Page 7 of Stone Temptation
Favorite rose quartz clutched in my left hand. Check.
Relaxing music on. Check.
Radio static in my ears to piss in my cereal…
Ah, bollocks!
I blacked out for a few moments, completely thrown off by the call for aid. It rolled around my skull, tickling my ears, never getting much louder than a faint hum.
The fuck? These calls were long dead. Ever since the streamlining of the weavers’ magical protection system, humans didn’t need gargoyle bodyguards anymore.
I came out of the darkness, my fairy lights and candles welcoming me back. The buzzing faded, reduced to a gentle reminder of its presence.
Interesting.
Back in the day, gargoyles marked a human to neutralize monster threats specific to them. It happened a lot then, particularly to humans in positions of power. Like the member of the UK Parliament being hunted by a monster with a love of scythes and snacking on scalps. My grandpa helped him out after the call for aid, marking him, then became the dude’s bestie until time took them both away.
My grandpa was top tier amazing. A real hero of mine and is deeply missed.
As gargoyles, we served those in need, warding off evil as well as kicking its ass. From the base of our home world, Gula, we waited to answer any calls for realm aid. Different to the buzzing human calls, a total realm call triggered the bells of every cathedral across Gula, summoning the cavalry.
Earth had been the last realm to call, praying to their God in Notre Dame, Paris.
And it shouldn’t have happened. This version of Earth wasn’t part of our list of worlds to protect. The planet existed in a different universe from ours, totally off our radar. But the praying human found a magical connection through those poxy motes, reaching across the stars to beg for our help.
We came, we sort of conquered. With no way of destroying the motes, monsters kept on coming, everything trapped in a stalemate for the past seventy years. We had to stay to keep the magic going, the streets safe. Until the motes were destroyed or seriously watered down, we weren’t going anywhere. And it would be a pain in my ass when the next realm call came with our resources funneled over here.
A problem for another day.
“Wanna make yourself known?” I asked the caller, frowning up at my ceiling.
Nah. Not right now.
There were two types of gargoyles—weavers and knights, both determined at birth. Weavers were magically blessed by the stone gods, constantly weaving the green magic that kept us all safe from monster teeth and claws. They were wingless but still possessed the gargoyle tail and the ability to shift their skin to gray stone. They were highly regarded, every town or city having one, and often stuck up knobheads.
Suppose I’d be the same if I had a savior complex.
Knights, like myself, were a different breed. Winged, built for fighting. Always on patrol, always kicking ass. Basically, the muscle of the operation.
And much cooler.
I put my crystal down, my planned meditation shot to shit. This call made zero sense. We didn’t protect humans from anything other than monsters. We couldn’t. That just wasn’t our job, as sad as that might be. I’d love to spare humans from car crashes, disease, all that shit. It sucked to see, but that’s just how things rolled. They had their police, doctors, firefighters, and other emergency services for human stuff. We were just a big bonus to keep them breathing.
I rolled off the bed, making a beeline for my kitchen. My nerves were a tad rattled by the call for aid. A nice green tea and scotch would sort me right out.
Failing that, I’d pop out and kill some monsters. That always made me feel so much better.
Green tea brewed, I added a splash of scotch. Bliss. While the temperature came down, I joined my buddy Dane in the recreation room down the hall from my bedroom. I fancied some company, a tad tense after the call.
“Alright?” I greeted him.
“Yep. All good, bro. You?”
“Perplexed.”
He didn’t respond.
I sat beside him on the sofa, his brown eyes glued to a true crime documentary on the TV, wearing nothing but a white vest and boxer shorts. A massive bowl of popcorn sat in his lap, smothered in butter.