Crimson Claws Chapter 7: Crimson Claws 7 - Rain, a gargoyles fanfic

Crimson Claws

Piece of music to accompany the penultimate and final section:

Youtube or Spotify: She brings the rain by Element Of Crime - 2.42 minutes

"Oh, what an honor to have Snidely Whiplash join us himself. Any young women tied to train tracks today?" growled Derek as he helped Thomas and me prop up a crumbling lintel. We were done enough that all three of us could turn to look at Xanatos. Thomas didn't have the deep hatred based on deceit and conspiracy that Derek had, but with his crocodile features he was still quite menacing. Not that David Xanatos let on when he was afraid. Even at 95 degrees Fahrenheit above ground, and barely less down here, he looked fresh-faced and untouchable without a suit jacket.

"Tying young women to train tracks? Please, Derek, I've got people for that!"

He had grown older. Gray at the temples and it suited him but he was still a manipulator of the first order as he smirked placidly as if this was his home and not ours. As if he owned the place. And probably ... that was closer to the truth than anyone wanted to admit. Cyberbiotics had never made any attempts to reclaim their old site from the "squatters". On the contrary. The Labyrinth had been a registered homeless shelter for years and Derek, Thomas and Maggie were registered social workers. Mutants had come a long way ... On paper. The fact that all this had happened without covert help from "somewhere" - no one ever talked about that.

"So far, no one has approached me to do anything with your compensation," Xanatos said with much less haughtiness.

"I won't touch your filthy money. What Klaus and Maggie, Thomas and the kids do with their cash is their business. At least for me - this is a sin you'll NEVER be able to buy your way out of. Just because you came down here this time and not Burnett or some sweetly smiling employee doesn't change that."

Xanatos, hands in his pockets but a serious expression on his face, turned to survey the massive communal main room that some of the more educated long-term residents had dubbed the Peristyle. There had long since been no tents on the floor space or on the levels of the three storeys above. It was brighter. It was more structured. Some would have said that the chaos and lack was managed. But wasn't it like that almost everywhere? There were 47 family or group dormitories leading off the porticoes surrounding the peristyle and another 50 rooms a little further off, mostly divided into men's and women's areas. Still, it was never enough. Not in New York. In addition to normal tensions, as in any facility of this kind, there were the normal and not so normal needs of the clan members - the day and the night active and simply the fact that many areas of the labyrinth were held together by duct tape. Even patched with concrete and putty, you could still see the craters of old battles in the brickwork and pillars. Pausing for effect, Xanatos sighed and turned to us.

"Derek, you're their leader, their pater familias. They won't do anything with it without your approval. Or they will at some point and then you'll fall out with them and I don't want to be responsible for the collapse of your clan."

"So it's all altruistic after all," Thomas grumbled and snapped his teeth in Xanato's direction. What was this man made of that he barely flinched at that?

"Think of your family. Think of your clan. This place is crumbling apart. Where are you going while this place is being reconstructed? Don't you think the Gargoyles under your wing deserve a place in the daylight to petrify? Don't you think your children deserve a residential address above ground?"

"Keep my children out of this!" I grabbed Derek's arm, which was already sparking, feeling his electricity spread to me.

Xanatos took a step back. More out of respect than fear, but he probably found the former harder anyway.

"I understand. Well ... the money lies in the bank. No pitfalls, no mind games. Even if you never touch the money. One word from you and I'll buy every plot of land, renovate every building, cover the energy costs and the tax for the next hundred years just-"

Derek rumbled with white-hot eyes and was once again the Talon of almost 15 years ago. A betrayed, humiliated man with too much anger and too little sense. The light above us flickered in response to the electricity he was filling the air with and I pressed my claws into his arm to ground him before there was another power surge and blackout.

"You really think you can wipe out every sin by throwing money at it. Leave."

Xanato's cell phone whistled with an incoming message - yes, the reception in the main rooms of the Labyrinth was excellent. He frowned unhappily as he looked at the screen but steeled his features back to indifference as he looked up and took his leave. I went after him, would see him out. I walked past Maggie, heard the billionaire ask her to talk to her husband again. She gripped her pregnant belly as if it were an option, that this child too would be in danger from Xanatos, former associates or other experiments gone awry. Her nod at his request was curt and cool even though she had always been more distraught and saddened by her involvement in Xabato's dirty games and never as hateful and long-lastingly resentful as our leader.

