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Souls of the Night – Vol 3

35.

That levity again. Simultaneously relieving mind and body of the burden. I glided again over the night-walking but unaware of my presence New York. I felt the air beneath my wings, tasted it, lay in its caress and could simply be. So wonderful, so easy to not have to think about anything except that I wanted to be with my kind and my mate. Every fiber in me was floating just my leg- what? I snapped my eyes open as a car honked loudly on the street outside my apartment, saw the ground a yard below me, dropped as the lightness of the dream rushed from my limbs and slammed face and stomach first onto the floor in front of my bed.

Groaning in pain, I rolled onto my side, blinking confusedly around my room, which was darkened by the blinds but not entirely gloomy. My leg, still tied to the bedpost with one of my mattress covers as I had done earlier that morning. My makeshift safety rope. But ... floating? So- seriously floating - not just sleepwalking but sleep floating? That too? I couldn't even laugh at the new disturbing incidents every day. I rubbed my temples with both hands and felt the claws on my fingertips scratching my skin. I didn't even bother to look at my hands anymore because I knew I would only see human hands without claws.

"Ohhhh, my mind is a dark place to live," I mumbled tiredly, not even meaning it ironically.

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Later after my shower, I was standing in front of the mirror cabinet in the bathroom and was about to pinch my bruises bigger and generally bruiser. I didn't even know exactly why I was doing it. Or I just didn't want to consciously admit it to myself. Nor did I want to admit to myself why I had bought depilatory cream from the supermarket and had just spent an hour removing every single damn hair on my body. I had briefly considered getting an epilator but I was mentally unstable and not a passionate masochist and armpits and intimate areas were really too big a hurdle. So I stuck with depilatory cream. I pinched the area around one of the bruises on my arm again, where the blue discoloration had turned yellowish, and groaned in pain. Then I let it go for today, lifted my eyes and looked directly into the mirror. Okay, my face was the same. But the part of my upper body that I could see looked good. It wasn't the right shade of blue but it was okay for now. And yes - I looked much more right without my hair. I sighed with relief and washed my hands. My fingernails were bothering me. Maybe I would file them sharper when they got longer. Irritated by this thought, I shook my head. I knew that these thoughts were not healthy. But I couldn't turn them off. My eyes wandered to the Ouija board on the edge of the new small bathtub (this room had been refurbished like every other room albeit in a much more sensitive way than the lavish Manhattan bathroom).

"Pro or contra sharper nails?" I asked. And after a few seconds I felt tiny puffs of air and the planchette lying in the middle of the board slid inch by inch in the direction of YES.

"I thought so," I mumbled and felt the draught die down in my completely wind-free bathroom without an open window or door. I had experimented and was now slightly smarter. Whatever had remained inside me was able to make itself known - only rarely when I wanted it to and only with great effort and the ultimate rule - not if someone else was watching. It "communicated" with me in the bathroom because I now had an opaque window there. The other windows were still normal, albeit with safety glass, but the entity wasn't an attention-horny diva like the creature of fire (or whatever) that had made me burn and smoke. No, what was left inside me was a lurker and either it took a lot of strength to let the powers out or it wasn't interested in anyone around me realizing it was still there (self-preservation? Fear of Alex and Puck?).

One of my more paranoid nerve fibers kept suggesting that it could all still be part of a schizophrenic disorder. Precisely because only "things" happened when no one saw them and mostly things that couldn't be traced or proven. That's what happened to many mentally ill people - the worst part was that they realized that none of their madness was real when they tried to prove "it" to others and nothing happened. Okay - that first time in the washrooms at LeXa ltd where the window had been ripped off its hinges - that hadn't been inconspicuous and one hundred percent not imaginary as Anthony had later mentioned the broken window (which he and his maintenance colleagues had had to replace). But it had also happened in one of the few areas WITHOUT security cameras and I didn't have anyone to believe me if I'd blathered on like a lunatic about a "creature". So I didn't. Didn't tell anyone that I was talking more and more to the thing that seemed to support my urge to shave or, if possible, transform myself into one big blue bruise. Of course it supports your insanity - it's your new schizophrenia and delusions have to stick together, I teased myself in my mind. The question of which schizophrenic delusion wanted to be discreet remained unanswered and I had to laugh quietly as I opened the bathroom door in just my boxer shorts.

"HolyFudge!"

I recoiled against the doorframe and grimaced in pain. Nashville was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, lowering the mug of tea he'd probably invited himself to. His previously bored, somewhat hard eyes were fixed straight on my torso and his beak was wide open in silent shock and question.

"Hercules ... ," he managed to get out - confused and otherwise accusingly speechless as I scurried past him, my battered arms wrapped around my battered chest as if that would change the fact that he'd seen it all anyway.

