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Brood of a New Age

33.

Nashville had never seen a gargoyle pray before, and somehow he felt like a peeping Tom watching Grace do it. It seemed so private even though he could barely understand any of the whispered Italian words spoken by the gargoyle woman kneeling next to him in the pews, hidden under a dark cloth. Her position on the kneeling board of the pew in front of her was so tense, with her folded hands and interlocked fingers, her knuckles stood out almost white. He sat normally on the seat of the church bench but even his butt hurt and there was no room for his tail. Everything about this ritual seemed painful and uncomfortable and Nashville didn't understand what was good about a religion where this was part of it. He looked grimly past the medieval mainly Christian antiques placed here and there, to the cross behind an ornately carved sandstone altar. A worm-eaten wooden Jesus (that much he knew of Christianity) looked heavenward despite the poor condition of the wood full of agony and unspoken suffering. The paint chipped off centuries ago, only the "blood" which flowed from a cut below Jesus' ribcage was still visible. Or maybe it was not about finding something good at all? Was torture part of it? Part of a religion? But why?

After almost half an hour, the words stopped, Grace crossed herself, rose from the kneeling board, not to leave but to sit in the pew. She said nothing, nor did she move. What was that about? If she was finished, could he leave? Soon the sun rose. But he did not have the impression that he could leave. Goliath had told him to accompany the red female, and something had given Nashville the impression that accompanying her meant taking care of her, too. But how long was she going to sit there? Without talking. Usually he didn't mind much when adults didn't talk, but somehow in this chapel- with the sufferingly tortured wooden Jesus, the strange smell, and the gloomy atmosphere- he felt anxious.

"Grace?"

The red female raised one of her hands to her face, obviously wiping her eyes. Because of the dark cloth over her hair, he hadn't been able to see that she must have been crying a little. When she turned her head in his direction, he saw the moisture on her beautiful face. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable looking at her, and he lowered his eyes in shame.

Again he became aware of the smell that - very faintly, very subtly - emanated from Grace.

It had just smelled of old wood, dust, and that incense stuff a moment ago. The last was strange, considering that the chapel had not been used for worship for a thousand years, to his knowledge, but perhaps there was incense in one of the antiques - for the mood. That would be much like Xanatos.

"Grace. Can I ask you something?" He was surprised at how loud and echoing his voice sounded in the not even overly large oratory, and even when Grace answered quietly it could be heard clearly.

"Of course bambino. You can ask me anything. Just ... I may not be able to answer everything." She gave him a sad smile and he gave her one back. He was bothered that Grace had hurt Angela. But her reaction afterward. And now here in the chapel. He wasn't sure if it had really been Grace who had hurt his "aunt." Of course it had been her physically. But somehow it hadn't.

"I don't mean to offend you," he muttered meekly. "But - your catholiscism..."

She kept smiling but her eyes narrowed.

"Yes. I've already seen how the adults look at each other when I pray. Or when I mention something related to my religion."

"I always thought religion was for humans," Nash said, eager to make sure the conversation wasn't (yet) about the recent accident. He looked to the crucifix on the wall between the stained glass windows that were certainly not original 10th century Wywern.

The red female took a deep breath, followed his gaze, and now he saw her smile.

"Religion is for everyone. For anyone who needs strength, for anyone who needs hope and support.

"But Jesus looks like he's in really bad trouble. Why does he give strength to you believers?"

"He died for our sins. He took them upon Himself. He atoned vicariously for our sins. His sacrifice ensured our redemption."

Redemption of humans, perhaps, Nashville thought, but asked, "So he was ... a protector?" He saw the corners of Grace's mouth twist into a wide grin without her taking her eyes off her beloved Jesus.

"Yes - I guess he is," she whispered.

"Why did he die? Who nailed him to the cross there?"

Grace thought for a moment, then sighed. "Fearful people. They were afraid of Jesus Christ."

"I don't get that. Who would be afraid of him? It's not like he's buff there at the cross."

Grace chuckled softly. And raised her hand to her mouth briefly as if she had done something naughty. "They weren't afraid of his power. They were afraid of his messages. He preached love and compassion to the people. He worked miracles and gave people hope. And the Romans, who at that time ruled the area that is now Israel, believed, or persuaded the people, that he wanted to take over the country. He was whipped, treated like a criminal, imprisoned and then sentenced to death on the cross. The Romans nailed criminals, traitors, and dissenters to crosses and left them there to die slowly in front of the people."

"Why the twigs around his head?"

"The crown of thorns is a mockery because some called him the King of the Jews."

"The wound on his side?"

"Inflicted by Roman soldiers."

"They mocked, tortured and tormented him even though he was already defeated and defenseless hanging on the cross? That's so ... human." Nashville's eyes began to glow. Grace put a hand on his and a look into her soft dark eyes brought him back to his senses.

