Magic in the Shadows (25 page)
Read Magic in the Shadows Online
Authors: Devon Monk
“Sure,” I said. “That would be nice.”
I shut the door and strolled to the back entry of the building. Zayvion started the engine, but didn’t drive off until I had opened the door, waved, then stepped into the building.
I made my way to the stairs and couldn’t help but shake my head at the bottom. Why in the world had I decided a walk-up was the kind of place to live in?
Maybe because even the sound of an elevator door opening, that rigor-sweet bell, was enough to make my palms sweat. Claustrophobia was a bitch, but I guess it meant I got my walking in every day.
I headed up the stairs, taking my time to listen to each floor of the building. I caught the drone of a television, music, laughter, an argument, a baby crying, one sweet tenor raised in an operatic chorus, all muffled by the walls and doors of apartment living.
Then I was on my floor and it was silent, which wasn’t that unusual. My neighbors and I did little more than nod hello when we ran into one another. Most of the time we kept to ourselves, and I liked it that way.
Out of habit, I paused at my door, pressed my fingers against it, leaned in, and listened. There was movement in there. I figured it was Nola.
I unlocked the door and it opened—which meant she hadn’t set the chains.
I stepped in and shut the door behind me, turning the locks and setting the chains. It sounded like she was in my bathroom or bedroom. Probably hanging more plants.
“Hey,” I called out. “I’m home. You forgot to set the chain on the door.”
It was the kitchen that tipped me off. One, nothing was cooking, baking, and not even the smell of brewed coffee touched the air. Whenever Nola was in a house, there was always the comforting smell of food present.
Two, every cupboard in my line of vision was open.
Three, every coffee cup had been removed from my shelves and was now stacked, one on top of the other, on the stove.
What the hell?
I recited a mantra, set the Disbursement—more aches—and traced the beginning of a Shield spell. Maybe the smart thing would be to call 911. Tell them a cup-stacking intruder was in my home. Of course, since I had just yelled that I was here, maybe the smartest thing was to leave the apartment and come back when the police showed up.
Decisions, decisions.
Without drawing magic into my sense of smell, I inhaled, breathing in the scents of the room.
It smelled like my apartment, except there was a heavy odor of wet dirt, stone, and moss, like rain on a hot summer sidewalk. Maybe from all the plants Nola had put around the place. That would explain the dirt smell anyway. But hot stone wasn’t anything I could place.
Screw it. I did not want to get jumped tonight. Time to go find a phone. I put my hand on the chain, quietly slid it loose. I was just turning the lock when someone walked into the living room.
Okay, not someone. Something.
I gasped, which was better than the yell I felt like belting out, but loud enough in the silent room that the thing turned its wide stone head toward me.
Big as a Saint Bernard, I recognized the gargoyle immediately. It was the one I’d accidentally broken, or as was now obvious, set free outside the restaurant the other night. The carved collar still circled its neck and three stone links of the chain hung free there.
It tipped its head to the side, as if working to see me better, and then, I swear this is true, it smiled, pushed up on its hind doglike legs, and waddled over to me, wide stone wings spread for balance.
I pressed up against the door and poured magic into the Shield spell I’d started.
The gargoyle stopped, tipped its head the other way, then lowered onto all fours, moving much more smoothly and slowly over to me. It sniffed its way down the hall, up to the edge of the spell I had cast. Then it stuck its snout into my spell and past my spell—pushed right through the Shield like it wasn’t even there. Impossible.
Yep. As impossible as a living, breathing gargoyle sniffing me in the middle of my apartment.
It snuffled at my boots, then my jeans, and finally touched its flat stone snout against my outstretched hand.
I had expected it to be cold, but instead its nose was warm, and so was the air that blew out from its nostrils and mouth. I let the Shield spell drop, because, seriously, why pour magic into a spell that wasn’t doing a damn bit of good?
The gargoyle made a glasslike clacking sound, like someone stirring a bag of marbles. It smiled again, revealing all three dozen of its teeth. Yes, I counted.
He—I decided it looked more he than she—blinked his big round eyes and twitched his wings.
I got the overwhelming impression he was waiting for me to do something.
“If you want me to cast magic for your entertainment, you are going to be sorely disappointed.”
He dipped his head down and rubbed his face under my hand.
Like a dog who wanted to be scratched behind the ears.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I rubbed at his head—stone, not as smooth as marble, but soft and warm, like heated tile. His wings spread and folded neatly down his back. He made the marbles-in-a-bag clatter sound again.
I stopped rubbing his head. He stood up on his hind legs and waddled back into my apartment.
“Are you a joke?” I asked as I carefully followed behind him. “Is someone here? Who’s making you do this?” Did they make remote-control gargoyles?
I mean, Zayvion had told me the gargoyles were just statues. Carved by a master Hand, infused with a small amount of magic, but just statues.
Currently, the statue was pulling the seat cushion off my couch and balancing it on his head.
“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone here?”
The gargoyle held the cushion on his head with one hand and called out too, a sound somewhere between that of a soft vacuum cleaner and a muted pipe organ.
“Not you,” I said. “I know you’re here.”
He clacked, which I decided was his happy sound, and got busy trying to balance an additional cushion on his head.
“If you ruin those, you’ll have to pay for them.”
A cool breeze whisked down the hall from my bedroom.
It was a small apartment. Other than the kitchen and living room, the only other places for someone to hide were the bathroom and bedroom. Both of which had windows. One of which, the bedroom, wasn’t painted closed and was large enough for a person to crawl through.
