him gasp - tickled the roof of his mouth. Thus the evening was bearable. Gargoyle deeds, gargoyle dinner. Perfectly it would have been if a friend would sit now beside him. Still, he watched the human players play two-on-two, shouting rude comments at each other, taking the ball from each other, occasionally being very tempted to cheer when one team or the other (he was just for both at the same time) scored in the basket. How he would have loved to play! How he would have loved to have such friends. Even when one's ball bounced off the rim of the basketball hoop in a wayward shot, flying high over the fence and bouncing in the deep darkness of the playground beyond, it was delightful to watch his buddies bark at the culprit, even get headlocked by one, and scuffle together as friends. Chuckling, Nashville watched the four of them leave to cause trouble elsewhere, now that they wouldn't be able to find and retrieve the ball until morning in the fenced-in lot. He allowed himself to be tipped forward and floated on a stream of air across the street, over the basketball court and onto the dark area beyond where he landed on the roof of the public restrooms and first scouted the situation for thirty seconds, eyes open and ears perked for danger as he had been taught.
Belmont Playground wasn't just surrounded by normal fences that kept people out at night. No, part of the park was also obviously being rebuilt and renovated, had been ripped open, was unusable, and was shielded by construction fences.
There was the ball!
He listened again. The construction scaffolding largely shielded him from the street, and even without it, he would have been barely visible in the deep darkness thanks to his dark gray shinobi shÅzoku. His white-blue skin color was unthinkably ill-suited for a ninja - and even more so for a gargoyle. But thanks to the gray body paint for his wing joints and his tail, and the clothes Katana had made for him (and she was REALLY not a good seamstress and only her concern for Nashville's protection moved her to pick up needle and thread regularly), he was able to move freely on the rare occasions he got out of the castle. All the gargoyles of her time plane and clan, who were a bit too light-colored to move undetected in the dark, had had to learn to sew - but that didn't mean Katana liked doing it or did it well, and his willingness to learn the skill was also very subdued.
Still - uwagi and hakama were thin enough even for the summer months that he didn't sweat himself to death, the tebukuro covered his forearms and outside of his hands so that when he clenched his fists, his fingers weren't visible either. Even chikatabi his mother was sewing him annually (because he grew like a weed, as she said) and he actually liked them best because they were so much like the toe shoes of real human ninjas, if you disregarded the holes for his claws of his toes.
Nashville crawled headfirst from his elevated vantage point and carefully across the area. He took another look around- listened- and pulled his tenugui off his beak when he felt safe enough to breathe unhindered. Then he grabbed the ball. It was heavier than it looked, yet laughably light for Nashville because even a gargoyle child was stronger than some human adults. Carefully, he stroked his fingers over the rough, bumpy cover of the ball. The rubber felt good. And stable. He carefully dropped the ball on the ground - and it bounced off the ground and back into his hands. He grinned at this. He repeated this a few times - always careful to keep his claws out of it because he couldn't estimate how thick the rubber casing was. But it was really fun.
Then - when he realized that the bouncing of the ball, echoing over the width of the playground, was not disturbing people - or even worse, attracting them - he became bolder and began to run with the ball while letting it bounce on the ground as he had just seen with the human boys. Immediately the ball bounced off his toes and jumped away - Nashville following behind to recapture the fugitive. Many times his suspicions were confirmed that it was hard - VERY hard - to dribble with the ball. Again and again he kicked his toy away accidentally or it bounced off his claws and toes in unpredictable directions making him feel like a dog throwing the ball to himself. But after ten minutes he managed to run a few meters with the ball. It was logical that he didn't pass or throw the ball after three dribbles, as he didn't have any teammates, but Nashville had fun on his own, became more courageous, and then looked for a target that was as similar as possible to a basketball hoop. There! This wire trash can was not a basketball net, but that wouldn't be a bad challenge for a start. Grinning broadly and resolutely, he lifted the ball over his head, took aim, spun the ball again in his hands and - PFFFFFTTT!
The ball lost its air with a shrill whistle over which Nashville was briefly so startled that he dropped it. This time it didn't bounce away and Nash watched stunned as a promising toy became a limp rubber patty. Then the silence was deafening again though around him the Saturday night life of the Bronx blared against the fences and barrier gates of the playground.
Nashville swallowed the bitter lump of bile. "So much for that" he whispered, and that whisper was heavy and burning with venom. And just to keep from drowning in that venom - to keep from letting it flood his head - he laughed and began to speak.
