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Brood of a New Age

24.

In the minutes that Dante performed for the first time, albeit unknowingly and involuntarily, as a savior of a human being in America, Angela saw a figure with wings land on the roof of Holy Cross Church in Hells Kitchen.

"Look," she said from high above, and Goliath and Brooklyn's eyes followed her gesture downward just as a slender figure disappeared into one of the windows of one of the two side aisle towers, which had just been covered only with plastic sheeting. And although they were too high to make out exactly who it was, Brooklyn immediately voiced a suspicion.

" Too slender to be the gray scarred thug. Demona?",

"In a church?" growled Goliath doubtfully.

" 'Little late for absolution,'" Brooklyn surmised sarcastically, and though the hatred of his younger self was no longer perceptible, suspicion and resentment resonated. Angela gave him a pitying but frustrated look. Whatever Brooklyn had or hadn't experienced with Demona in the future (he didn't talk to either of them about it even if he had vaguely hinted that Demona was still alive as one might expect of an immortal), it didn't change his opinion of the Demona from this decade and century in the least. It just ensured that he no longer rushed braindead into every battle in which she could be involved. But Angela wasn't feeling good about her mother right now, either, as she too had been involved in the events that had led to the endangerment of the Manhattan clan's only egg. Her intentions were always a blessing for other Gargoyles from Demona's point of view, but only from her point of view. In a crazy way, she meant a lot of what she did for the better (for Gargoyles) - like her attempted genocide of humans with the help of the praying Gargoyle, and that's why Angela couldn't bring herself to hate her mother the way others did. But Demona had used up her Cookie Points for this decade with her interference last months even with Angela. Still, that was no reason to risk a shootout now.

She landed on the roof of the Catholic church with the two males and raised her hands in a placating but defensive manner.

"If it's her, I'll approach her first," she said. Her father and his second - BOTH now so much older than her - exchanged uncertain glances.

"She's MY mother," she returned, not tolerating any dissent from either of them in that regard. And the two males were smart enough not to argue.

"We'll stand by. And only intervene if she's a danger to you or others," Goliath grumbled sternly, and Brooklyn nodded in frustration.

"Fine," she said a little more snarky than she meant to and slipped through the thick transparent plastic sheeting in front of the window.

.

Grace liked the church that Luca had scouted.

A red brick building with a high nave and exactly mirrored lower side aisles, both of which were crowned by turrets on the street side. It was easy to land unnoticed on the roof and slip through the tarpaulins.

Sacred silence immediately enveloped her as she crept through the side door into the main room, crouching vigilantly, after scouting the situation for a few seconds and making sure that no other living creature was around. Although there was no light in the main room, she could see everything. Her nocturnal eyes were even grateful for the diffused light from the stained-glass rose windows facing the street and the windows high below the dome of the apse, their bright colors speckling the floor. She straightened into a human position and pulled the black wide cloth tighter around her body.

A church should be entered with shoulders, arms and knees covered, and even a woman's natural adornment - her long hair - should be humbly covered. She could get it right this time. She had not always been able to pay attention to this in Italy and had therefore always prayed twice as many rosaries, but here she had the leisure to do so. That she had taken the time to purchase this cloth in a clothing store a few blocks away was self-evident. Grace smiled at the word purchased. She had broken into the store with her lockpicking set, but had even left a little more money than she would have needed - as compensation.

She strode to the basin of holy water, dipped her fingers into it, and brought the wet claws to her brow bone, then to the other points of her torso in preparation for prayer. Instantly, through this tiny rite alone, she fell into a calm contemplative mood, an inner peace that she could only experience in churches. Smiling, she walked down the main aisle, letting the hand that wasn't holding the cloth at her neck run devoutly over the wood of the carved pews, gleaming in the twilight, and took in the apse behind the choir.

Even if it didn't come with the centuries-old aura she knew and loved from Italy, she liked what she saw. The architectural and canonical layout of a sacred interior was similar around the world and, to Grace, reassuringly familiar. The entire interior was painted white but the area for the worshippers and that for the priest were separated by a parapet of light marble. Behind it, slightly elevated, was a preacher's desk and, in the middle, an altar of white marble. On the wall, also from the white shining stone, a structure that housed two saints in niches on the sides and in the center and elevated a golden portable altar cross. The view was dominated by a painted crucifixion scene, the gaze of the suffering Jesus directed to the cloudy sky so that his father may hear him and forgive humanity.

She loved the smell of oiled old wood, incense, dust and cleanliness at the same time, lime, fresh and not so fresh flower arrangements. Sight and scent was home.

She took one of the red glasses with a tea light in it, threw a dollar into a donation box as the sign in front of it requested, and after making the sign of the cross and curtsying again at the altar, went to the left side where a carved and painted wooden figure stood. To a human she would be in deepest shadow but Grace saw the lovely gentle features of the person who was the only mother she had ever known.

