Mercy, A Gargoyle Story (18 page)

“And what were you?”
 
Jaibu snaps back.
 
“A useless slug that molested women in dark alleys.
 
What you did was a worse sort of murder.
 
You killed your victim’s innocence and only left pieces of them alive.
 
At least those I executed were my enemies and not left to linger and wonder why I’d done what I had.
 
They were deserving of death as much as I.”

“He would love me for my skin,” I repeat the words to Kervus.
 
“And you?
 
What would you love me for?”

“Well, I,” Kervus stammers.
 
Another shout from The Boy’s roof and my patience wears thin.

“What would you love me for?”
 
I say.
 
Kervus jolts himself to words.

“I would love you for what you are, of course, my Queen.
 
For all that you can give to me.
 
The sweet mercy that is at your fingertips.
 
Yes, that, I would love you for that.”

Every word seems to pass unwillingly over his lips, his face contorting to cover the lies, to shape them into something that would sound more pleasing.
 
But I understand in that moment what he wants and that Kervus is as much a threat as any other suitor standing before me.

“You would love me for my Queenship,” I say.
 
The deformed little gargoyle’s chin jerks up and down as if he is trying to hold it in place.
 
His face appears pained.

“Yes,” he says between gritted teeth.
 
A shriek from the other rooftop is my undoing.
 
Truce’s eyes are on me, curious and assessing.

“You’ve been given an imperfect bouquet, Madeline.
 
Which of us do you choose?”

“Whose thorns are spaced to miss my fingers?”
 
I ask, my attention drifting.
 
It occurs to me that Ayla’s voice could somehow be a trick, to get my hasty decision, but it sounds so real that I am snared between getting my answers and giving them.
 
I turn to the King.
 
“But I haven’t asked you the most important question, Truce.
 
Are you immune to answering truthfully?”

“No, Madeline, I am not immune,” he says.
 
“Ask whatever you wish to know.”

“What would you love me for?
 
My skin?
 
My power?
 
The kingdom?
 
I want to know what my use is to you.”

Truce closes his eyes and the words pour in a soft whisper from his mouth.

“It is not exactly a question, but I will answer it all the same.
 
I would love you, Madeline, for the heart that you opened up once, and gave away.
 
I would love you enough to hope that you would find love again. I would endeavor to prove myself worthy of you, even if you choose to never give it again, all the same.
 
I would love you because I need to.
 
I have been loved more than I have loved.
 
What Ariana taught me was that I have not loved someone else more than I loved myself.
 
It’s a pleasure of the living, to love, and as much as Ariana loved me, I never had the desire to return her love to the same degree.

“But when you are near me, everything in me is drawn to you.
 
As much as I desire my self-imposed isolation, to never risk failure again as I did with Ariana, I have no choice in this.
 
I am helpless.

“And I believe that you are helpless as well.
 
You need me to love you too.
 
You need to be shown how deeply you affect a man, how incredibly lovely and loveable you are, aside from what some
boy
has said, or done, to make you believe differently.
 
Don’t you see, Madeline, how love would educate us both in the most pleasurable way?”

If I could blush, I might, although I’m not stupid.
 
I expect that Truce is trying to seduce me, to gain what he wants with empty compliments, except that not one felt empty.
 
The depth of sincerity in his eyes is so bottomless, I feel I could drown if he hadn’t been making me hold tight to his every word.
 
Fortunately, I am so hidden beneath my hideous mask that I can take the moment I need to regain my composure. I steel myself, separating from the warm flush that spreads through me from the cool flood of common sense.

“What I have to choose from, are three hideous monsters who are not men and who are not human,” I say.
 
I don’t think it sounds as detached as I would like, but I continue anyway.
 
“I think each of you deserve hell, instead of second chances.
 
I wouldn’t choose any of you, except that one of you has something that I want.”

Kervus’s head bolts upward with an even wider, gruesome smile.

“Yes, my Queen, yes,” he whispers breathlessly.
 
“You remember my promise.
 
You’ll give me your favor…”

But I turn from him as a final scream, pure and loud, echoes across the gap of the buildings.
 
It is, unmistakably, a call for help.
 
I push past Truce, moving toward the ledge to get a better look if I can.

“Your answer, my Queen,” Kervus prompts from behind.
 
I spin about and shout up to Moag, “Take me there!”

But Moag remains in position over our heads.

“Answer first,” he barks.

“Don’t you hear her?
 
Something’s happening!”

“This is the choosing, Slip.
 
Leave or answer?
 
No.
 
You
must
answer.”

“She could be HURT!”
 
I shriek.
 
“Take me now!
 
There is no way else to get there!”

“Fly, Slip.
 
Fly there,”
 
Moag says.
 
My arms drag at my sides and my heart churns ashes for only a moment before I step forward, determined to attack the King.
 
If I can get ahold of Truce, he will be my hostage and the gargoyle will have to do whatever the King asks.
 
The black wave of my anger engulfs me, and I know I will do whatever it takes to get to that roof and help Ayla.

And I would’ve done it, if the great stone lion hadn’t bounded forward and plucked me from the roof in his jaws.

***

We sail over the space between the buildings on Trickle’s strong, wide wings, and land hard on the opposite roof.
 
