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grief. Gargoyles are all about duty and
family. We are split between the two. Sometimes I forget how the
real world works. Even my closest friends aren't bound completely
to their families.
    I look down at Emma, at the back of her neck,
at the way she reaches up to rub bloody tears from her cheeks. I am
a gargoyle. I have the ability to turn to stone, but I'm definitely
not made from rock.
    "We have people who help the families of
those we Extract. She will be okay, Em. I . . . I'll allow you a
phone call when I can."
    It isn't a promise I should make, but I make
it anyway. The words calm her. Not completely, but enough that she
becomes reasonably still.
    "I'm going insane. I'm dying, and I just
don't know it."
    She is talking to herself, and it's obvious
she thinks she is hallucinating. I can't blame her for that. One
moment she's safe inside a hospital, the next she's bear hugging a
therapist then being taken against her will by gargoyles. If I was
even half mortal, I'd think myself pretty damn crazy too.
    "What can I do to make you understand this
isn't a dream? You aren't dying. You aren't even sick."
    I ask her this softly, carefully. She
is like a cornered animal, spitting and snarling until it grows too
weary to lash out. But this doesn't mean she's any less dangerous.
She doesn't know it yet, but she is powerful. Very powerful.
    She tilts her head back, her eyes meeting
mine before looking away. She is trying to hold my gaze and can't.
But she keeps her head up, and I watch as she fights with herself.
She is tall for a girl, her head stopping just under my chin.
    "I don't know . . ." she answers. "What can
you do?"
    The play of emotions on her face is
mesmerizing even under the layers of grime. She is so emotional and
yet so guarded. I can read every emotion, but I can't for the hell
of me figure out what they mean or what she is thinking.
    "I'd ask you to trust me, but I figure
that's pointless. I can tell you what I am. I can even tell you
what you are. The believing it
part will have to come with time."
    She seems to consider this.
    "Y-you said you were a gargoyle. Like those
statues on Notre Dame?"
    She is playing along. For this, I am
grateful.
    "Somewhat. We are creatures created by the
Heavens to guard against evil. Our lives are dedicated to this
singular cause. Over the years, gargoyles have multiplied. We are
family oriented, each family broken down by crests. We marry only
our own race. Females take the crests of their husbands. We all
serve the cause. We have the ability to turn to stone. Some of us
have the ability to change shape, species even, such as Roach. We
live a long, long time but we are not immortal. In the end, we are
given a choice at death. Pass on or sacrifice ourselves for the
cause. The ones who choose sacrifice turn forever to stone on their
building of choice. In this form, they can forever communicate with
us, to warn us when there is danger in their area. They also ward
off evil."
    I am being long winded, rambling even, but I
need her to understand that we aren't a danger to her. And even
this explanation is a condensed version. Gargoyles are complicated.
Our lives, initiations, crests, and powers are something that takes
years to learn. I still don't know it all.
    "It doesn't sound real."
    I smile.
    "No . . . no, it doesn't. But, you must
admit, it's too outlandish to be fake."
    She doesn't smile in return, but I feel some
of the apprehension in her body melt away.
    "You don't know me well. I have a wild
imagination."
    I laugh at that, and she tenses again. I
don't apologize.
    "The only thing I know about you is what I've
seen on paper. But, I promise, I know more about you than you
do."
    She frowns, and I know this unnerves her.
    "You said I wasn't sick?"
    So, she caught that. Good.
    "No, you're not. Symptoms like yours are
fairly normal for creatures like you. Fever is a given. The phobias
I'm still trying to figure out."
    She actually manages to tense more. If that
be