"It's human, Nashville. But it's gargoyle as well. We are all not perfect. We do bad things even though deep down we want to be good. Or because we don't know any better. Or think we can't change anything anyway. But that is why Jesus took our sins upon himself. So that we can try to make up with yesterday and try to be good every new day. We can change. Everyone can change."

Nashville looked at the larger hand of the female lying on his. Red on ice blue. Tentatively, he placed his other hand on hers.

"Grace. What you did to Angela ... that wasn't you. Was it?"

The female's face, which had just been composed, was suddenly filled with guilt and despair. Her lower lip trembled and Nashville had taken her in his arms before the first sob shook her. He had no idea that his question would trigger such a reaction in her. She was an adult, he was the child. But this role reversal - that he was comforting the much older girl - seemed so natural to him. He wrapped his wings around her, rubbed her back, and cooed comforting inanities like his mother had done to him in the past (and like she surely would do today if he ever allowed himself to be so weak in front of her). He ignored her smell and the bosom that quivered against his chest from sudden sobs. She was not the person who had broken Angela's bones right now. Not even the one who had chased her brother through the courtyard. He knew that even adults weren't perfect. Not even his glorious father. But adults like to pretend to be perfect and all-knowing in front of children. Which made it all the more important that Nashville took the new red sister's outburst seriously.

"It's okay," he whispered. "She'll heal. She's been hurt worse. It's okay."

"No," Grace whimpered, and Nash couldn't help but enjoy how, as she shook her head in the crook of his neck, her thick shoulder-length hair brushed against his skin. Though he thought something like that would definitely feel even better with Graziella. "No, it's not okay. Angela has been so good to me. I can never undo that."

"No. You can't. But you can slowly push it to the back of our minds with good deeds."

She sniffled. "With what good deeds? Should I apologize?"

"You already have. But I guess a private apology wouldn't be so bad. But don't push it. In our clan, we're not so quick with hugs and kisses."

As if that had been a rebuke, Grace broke away from him, rubbed her eyes, and then blinked at him, smiling bashfully. He smiled back. "Just be good and fair to everyone. Participate in the duties of the clan. Listen to Goliath and Brooklyn." He involuntarily contorted the corner of his mouth. Now he really sounded brainwashed by the older ones.

Grace didn't seem to notice. She rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes one last time. "I'm trying. I'm really trying to be what I think is good."

"Grace. No one here wants you to be fake. We want to see what the real Grace is like. And also what the real Dante is like - even if he is often rude. We are all different and sometimes we rub against each other the wrong way because we are different. But all in all, Clan has to trust each other. You have to show us who you really are," the young gargoyle said, bringing all the adults' speeches to a point without even knowing it. Grace looked really ambivalent now.

"But I ... that earlier. I was so ... awful."

"I don't think that was really you. You want to tell me what that was?"

"It's ... I don't know what that was." She looked indecisive, shook her head as if she herself could not believe what she was about to say, and then continued to speak quietly. "But ... it's happened before. Not for many years. I thought it was out of my system. But... Nashville. There's something dark inside me. Something I'm afraid no clan can accept."

"When was the last time it happened? That this ... darkness in you showed itself?"

Grace was now kneading the end of the scarf she had wrapped around herself. She seemed to be thinking, and her musings culminated in a sentence almost inaudible with shame.

"When I broke Dante's wing."

"You did -."

"We were both children. And father wanted us to fight each other. For the first time. And he said we should try to hurt each other - just to see how strong we were. And where Dante was scared and spared me - I just obeyed. I hurt my own brother. I still hear his crying in my dreams today." She looked at Nashville and although tears were in her eyes, she didn't allow herself to let them out. Probably because she had cried about this very thing so many times before. Instead, she hastily continued. "It was father's order and I carried it out. Earlier, the clan leader ordered me to do something and I obeyed. I was afraid my brother was the problem. But his anger, his darkness is ... like a shell. My darkness ...this cold me that is capable of these cruel acts, thinking nothing, questioning nothing but simply existing ... this is not a shell. It is the flesh of which I am made."

"That's not true, Grace!"

"I don't know. I'm so afraid of this part of me. So terribly afraid. And i've known for a long time... even father was afraid of that part of me. Otherwise he would have nurtured this darkness so that I could better defend us and the family. Instead, he decided to train me mainly in the use of long-range weapons. And Dante he used for everything else. Even if it meant that he turned Dante into a ruthless ... "Grace shook her head with a grimace as if she had to force herself not to finish that sentence. "It's my fault. That my sweet gentle brother is like this now. Because I was weak in controlling my darkness, a controllable darkness had to be bred into Dante."