Trickle’s jaws are jarred open and I tumble out.
 
The entire rooftop wobbles under our graceless landing, but the crowd of gargoyles doesn’t follow.
 
Not even Moag.

I get to my feet and hear The Boy’s confused tone from around the stairway closet and lean-to.

“What was
that
?”

“It felt like an earthquake,” Ayla says.
 
Trickle is beside me, watching for my next move, but the two of us stay rooted like statues as we listen.

“It’s probably the fire department coming because you were screaming like that,”
 
The Boy says.

“Then you shouldn’t have tried to kiss me.”

“You didn’t have to knee me for it.
 
It’s not like you’ve never kissed me before,” he says bitterly.
 
“I’m going to go take a look.”

“Of course you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’d rather go looking for earthquakes instead of listening to what I’m saying.”

“I thought you were done.
 
You’re not moving in, because you have to take care of your mom, even though she lives right across the street from me.
 
I got it,” he says, but I hear how he has to swallow between sentences.
 
I know that feeling of having something stuck in your throat, like a huge boa constrictor, coiled up over your collarbone on the way down – even though it’s only a bubble of air, holding all the words you can’t say.
 
That feeling was there when The Boy said it’d be good to get rid of my little bean, there again when the doctor asked me if I was ready for the procedure, and it almost climbed it’s way back out of my mouth, when The Boy didn’t ask me to marry him, but broke up with me instead.
 
I know exactly how much that swallowing hurts.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, no you didn’t mean to do that.”
 
He swallows again.
 
“It’s no big deal.
 
I’m sure we’ll see each other around, since you live right across the street.
 
We could probably double date.”

“
That’s
what I’m talking about, right there.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry, that it’s not personal, and you keep turning it into you against me.
 
I don’t want it to be like that between us.
 
I care about you.”

“I can see that, by the way you’re dumping me.”

Ayla’s voice becomes sharp.
 
“Now wait,” she says.
 
“Isn’t that what happened with you and Maddy?
 
Isn’t it?
 
You really liked her, but you didn’t have the right feelings for her, so you broke up with her?”

“Now don’t throw that in my face.”

“I’m just trying to explain.
 
You’ve felt the way I do before.
 
You should know it’s nothing personal.”

“You’re right.
 
It’s not personal at all.
 
Maybe I’ll just go string myself up from the rafters tonight.”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“What do you care?
 
It’s nothing personal,” he sneers.
 
I creep forward and peek at them from the shadows of the stairwell closet.
 
Ayla’s back is to me, but The Boy is in clear view.
 
His lips are curled and his brow slices down over his eyes, until it nearly meets in the middle.
 
He is so ugly and so vulnerable in this second that he rivals any gargoyle I’ve seen.
 
This is what pain looks like, when it is right at the surface.

And the ashen snow falling on my heart becomes an avalanche.
 
I see The Boy as something I never have before.
 
As just a boy.
 
All the moments of watching him in his apartment, answering his phone, or eating his dinner in front of the TV—all of them suddenly stitch together and reveal him.
 
He’s the same as anybody who eats, talks, moves around, and tries to steal a few rungs on the dating ladder.
 
He’s just a boy who liked me, but didn’t love me, and didn’t know how else to tell me.

And I suddenly want Ayla to care about him.
 
I want her to tell him not to do anything foolish.
 
I want her to wrap him in her arms and say that everything will be okay, that she could love him, that she would try.
 
I want this moment to be the fairy tale ending that begins a perfect new life for them, where this ordinary boy learns how to be a prince and this everyday princess falls for him.

But Ayla says, “You’re such a douche, Adam.
 
Don’t make this into your pity party.”

The pain evaporates and his distilled anger bubbles into rage.
 
He leaps toward her, draws his hand back, and brings it across her face so hard that the slap echoes on the rooftop.

Any pity I had for Adam evaporates.

I lumber out from behind the closet, leaving Trickle behind, and the roof trembles beneath my feet.
 
My ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend both turn to see me coming at them, Ayla holding her cheek, and Adam’s face as pale as the moon.

“You will not hit her!”
 
I roar.
 
The two are frozen.
 
I am in his face, the plate of my mask close to his nose, in seconds.
 
“You will not hit her!”

Adam squeaks, “Oh my God.”

“What is that?”
 
Ayla breathes.
 
She is suddenly beside him, both hands clinging to his arm instead of her face.
 
Seeing the lines between his fingers show up on her cheek, despite the darkness, infuriates me.
 
My insides move like a ship thrown in the ocean, not knowing which of them infuriates me more, Adam for everything that has happened between us, or Ayla, for clinging to his arm, even after he’s hit her.
 
I realize that they should never be together.
 
She doesn’t love him and he doesn’t love her nearly enough, to raise a hand to her like he’s done.
 
In that second, the solution becomes clear to me.
 
It is not jealousy that drives it, but an understanding from deep inside.
 
These two imperfect people, who I once loved so much, will never be perfect together.
 
They need to move on in their lives, past the Madeline-tragedy that keeps them together.
 
They need to find their own ways on their own.
 
They need to be separated and I have an idea about how to make that happen.