At the nearest official entrance and exit of the labyrinth, the paths and tunnels long since well secured and lighted for inhabitants, I let him out. The air was oppressive even just after ten o'clock in the evening - typical New York in July. Some rain was forecast for tomorrow - maybe it would be better then. Or humid - which was worse.

He turned around again with a serious face and held out a card on a chain. "This gives every mutant access to your funds at the bank. Will you look after it?"

I nodded, took the keycard, pulled the chain over my head and let the piece disappear into the collar of my T-shirt.

"It doesn't have to be that hard. Maybe ... you can convince him of the right thing." His cell phone beeped again and pain flitted across his face for a second. Before he said goodbye and slid into the black sleek car that was waiting for him. When I came back, I just followed Derek's shouting. Maggie was much quieter but she had never let her husband's quick temper get the better of her because Derek was a softie at heart. I sat down on the couch in his office next to Maggie who was rubbing her belly. I pulled her feet onto my lap, got her to roll over and started massaging her, which made her sigh with relief. The heat was getting to her and the closer it got to the due date, the more on edge she became because of her past traumas. Delilah, quiet and appraising like a shadow warrior, stood leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. She was not overly talkative - but she saw and heard everything, was a calm authority and help in the community where ... her male counterparts were not at the moment.

"- and he DARES to guilt trip me with the Gargoyles! With our children!"

"They're my children too, you know?" Maggie said lightly, her head on the armrest of the couch. Whenever Derek got loud, she always got quieter. As if to show him how ridiculous his loud tone was. Most of the time it worked. Derek lowered his wings and ears, looking sheepishly at the ground.

"Sorry Maggie, I'm just so- oh damn. Whenever I see him, I squirm like a dog on the floor in front of him again in my mind's eye. In excruciating pain. And see his worried face and the act he pulls with Sevarius. I ... can't trust him. I- I know the money would make so many things easier for us but ... do you think I'm selfish? Because I can't jump over my shadow, forget my mistrust and loathing?"

"He took our lives from all of us, Derek. We built new lives on our own. I'm not saying we shouldn't put Xanato's guilt and atonement money to good use. But ... we won't make any moves without you. We are a clan. In for a penny, in for a pound."

-Family-, I gestured in sign language and grinned as Talon plopped down next to me and took over his wife's feet.

At that moment, a young woman came shuffling over. Her green skin stood out even more because of her black dress, black eyeshadow and purple hair.

"Hi Erin," Maggie said with a smile and the young turtle woman rolled her eyes at the saccharine image the three founding members of the Labyrith Clan gave off. She removed the popsicle she was sucking from her beak for a moment.

"Now that the yelling has stopped, I can tell you that a water pipe in shower room B in the women's sector has broken. But take your time with the grooming, as the air conditioning has also broken down - already yesterday - everyone enjoys the wet feet." With that, she shuffled on, licking ice cream.

Talon groaned in annoyance as I chuckled and lifted Maggie's legs so I could slip out. Then I put her feet back in Talon's lap and gestured bossily for him to carry on. "Thank you," they both mumbled for different reasons. I heard them speak after I had turned around.

"The world out there has changed, Derek. It changes every day. Not enough ... that they don't stare at us anymore but ... enough that they don't attack us or run away screaming. No matter which path we choose ... it doesn't have to be all on your shoulders and it will always go on somehow."

"I know Maggie. I ... I'm thinking about it."

He winced as the buzz from outside got louder when the door to the restroom opened. There were others here - outside in front of the mirrors - make-up fixing that didn't need fixing because the make-up artists would check it again before the shot anyway, or sporadically in the cubicles next to him, smoking or puking or both in rotation. So he was okay. They were like him ... or he was like them. But he smelled Patricia's typical perfume over deodorant, make-up, bile and smoke. He didn't even need her voice, which she directed at his colleagues gossiping in front of the mirror. They had been unaware of him, here in the back of the toilet cubicle - until now, of course.

