.

Brood of a New Age

92.

Travis Marshall felt more nervous, even anxious, than he had in twenty years during a news report.

Yet the evening had gone well. Okay - `well` was a relative term. A little uneventful, perhaps. They had gone to see a shopkeeper who recounted the story of how a gargoyle had attacked a man coming out of his store and then, out of sheer viciousness, slashed the tires of the squad car of the Quarrymen patrol that joined them shortly after. The whole story sounded ridiculous and contrived. It had been exciting to fly on the Sky sled and Fran in front of him had also told some interesting anecdotes (not self experienced but also from hearsay) and if you cut out her religious drivel and her inflammatory comments about Gargoyles later you could get ten minutes of good material out of it. But other than that, nothing happened. No gargoyle sighting, no announcement over one of the Quarrymen coordination stations that this or that shopkeeper or citizen had reported a "gargoyle attack".

Until suddenly Castaway's excited voice cracked through their Two Ways. Dear Comrades. We've got one. This is the night of your lives. You will be there as we make history. And so on and so forth. And at the end, an address. And here he stood. From the outside, the large red brick building was really impressive. Just like the old warehouses from the early to mid-twentieth century had been, where everything from grain to bales of cloth had been received from overseas, inspected, cataloged, and shipped on to the rest of the country. He had once vacationed in Germany. In Hamburg. And this kind of building, although larger and although the lowest floor here was more like a hall, always reminded Travis of Hamburg's Speicherstadt. Form follows Function. Worldwide. The building here had not yet been demolished like many of its kind. But it was not in good condition either. Not a ruin, not a skeleton. But a pretty rotten body, ready to be dismembered by vultures. Why was Travis even surprised that one of the city's vultures had just walked in with SIX of his people? Tony Dracon!

"Fran, this is-," Travis muttered to his Quarrywomen partner standing next to him.

"Shush! The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Be quiet and watch Mister Castaway keep the mobsters in line."

Travis took a deep breath. He noticed that each of Dracon's men had weapons in their holsters. The other Quarrymen had hammers with them, two even machine guns as if they were expecting a really big fight. Travis, on the other hand ... had nothing. They had only given him a flashlight! He would just give his right ear for a gun. The rest of the world believed that most Americans were crazy gun nuts and could all shoot but he couldn't. Still, he would have loved to have a gun. If only to hold on to it. But ... all the gangsters seemed absolutely relaxed. Tony Dracon smiled in the light of the yellowish ceiling lamps and folded his arms.

Castaway raised his arms like the ceremonial leader he saw himself as.

"Mister Dracon," he said, his voice echoing through the wide room. "I thank you for your dedication to our cause. Despite your previous offenses against society, you are truly trying to reform. That is so commendable."

"Yeah, I'm training myself to be a saint," Tony said somewhat arrogantly, flashing one of his slimiest smiles that Travis already knew from his reporting.

"But you don't forget the compensation for my trouble," Tony reminded him, and Castaway laughed.

"But of course we don't. As long as you hold up your end."

"I do. We're both men of honor," Tony said, stepping aside as his right hand (was his name Glasses? Yes, Glasses, Travis remembered) did. Behind him, a man came forward. And tucked under his arm was a misshapen figure. No. Not misshapen. Just not human. And so tied up like a roast that it looked downright painful the way its wings were squeezed against its body. The gargoyle was ice-blue and the size of a child of about nine or ten. And its shaggy black hair hid most of its face until the Dracon minion threw the creature at Castaway's feet. Only then did Travis see the beak. All the Quarrymen began to murmur.

"Wow, how gross," he heard Fran whisper next to him and saw her cross herself.

Travis didn't know what to say. He could only look down at the unconscious anything-but-impressive-or-dangerous creature and hoped his camera and mic were catching everything. He truly believed - despite his uncertainty - that he was witnessing history in the making. So why did he have such a cold, gruesome feeling in the pit of his stomach?

.

.

It was easier to get out of some fogs of a swoon than others. This was one of the easier ones. Easier than the one after that woman had hit him with the frying pan. The memory of what had happened peeled out of the fog at the same time as the first current perceptions.

He had been electrocuted, the Quarrymen had taken him. And though he stiffened at the thought (though not at all all the cogs in his head were communicating with his body yet) he managed to avoid shaking. He was not dead. He was still alive. This could not be the otherworld - or the beyond, as humans called it. Because the other world certainly didn't smell of dust and concrete.

Nash- despite dazedness, despite misty haze, despite fear was a warrior.

