Chapter One

“Password?” the old woman’s voice croaked from behind the door.

The humid night air hung listless, and a thick, murky fog stemmed around the strange and silent visitor. The old woman squinted suspiciously. The meeting had begun hours ago.

An androgynous robe draped overtop of his armor and tunic, Damon Alexi glanced down at the scrawled writing on the palm of his hand as he reached the door.

He was prompted and replied, “Rose for thorns, sword to take back what’s right and ours.”

And just like that, his entrance was granted.

Damon took a deep breath, looking up with apprehensive eyes, and threw back his hood to display the handsome good looks of a gargoyle in his prime. There was no turning back now.

Shivering off the cold and his nerves, Damon shrugged off his clinging damp over-garment and avoided the old woman’s suspicious stare.

The tribe would not be happy to see him.

Dutifully, the woman took the cloak and laid it out on a holding platform.

And suddenly, his eyes clenched, and his mouth tightened into a wince.

After what had happened, he could no longer look into her eyes. In the end, her voice, her call, depended on whether he lived or died. No matter how innocent looking, no matter how much her face mirrored his own grandmothers’ he had to look away.

The old woman studied him, glaringly.

Nodding nervous, the jade-tinted gargoyle’s eyes met hers momentarily as he wiped off the excess dew from his jet-black-almost-purple hair. “Thank you,” he told her.

Yet somehow that only made it matter all the more.

The old woman made a nasty face and gave a discomforted ‘hmph.’

Damon looked away. So much for pleasantries, he thought. With nothing left to preamble, the Zardac took a deep breath and silently pattered down the clammy cellar steps.

Lords, he hoped they hadn’t killed her yet.

As he found the bottom of the staircase, his first greeting came in the form of harsh murmurs that doused the air. The cold basement smelled of fresh mud, and the smoke of violent candle flames sent light and shadows darting in turns across the otherwise dark and static room.

At a makeshift table too small for the counsel to either sit or stand at, prominent representatives of the Zardac community argued, planned, and plotted their counteraction in the dangerous game they had put into play only days prior. Damon knew them all too well.

Peter Rollings, Jasper Jusper, Ceckera Mickakay (whom Damon had at one point “been seen with”), and old man Willigan were so involved in their debate that they hadn’t even noticed Damon’s entrance, even as he carefully approached the circle of twenty or more.

“And that is why I say leave the valley now,” Willigan’s strongly urged as he pounded his fist into the makeshift table, causing plates to bounce and cups to tip themselves over.

Damon’s eyes focused on the torn wood of the table. Willigan’s movements were wild.

“We should not have begun the hunt. Not when we have had so much time to plan our escape.” The gargoyle panted in his fervor, seemingly on the brink of heart failure. In a rushed movement, he pointed to a holding chamber. “That child only represents how corrupt we’ve allowed ourselves to become.” His lips quivered, and his eyes ran scared. “That is why I say we take to the mountains before we pay for our sins with the bloodshed of our tribes.”

Anger burned within Damon’s soul as he stood, the veins in his hands contracting his palms into fists.

Murderers…

Damon immediately closed his eyes. He was allowing his rage to take control, something he could not afford to do, not in these last hours. He needed to gain his composure, needed to block them out. So he did so in the only way that he knew how.

Taking a meditative deep breath, his head bowed in silent thanks to whatever god of protection kept Clara, his younger sister, far away from the counsel’s wrath. After all, there had to be a God if she had escaped so many times thus far.

Damon wondered if she had made it into the outskirts of Zamdon. He wondered if she was safe. He wondered if she was thinking about him.

But most importantly, Damon wondered if Clara was even still alive.

Immediately growing upset, he shook the terrible thought from his mind and refocused upon the aged features of the gargoyle before him with fresh reserve.

Willigan looked awful. Damon had seen him discouraged before, but never this broken. His actions too much for him to take, Willigan held his head in his hands, looking for a moment like he might cry. Damon’s heart did go out to the elder. Willigan had lost his family, his land, his possessions… The valley had grown so poor. Crops had not grown as they should.

His spirit was gone.

Damon struggled to hold back his compassion. But despite his troubles, the old gargoyle did not deserve his pity. Willigan had stolen an innocent child from her home, from her parents, from her family. From me, he reminded himself. Willigan had aided the counsel in little Vera’s brutal capture, and he had stood by as Peter made the ransom demands.

The deal was simple. Vera would be returned to his parents in exchange for “the witch”, Clara, his sibling and his best friend. How could any parent make such a decision? One child in return for another?

Damon burned anew with hatred and purpose.

They had destroyed and terrorized his family.

Crazed laughter snapped Damon out of his daze. “Are ya’daft, old man?” Peter countered in his usual incredulous high-pitch. “Lords, just listen to yourself for a milli-moment.” Had it really been so long since they had laughed using those same tones? Damon feared it had been.