"You stupid idiot. What was that all about? A gargoyle playing basketball. Who were you supposed to play with? Beg one of the adults to have mercy on you? Or just march onto a brightly lit basketball court one night and say, Hey, I'm Gnash- wanna dunk some balls? Oh, your parents and relatives are Quarrymen? - how nice, they can watch while their hammers are hanging on the charging cords. How many spare balls did you bring because each ball only lasts me three minutes because I'm a clumsy fucking monster with fangs and claws and fuckfuckfuck!" Angrily he kicked the flat former basketball across the square then snarled in frustration and felt his eyes get their white fire.
Hastily he put his hands over his eyes. How low had he sunk? He was talking to himself. And he was angry at a damn BALL! No, not at the ball. At himself because he had imagined for a moment what it would be like to play with other persons. He didn't care about the ball or the game. He didn't give a damn about basketball. He just didn't want to be alone anymore. He wanted company, someone to talk to who even remotely understood how he felt and didn't make him feel like a stupid helpless kid.
He felt so alone. Alone among his fellow gargoyles, alone in this time and in this city. Trembling with frustration and anger, he clenched his fists again and again, pressed his claws into his palms and opened them again only shortly before he felt the blood flowing. He had to be the most miserable creature in this city, he thought as he convulsively tried to calm the blood rushing in his ears. He had to stay alert. A careless gargoyle was quickly a dead gargoyle. Rule number two of his father.
But then he heard something squeak, pulled his tenugui back over his beak and face, and ducked to the ground in alarm, scanning the area for attackers and threats. But instead of hostile humans - with hoods, carrying flashlights, wielding hammers or other weapons - something else squeezed through a gap between two construction fences. And without seeing him in the darkness, a small sobbing person marched right past him. He didn't see his face because the little one (he was more than a head shorter than him and very slender) had pulled his too large hooded sweater over his head and was rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands as he stormed past him. Briefly, the little one stopped a few feet away from him, looking around.
Nashville briefly believed he had been seen, made himself as rigid as possible. He knew his clothes would make him blend in with the surroundings if he just didn't move. But the child had only been looking for a place to hide, and its eyes, poorly adapted to the dark, had not spied him. Instead, it headed for a large play structure that was not, or not yet, affected by the renovation work and that looked like a multi-story concrete climbing structure. There, the little guy scrambled into the lowest tube and out of Nash's field of vision. For another few seconds, he remained crouched on the floor, listening for the passing cars, the neighborhood's Saturday evening hum - and for the human child's sobs.
Nashville exhaled in relief. Good fortune. He'd forgotten that for a moment. Not only alone (emotionally and physically) but with half a city on his heels. Thousands of people who wanted nothing more than to impale severed gargoyle heads on stakes and scream for extermination, showing that unfounded fear was stronger than reason and culture. When he had first witnessed it - the demonstrations, the screaming, the disgusting demands - in short, the whole witch hunt - he had briefly thought that the one true witch of New York (or at least the most powerful one) was right to abhor humans. But later he had looked at Elisa and had known that it wasn't that simple. Couldn't be. Not for him, who knew part of the past and a possible future.
But tonight, he wouldn't take any more risks. The thing with the ball still frustrated him and he realized that despite his victories, he had pretty tense nerves and wanted to go home. He got up and crawled across the square, wanting to jump back on a breeze from the public washrooms and leave this now depressing place behind him. The crying of the human child, however, stung in his ears. He already had his hands on the stone and really wanted to leave. But ... there was a child crying who obviously had problems. And he couldn't just walk away and leave it to its own devices. THAT would have been really Demona style (The Demona of this time-plane). But how was he supposed to help the little one? Just find a public phone in a dark corner and call the police that there was a kid here that needed to be taken care of? By the time the cops came, the kid would either be gone again - or something bad could have happened to him. It could - it could push through one of the construction fences and fall blindly and clumsily as it was in the darkness into a construction pit! Or it could attract bad men with its weeping. He had not yet encountered all the evils that men could do to each other, but he had already seen enough to know that it was simply not safe for a child to be alone. Alone in the dark, alone in the Bronx, alone ANYWHERE in New York. He was a gargoyle and it was his DESTINY to protect people. To protect the weak. And no one was weaker that night than this kid. Nash turned around, went to the concrete structure and climbed up to the second level where the child was on the first. And since there were openings with slides and climbing struts between the tubes of the different levels, he knew that not only his sharp ears heard the child perfectly, but also the child would hear him. He thought about it for a few moments.
Then he cleared his throat and spoke as softly as he could.
"Why are you crying?"
A startled gasp came from the lower level.