He had been trained for many situations. His parents had been ruthless at times- but now Nash realized that this very ruthlessness, this insistence on the same training sessions over and over again in hand-to-hand combat, swordplay, marksmanship, and yes, even "non-combat warfare" as Katana had called it, had in reality been a form of love. Certainly fear and paranoia, but now that this case had occurred and Nashville was not panicking like a stupid child, he knew it had been love. Okay - so non-combat warfare. Sighting the situation. And if you can't "sight" it inconspicuously, use all your other senses. And stay in stealth mode. And if you couldn't stay in stealth mode because you were tied up in front of the enemies, for example, pretend to be helpless. The fact that he was really helpless didn't matter. He had to check the situation. A calm assessment in a seemingly hopeless situation could save his life.

Nashville kept his eyes closed. Not squeezed shut, but as if he were still unconscious. What did he feel, what did he smell, what did he perceive? Only when he had assessed the situation in this way would he risk opening his eyes. Out of the disorienting mishmash of echoing voices, pain and darkness, clearer details began to emerge. He felt that he was lying on the floor - crumbly concrete, probably old. He felt the shock collar still around his neck and that his hands were tied behind his back, restricting his wings as well. No, his wings were also restrained. His ankles and even his tail as well. His beak was strapped shut with a coarse rope. Not a smooth nylon rope. One of those nasty bamboo fiber things that were terribly rough and would scrape the waxy skin of his beak even without him trying to brush it off. Just having it there would give him some pretty nasty scrapes. But no iron chains. That meant the Quarrymen who had picked him up and taken him God knows where weren't taking him seriously (a classic feeling for Nashville as it was for pretty much every kid on the planet but in this situation that was good for him).

The acrid smell of dust, rat droppings, old wood and rusty metal, the flat aroma of weathered paint and varnish. The smell of gasoline. And the odor of many humans. Without seeing them, Nashville couldn't tell how many. Their scents of deodorant, pheromones and sweat, testifying to nervousness, tense anticipation and yes, occasional fear, wafted into each other. There could be 8 but also 20 or more. He opened his eyes a crack wide. Not as bright light as in his cage in the garage. His cage? No. THE cage. Not his. Never his. From the shadowy forms that told him nothing and reminded him of nothing, a shape gradually materialized that told him something and at the same time left him confused and puzzled. Brown. A bit blocky. Nashville sniffed. Dust, concrete, old wood and ... shoe wax. It smelled like Mister Burnett's wax he used to polish his shoes. Nashville knew that. He had wanted to try the wax on his horns once. Nashville blinked, and with the hint of the wax, he now recognized the shoe directly in his field of vision. Brown leather. Dark suit pants over it. Inconspicuously, his gaze wandered higher. Only to realize that the Quarrymen to whom the brown expensive shoes belonged was looking down on him.

.

.

Oh God! The gargoyle was awake! For a moment, he looked the creature directly in the pitch-black eyes in which the ceiling light was reflected so strangely. And the creature looked into his eyes - and seemed surprised. But only a second before it closed its eyes again. It hadn't moved the whole time and didn't move now. Travis raised his head in surprise. Should he tell the others? Castaway? Fran? No one seemed to have noticed what he had seen. Again he looked at the gargoyle, who remained lying unchanged, and had he not known he was awake - wide awake - he would have believed he was still unconscious.

A crazy thought came to him, eliciting a distressed but somehow amused smile from under the far too warm mask. The sly little bastard! But ... if he was awake - could that cause problems? He was still tied up, though. And there were - Travis eyes quickly counted through those present - with Tony Dracon seven gangsters and with Castaway ten Quarrymen and Quarrywomen here. So - minus himself. Seventeen people. Against one too-short, tied-up gargoyle.

But if the little guy was just pretending to be unconscious ... didn't that mean he thought he had a chance of getting out of here alive? Didn't it mean that he was not only sentient but full of hope and dreams and will to live? Or did he know something that none of the people here knew? Although Travis had never dared to take sides - out of professionalism but also fear of consequences - it occurred to him for the first time that every single one of the gargoyles might be an intelligent being. Beings that should not be slandered like that, should not be treated like that. Heck even the dumbest and lowest creatures on this planet should not be treated so disgustingly. For the first time, the realization came to him that much of the human population was simply wrong. The minority who belonged to or agreed with the Quarrymen - but also the vast silent majority. This was wrong. Everything here is wrong! Shouted a voice in his head.