"Get out of here." Oh, so much Dont-fuck-with-me in that short sentence alone. He had to grin at that.

The chatter was interrupted and the gossips scurried out with snippy and at the same time submissively intimidated noises, which were typical of the industry. Like a child fearing the monster that might reach under the gap in the cubicle door, he drew his legs up so that his feet rested on the ceramic of the toilet lid. He knew it wasn't like that - there was no monster here. Not even he was one ... not anymore. If he were one, his heart wouldn't be beating up to his throat right now under the spell of a dread he was merely imagining. Something that happened again and again. At least it distracted him from the tugging feeling in his chest that had been with him for as long as he could remember. Pat's high heels clicked on the tiles of the room in an inimitable characteristic way as she came closer. She banged on each of the four other closed cubicles and gruffly ordered the people inside out. She simply had this power after all these years - not because of him but because she could open doors to jobs or slam them shut for good. The toilet was empty within sixty seconds.

He used this time to puff intensively on his cigarette several times. Time was rare and precious. Time alone and being himself even more so. The black pumps that stopped outside his cubicle triggered feelings of familiarity and discomfort at the same time. It wasn't fair to Pat, but that was the way it was. She was the one who protected him "out there", guided, motivated, scheduled in close consultation with Clan and Fox Media, but also the one who dragged him out when she had to. Just like now. The knock on his door as well as the voice was much gentler than to those who were not her charges before.

"Open up, the next shot is starting and we still have to prep you."

He didn't have to wonder why she knew exactly that he was here - in the last cabin. Pat probably knew him better than his clan - she knew he always chose the last cabin. Or any other room where he was most unlikely to be disturbed. His psychologists had even recommended it - peace and quiet - his tranquil islands. But even without Pat's awareness of his needs and quirks, she could have tracked him down. He couldn't hide from her, had never tried. Why should he- he wanted everything here. Just as he had wanted the chip. The tracking sensor under his skin was accurate to the yard. He hated that he wore one and his clan hated it too - even Lex. But after the fourth kidnapping in ten years, it just was reasonable. Reasonable - that's how he lived his life.

"I'll count to five then I'll kick the door down Chuck Norris-style," Pat said and he chucked over it together with her before taking one last long silent drag on the butt. It was only when the stub burned the sides of his fingers and he still didn't stop that he felt enough at peace to leave his tiny safe-space of the last 15 minutes and pretend everything was great. Like he always had.

He put his feet on the floor, stood up, flipped open the lid to dispose of the stub inside, flushed and opened the stall door.

Gave Pat his most charming rehearsed smile with just a hint of fang just for her.

"I would never want to be responsible for you scratching your pumps, Pat."

His private PR manager/confidante/coordinator/babysitter smirked before her eyes scanned him properly. A displeased frown at the same time as wrinkling his nose.

"You've been puffing again."

"Oh Pat."

He rolled his eyes fondly and melodramatically as he strode past her to the sinks.

"Nash, you're sixteen."

"You're the only one who gives a shit- to most everyone else, I'm 31."

"Where do you always get the fags?"

Nashville's eyes found hers over the mirror. She sighed because she realized what she had asked. It was more of a rhetorical question, anyway. As if not almost everyone here smoked. As if Nash didn't just have to ask nicely to bum one. As if he wasn't skillful enough to steal a cigarette and lighter from one of the others.

"It's not like I could get cancer, Patricia. Don't let gray hairs grow over a problem that isn't a problem."

"Gray hairs, thank you very much," she grumbled sourly but not really annoyed.

After Nash had washed his hands thoroughly with soap and dried them, he took the chewing gum his Pat had magicked out. A smoke-reeking teenage gargoyle would be bad publicity. Even worse if his Rhydderch and clan found out. Nash didn't want to have to get used to a Pat 2.0. He was fine with the one he had. She'd been steering the Divergence Boy ship for 13 years, after all.

"As long as my uncle doesn't invent a olfactory TV. And when I fly home later, the stink will pass anyway."

"Nash, it's Friday. They're already waiting outside."