I slammed the bedroom door behind me and stumbled to my bed where a longsleeve and one of my new cozy ponchos was already lying. I even had one in Prussian blue like my actual skin color (correction- my former gargoyle skin color) but this one was gray and ponchos with batwing sleeves were the thing and I loved them and I would turn my new air conditioner on full blast in the summer despite global warming just so I could wear the private snuggle clothes of my choice as often as possible.

"Nash! How nice of you to come and visit me. Just give me a minute!" I chirped artificially cheerfully through the closed door, trying not to sound too embarrassed.

"Two if you need them," grumbled the young gargoyle male in that I-dont-give-a-fuck voice that I had really learned to appreciate because I usually didn't want anyone making a fuss over me. The fuss just kept finding me time and time again as if I was magnetic. I knew everyone in the clan was aware that I had been beaten up (or had beaten up others) and I could only hope that Nash thought the bruises were from the fight. Yeah, I'd get away with that. I hurried to get dressed, slipped into long sweatpants that hid the bruises on my now hairless legs and stepped out with a big smile.

Nashville wasn't quite as much of a question-throwing or surveillance creeper as Lexington (who had the excuse of being my occasionally overprotective, somewhat neurotic boyfriend), but as I'd expected, Nash was still leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. The mug was now behind him on the counter but he approached me and came so close that I backed away to the doorway to my bedroom. I automatically lifted my head and exposed my neck as he brought his face to my throat with that hard, scrutinizing snake look he'd inherited from Brooklyn and ... sniffed me.

"What- what are you doing here?" I asked in a shrill voice, meaning his general being here rather than sniffing me. I had to work my way up to that question and its disturbing answer.

"Can't I visit my uncle?" he asked coolly, as if he wasn't doing what he was doing. So much for a lower creeper level, I thought to distract myself from the fact that he was mainly straining his nose at the moment, although his slightly open beak with its countless sharp teeth was right at one of the most vulnerable parts of my body. Just as automatically, I turned my head as he moved from the left side of my neck to my right, his warm breath tickling my skin and coaxing uncertain submissive sounds from me that didn't really sound human. Stop - he was straining his nose? Why? I hardly ever used perfumed soaps and shampoos. No one who hadn't been a gargoyle themselves could understand how much it bothered our (their) noses when lots of artificial scents were mixed and I imagined any stronger perfume was still a personal insult and didn't want Lex to think of me as stinky.

"Um - would you like some tea?" I offered, unsure because I couldn't take any more of this - whatever this was. And sure enough, the youngster raised his head, then turned around only to lift the mug from the counter and give me that pissed-off, are-you-kidding-me look.

"Sorry," I mumbled and the elephant in the room got even bigger.

He took a sip, followed by the typical Gargoyle with a beak gesture of wiping away moisture with his fingers or tongue where his beak had dipped into the cup.

"Is ... everything okay, Nash?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, just staring at me.

I stared back.

"That just now?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Just checking to see if I needed to call the cavalry. But you don't smell like trauma, undesired pain and fear so-"

My mouth fell open.

"Oh," I said quietly. And then "OHHH" a little louder because I realized he had just inhaled me to check if I had recently been beaten, abused, raped beyond what he knew and was therefore covered in bruises.

What did it say about my life and his previous experiences with me that he was checking me for that?

A shrill laugh escaped me, which was incredibly awkward, but it quickly faded as I saw him staring at the Ouija board behind me on the edge of the bathtub. I closed the door as if I hadn't noticed and tried that smile again, which was supposed to be reassuring and which I never quite managed.

"How ... how is the smell of undesired pain different from that of desired pain?" I asked meekly, wrapping my fake wings around me, which Nash commented on wordlessly with a raised browridge before turning and walking into my bedroom like every good gargoyle who cared little for personal space or decorum if he didn't want to care.

"Desired pain ... or pain you put up with because you actually want something else, has that subliminal `I want this` aroma. Contentment, I think would be the right word, sometimes even satisfaction."

"Oh," I quacked again as he went to my closet and opened it as if it were his. I sat down on my bed and watched as he scanned the clothes inside, glanced at me and went through the clothes hanger by hanger again, finally pulling out a pair of jeans and a thick scarf and tossing them to me.

"Uhm, I wanted to go to the castle later. And the car will be here around three."

"I've canceled it. We can go to the castle later if you want. But you'll come with me first."

"Where to?"

"To a concert."

"Huh?" If I still had my old droopy ears, they would have fallen to the side as I tilted my head questioningly. Nashville put a clawed hand to his chest in mock dismay.

"What, don't I look like a connoisseur of classical high culture?"

He grunted in amusement and I wisely refrained from laughing. But he didn't hold my grin against me either.

