Devon Monk - Magic in the Shadows

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.

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.