"Ahhh," Nashville sighed and took a deep breath, scrutinizing himself in the washroom mirror. His eyeliner and body powder needed fixing.

"Fuck ... that's right - yeah. You checked the participants? She's not one of them?"

"No. She's not. All the employees have her photo here."

"Good." The young gargoyle grunted, rubbing a hand over his beak. Which Pat immediately pulled away from his skin. Unspoken memory. Oh yes- he still had the primer on from the last shot. Clearing his throat, he pulled his bathrobe tighter again. He wasn't wearing it because he was going commando (today black slacks with some pattern he'd been told and had immediately forgotten, by some new designer whose name he'd also forgotten) or because he was cold because as a Gargoyle he had a high temperature tolerance and despite air conditioning everywhere it would get hot quickly in the headlights. It was just that some assistant kept holding out a bathrobe for him to slip into and he tolerated the unnecessary attention from all sides. Divergence Boy didn't cause any problems. He functioned. He always functioned, because that's what he did.

He was so fucking tired. He wanted to glide, find his safe-space in the air but today was Friday - meet and greet with fans who would touch him! Babble to him! Photographing him with a flash, even though it had long been known that this could damage the eyes of gargoyles. Would damage! But if at least his most fervent stalker wasn't there, that would be a win. Just the thought of her made bile rise from his empty stomach.

Pat was still clutching his wrist. Her fingers were warm and gentle. Her gaze full of worry, which he didn't want. Which made him feel bad.

"Nash, you can say no. The very first rule. From Goliath, your parents, Mr. Xanatos and Fox. Just one word from you and we'll cut your schedule down to a minimum. You can stop at any time. It's okay."

Nashville smiled wider. She knew he wouldn't stop. She knew he would never say no. Maybe he could have in the past. But he was so used to being Divergence Boy that he didn't know what else to be. Besides, he couldn't afford to lose steam. All his appointments were timed after dark, of course. EVERYONE here, from assistants to cameraman, every team member, every model was here at this hour because of him. Pat lived her life at night - for him. He was the cog that kept the machine running. His Pat slowly lifted her other hand and stroked his brow with barely perceptible movements, as she had learned to do and Nash closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

His mother loved him, Angela, Elisa, Fox - all strong mother or aunt figures. They all loved him, they would all jump if he asked them to. But he didn't. Never did. He would not stop. He had no right to. They had their lives. He had ... whatever this was. He wouldn't be the needy, dependent wretch he so often felt like. Pat was there for him, she guided him through this world and that was enough. He was too valuable. For the Gargoyle race. And ... He had to remain visible ... for her ... wherever she was. She would never come back, but she should know he was there.

He winced and took a step back from Patricia's hand without raising his eyes as the door was pushed open.

His manager was just that again.

"GET OUT! Pat shouted, flinging her arm with outstretched finger and sharp fingernail at the person who had just dared to disturb them. The girl - no older and yet MUCH younger than Nash - widened her eyes and backed away.

Pat growled in a gargoyle-like manner that made Nashville grin wryly. He was humanized- she was ... gargoyled?

"You're scaring the kids, Pat."

"Let them be scared. Damn- boys and girls in the same washroom. I'm old enough to find unisex restrooms offensive."

"You're not old. By gargoyle standards, you're a fledgling."

"Oh, Nashville ... so charming. Do you need a snack before we carry on?" she asked as she walked out the door and he sauntered after her the way he always sauntered when he was around other people. He wasn't Nash anymore. He was Divergence Boy. He was the face of the Gargoyle race on this side of the planet. Everything was cool, everything was peachy. He nodded or smiled at every human he encountered. Without showing a single fang. His posture was perfect human although his back screamed that crouching and crawling would do him better at this stage of his life.

"No, I grabbed something from the buffet earlier," he lied. He knew Pat suspected it wasn't true and he knew she wouldn't intervene unless it was a tabloid topic. Which it wouldn't be. Humans didn't know how much a gargoyle - let alone a growing one - should eat, or that Nash was thinner than even his father had been in the Middle Ages. He wasn't allowed to build up too much muscle. He couldn't prevent himself from no longer being "cute" and outgrowing his childhood. But he could/had to look harmless. Not well-trained like his father, not buff like Goliath. The photographers and fans - probably all humans - preferred him that way.

