Marcus Pelegrimas - The Breaking

“More important than a Full Blood charging into town in a matter of minutes?”

“Could be.”

The scratches in question were right beneath Jessup’s finger. “Let me guess,” Cole grunted. “No artistic value?”

For the first time since he’d met Jessup, the grizzled Skinner looked genuinely impressed with him. “That’s right! There ain’t no chips along the edges and the texture is smooth, which means the scratches are part of the statue and not just wear and tear. They’re in the wrong spot and go in the wrong direction to have been made by anything flying off the road. That, combined with these thick patches along the sides and back, tell me there are real gargoyles here!”

“And how did you know these statues were here at all?”

“Spotted ’em while passing through town a few months ago,” Jessup told him. “Gotta keep yer eyes open for this sort of thing.”

“How slow do you drive?”

“See, here’s the tricky thing with gargoyles,” Jessup said without paying any mind to Cole’s sarcasm. “It’s the same tricky thing that has to do with a lot of the smaller beasties that have been surfacing lately. Since things like these have been hidden away or sleeping or whatever the hell else, Skinners haven’t seen them for years. And,” he added just as Cole opened his mouth to hurry him along, “since these things ain’t bloodsuckers or shapeshifters, there’s no way for most Skinners to feel them in their scars anymore.”

“So Skinners have seen gargoyles before?”

“Gargoyles were mentioned in almost every Skinner journal from the 1750s all the way through the 1800s. That’s when a Full Blood claimed this whole continent and drove ’em underground. I spotted the first one for myself when I was scouring graveyards for more Half Breed dens or Shunkaws. Did some research and now I’m spotting them all over.”

Pulling open his vest, Jessup revealed a harness that might have started off as a shoulder holster but had been modified to carry two wooden clubs that were each just under a foot long. He pulled one out by the handle, using the tips of his fingers to avoid the thorns. “Shapeshifters and Nymar are the most common things out there. Wasn’t always like that, though. Full Blood’s closin’ in.”

“I know. I can feel her.”

“Can you feel the Squam?”

“No,” Cole said warily. “Can you?”

When Jessup tossed him one of the clubs, Cole reflexively snatched it from the air. The thorns bit into him, sinking like needles through the toughened skin of his palm. As soon as the little spikes touched his blood, something else flowed through the scars. It was a cold tingle that felt as if he’d accidentally gotten window cleaner into his blood.

“Journals talk about there being lots more than what we see nowadays,” Jessup continued. “Skinners had to adapt. Their methods were more or less the same as they are now, but were a bit more flexible. Whenever they found something new, they’d take some of its blood and add it to the mix used for the varnish on their weapons. It’s a practice that’s been phased out lately just because there hasn’t been much need for it. Old-timers like me passed along the methods for modifying the varnish even when the young ones only wanted to fight what they could see.”

The Full Blood was getting closer. Cole figured he didn’t have to say as much to another Skinner, so he nervously glanced toward the edge of town, where he guessed Cecile might be approaching. Then something else came along to add itself to the growing burn caused by the werewolf. The chill beneath his scars spread like a layer of slush sandwiched somewhere in between the heat from the varnish and the warmth of his own body.

“Feel it yet?” Jessup asked.

“I think so.”

“That cold is from the sample of gargoyle blood I scraped up when I found the first one a few weeks ago. It’ll only last a while after you switch back to your own weapon, so we’ll have to modify that one too. Didn’t you carry a spear back in Philly?”

“Yeah. Mind if I use this until I get it back?”

“Sure, just don’t get too jumpy.”

Cole’s entire hand started to shake. Everything from cold to heat and every gradient in between rushed through his fist. “I think something’s wrong. Feels like I’m allergic to this one or something.”

“Told you not to get jumpy. I’ve scraped up all kinds of new blood and added it to the varnish on that club. You need to get used to it. Finding that first gargoyle was a lucky stroke. They must’ve either been getting too cocky, frightened, or hungry to worry about staying hid any longer. I didn’t know what the hell it was at first until a bunch of them damn near got me. Faster than you’d ever think. That’s one of the things that keeps ’em from being noticed. They’ll jump out and take yer head off before you even knew what was happening.”

“Shit,” Cole said as he hopped away from the statue. “You might want to open with that the next time you give a lesson in gargoyles.”

“Relax. That thing’s not gonna hurt you.”

The burning in Cole’s scars grew hotter, but not quickly. Cecile was either circling the town or trying to approach without being seen.

Jessup stepped up to the statue and ran his fingertips along the smooth patch on the horse’s back. “See, gargoyles are lurkers. They can hide damn near anywhere and you won’t ever find them unless you know exactly where to look. Just because you see a sculpture that looks creepy don’t make it a gargoyle.”

“This cold in my scars tells me they’re here, right?”

“Yep.” Drawing a hunting knife from a scabbard hanging from his belt, Jessup drove the tip into the smooth patch of rock along the horse’s back and started chipping it away. “But the tricky thing is that they’re damn near impossible to chase, so you gotta make them come to you. Can you guess the one thing a gargoyle don’t like more than anything else in the world?”

The club in Cole’s hand grew into a short stake before the bottom end extended and split into something that resembled a thick forked tongue. Not even noticing that he’d instinctually created a smaller version of his spear, he circled around to get behind the statue and said, “I would imagine they hate it when someone comes along to jam a knife in their back.”

“Well, yeah, but remember what I said about them bein’ lurkers. What every lurker wants is to hide and lurk in peace. What they hate is when someone knows they’re there. And this stuff right here,” he said, after the tip of his blade chipped off a piece of the statue that fell away like a small section of eggshell, “is one of the things that lets them know they’ve been found out.”

Cole tightened his grip on the club. His eyes were fixed upon the statue, waiting for it to move or balk at getting a piece of its back torn off. When that didn’t happen, he inched in for a closer look at the damage Jessup had done. Whatever the thing was, it sure as hell wasn’t a statue. Beneath the chipped portion was leathery muscle covered in a slimy layer of thick, pungent slime.

“Aw shit,” Cole grunted as the putrid smell of rotten meat and spoiled rust hit him. “That’s blood, all right.”

“It sure is. What’d you expect?”

The burning in his scars was growing, but not quick enough to mean that Cecile was on her way to the cemetery using anything close to a direct route. In the distance to the north, the sound of screeching tires, honking horns, and shouting voices rolled through the air.

“God damn it,” Cole said while bringing the club up to a defensive position. “You think she found Frank? What if she lost control and took out some locals?”

“She could’ve done that with or without us lookin’ after her,” Jessup mused. When a whistling shriek drifted overhead, he didn’t even bother looking up.