"Go away" the child then ordered chokingly and Nashville blurted out what he first perceived of that voice. For where he hadn't seen it when passing because of the hood and hadn't been able to hear it out through the genderless sobbing, he noticed it all the more when it spoke.
"You're a girl!"
"Go away!" hissed the little one after two seconds of icy silence that showed that the girl knew that being found by strangers with one sex was more dangerous than with the other.
"Get lost! I don't want to see anyone!" the girl nagged and Nashville ignored the heavy Italian accent, puffing out his cheeks at the insolent tone and pulling his scarf off his face because he suddenly felt he needed more air.
"Good. I don't want to be seen either."
"Good!"
"Good!" He crossed his arms a little offended, but didn't leave as another child (a human child) might have done but remained seated. And waited. And listened as the sobs and sniffles grew quieter.
"Are you still there?" the girl then asked softly, and Nashville smiled at the breathy voice.
"It's dark already. A girl shouldn't be out there anymore," he said, and in a moment the child nagged again.
"Great! Another one telling me what girls should and shouldn't do. Get lost - you - you creep!" she hurled at him, audibly having to think about the last word, which was certainly not at the top of English dictionaries.
If you knew how much I'd like that, Nashville growled inward. This ungrateful child didn't know how lucky she was to have a gargoyle take care of her before she encountered bad - very bad - men. It was the first time he talked to a stranger without the supervision of his parents or any other adult he trusted, and it didn't go very well. But that wasn't HIS fault - this kid was a brat! All he wanted to do was help.
She's scared, he tried to explain to himself. She is squatting here at night in an abandoned playground and crying. She must be in trouble. And she's alone - just like you, he added in his mind, and that made him feel much better.
"There's a police station just three blocks away. If you're lost-"
"I'm not lost! I'm where I want to be. For the first time in weeks," the girl said, sniffling, sucking up her snot. At least she wasn't crying so bitterly anymore.
"Why are you so sad? Did- did someone hurt you?" asked Nashville, and just the thought that someone could hurt a little girl made his eyes glow.
"No," came back the answer, and so quickly that Nashville just assumed it was true.
"And yet you're out here?" he muttered, and the kid sounded hostile again.
"You're still out too!"
"But you must be younger than me!"
Tense silence spread briefly in which he only heard the child sniffling her nose several times before she asked again, quietly but audibly curious:
"How old are you?"
"... Ten," he lied, halving his age. As if she would have believed him if he had said he had been "born" in 1978.
"Okay, then I'm younger - but only a little," she admitted, and Nashville smiled because he briefly thought he heard a smile from the child's own tone. "And I'm not out yet. I'm already out again."
"Why?"
"Because- I needed some time to myself. I- I'm just getting sick of everything at home."
"I know that feeling," he murmured.
"Yeah?" the human asked, sucking her snot again. Nashville couldn't stand it any longer, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his hakama and darted his arm down through the opening that connected the two tubes.
"Here. Please blow your nose," he said, and after a few moments - during which he hoped the fabric over his arm and over his hand hid his light-colored hands and claws and the child could make out the shape of the light-colored handkerchief - small fingers plucked the cellulose from his hand. Hastily he withdrew his arm while the girl blew her nose rather disgustingly.
"Thank you," she said in a shaky voice.
"You're welcome," he returned.
Then he was silent again just as the child was silent. It was strange. He knew children from this century much wilder and more talkative. But well - he had only ever seen children together when they incited each other to wildness and loudness. Or that the girl obviously hadn't been speaking English for long - although she was doing it really well - might have played a part in it. Or she doesn't know what to say to a stranger, whispered a voice inside him, and added: if she knew you were not only a stranger - but a gargoyle, she wouldn't speak to you at all. She would run screaming and in five minutes the whole block would be full of Quarrymen and concerned citizens screaming for blood. Nashville formed a growl in his throat at this bitter truth. But then the little girl spoke again.
"What's your name?"
"I'm - I'm Gnash," he said, and the child giggled. Like when angels play the xylophone, Nash thought, shaking his head at that silly comparison he heard on TV weeks ago.
"What's so funny?" he asked because he wanted to laugh himself.
"Gnash?" she asked cheerfully. "Is that a name in America?"
He wanted to be mad at the girl for a second that she thought his cool nickname was funny. But her laugh and voice sounded so nice when she wasn't nagging.
"It's not REALLY my name," he admitted. "My parents call me Nashville. But Gnash is cool!" he persisted, hoping to convince her. But she laughed again, more impetuous and with a grunt in the middle of it that he also had to laugh about. Then the girl added a little more quietly-and kind of bashfully. "Nashville is a much nicer name, though."