He went to his place at the vanity tables surrounded by the other models for the shot. Many he knew nodded at him. No friends. Just folks who wanted to keep their jobs. The few "friends" he had made had outgrown him, now in college or sailing around the world to nearly drown and get rescued by a New Olympus resident (but that was part of another story he wasn't supposed to know about because it was top secret timedancer business). He took another breath before his own make-up specialists - trained for his skin - got to work on him so he could be the usual token gargoyle in the group shot for whatever. As always.

Even through the swirling stench of perfume, deodorant, dozens of humans, makeup, hairspray and hormones, Nashville smelled that it was about to rain because a window was open somewhere. He had given up hoping that the rain would bring change.

London Heathrow:

His arms on Lexington's shoulders felt so good. His kiss on his lips so much better. How did someone with a snout manage to be such a good kisser? Lexington knew his grin looked more than goofy and silly when Staghart (Amp, his Amp!) pulled away from him and stroked his jaw with his fingers making him lean towards him in pursuit of that touch.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Lex?" asked the snow-white stag-gargoyle of the London clan. His suit gave him something worldly where everything else about him seemed otherworldly and pristine. It had taken Lex a long time to wrap his head around the fact that someone like this wanted him. But over the last few years, he had become more secure in his love for Amp. They had gone from confidants and chat buddies to more as it had become easier to visit each other. And now... after more than ten years of making sure the Manhattan Clan had defeated, or at least contained, its worst enemies, Lex was ready to embrace the word mates - and make more of it. It was time.

"I'm sure. I can work from anywhere. My clan doesn't need me like it used to."

"I could also-" Amp began, and this time Lex sealed his lips with his. Only briefly before he assured.

"No. We talked about this. You don't like New York, but I like London. There are just too few of us in America, even with Nashville's effort, we're always just 'the gargoyles'. Here in London..." Lex grinned and shook his head because he was still so in awe of how naturally the people of London took Gargoyles here. Amp was a few steps away from officially entering politics. That was important. More important than anything Lex expected in Manhattan. Not even Nash needed him. He had dozens of people buzzing around him, fawning over him, and he hadn't needed a Rookery Keeper in a long time. But Amp. Amp wanted him here. And he loved Coco and Coney and Lunette and there were 35 eggs in the breeding den under Knight's Spur! And he was only an 8 hour flight from Manhattan away. Lexington ignored the pangs in the back of his head that reminded him of his worry and sense of duty at every argument, pushing everything aside. He finally wanted to think about himself. He finally wanted an official mate!

He kissed Amp again. Like in Casablanca, but with much better prospects - a kiss on the nocturnal tarmac in the shadow of the private jet that Xanatos put at his disposal because his inventions brought him a shitload of money.

"I'm sorting out a few things in Manhattan. And the next time I come back to you ... I'll stay," he promised.

Staghart sighed a little melodramatically but forgivingly. "Okay. I'll wait, what's another two months if I can watch Coney's latest magical shenanigans and have fun watching his spells blow up around his floppy ears."

Lex chuckled. "Why he even wanted to wander around as a human during the day? He said it didn't bring him any luck."

"I guess ... he never quite trusted the morphing stripes. It's no different with the new patches either. Wrong kind of magic he said, I think."

Both gargoyles reluctantly let go of each other. Another kiss - longer, more intimate and yet gentle. Amp knew he had to be careful with Lex. Despite his size, he was one of the strongest individuals he knew, but at the same time fearful, always afraid for their relationship. Fear of not being able to hold Staghart, of not giving enough, of not being enough. It had taken many years of tentative little steps and grooming for Lex to fully open up to him, perhaps because he had witnessed the massacre of his clan in the Middle Ages. Amp could wait another two months.

"Tell the humans to fly carefully, luv. There's supposed to be rain coming over the Atlantic to Manhattan," he said before his soon-to-be mate disappeared into the plane.

