Macbeth waited apprehensively on the patio of the large house that had served as his home the last six months. He had not thought of Demona for some time, and this realization came as a surprise to him. For hundreds of years, the cursed magic that bound them together had left him with the constant dull aching of her misery, even from a great distance. It was an ambiguous, subconscious pain that he had simply grown accustomed to through the centuries. Several decades ago, when she had unwittingly joined him in New York, her proximity had intensified this ache into a state of melancholy and despair that he had suffered without fully realizing why, until it transformed into a violent rage that compelled him to seek after her. Yearning for revenge and the relief he believed only death would bring, he had sought to destroy her and thus free himself. At least until the Weird Sisters had taken them both prisoner, plunging him into a numb blackness.
His next memories were of Paris. He had arrived there, with no knowledge of how or why he'd come. And she was there as well, beguiling in her human form. Of course he hadn't recognized her, but he often wondered how he could have been so easily fooled. How was it that he did not sense her presence when she was right there in his arms? Was her sudden infatuation with Thailog what relieved her pain enough that he hadn't recognized her? Or was it the opposite and his foolishly amorous feelings toward her human form somehow inspired her to love Thailog in spite of his obvious treachery? Either way, both their illusions had collapsed at the same time, leaving them both craving the escape only death could bring.
Her clan would not allow it though. Detective Maza had shot Demona first, sparing them both, but somehow, in that state of madness, he had realized the true nature of the bond between them. It was not only physical pain they shared, but as long as they were close together, her mental anguish also became his own, driving him toward the same insanity and despair that plagued her.
It had been nearly three years since he'd last heard anything of her. Xanatos had assured him that he would see she was never free again, and Macbeth had taken the man at his word. It wasn't that he considered Xanatos to be the most trustworthy of men. He knew he was not. But he was one of the few, if not the only, that Macbeth believed possessed the intelligence and resources required to contain Demona indefinitely. Maybe it was more an act of cowardice than genuine trust on his part, for Macbeth realized that if Xanatos could not imprison her properly, the responsibility surely fell to him. He could not allow her murderous and insatiable wrath to slaughter more innocent lives. But to take on such a role would inevitably mean his death, for his soul was simply not strong enough to withstand her anguish without succumbing to despair. So he'd left it to Xanatos and clearly, Xanatos had failed.
Exhausted, he waited for his henchmen to bring her in, trying to think of some solution to the problem. He realized that he was a bit disappointed as well. He'd been content the past few years, not noticing or even thinking of Demona's suffering. Perhaps this was a contentment he was not entitled to, given the bond between them, but he had let himself relax in the hope that she was getting better; that perhaps her love for her daughter and her kin would heal her in time. Yet, here she was, invading his sanctuary once again, and as much as he yearned to be released from this unfair burden, it was his to carry.
He felt her arrival before he saw her. The joints of his limbs ached so much, he wondered if they were dragging the wretch behind a truck to get her there. Now he caught sight of her, being escorted up the driveway into a garage that led to a hidden bunker beneath the house. Her red hair illuminated by the orangish-pink glow of the hazy sunset as she snarled and struggled against his two servants.
"Here she is, Boss," the henchman called to him as he watched them solemnly over the rail above.
"Get her inside, quickly," Macbeth urged, "It's nearly sunset."
Demona stopped struggling and looked up at the sound of his voice. For a moment, they studied one another as if trying to decipher a message in a language they only partially understood.
"You would do well to send these two imbeciles off and come down here and speak to me yourself," she warned him.
"I'll see to you soon enough," he replied in a stern, low voice, turning away to go inside the house.
"Be it on your own head then," she replied under her breath as she took note of a dark shape in the woods to the side of the driveway which looked very much like the stand of a machine gun.
"You're lucky you weren't stupid enough to try to attack us here," the man informed her cockily as he followed her gaze from the heavy military weapons outside to the arsenal of ammunition, grenade launchers, and cannons hidden within a concrete room off the side of the garage, "We would have blasted you out of the sky."
The man gave her a shove, and to her surprise, led her straight through the heavily barred door on the concrete structure that seemed to adjoin the house. She wondered if he was trying to intimidate her with their firepower, but then she saw the true reason when the man opened a trapdoor that led to an underground bunker.
"The man who lived here before the boss bought it was preparing for the end times," the female told her snidely, "He built this thing to withstand earthquakes, hurricanes, bombings, nuclear fallout, and alien invasions. I figure it should be able to hold you."
Demona stared silently down the dark hole into the bunker. Her face no longer showed the rage and hatred it had shown a few moments earlier, nor did it display fear. It was more a mixture of confusion and anxiety, as if she were contemplating some great question.
"Well, get down in there!" the female barked at her, smacking her with her weapon. Demona remained still and silent and two henchmen looked at one another questioningly.
"I said, get in there!" the woman repeated more threateningly and raised her arms to strike again, but Demona turned suddenly and slammed into her, seizing her weapon.