But that had been before they had realized their powers. Before they thought themselves better than the rest.

Before they failed at saving their people.

Peter made a face. “Leave the valley? Please, you old coot. They’d assume us before we could grant a parting word to our grandmothers.” His laughter subsided to a light chuckle. “Surely, you words are in jest, dear friend. The girl is a means to an end, and one badly needed to control Clara Alexi and her delusions of grandeur. For they are delusions, you know, and terrible ones that have brought poison to our communities.”

“But Peter,” Willigan insisted in exasperation.

“Her visions have murdered,” Peter uttered forcefully. “Unless we continue as planned, they will murder again.”

Willigan reluctantly nodded, once again allowing himself to be manipulated by Peter’s words. Damon swallowed a growl. Peter’s influence was Willigan’s sweet rationalization, his drug, and he fed hungrily on any excuses offered.

“We all know what influence this Clara has over our tribes,” Peter continued, cavalier. “It is only by the unfortunate involvement of members of her family that we will ever destroy the cause of these recent traumas.”

“Peter is right,” Ceckera demanded in her beautiful, determined voice – the one that whispered beneath the bed sheets, the one that turned into sparkling laughter at the breakfast table. “However.” The one word gained the immediate attention of the tribesmen. “The troops still approach our lands, even without the witch in our possession. If ever we attack Surafis, now should be the time.” Her jungle green eyes darted uncertainly. “We won’t get a second chance.”

“It should never be the time,” Jasper grumbled, the voice of reason among the twenty. He gazed downward and crossed his arms so tightly that Damon wouldn’t have been surprised if his veins had burst from the pressure. “We have no defense against the armies.”

“Silence, friend,” Peter said warningly, embers of a dormant anger in his eyes.

Jasper growled, emerging from the shadows and stalking decided toward the vault holding Vera. “No,” he answered decidedly. “I will be silent no longer. We let the girl go; we go back to our families, and we accept our fate.”

At Peter’s snarl, Ceckera gasped and darted into Willigan’s arms. “Stay in your place,” he commanded in a voice that shook the rafters.

Jasper’s motions became hurried, and he dashed for the keys. “I will not allow this to go on any further,” he shrieked, retiring his stoicism.

“Coward, desist!” Peter growled. The Zardac pounced on him front behind, sending the massive gargoyles into a tumble of whipping tails, flaring arms, and kicking feet. Despite Jasper’s size, Peter had the momentary luxury of madness, and he soon gained the upper hand.

His fist hurled backwards before it met its mark, and a glare set deep into his entire being as he watched his tribesman writhe in pain. “Don’t defy me,” Peter whispered, an unholy light in his eyes.

And instantly, Peter allowed Jasper to drop to the ground and lifted his head upward in attention. Intent, the gargoyle jumped to his feet, his eyes scanning the crowd.

Peter knew. The old lady had given Damon time…not much of it, but it was more than he had hoped for.

Now was his chance.

“Where are you, traitor?” Peter’s raspy voice beckoned. “I can feel you, remember?”

Damon whispered directly into the gargoyle’s earlobe. “Right beside you.”

Peter spared a moment to shock, and one that he shouldn’t have. His adrenaline rushing, Damon hauled backward and clobbered Peter against the head with a candleholder. With a snarling cry, the gargoyle curled up into a fetal ball and shot to the side. Stern face set, Damon tossed Jasper a bludgeon, which he caught in his right claw. “Help me,” he implored.

Jasper looked up, reassured by Damon’s presence, and was about to comply when a familiar odor caused the gargoyle to freeze.

“Oh, no…” Jasper whispered, hope draining from his face.

It was no fault of the senses.

A warmth and light, not unlike the candles around the room, flickered across the upper windows, and dense smoke began to filter through the doorway.

Jasper tried to run up the stairs to save the others, but it was to no avail. The door had been jarred, and the old woman, strangled. Triumphant war cries and poundings of murderous feet tolled from all directions.

Damon closed his eyes and held back tears.

The legions had found them.

Willigan wept hysterically as did Ceckera and a few others present. Most ran about in a panic, their voices wailing and their movements tortured. Damon would have joined them in their hysteria, but there was nothing to be done. He knew that now.

Amidst the turmoil, Damon assured himself that he had done his best. He had tried to save his sisters and given his most noble attempt. He had saved Jasper from a beating. He had kissed Ceckera when it mattered most, and he had lived a decent, honorable life.

While chaos and destruction stemmed about him, Damon freed his sister, held her comfortingly in his arms, and thanked the powers for lending him his worthless, beautiful, and dutifully carried out little existence.

Damon smiled the smile of the accepting and tightly clutching Vera’s warm young body against his own, awaited the awakening of the afterlife.

“Strength be with you, Clara,” he whispered.

As the smoke filled his lungs, Damon took his last breath and allowed the fires to claim him.

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