Nashville shook his head. Still startled by her confession, he knew her grief over everything was genuine through and through. He couldn't see her as the monster she saw herself as.

"That's over now, Grace. You both don't have to be like that anymore. You said it yourself. We're all made up of good and bad. And you have regrets. You don't want to act the way you did with Angela anymore. I'm sure ... the adults can support you in this. You just have to trust us. And we have to be able to trust you."

Grace smiled but her sigh sounded like the honesty thing was a problem. But she seemed to feel a little better. She sat up straighter in the pew and stroked his cheek in an affectionate "auntie" gesture.

"You are SO grown up, Nashville. And so sweet."

He cleared his throat, somehow suspecting he was blushing.

"Oh, my dad would beg to differ," he said flippantly.

"Your dad. Brooklyn. I thought the young ones belonged to the whole clan. Or did I get that wrong?"

"No, Grace. That's the way it is. But... I didn't have a clan until a few months ago. So, I had my parents. But not a permanent clan. That's why it's hard for me to see the others as my parents. I ... am practicing it."

"Because of this time travel thing. That ... must be really... difficult."

"Yeah. My dad went through some heavy crap with that. But also helped a lot of people."

"I didn't mean difficult for him. I meant difficult for you." She looked at him seriously. "What was it like for you?"

Nashville was stunned. And couldn't help but speak his thoughts out loud. "No-no one has ever asked me anything like that before. I-I don't even know what to-"

"It's okay," Grace said. "You don't have to talk about it now just before sunrise. But I'm so grateful to you for letting me get it all off my chest just now. And I meant it. You're a wonderful boy." Her smile became a little sassy. "Even if you are way too young for me."

Nashville laughed and Graziella's face flickered briefly in his mind's eye.

"Even your laugh reminds me of Dante. The Dante before he got his first scars. Maybe ... he will find his laughter here in America. Maybe we can both change."

"Make that change you want," Nash murmured, and Grace cracked a smile. "That's a great song."

"You know his music?"

Grace snorted. "We're from Italy, not the moon, Nashville. But Dante is the music nut. Me not so much."

"Yeah? Dante likes music?

"Very! Mostly rock. Dad still put up with Mina and Adriano Celentano but he also let our employees buy all the other records Dante wanted. Of course, he was only allowed to listen to them with headphones." Grace laughed. "Dad always said, the bass when Dante listens to music without headphones would hammer out his lumbar vertebrae. Then Vasco Rossi. Ohh and the progessive rock like from the New Trolls, Le Orme and Banco Del Mutuo Soc-.

Grace faltered in her enumeration as her gaze fell on Nashville's questioning face.

"You don't know any of those bands, do you?"

"No. Sorry."

"It wasn't important, either. But ... everyone in the house always stopped when Dante couldn't hold back and sang along to the lyrics. His voice... he should show you guys that sometime. It won't change your opinion of him or us, of course, but ... his voice makes you forget how he acts sometimes. It even made people forget who and what he is. Even Giuliano never did anything to permanently damage that voice. That must mean something."

"Why do you look so sad now?"

"I wish Dante would sing again. I wish he... would give in to that urge again. Better than all his other urges. He even tried his hand at playing the guitar- but his-"

"Claws. A guitar string like that is bound to snap right off."

"Not right away if he's real careful. But ... it frustrates him- having the music inside and not being able to let it out."

"Why doesn't he let it out?"

Grace shrugged. "Maybe because he's been talked into believing a hell spawn- i mean, a gargoyles shouldn't be like that. He should not be like that. Or he's talked himself into it."

Nashville noticed that it was getting lighter in the chapel. A glance at the stained glass windows confirmed this. He stood up and slid out of the pew.

"The sun's about to come up, Grace. Are you coming?"

She looked around briefly, a little confused, as if she hadn't realized it was so late. Then she shook her head.

"I think ... I'll add a rosary prayer." She pulled from her pants pocket a long chain of dark pearls tied together at one end, ending in a pretty little silver crucifix. and began kneading the chain between her fingers.

"You're going to petrify here," Nashville said.

"Yeah- probably," she returned, stretching a little and kissing Nashville on the forehead that he almost toppled backwards. She giggled and gave him the most loving smile he had ever seen on her.

"Good night. Nashville."

"Good night, Grace," he said with a dust-dry beak and stumbled out of the chapel while her whisper echoed through the room again. Outside stood the Italian detective. Nashville didn't know how long he'd been leaning against the wall, but the door to the chapel hadn't been closed and it was likely he'd heard every word they'd spoken. Nashville trudged by with his head down and his ears hot with embarrassment under his serious but lenient gaze. Their mutual head nods were polite at best.

.