Play: She brings the rain by Element Of Crime - 2.42 minutes

New York:

John Sperling knew how to appreciate the good life. He knew when he liked something and usually only liked the best. The best tailored suits, the best handmade shoes, the best food and yes, of course, the best women. He knew when something was first class. That woman there was first class. The hectic world of JFK slowed down, became quieter, more subdued, giving way to her. Everything suddenly seemed to move in slow motion. And damn, did that woman look good in slow motion! The way she walked through the terminal in shoes that had just enough heel to push her hips forward in this seductive way, her dark brown curly hair blowing behind her, caught by a breeze from the overly adjusted ventilation system that couldn't have been more skillfully directed in a movie to set the scene for the leading actress.

Light that would have made any of the normal tourists look fat, old and/or pale only emphasized her smooth, healthy tanned skin. And that dress. Snow white, covered in lace and just below the knee, which not only gave her something of a bride but also something pure where her body was less innocent. That ass, those tits, that hair, that face - despite the big sunglasses, she looked all the more mouth-watering. Not even Angelina Jolie managed to look this perfect after a long-haul flight and maybe this woman was a European superstar or at least a model. Although John Sperling suspected she wasn't the latter because with those curves she just wasn't the clothes rail the fashion industry wanted. Still - first class. Right up his street.

John put the cell phone away again - the latest generation, of course - which he had just used to call his company because no one had picked him up, forgetting all his annoyance about it, and set off on his hunt. He knew that he wasn't bad to look at himself, full blond hair even at 33, even without a suit jacket with clothes obviously made for him and you should NEVER underestimate your self-confidence with women. Women loved alpha males who knew what they wanted. John wanted this woman. Or rather ... this girl?

He had fallen into step right next to her, his handy suitcase clattering behind him, and when she pushed her sunglasses down a little to look at him, he realized that she was younger than he had assumed. But not too young! No, definitely not too young. She looked older because of the confident way she held herself and oh, up close he saw the moles that adorned her forearms. Even on her cheek below one eye she had a beauty mark like a French queen and she would soon feel like a queen. If she got on well with John.

"Hello," he hummed, keeping his eyes firmly on her face and not wandering.

"You must be tired of hearing from everyone how fantastic you look."

The woman pulled up one corner of her mouth, making a disparaging noise that would have sent others running for the hills, but she stopped at the large digital pillar where the terminal map was displayed. John had already cracked tougher nuts.

"Alone your eyes. Your father must have gone to prison for stealing the stars from the sky and putting them in your eyes."

The woman laughed, softly, sonorously. Yes, the line was cheesy- but he could rock cheesy, he wasn't an inept idiot with nothing to offer.

"I think he was more likely in prison for other things," the woman returned, showing white well-kept teeth and oh yeah, that mouth would look fantastic around his cock. Her voice was older than he'd guessed (maybe smoker), with a slight accent that wasn't quite Milanese but Italian. Even though her comment had been strange ... he liked cocky.

He held out his hand to her.

"John. John Sperling."

"Sperling...," the beauty repeated thoughtfully without taking his hand or introducing herself as many others would have reflexively done. Okay, if his name was the door opener - he could work with that.

"Sperling is a German name for Sparrow. People who know me have often found it funny, not because of Pirates of the Caribbean but because I fly a lot for a living. I'm an import-export manager." Instead of addressing his profession, as the women usually did (to find out how good his salary was or whether he was allowed to take travel companions on expenses), the woman hummed and looked around. No matter - even if she was waiting for someone - John would be better company and a potential companion.

"What brings you to New York?" he inquired.

"I promised someone that when I finished school, I'd visit him."

"Congratulations on your successful graduation. A special him?"

"More than special." A charmingly gentle smile broke the young woman's aloof demeanor. Before she laughed and was a queen again, too good for the farmer she was here to visit. "He called me Swallow. Like the bird."

Because that was the thing about old childhood friends, John thought as he laughed with her, politely, not patronizingly. Old childhood loves lost their appeal when you saw them again without the buffer of years, when illusions were shattered and the old rose-colored glasses could no longer be put on. A hole that John was not above filling with expensive champagne, nice jewelry and sex.