The sound of several series of shots being fired brought Macbeth running to the garage with his own weapon, but by the time he arrived, both his henchmen were laying in pools of their own blood.
"Look out, boss!" the man gasped through his pain, and Macbeth turned to face Demona who stood before him, one gun under her foot and the other pointed straight at him. He stared for just a moment, then raised his weapon toward her and drew a breath to speak. But before he could utter a word, Demona did about the only thing that could have surprised him more than he already was. She cast the weapon down at his feet and, kicking the rifle on the floor toward him as well, she held up her hands in a motion of surrender.
"Go," he ordered her, nodding his head toward the bunker, and she turned and obeyed. Macbeth followed her, brandishing his gun, as she walked blindly down the dark steps and into the bunker. As soon as he reached the bottom step, his hand found the light, and Demona turned, blinking in the strange light of the low-ceilinged room. Macbeth pressed the button which closed a gate of iron bars on her.
"Your servant will live, I expect," Demona told him emotionlessly, "Most of the bullets hit his vest. His hip is wounded, but not severely. But the woman is already dead."
Macbeth had seen for himself as he passed her body laying on the floor, and he knew it was true. He gave Demona one last confused and disgusted look before hurrying back up the steps to help the surviving man, shutting off the light and leaving her in complete darkness.
Demona waited uneasily for a long time. Eventually, the sun went down and she was transformed into her own form. This brought her little comfort though, for she knew the others would be waking as well and would immediately start looking for her. She was certain Lexington would find her on his GPS and the lot of them would be headed toward Macbeth's fully armed fortress within the hour. She wondered what Macbeth's reaction would be when he saw his son. Moreover, she wondered what Goliath's reaction would be once Macbeth told him that she had killed his servant. Somehow, she was already dreading his disappointment in her. Still, at least he would get to live to be disappointed. She knew that had the band of warriors approached the house unprepared and she had not fought back and disabled Macbeth's two bloodthirsty stooges, there was a good chance he, Luach, and any of the younger gargoyles would have been killed by those machine guns before they'd had a chance to wish Macbeth a good evening.
The time crept on anxiously and Macbeth remained upstairs. No sound to alert her to what was going on made its way through the thick walls. She tried to guess how long it would take for Luach to tell the others what had happened and for Lexington to find her on his GPS. She'd been unconscious for most of the ride there, but she didn't think they'd gone too far from the place they'd taken her. She predicted a battle of some kind ought to be starting at any moment, but she had hope that with Macbeth busy cleaning up the grisly mess she'd made upstairs, the clan would have a good shot at catching him off guard. Macbeth certainly wasn't expecting a man and six gargoyle warriors to be coming to rescue the likes of her.
The longer she waited, the more anxious she became, until finally, a streak of light entered the room as Macbeth opened the door and descended the rickety, wooden stairs. Even before he turned on the light to reveal his face, she felt his grief and anger.
"That woman has served me for over twelve years now," he told her in a dark tone, " I realize their lives mean nothing to you, but my fate means a life of few companions, and they've become more to me than mere employees."
She'd had a sarcastic reply prepared, but it somehow seemed to melt away from her mind before reaching her lips.
"I presume it was this level of intimacy and affection that allows you to overlook the fact that your henchmen also serve the Quarrymen?"
Macbeth's head jerked up at the accusation and his eyes narrowed at her suspiciously.
"That's a lie," he challenged, "They are not in with those hate-driven terrorists."
"It isn't and they are, or were, in her case," she replied bitterly, "They were threatening to go against your orders and take me to the Hunter instead. I halfway hoped they would. I should very much like to know where he is. But I have business to attend to with your first."
"They don't know where he is," he denied emphatically, "They aren't Quarrymen."
Demona smiled wickedly at him.
"Hope springs eternal," she commented, "So too, does delusion. Am I to gather that you are not among their number as well?"
"I would never join with the Quarrymen!" Macbeth snarled, "After all these years, do you truly not know me any better than that?"
"Your servant said you don't trust them," she admitted cautiously, "But that hardly means you don't sympathize with their position."
She could sense the self-righteous anger flaring up within him as he approached the bars that enclosed her. Suddenly, to her surprise and agitation, he slammed his hand loudly against the control box, which opened the gate between them. Despite the fact that she was in her gargoyle form and had a clear physical advantage over him, she found herself retreating a step as he advanced on her. He growled in rage as he grabbed and shook her by the shoulders and she laughed maniacally as he did.
"Foolish, weak man. Are you going to kill me at last?" she asked, easily pushing him away from her. Macbeth was not to be deterred though. To her shock, he advanced again with enough force to drive her against the wall of the cell and knock her off balance.
"Look at me!" he thundered, seizing her face with both his hands, "What will it take for you to stop? This accusation you lay against me is a lie! Never have I wished ill on your kind! Never have I sought to harm any gargoyle other than yourself! You are the one who has committed treason! You are the one who has murdered the innocent! And what has not yet been stripped away from me by your mad obsession with hate and vengeance? My kingdom? My life? My family? At times, even my sanity? Even despite your endless supply of cruelty, I have never sought revenge on the innocent of your kind and I never will! I swear it on my honor! And after you have stolen everything else I hold dear, my honor is all that remains! When will you finally believe what you see before you? Or is our mutual death the only thing that will cease your rampaging?"