"That was ... intriguing," Elisa murmured, folding her arms uncomfortably. Goliath was able to put her discomfort into words and turned to Xanatos who was standing with them in the castle's surveillance room. With his first morning cup of coffee but already groomed and preened for his day.

"Only you could come up with the idea of putting cameras and wiretaps in a chapel, Xanatos."

"Did it benefit you or not? Angela's screams woke us up, and I think I have the right to find out why such a racket is being made. And be honest, the charming Miss Bonebreaker would never have talked to either of you so openly. Is it because he's so young, or does Nashville just have a knack for pushing the right buttons with others?"

"Some of the comments were really revealing," Goliath admitted, grumbling.

"Like the one about my son thinking I don't think he's grown up or nice? Grown up, of course not. But nice..." grumbled Brooklyn, tolerating Xanatos patting him on the back with a growl.

"Don't worry, old sport. That's puperty. Should be over in ten years, or - because he's a gargoyle - in twenty."

"That doesn't make it any better."

"I meant more that Grace's comment was revealing. The one about them having employees."

"Exactly," Elisa agreed with her mate. "What huntsman has employees? Which hunter can afford it? And those employees knew about Dante and Grace? What happened to them?"

"And it sounded like-" Brooklyn speculated, scowling "-like this father is responsible for Dante, becoming the person he is today. As if he ... ordered this Giuliano to 'toughen him up'."

"If that's true ... then their father was actually the monster."

"Then why do Grace and Dante worship this guy so much? If only she had mentioned his last name. Then I could have arranged for a background check," Xanatos opined. At that moment, something cracked in his suit. Soft whimpering of a toddler came from one of his trouser pockets. It was the baby monitor. David Xanatos' previously neutral expression softened instantly as he walked to the door, waving casually at the others again. "And that was my call to leave the stage. Good day's rest."

The others looked after him discontentedly.

"Love from children is sometimes blind. Even more so when those children have no other role models," Goliath said somberly after a few moments.

"How fortunate that Nash doesn't have this issue with blind love," Brooklyn muttered, turning off the chapel's camera. Even he found it indecent to watch the suffering red kind huddled deep in the pews again now, practicing her religion. It was too private. Apart from the fact that Gargoyles should not cling to a human religion that has been used for thousands of years to justify the slaughter of their own kind. He was already making his way to the battlements and Goliath was accompanying Elisa to the elevator.

"Tomorrow night we will take them both on patrol. Especially because of their unfortunate performance in the fights, we need to observe their true nature when interacting with humans.

"That sounds good. But take care of yourselves. The danger from Castaway's cult is unabated," the detective said as she hugged Goliath goodbye outside the elevator. She knew the drop-off and pick-up service organized by Xanatos was already waiting in the underground garage. The six-foot-plus gargoyle embraced her with arms and wings, and for a few moments they remained in this for both of them comforting and reassuring position. Elisa felt Goliath's warm breath on her head and inhaled deeply his scent. Her nose wasn't as sharp as a gargoyle's- but his scent always soothed her. It had pained her a little when he had come so close to Grace in the training hall. They had looked good together. Good and right.

She could never compete with someone like that, and for a moment Elisa had wished that Puck would suddenly - sickly perky and energetic - come whizzing through the gym, spit in his skinny fairy fingers, and morph her back into a gargoyle. Then her common sense had kicked in again. Of course, Puck couldn't spring into action. He was almost a Ghost in the Shell of Owen Burnett except when it came to protecting and teaching Alexander. And more importantly, too many people needed her as she was, in the position she was in. What was the point of her brief happiness with Goliath if not only her whole life went down the drain, but it also put the whole clan in danger because she couldn't act as a human and a detective for them? There was more at stake than her. More than her and Goliath. So there was nothing left for her but this fleeting moment now before sunrise. Goliath broke away from her, but only to lift her off the ground, as if she were light as a feather, and kiss her. She enjoyed the excitement of a lovesick schoolgirl flooding her body and returned the kiss passionately, as anxious to avoid his fangs as he was not to let her feel them. A minute in which she could forget that a thousand worlds separated them and an attractive new female would spend the nights near Goliath where she could not. All too soon it was over.

With a smile that hopefully did not seem too sad, she stepped into the elevator. Her broad-shouldered winged knight did not move but only looked at her in a lovestruck way. She smiled wider.

"Grace never mentioned the name of her ominous "father." But I'll try to get something out of it myself in my next few days," she said hurriedly.

She saw Goliath nod and heard him say as the doors were already closing.

"We'll talk on the phone. Be careful." Then he was gone and the elevator rushed down.

"You take care of yourself, too," she muttered, zipping up her jacket even though it was far too warm for that, even in the morning hours. But she did it more out of comfort than cold.

Thanks for reading, Q.T.