At that moment, Tony Dracon had finished counting the money he had received for selling the gargoyle, flipped the case closed, and kicked the little guy so hard in the back that he opened his eyes and let out a tortured shriek of pain.

"AH, who's awake here!" fluted Castaway, grabbing the squirming gargoyle like a little worm and dropping him again so that he came up on his knees grunting in pain.

"Wonderful. I hate it when the guest of honor misses the whole show," Castaway growled, suddenly no longer seeming like the well-mannered, professional and noble Englishman who saw his mission as a charitable act to humanity. He looked like a spiteful child. Or like someone who was pursuing a personal vendetta.

And the little gargoyle? He looked up just at that moment and glared at Castaway with resentment.

Nashville defiantly withstood Castaway's stare even though he wanted to curl up. He knew that his own jet-black eyes could stare knives into his enemies. And so he did. After a few seconds, Castaway averted his gaze. It was a small victory, an absolutely insignificant one considering his imminent death (he had estimated the superior number of armed enemies. He wasn't good at math but he couldn't beat that many people even with any cunning or all the luck and chance in the world. He was as good as dead. That's what the vision had shown, that was his fate on this time plane- whatever had caused the divergence). There was no point in practicing non-combat warfare anymore. Nothing made sense anymore. That's why he felt free to piss Castaway off a little. When the Quarrymen leader's eyes found his again, he added an extra touch.

Travis and also Fran, who were closest (clearly that his spy camera was getting good shots) took a step back when they saw the glowing eyes and despite the tightly strapped beak a low-frequency growl came from the throat of the ice-blue creature that made Travis break out in a cold sweat.

"Yeah, we all like you better that way, you demon spawn," Castaway hissed so close to his face that Nashville felt the reflex to snap at the human's nose despite the rope.

That voice sent shivers down his spine. That voice spoke of a thousand years of hatred, of dozens of lives with the same mission. Nashville knew this could not be but he just had that impression.

Castaway was talking louder now so that his whole audience including Graziella's father Tony Dracon, who had the silver case with his payment for him tucked under his arm and was watching the show with a disgustingly smug smile.

"One would be tempted to see the little monster as a pawn in the game for this city and for this whole world. But I don't make such comparisons. The survival of the human race is not a game. No matter how trivial the threat seems, you have to nip it in the bud while it's still manageable," Castaway lectured in a practiced speaker's voice.

.

.

"Fantastic! Margot, that rental car is a blast. Yes, Brendan - a blast when it breaks down and I have to hike to the nearest phone booth to call a cab. Or worse- have to take public transportation like a redneck. Oh, Margot! The car even has a navigation system. You'll want to keep it even after the repair shop fixes your car door again. Fixed it? Brendan, you dumbass! Replaced. They have to replace the door. What kind of asshole, wild asocial animal rips off a car door! I know exactly who! Or what. The thief they found in my car confirmed it, after all. Sentient beings! Protected status! Consideration by the Supreme Court and the International Convention on International Behavior towards Endangered Species! You're all crazy. One car after the other has to be destroyed because of these things and you think about extending the laws - all laws - or to extend that they also refer to "non-human" intelligent life forms? The next thing that comes to mind here are the little green men and I- grrrr!"

She stopped and clenched her fists, careful not to scratch her manicure, which she had just refreshed the day before yesterday. And her feet in the new pumps hurt. What a fucking mess. It was like this city was bringing her bad luck. She liked her job. She liked to see criminals sweating in front of her even though she was so much more delicate and weaker than them, she simply liked ... the Power. Again, that Darth Vader comparison she would never mention to anyone, not even her therapist because it was just way too crude and plain trivial for Margot Yale of THE Yales. But she hated, flat out, openly and honestly, without a shadow of a doubt and one hundred percent fucking New York. That was because of a lot of things but mostly because of them.

She lifted her head - and saw a gargoyle gliding through the street as if her thoughts had summoned him.

One?

She turned her head and stumbled backwards into the shadow of a house. Three! No, five. NINE! Nine of them. Unusually low, unusually fast.

"Oh my God, what are those monsters up to now?" whispered Margot. But ... if they were flying so low, didn't it mean they were looking for something and would soon land? Was one of their lairs here? And suddenly ... her feet didn't hurt at all. Suddenly she was seized by an energy and an idea that was as insane as it was absolutely justified. She would scream in the face of one of them what she thought of them. This was her fucking RIGHT! She had not been able to assert the right of the American citizens represented by her against the superior power of the court, but she herself, with her numerous traumatic AND expensive encounters with the monsters, was entitled to ANY compensation.