"How funny," John commented amiably. "When you've met him and still have a few days to spare -. Birdies like us should flock together. We can celebrate your graduation in the city that never sleeps. How about, dear Swallow, we exchange numbers, I'll take you to the best restaurant in town and then-"

The end of the sentence was lost as John suddenly had a large hand on the back of his head and he was brutally rammed into the panel of the scoreboard by it, without restraint. He heard his nose and a few front teeth break and howled, falling to the ground like a wet sack, holding his hands over his shattered face. He saw black spots in front of his eyes and rolled on the floor, which was decorated with his blood, bone fragments from his teeth and pieces of the display panels.

Still, he had to look up as a huge black guy with orange-yellow cornrow braids joined the woman, taking two suitcases by their handles again. He didn't even look at him!

"Sorry for the delay, boss. You'd think the First Class suitcases would come out faster."

"It's okay," said the woman, who calmly pushed her sunglasses over her eyes again and - a paragon of low-maintenance perfection - turned and walked away as if her boyfriend (why were the hottest broads always Queen of Spades!) hadn't smashed his face in. John wanted to scream, to shout at the many people who were gasping at him that they should call airport security or the police. But he couldn't get out anything but a whimper, and no one could stop the man and the small-looking woman next to him.

"So... Back in New York. Shitty weather, shitty city," Sonny grumbled, holding her umbrella, her suitcases beside her. No one should dare steal THEIR suitcases. Although the sun was shining in the east, it was currently raining cats and dogs from a thick gray cloud, making the air stiflingly humid and the streets, which were bathed in light, glistening so brightly that it almost hurt. He gave her the cigarette he had just lit and lit his own. She took a deep drag. "I don't know... I've never been one for seeing rain as a bad omen. More as a ... Purification. A change."

Both were now standing outside by the area where passengers could be picked up by vehicles, automatically looking up as the massive billboard changed the image and an advertisement for New York with the city skyline became ... well, an advertisement for New York. But with gargoyles. All members of the Manhattan Clan in dark uniform. Underneath it read: Have a safe stay in the Big Apple.

"Wow, times have really changed, huh? Freaky."

Sonny said and looked to the side. His boss's eyes were wide and her lips were pressed together in a disapproving line. For three minutes, she stared at the figure in the middle of the colorful cluster of creatures. Until the advertisement changed again. Only then did she tear her gaze away.

"It's high time I came back. This city needs change."

With screeching tires, an expensive rental car stopped near them, almost running over passers-by who were heading to the bus stop opposite.

The windows were rolled down, a young man with curly hair at the steering wheel, grinning broadly and ignoring the curses of the mere mortals around him. "Madam! Your coach is here!" he called out, jumped out of the vehicle, gave Sonny a kiss and a pat on the butt and set about loading the suitcases.

She looked at Sonny with a grin, who rolled his eyes. "He's your boyfriend."

"Remind me again why?"

"Because we went to school with him and he does what I say. Gio wants to shake things up here - just like us. And he's excited because he's never been to New York before, so be merciful."

"We're going to need more allies to make things move here," he muttered.

"We'll get them," she said, looking at the changing billboard again as Sonny left her side to maneuver the suitcases into the trunk under the rain.

She took a deep breath, lowering the umbrella so that the rain could greet her warmly, her eyes on the boy she had endured and survived hell for the last 13 years. Himself larger than life on the billboard, and though he grinned sassily ... Nashville didn't look like he was feeling good. He looked fake and absent. Like something was missing. She knew - she was what he was missing. Because he was what she had been missing for so long.

She slid into the passenger seat where Sonny now drove, immediately having Gio clinging to the back of his seat, patting him on the chest.

"Come on, Hon, let's show this town who's going to crack the whip in the future."

"Well, I can go along with that," said Graziella, earning a happy whoop from Gio. "Buckle up New York. Watch out you coppers and gargoyles and other families. Pass your scepter Tony and Antoinette. Graziella Dracon is back in town!

I was never in New York too!- In 24 hours I can never say the same again. Sleep well .. Thanks for reading ... lave ya. Reviews are Love too.

Q.T.

Lyriks: She brings the rain (Element Of Crime)

Yes, I care if she brings me spring
But I don't care about nothing