I started down the hall.
The gargoyle clattered behind me.
“You stay here.”
He tipped his head and lost both pillows. He took a step toward me, on all fours this time, silent.
“Stay.”
He held still, waiting for me to turn, then took another step. Okay, fine. It was crazy to think he would understand me and do what he was told. He wasn’t a dog. He was a statue, for cripes’ sake.
The door to the bathroom was open. I looked in. Nothing.
The door to my bedroom was also open, and I could feel the cold night air stronger here.
I turned on the light and walked into the room. The window was open, my curtains fluttering in the breeze. My bed was unmade, but I think I’d left it that way this morning. I looked around the bed, under the bed. I even looked in the closet. No one else was there.
Meanwhile the gargoyle had decided it was some sort of game. He followed behind me, mimicking everything I did. He looked out the window, looked under the bed, even looked in the closet. Having human hands meant doors were not a problem for him.
Yes, that worried me.
“Did you open the windows?” I asked.
He stopped in front of me, crouched, wings spread, round eyes waiting for me to do something. Like cast magic. He stretched his neck out a little more, offering an ear for scratching.
“This?” I pointed at the open window.
He looked at it. Clattered at it, then waddled on two legs over to the window. He stuck his head and shoulders out the window, his wings tight against his back so he could fit his barrel chest in the space. His face was inked by the blue of night, only the barest brush of yellow from the light in my room outlining his comical features. He could crawl out through that space, I realized. Just the way he had probably crawled in through it. All on his own.
Even though I was on the third floor.
Holy shit.
He blinked his big round eyes and crooned into the night—the strange vacuum cleaner pipe organ in B flat. Pigeons startled and flew off the roof. The muscles down his back bunched as if he too wanted to take wing. I wondered, as he hung there, more out the window than in, if his wings were big enough and strong enough that he could fly, or if he’d drop like a rock.
He’s just a statue
, I told myself.
Statues can’t fly.
, I told myself.
Statues can’t fly.
He pulled his head back in the window, and used those very human hands to pull the window shut, careful not to catch the curtain. Then he turned and made himself busy with the things on top of my dresser.
Statues can’t fly, can’t walk, can’t make noise, and can’t stack loose change on people’s dresser tops.
And statues did not dig through your underwear drawer.
“Stop it.” I yanked one of my favorite camisoles off his head before he pulled it the rest of the way over his snout and stretched it out. “Out.” I pointed to the open door. He looked at the door, clacked. Then he went down on all fours and trotted out of the room.
Sweet hells. What was I supposed to do with this thing?
Technically, he was not my property. I hadn’t stolen him or anything, but I had sort of broken him and set him free. I wondered if the restaurant had a you-break-it-you-have-a-new-roommate policy.
The water in the bathroom sink turned on and off. I strolled down the hall and leaned in to watch him.
He turned the water on, watched it drain down the sink, turned it off. The pipe gurgled. He clacked at it, and turned the water on again. Turned it off. Pipes gurgled. He clacked at the pipes and turned the water back on, childlike and content.
I should call the restaurant. Tell them their statue was messing around with my plumbing.
Sweet hells. I pressed my fingers against my eyes. They’d have me committed.
What I needed was coffee. Then I’d be able to think.
“Don’t break anything,” I said to Pet Rock Extreme.
In the kitchen, I found the note Nola had left for me on the coffeepot.
It said she and Stotts were working on the Cody case and not to wait up for her. The little smiley face made me think it was more than just a business appointment.
Well, good for her. Maybe one of us could have a normal date with a normal person and not have to come home to overzealous architecture messing up the place.
I started the coffee, putting a little extra grounds in, because I had a feeling I was going to need it. While the coffee brewed, I put the stacked coffee cups back in the cupboard, closed all the doors, and made myself busy cleaning.
When the coffee was done and the already clean kitchen even cleaner, I poured myself a cup and took it out into the living room.
The gargoyle was there, standing very still in the corner of the room. He had piled the curtains and vines on his head. They were still attached to the curtain rods, so it just looked like he’d stepped into a waterfall of fabric. I guess it looked a little like the waterfall stuff at the restaurant, though he had been crouched beneath a bush when I found him. Who knew? Maybe gargoyles liked being half hidden by falling water.
Or cheap curtains.
I picked the cushions off the floor and put them back on the couch. Then sat down.
“What am I going to do with you?” I asked. “Do you have a name? Fido? Rock? Quasimodo? Stone?”
He tipped his head and cooed.
“You like that? Stone?”
He clacked, walked toward me, the curtains stretching out behind him, over his thick shoulders, catching on the arc of his wings, then down his broad back and haunches, flowing away to pool against the wall. He stopped next to the couch, sniffed at me again, then lowered himself at my feet like a huge coffee table. He rested his head on his crossed arms and stared, unblinkingly, straight ahead.
He didn’t close his eyes, and he didn’t move. I put the toe of my boot against his side, and he didn’t seem to mind.
I drank coffee, while the gargoyle sat there like a gargoyle.
Gargoyles are not real. If I remembered the stories right, gargoyles were alive at night, and sunlight turned them back to stone every day.
Well, Stone was already made out of rock. I didn’t know how much more stone he could get. Maybe the sun made it so he couldn’t move. Put him to sleep or something.
I’d only ever seen Stone at night, at the restaurant and now. Maybe he lost all his magical locomotion once dawn rolled around. Maybe that’s why the restaurant had him chained down in the first place; otherwise he would have wandered off and messed with their sprinklers or something.
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