She bared her teeth, felt in her handbag for the pepper spray and when she felt that it was really there, ran in the direction where the pack of gargoyles had disappeared.

.

.

"Boss. We've got word that all the mice are in the burrow and that the winged rats are soon there too."

"Pfft. So predictable - all together. Everything goes exactly according to plan, then."

Dino pulled the balaclava over his head. Then the helmet with the visor. Tight and stuffy.

They looked like police officers in full gear and uniform with safety protective clothing and bulletproof vests. Even if they left after the job was done and ran into "colleagues", no one would question them. No crow would peck out the eye of another crow, especially after the bloodbath they would create in there. A bloodbath after which the real cops would have to sort out the corpses of Gargoyles, Quarrymen and Dracon Syndicate members from the wrong side.

"You sure you want to go in there, boss? The air's about to get real leaden in there?" asked one of his followers. Dino took off his helmet and balaclava again. Damn, it was hot and hazy along with his beard.

"I want my nephew to see the loving eyes of a family member when he dies and passes the scepter to me. I need to see him take his last breath myself. That's also part of being a good boss - taking risks in one moment to not be surprised by an unexpected outcome in others. I don't make the same mistakes twice. The whole dark side of New York is against me - they think I'm bad for business. That's why we taught Huracan and Yingpei the lesson with their brood, which is why they now keep their feet still. But Tony - even though he's already had a gun held to his head on my behalf - keeps rumbling around in my town. The boy with his gargoyle psycho games. The citizens, the town, the cops and feds will think I'm the grieving uncle. The other syndicates, however, will get the message after this night. Nobody keeps Dino Dracon down. The Dracons will become with me again the undisputed head of the five families. It will be a sign for everyone. The survivors will naturally turn from Tony's side to mine. And even Antoinette will see that she works better for me than against me - in the future. I don't even have to threaten the girl for that.

"It's enough to kill her brother."

"Exactly. And more than that."

"The Gargoyles?"

"And why not Castaway too?- These self-appointed cult leaders are always gradually becoming a burden. We let the other parties do the bulk of the work, and then we just join them to take care of the half-corpses that crawl away. All in one swoop. The Valiant Little Tailor wasn't my favorite fairy tale as a kid for nothing."

He and his boys-who all looked like a special ops team-laughed in the confines of the van.

"You're the boss, Dino."

"The one and only. That's right. Now let's go."

He opened the back door of the van, which was parked just a few blocks from "The Granary," and jumped out. Just then a person ran into him and fell to the ground.

"What, dang it! Can't you watch where you-"

The woman looked up. He had not yet put his balaclava back on. And Dino recognized her the same second her eyes went wide too. It wasn't like every Manhattan resident knew the local crime bosses. Even if their pictures were sometimes in the news. But Margot Yale would be one lousy A.D.A. if she didn't recognize him right away.

"That -'s unfortunate," muttered one of his boys behind him.

Dino smiled broadly.

"On the contrary. It's another sign. For the right people of the legislative, executive and judicial branches. Good evening, Miss Yale. Fancy a show without dinner? Though I doubt you'll get much out of it."

He leaned down, raised his arm and knocked her out just as she was about to yelp.

.

.

"It may seem cruel to some to destroy today a creature that sits so restrained before us. A thing that you might think is a child, that you might think is intelligent because it wears clothes, that you might think is understanding, even honorable, if you buy the lies of its demonic leader in court. But everything the Quarrymen do is for the higher purpose. Do not be lulled by the lies of so-called do-gooders who blather about harmony. Do not be sheep! You are not alone!" Through the euphoric cheering of his followers and the patient clapping of the mobsters, a grunting snort was heard ... and as both cheers and claps gradually faded, everyone realized it was a laugh. Several puffing breaths were taken, and accompanied by grunts, a bright child's chuckle echoed through the hall. Not at the top of its voice. Not out loud, because the little gargoyle couldn't open its beak. Everyone watched in bewilderment as the little gargoyle knelt on the floor, his head low and his whole body shaking with a fit of laughter. And when the creature stretched its upper body to look at Castaway, everyone saw the narrow "lips" of its beak curled into a grin. And Travis couldn't help it and already had the laugh in his throat too - as well as some mobsters, you could tell. It was true! The little guy was right. When you thought about it. Castaway was a completely ridiculous character! Absolutely laughable in his viciousness with his rehearsed pied piper phrases.