White chaste robe, but light blue cloak with gold trim. Her dearest Virgin Mary, smiling upliftingly, hands outstretched invitingly even to a creature like Grace, welcoming her and her prayers. She lit the tea light with one of Dante's Zippos and placed the glass on the parapet in front of the carved figure knelt on the floor in front of it and, bowing her head in humility, folded her hands.

Angela couldn't believe it. She had never seen a praying gargoyle (except for the stubby little figurine that was supposed to protect the gargoyles from Demona's plague). Of course, she and her rookery siblings had been raised by Princess Katherine and Guardian Tom according to Christian standards (of the tenth century). But the instructions of the Bible had always been only that for the young Gargoyles. Rules of conduct to become decent persons. Even their human foster parents had never demanded more, and thus a deep faith had never been established in all of them. And in a world full of magic, some god could never play an all-encompassing role, because one could never be sure which of the myths in one of the holy scriptures had not sprung from a farce of one of the children of Oberon.

But here - at the other end of the main room, wrapped in a tightly woven cloth but with treacherous clawed feet protruding from beneath it - a gargoyle prayed in barely audible whispers. Impossible that this was her mother - that would be more than ridiculous. Which meant that maybe it was this new gargoyle Elisa had told them about. The one that had almost killed the Quarrymen yesterday. The silhouette they had seen from above had really not been that of a muscular male gargoyle, but perhaps the witness statements had been unreliable. So much police routine Angela had picked up from Elisa. A female gargoyle with a beak might look like a male specimen to human eyes. But a goatee? And an open-topped west? To miss the female features there, people must have been very blind. Or it was a completely different gargoyle. If only this gargoyle would turn around so she could see if he had a beak. Angela looked at Brooklyn and Goliath standing silently in the doorway, Goliath even slightly bent over. Her father wanted to say something, but she motioned for him to keep quiet. In here, except for the whispered litany of the conspecific, it was very quiet, the acoustics very echoing and even for Angela it would be difficult to approach silently. Nevertheless, she tried. No matter if the worshipper was the gray violent one or another gargoyle. The Manhattan clan had a duty to take care of him - one way or another.

.

Prayers of thankfulness were much more important than prayers of supplication from Grace's point of view. She thanked the Holy Mother (and of course the Lord and Jesus) for her smooth journey, her reasonably safe shelter, for the patience and fervent support of her dearest human Luca, even for the fact that Dante had escaped death yesterday (he would bitterly object to even assuming that a Higher Power had anything to do with his survival, but prayers were as free as thoughts).

The flower-bedecked Madonna with the sheltering cloak had always been a special comfort to Grace. Not because most Italians had a soft spot for Virgin Mary per se but because her blue mantle marked her as Queen of Heaven and Grace felt herself (and her species as she had known for some months) belonging to the sky. And blue also stood for protection and granting refuge in time of need - how could she not feel deeply connected to that message? Grace knew, she knew exactly the Blessed Virgin would show her a path to follow in search of her kin.

She was about to switch from thanksgiving to supplication when the wood of one of the pews cracked loudly behind her. She jumped up and whirled around, tightly wrapped in her wings and the woven cloth that hopefully hid her features and true nature.

"Who's there?" she called out, unintentionally very annoyed, and lowered her head so that whoever was huddled behind the pillar would not see her red glowing eyes. Her free hand fumbled for the gun in her pants pocket but as soon as it touched the murder tool heated by her body, she refrained. Not here! Never here.

She received no answer. She felt as if the person hiding from her was digesting the fact that she was able to speak.

The pillar hid the person who dared to interrupt her most sacred ritual. Had a Quarrymen seen her sneak into the church? Had they followed her? But here she could not risk a fight. She only hoped that her opponents - there had to be more than one, because she could hear breaths coming from the side aisle - had enough standing to avoid using their hammers in here. No longer wondering if the other party saw her eyes, she proudly raised her head and glared at her previously hidden opponent. Her firm voice echoed through the wide high room.

"Whoever you are- do not force me to defile this hallowed place with violence. Let us take the fight outside."

For a few more seconds the person behind the pillar paused, perhaps exchanging glances and silent agreements with the others on how to deal with the monster they had found here. Then the person stepped out from behind the column.

"I don't want to fight. We don't want that," said a soft feminine voice and a girl walked towards Grace with her hands raised placatingly. Purple skin, horns at the brow arches not wide and shearing out at the temples like hers or Dante's. Wings folded into a cape.

"A gargoyle!" whispered Grace. She took a step toward the beautiful creature as if she feared it was a mirage that could vanish into thin air.