He swallowed and grabbed his cheeks with his fingers that he almost poked his eyes out. His cheeks were so warm. What was that? Confused, he shook his head.
"What's your name?"
"I'm Graziella," the girl said, and Nashville rolled the name back and forth in his head.
"Graziella. Like ... grace?"
"Yes," she confirmed, and followed up very uncertainly, "Do you think that's ... stupid?"
"No!" he exclaimed. "It's a beautiful name. Really beautiful," he said, not lying.
"Graziella and Gnash, sounds good, doesn't it?" he asked in such a soft inquiring voice that he wasn't sure if his interlocutor had heard him. But she had, and answered in an equally whispery manner.
"Graziella and Nashville sounds much nicer."
Again Nashville felt the heat in his cheeks and wondered why his heart was fluttering so strangely. Hopefully he wasn't getting sick.
.
...
.
"If I have to eat another piece of white nougat, I'll die! I'll tell ya, I'll die! What are you laughing at?"
"I don't know. But it sounds like everyone's trying hard for you."
"'Trying hard'! These aunts are acting like loonies. And they keep buying things for themselves on the credit card I got for emergencies. All I ever get are dresses. White and pink with bows and puffy sleeves and lace trim and I know I'm going to get in a WHOLE lot of trouble if I get it dirty. And that's just because I'm supposed to be CUTE. I'm sick of them treating me like a doll. And always know everything better. One says I'm too fat, the other says I'm too thin. The other one puts fifteen hair clips in my hair, the other one takes them out again and puts ribbons in my hair! Ribbons! I accepted that with my Nonna because she is my Nonna and because I wanted to be beautiful for papa before I met him for the first time. But now ... do I really have to put up with it anymore?"
"If you're so unhappy with it you should tell those aunts."
"That they'll then complain about me to my great uncle or aunt?"
"Or tell your dad?"
"He ... no. He -"
"You'd rather he keep thinking you're a spineless little doll? That's what everyone thinks you are?"
"What about you? When are you going to talk to your dad about being unhappy?"
"I never said that!"
"You don't have to say that at all, Nashville. Even though you're a big boy at ten ... you're out here. Without your friends. It's not normal, either."
Nashville rubbed an arm in concern. No, normal it probably wasn't. Graziella was still in her tube, chattering away for the last ten minutes about her apparently very weird family that she hadn't even known very long. And although he hadn't contributed much to the conversation, she had somehow seen right through him. She was really smart and perceptive for her age. He could hardly play the normal human child when he was squatting here alone. He had to make up some lies that he could keep up - because he hoped he could meet Graziella again after that night. It was nice to talk to her (or even let her talk). She was no gargoyle and no boy as he would have wished - but he took what he could get.
"I don't have any friends," he muttered after a few more seconds of thinking.
"Why not?"
"I-I don't go to school and I'm mostly at home. My parents and I ... we've been traveling for a long time. All over the world. I learned a lot but I never went to school."
"I don't like being home schooled either. Would you be allowed to go to school if you asked?"
"No."
"Are your parents afraid for you? My family is scared for me, I can't even go out by myself when it's daytime."
Nashville had so far been able to avoid the subject matter getting into anything too private. But while Graziella had been talking, he had realized that at some point he would have to tell something about himself, too.
"Kidnapping or something? Yes- I guess it could happen to me," he admitted, sure that it wasn't a lie. A lot of bad people would love to get their hands on him. "My dad is scared for me. He's had unpleasant experiences on his travels and just wants to keep bad things from me. I know that. But he's suffocating me ... and I ... just like you, I CAN'T tell him what I really want."
"We really are the same," Graziella said, and Nashville smirked at that.
No we're not, he thought.
"But even if you don't go to school. You could still make friends," she said. They could come to your house and play with you."
"What about you? Couldn't you make friends? Surely those aunts have children."
"They have. And I hate every single one of them."
"Ha!" burst from Nashville, and Graziella started laughing, too, and then explained to him in great detail why those other kids were awful. And it sounded awful, too - he understood her. When her grunting laughter faded and she spoke again her voice was quite insistent.
"But Nashville ... that's not true, that you don't have friends. We are friends, aren't we?"
"Yeah?"
"Yes, you dummy. Or ... or don't you think? Because I'm just a girl?" she asked softly, the fear in her voice nearly bringing tears to his eyes. He almost tumbled through the opening of his concrete tube so gladly he would have climbed to her and assured her a thousand times that it didn't matter if she was a girl. Not NO matter but for a friendship it didn't matter. But he managed to hold back - just barely.