Only now did I notice that he wasn't wearing his typical GC-NY clothes, but only black. This didn't seem suitable for theater or concerts, so I didn't know if he was pulling my leg. But ... if Nashville wanted me to come with him, it would only make him bitchy and snarky if I balked. Besides - okay, I'd never been to a concert because I didn't like loud, booming music (in fact, it made me want to bend far away and my head threatened to burst after a short time - I was just sensitive) but it would take my mind off my insanity for a few hours and if I felt miserable afterwards I had a perfect excuse not to go to work tomorrow like the good doctor had told me I should.

I was grateful that my uninvited, rather demanding guest didn't bring up my bruises like everyone else probably had. Then again - this was Nashville Wywern - himself quite twisted with a history of mental suffering and he was probably the only one who knew that if he forced me to talk about my many many current issues that he would inevitably have to give me something back and even the verbal "lapse" including tears after our first boxing lesson together had made the proud gargoyle man terribly uncomfortable. He had walls around him and they crumbled far too easily for his liking and he would avoid such situations. But ... maybe because he was broken in a very different way but still a broken character like me, there was this subliminal craving in me to want to talk to him openly and also this equally subliminal impression that Nashville somehow wanted to open up to me because he recognized me as another suffering character. Two messed up guys who didn't talk to each other about their feelings - what model males we were.

Since Nash had already seen me in all my dented glory, it was no longer worth playing the prude and I hurriedly swapped my jogging bottoms for jeans. As Nash hadn't put anything else out for me to wear, I assumed my warm cuddly poncho was suitable enough for going out and the scarf was clearly a sign that it was going to be windy and YES! he was going to fly me to the location Gargoyle-Uber style and I missed gliding so much that I got all antsy and almost jumped exuberantly into his arms on my terrace.

He looked at me for a moment in horror at my willingness to make physical contact, but before anything could make me uncomfortable he puffed with amusement and disconcerting good-naturedness.

"No more fear of heights, obviously," he commented.

"No. Not anymore," I replied, grinning broadly and knowing I would enjoy every second in the air even if I wasn't using my own wings.

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We weren't landing on the roof of a concert hall, a theater or any other large venue where a concert could have taken place. Nor - and to be honest, I would have dared Nash to pull it off - in the harbor or on an abandoned industrial site at an illegal rave or a rock concert where sweaty, sometimes drugged people crowded together. More likely yes - not this. Not the rather pompous church on the Upper West Side where Nash touched down on a narrow balcony after a not really high flight through the last street. Just below the roof and above the huge rose window through which soft light fell outside and briefly bathed us in splashes of color that made the being in me rejoice in exultant childlike awe. Nash let me slip out of his arms and I followed him through a narrow door that was clearly reserved for maintenance workers who had to check the roof after storms or heavy snowfall, or for window cleaners who wanted to preserve the colorful splendor of the rose window glass.

Nashville- again so strangely caring (but wasn't he always caring with Heather, if a little gruff and bitchy at times) took me by the arm as a poor half-blind human in the darkness of the roof truss and guided me to another hatch that now led inside the prayer room. As a Muslim, I hadn't really been to many Christian churches (I didn't even feel comfortable with displays of my own religion because of my sexuality and my fears and neuroses) but this main room was ... magnificent.

We walked along a narrow gallery on the long side of the nave (is that what it was called?), which was exactly mirrored on the other side, and Nash sat behind the balustrade and pulled me down with him. The huge organ above the entrances was far enough away that the organist wouldn't notice us. An absurdly large but, apart from the dead or dying Jesus figure, quite pretty cross (or was it called a crucifix? I must have known that at school but I couldn't remember) hung directly above the altar. In general, the area of the semi-circular apse (ha! I remembered that, it was definitely called an apse) was two steps higher and best lit. Above the massive chandeliers, it was quite dim, which gave us all the better protection from prying eyes but a good all-round view, even between the short marble columns of the balustrade.

This bird's eye view appealed to the former gargoyle in me and I felt quite comfortable and safe despite the foreign religiously loaded setting. Most of the numerous people inside the main room had already taken their seats in the many benches or were standing and conversing animatedly, the general murmur rising up to us as a kind of lulling background noise. I was about to ask Nashville why we were hiding from the crowd in 1996 style when I cringed as a familiar laugh emerged briefly from the beehive buzz.

My eyes scanned the numerous people - and there stood Graziella Dracon, this time in a church-appropriate ankle-length burgundy dress with a dark wool shawl over her shoulders, chatting like a good churchgoer and committed Christian with the pastor and two other men while Sonny loomed nearby, his eyes gliding over the crowd with that menacing, piercing look of a watchdog and a hatchet man. Besides, with Graziella a conflict might involve a literal hatchet anyway.