"You are a gargoyle," she said louder, almost falling into the girl's arms. In her smiling mouth pointed teeth flashed.

"Like you ... a gargoyle like you. I'm Angela," the creature said laughing at the probably very befuddled expression on Grace's face. Never had a name suited more for such an angelic creature. Her trembling hands found the girl's upper arms.

She was so stunned and overjoyed that she was incapable of any articulate sentences. She could hardly calm herself.

"Angela. You are Angela. You-you're like me. You have wings and-" she looked down at Angela's feet- huge and clawed. And there coiled a tail. Not with an arrowhead-like tip like hers or Dante's but beautiful. Grace let out a loud sob that echoed in the church hall. She felt tears instantly spring to her eyes and run down her cheeks.

"I thought we were the only ones of our kind. I-I was so - lost. And after the TV pictures, I thought people would catch or kill you before we could find you. I prayed every night. And now the Blessed Virgin has led me to you."

Angela giggled again and touched Grace comfortingly on the cheek, then brought her loosely clenched fist up to her forehead and pressed her knuckles against her brow. A strangely affecting warmth flooded Grace, which she could not grasp but which, as if by instinct, brought more tears of happiness. She clasped Angela's cheeks and kissed her left and right, even on her tiny human nose, which didn't even have two little horns like Grace's own. It was the first time she had ever been in the arms of a fellow species which was not her brother - and then directly in the arms of another girl.

"Thank you Mary. Thank you dear Lord Jesus, thank you God."

Angela- herself with a tearful voice patted her wings, which without her noticing, had stood up, the shawl had slipped from her body and lay forgotten at her feet.

"You've found us now. It's all good."

No sooner had Grace noticed that Angela had used the word US than she saw out of the corner of her eye two taller people enter the main room. She broke away from Angela with wide eyes, but did not let go. Angela turned and waved the two people over. She knew both of them from the camera images on television. The muscle-bound big man - and ... on TV, the red-skinned one had looked much younger - and he hadn't been missing an eye then, which he now hid with an eye patch. But she couldn't care less. They were here. They were alive. She and Dante were not too late.

"This is Goliath, my father and clan leader, and Brooklyn, his Second." said Angela almost solemnly, and Grace broke away from her and stumbled toward the two kindred.

"Oh Santa Maria. I am so glad the Lord and the saints have led you to me." Goliath - the tall one - smiled down at her a little confused, though gently, and she reached up and pulled his angular face down to her and kissed him gratefully on the cheeks as well. Behind her, Angela giggled and that made Grace giggle too as she turned to the brick red gargoyle with the white long hair and didn't have to stretch to grab his beak and also kiss him left and right. Both males looked extremely flabbergasted and speechless over this. She brushed her claws against the chin of the older male, who, like Goliath, looked somewhat overwhelmed, almost frozen, by her actions. Grace found this kind of funny, they were both older than her. "Oh Signor Brooklyn, my brother will be thrilled to meet another Gargoyle with a beak-". She touched Goliath on the chest. "-and you Signor Goliath, David could never have taken on you. And the beautiful Signora Angela!" She turned to the gargoyle girl, who was now standing behind her, grinning broadly. "I am so blessed that we have come together. Finally we are no longer alone."

The gargoyle named Brooklyn - like the borough - cleared his throat and took a respectful step back as did Goliath. He smiled but something else seemed to dampen his joy at the appearance of new conspecifics.

"It's very nice to meet you Miss-"

"AH- I'm Grace. Scusi, I have completely forgotten my manners. My reaction-. That was too much. Wasn't it? It was too much." She turned to Angela, who held her hands and shook her head. "It was exactly the right reaction under the circumstances. Grace is a beautiful name."

Grace sighed. The touching, the kissing. She didn't want to let her emotions rule her like that. But the other gargoyles, even Angela, seemed less displeased with their intimacy than with something else. They exchanged worried glances as if they didn't know how to broach an uncomfortable subject.

"What's wrong? What?"

"Grace. You said you didn't come to America alone-" Goliath began.

She nodded. "Yes. Luca - a human friend watches over us during the day. Over me and my brother."

Brooklyn crossed his arms, and even out of only one eye, his gaze spoke volumes. " Is it possible that this brother has gray skin and is full of scars? Could it be that he had a run-in with Quarrymen yesterday?"

For a few seconds, you could hear a pin drop in the vast sacred space. Until Grace found just one word that fit the situation.

"Cazzo."

Cazzo = Shit

Scusi = Sorry

At this point I must thank the people who so diligently post pictures and reviews even of such places. Otherwise I could NEVER know from Germany, of course, how the Holy Cross Church in Hells Kitchen and its interior look like. And thanks, Google maps guys.

Thanks for reading, Q.T.