"We are friends! Yes," he said with confidence, and heard her exhale with relief beneath him.
"And you're not just a girl," he added. "You're cool."
"Yeah? Really? You think so?"
"You're marching around the Bronx late at night - so if that's not tough, I don't know what is."
"In my family - well, the family here in America - there girls are not cool. They're either dolls - like I'm supposed to be one. Or they're ... well-one of papa's co-workers called them putas just today. The other men laughed. That was so mean."
"What are putas?" asked Nashville, deciding at that second to learn Italian.
Graziella sounded downcast. "I don't know the English words for it. But it's mean and they weren't ashamed of it at all. They even took pride in talking like that or making others feel small. In Italy, men were sometimes rude to their wives, too. But ... in our village, the women stuck together. Once Signor Pesci beat his wife when he had drunk alcohol. And all the other women, including my Nonna and my Mamma, stood in front of his wife and all shouted at him until he swore never to touch a drop again. My Nonna even said she'd come with her rolling pin and beat him with it in the church where he'd see God because he'd never find him at the bottom of a bottle."
"Your Nonna sounds cool."
"Yes! She is," Graziella said, sniffling again. Nashville would have loved to take her hand and comfort her. But luckily, his new friend didn't linger on her homesickness.
"My Nonna always said women have to stick up for each other and fend for themselves because unfortunately we live in a man's world. But for the first time, in the last few days, I've understood that too. Here ... women don't stick together at all. They watch how others are treated badly and still smile gratefully! When I saw that ...it felt ... like someone was pouring a cold bucket of water on me - just because I'm a girl."
"It's not like that everywhere," Nash assured her. "In my cl-I mean family, all the women are equal to the men. They are equals and all complement each other in their different talents and characters."
"Characters..." repeated Graziella slowly, and Nashville suspected she didn't know the word yet. But he didn't want to lecture her, either. It would only make her feel stupid and small. He didn't want her to feel that way around him. He just wished he could make her never feel that way again.
"You should never feel bad about being a girl. Girls and boys are just as good or bad. I would never say something so mean to you," he said.
"Thanks Nashville."
"For what?"
"Just ... for you." He felt that heat in his cheeks again that he didn't know where it kept coming from.
"Our fathers and families are equally difficult - that's what bonds us together," he said, trying hard to be precocious so as not to babble out something witless.
"Nash?" Graziella said, using the short form of his name for the first time. Though not Gnash because she probably thought that was a bit silly.
"Yes?"
"If you want - well. You can come down to my place too. "
"Huh?"
"To my place. Into my tube. We're friends. We don't have to squat in different tubes."
"I think ... that's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
"I - it's complicated."
"You can explain it to me."
Nashville and Graziella both winced at the same time, emitting startled yips as Nashville's wristwatch sounded an alarm. He had set it for midnight, fearing he would lose track of time with all the heroics. And he had to watch the minutes between patrols to get home unnoticed. But now he had to go back.
"My parents will be home from work soon. I have to get home or they'll give me hell. I'm afraid I have to go, Graziella. Please- please don't be mad at me."
"I'm not mad at you, Nashville. I don't understand. But I'm not mad at you."
"I-I'd like to talk to you again," Nash said, feeling his heart pounding to his throat. And gave a jump when Graziella said:
"I'd like to talk to you again, too."
"I-I have to do something with my parents tomorrow night but-."
"Game night? I used to do that with my Nonna twice a week. She always cheated at Non T'Arrabbiare."
"Yeah- game night. But the night after tomorrow! Half past ten..."
Nashville growled almost audibly at this silly suggestion. He just sent a little girl out on the streets of the Bronx at night just because he wanted another kid to talk to! But you could hear the joy and excitement in Graziella's voice. Joy and excitement about meeting HIM again!
"Yes! I'm here. Right here, then. We're meeting here, right?"
"Yes!" blurted out Nashville, grinning with glee. Graziella had made it to this playground once. And that was on a Saturday night.
On a Monday night, it was less dangerous anywhere because the bad guys always had to recover a bit from the weekend.
"Please take care of yourself when you go home. Bye."
"Don't worry about me. Ciao."
Impossible for me not to worry, Nashville thought and silently crawled out of his tube, however, upwards. Up to the third and fourth levels and from there out. The climbing structure was as high as the one-story washroom and that's why it was no problem for him to catch an air current. Even if Graziella would hear something. She couldn't possibly associate the sound his wings made when catching the wind with a gargoyle.
Thanks for reading, Q.T.