I wrung a stressed gargoyle sound from my vocal chords.

Nashville calmly placed a hand on my arm, his eyes clearly on the woman with whom he shared an extremely toxic obsession with each other.

"Nothing to freak out about, Nate. We're just here for entertainment. We'll be good up here and they'll be down there."

"Is ... it's okay that you're here, alone."

He took his eyes off the woman he probably loved and hated at the same time and his gaze was quite piercing although not malicious.

"Alone? Without a chaperone, you mean? I have you, dearest and only human uncle. As if I would make a scene if a cock block and damsel in distress like you is around."

I should have been offended by this (if I had any fighting spirit or backbone) but as it was I just breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, it was NO coincidence that Nashville was attending a church concert where his ex was, but as long as he was just stalking her from afar, I was cool with it. So - not that stalking was cool but - what could I say, I had become pretty indifferent to gargoyle idiosyncrasies (like eating raw meat or prowling around in the dark watching everything and everyone- which I guess was part of the protective urge).

So I just nodded and tried to ignore the murderous mobster queen who, in the tradition of high-ranking mafia members, mimed the well-respected pillars of their respective communities.

After a few minutes, everyone had taken their seats. Only Sonny stood apart, obviously as a bodyguard to keep an eye on his mistress during the performance. Graziella sat in the front pew (either a purchased seat if this concert cost money here or a seat acquired in some other rather dubious way (bribery, threats, the will of the priest, organizers or whoever not to end up on her and Sonny's shitlist?). The priest came forward, smiling broadly and visibly satisfied, and stood at the microphone. After his first word caused a shrill feedback squeal that made not only the people but also Nash and I groan and made me feel the first pinprick of a migraine, he praised those present for coming, thanked them for donations for the renovation of the washrooms and equipment for the little artists (while nodding unequivocally to Graziella as thanks and she nodded back patronizingly smug like the Dracon she was).

Then he introduced the children's choir director, making room for this buxom dark-skinned woman who looked like she had enough vocal volume to be an opera singer herself. She spoke introductory words again and then asked for applause for the youth choir of the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. Amid said applause and general murmur of delight from relatives of the little ones and patrons of the arts and church, cell phones were pulled out by the dozen (and Sonny suddenly had a professional but handy camera in his hands like he was a proud papa himself) and two dozen children in long white robes emerged from an adjoining room and scurried briefly until everyone had taken their place on their apse stage.

And where Nashville had mostly been watching Graziella all those minutes before, his eyes were now on Vito, who was one of the smallest at the front but also the only one with a children's guitar in his hands. Three other children had flutes, and a girl of about twelve had sat down at a piano that had been rolled in especially for the occasion. The little musicians even had little music stands in front of them and I wasn't sure but those little black nubs on their cheeks were probably wireless earpiece microphones (as you might expect if Dracon was sponsoring this show).

Everyone was sweet as sugar and Vito looked like an angel and where other children were nervously tugging at their robes or looking out for their parents, the little gargoyle fanboy from my enforced Jacuzzi and sauna near-death experience looked like he was in his element. His dark eyes with that confident, winning, I-own-the-world smile roamed the room like he was already a little king holding audience. And wasn't he somehow as heir to the throne of the Dracon empire? - as devastating as the thought was that this child who loved gargoyles and had been so gentle and cuddly could (would) eventually become a criminal if he followed the path of his mother or the pull of his DNA. But that didn't seem to matter at the moment and of course Sonny, his camera eye and Graziella got an extra wide grin while the choir leader read out what the first song would be and wished everyone lots of fun. But at the very end, Vito casually skimmed over the gallery - and Graziella and Sonny probably missed it because Right Hand and Mob Boss were briefly distracted by the priest who sat down next to Graziella with death-defying faith in God - and Vito's gaze was on us just long enough for him to wink. I cowered startled to the ground in where Nashville just chuckled.

"He knows we're here!" I hissed.

"Yes. He does." Nash just said as his smile widened without taking his eyes off the choir or this particular kid and there was something in his gaze ... something sad, nostalgic, like he was remembering something that made him happy but wistful at the same time. I took a deep breath, had so many questions but I could see from Nashville's expression that he wasn't going to be distracted for the next few minutes. In that smile, which was also strangely proud of the fatherless bastard child of the tragic love of his life, that it was special that he had brought me here. There was something private about it. A peephole through his wall of trauma and pain. So I sat back down, ignoring the anxious urgent tugging at my brain coils from the entity who probably wasn't a big music fan (or feared a mobster ambush) and wanted to go ASAP, and decided to enjoy and appreciate the performance as much as I could.

Thanks for reading, Q.T.