Demona gasped for the breath that she wasn't aware she'd been holding. They had both sunk to the floor of the cell, almost without realizing it, and he now knelt over her, quivering with anger as he clutched her by the face and shoulder, waiting for an answer she didn't know how to give. Slowly, her arms and legs found the will to move again, and she reached for the hand that was on her shoulder. She took his hand in her claw and gestured for him to let her stand.
"I have something I wish to show you," she said in a quiet, flat tone, "Come with me." Perhaps because his outburst had left him too weary to protest, he let her lead him up the stairs, through the arsenal of weaponry and the garage, to the driveway outside. From there, she led him up the stone ledge steps to the patio, which overlooked the green valley, illuminated by clear, brilliant moonlight.
"Do you see them?" she asked him. At first he could not, but then he caught sight of their shadows, cast by the moonlight.
"Your clan," he observed, "I suppose they've come to fetch you back into imprisonment, where you belong."
"They've brought your son to you ," she replied quietly.
"My son?" he repeated in confusion, "What are you talking about?"
"Luach," she explained as the dark shadow drew closer and approached the house, "Look there!"
Astonished, Macbeth slowly descended the stairs, nearly falling on his face in disbelief as made his way to the grass below.
"Father!" Luach called out earnestly as the two men ran to one another. Goliath looked briefly relieved at the sight of their reunion, but quickly refocused on Demona who remained on the patio above them.
"Are you alright?" he called to her, "Luach said you were shot, beaten, and hauled away by two kidnappers."
Wordlessly, she stepped away from the railing and turned toward the other side of the patio, where she crouched in solitude as she listened to the joyful cries of astonishment as father and son were impossibly reunited. She didn't need to see the man, who had been both a friend and an enemy to her, trembling and nearly sobbing with happiness at his son returned from the grave. She could sense the complete relief of his pain. All the rage, sorrow, and desperation he had been loading onto her a few moments earlier in his righteous tirade had evaporated. Now, only her own wretchedness remained.
"But wait!" she heard Luach exclaim, "What of Demona? And the two mercenaries who took her? Your machine told us she would be here!"
Goliath must have directed him correctly to the patio, for she soon heard him making his way up the walkway and calling for her. He caught sight of her, crouched low on the bricks floor, and walked toward her slowly.
"Demona?" he asked apprehensively, sitting near her on the end of a chaise lounge, but she didn't reply, so he took the woven bag from his shoulder and placed it in front of her.
"I've brought you your bag," he continued, "Please don't ever ask me to do anything like that again. Even if you are immortal, you are my friend. I can't bear to let cut-throats drag you away over mere possessions and…"
Luach trailed off. Demona clearly wasn't listening to his reprimand.
"Did they hurt you?" he asked softly, not sure he was prepared to hear the answer.
"Did they take you to their master, or to the other man they spoke of?" he urged.
"Macbeth is their master," she informed him coldly, "He is the one, the only one, who has the power to break the spell of immortality upon me. But to destroy me, he must sacrifice his own life."
"Did my father hurt you?" he asked, his voice becoming more agitated. She shook her head in response.
"Demona, what is it?" he pleaded, fearing something horrible had befallen her.
"I killed her," she replied simply, staring off into the early evening sky that had only begun to light with the brightest stars.
"Her? You mean the woman who attacked you?" he replied incredulously.
"Yes," she affirmed, "She was putting me in a prison cell, and I stole her weapon and shot her with it."
"And what of it?" he asked, "By my word, if I had the means, I would have vanquished them both myself! If you hadn't directed me otherwise, I would have died fighting them bare-handed before I would have let them drag you off that way!"
"I know it," she replied, finally looking at him with a hint of gratitude in her gaze, "But Goliath…He won't see it that way."
Finally understanding the source of her melancholy, he fell silent, watching the sky darkening along with her.
"He expects too much," he said at last.
"Perhaps so," she replied, half-heartedly agreeing with his criticism, "But I had hoped not to disappoint him further."
They were soon joined by her warriors, who seemed just as relieved as Luach to find her safe. Ophelia came as well, with a contagious smile.
"We saw them, Adelpha!" she informed her in a voice full of quiet excitement.
"What was it you saw, Ophelia?" Luach asked, since Demona was too upset to respond.
"The fireflies! They're everywhere and they're just as lovely as she said!"
Demona smile slightly at her innocent observation, but her faced darkened immediately when they heard Goliath bellowing for her in tone that more than suggested that Macbeth had informed him that she had just killed a human in cold blood.
Resolutely, Luach stood and offered her his hand.
"You needn't face them alone," he assured her, "Come."
She rose and followed him while the young gargoyles looked at one another questioningly.