By now, some of the gangsters had started laughing, too, and even the Quarryman close to him was shaking and on the verge of realizing what was making Nashville laugh so hard. The Quarrywomen next to the man with the brown leather shoes gestured.

"Stop it! That's not funny! That thing is doing that to discredit Mister Castaway, don't you realize?" she nagged.

Which made those who were already giggling laugh even harder. But Nash couldn't enjoy his triumph over the Gargoyle race's latest nemesis. Because Castaway turned to him again, face contorted with rage, and slammed his fist against his beak. Nashville roared up-restricted from the rope, his cry of pain muffled and whimpering like a dog's. THAT hurt. He tried to crawl away but one of the Quarrymen grabbed him by the mop of hair and lifted him up by it. The nagging woman from just now, he realized as she spoke in a loud shrill voice.

"Devil! Impertinent blue-skinned demon spawn! Take that!" She suddenly had a small plastic bottle in her hand that looked like something that once had disinfectant in it. With a flick of her fingers, she had the lid open and was dumping the contents over his face. Nash groaned, panicking that she was going to cauterize him. That this Quarrywoman had brought acid or something that would bring him terrible pain and melt his face. He had never trained for that!

But it was only cool. And wet. And ... it was water. He stopped squirming, took a shaky breath, and managed to push his long tongue between the rope that held his beak shut to lick up some of the liquid. It was a little salty. But he didn't realize until that moment how incredibly thirsty he was. SO thirsty.

The woman had let go of him and even in spite of her hood, he saw that she was looking down at him, befuddled. Everyone was looking at him.

"He, he's licking the holy water," she muttered.

"Of course, Frani," Castaway said again in his kindly, demure non-insane voice, shooting him a haughty look while wiping his knuckles with a clean handkerchief as if he had simultaneously punched something very disgusting along with Nashville. All laughter had stopped and the silence in the hall apart from Castaway's voice was ominous. As if they were the last beings on earth.

"It's one of their cubs. Sacramentals only have effect on beings who are aware of their power. But this beast is too stupid for that. However, it was a commendable attempt. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome. Thank you sir," this Frani now muttered like a silly schoolgirl and stepped back again. As Castaway turned her around one of the Quarrymen stepped up to him with a hammer.

"Are we going to take it to the Washington Square Park rally tomorrow?"

"But no. The tampering attempt on everyone just now demonstrated the deviousness of the monster. We need to make an example now before any hostile forces get in our way. I will take his head tomorrow."

"Well then. Showtime," chirped Tony, who looked like he would have loved to take a big bucket of popcorn to the show.

I guess that was it, Nashville thought. Strangely, no images of his clan flashed before his inner eye. His thoughts were solely of Graziella. He still didn't believe that everything she had said had been a lie. He still felt the pain of her words and her look and how she had admired Tony. She didn't deserve his final thoughts. But he couldn't stop his stubborn mind. Castaway's voice was almost a welcome distraction there.

"I'd allow the thing a few last words, but it would only play a role in softening the hearts of the stupid and gullible anyway. That was the problem months ago in court. They should never have allowed their leader and his human lackeys to speak. At least the siren song of this specimen will never again mess with the minds of the clever, good citizens of New York and America ... Remember, all of you -," Castaway raised his head proudly, almost venerably. He looked into the round of his followers and Tony Dracon's people as if they were also his acolytes, his face turning last and with full confidence in the good medial effect and the sublime aestheticity of the image to Travis (or rather to the camera in his glasses). His voice was calm but echoed loud and determined in the hall.

"Remember, everyone. The Quarrymen way is the only way. For humanity!"

"FOR HUMANITY!" roared the echo from all sides to Travis while his conscience screamed again that all this was so disgusting and wrong but his mouth and legs couldn't move.

Travis' heart was beating so violently and loudly that he feared it would be transmitted to the radio car via the microphone on his chest. But he couldn't look away.

Castaway nodded to the man standing over the gargoyle. The latter raised the hammer from which white flickering electricity radiated in creeping threads. The little gargoyle visibly tensed the muscles in its slender shoulders and wings. But he no longer trembled. He did not lower his head. He looked stubbornly straight ahead. Not even hatefully anymore. Not even with glowing eyes anymore. He just looked ... tired. And bitter. Like someone who was weary of all the misery around him.

At that moment, Travis and everyone around him heard the approaching bestial war roar from multiple non-human throats.

Yes- I know. Too staged, the Yale thing. And Fran is SO stupid and gullible about Castaway's blather. And now - showdown! It gets very chaotic. But that is intentional.

Thanks for reading, Q.T.