A Son of the Night
K.C. Ball

 

 

 

Gargoyle crouched at the edge of the parapet, oblivious to the drop, scanning the rooftops below. The world glowed in variegated shades of luminescent green, thanks to the light-enhancing filters in the lenses of his mask.

To the west, the new moon tipped the water of Elliot Bay with slivers of light. Nothing moved on the surrounding roofs, but Gargoyle was certain his prey was hiding within sharp-edged shadows, hoping to escape capture. Beneath the mask, he smiled. No one escaped Gargoyle. He reached to his right temple, about to touch the ceramic wart that would engage the infrared filters, and felt a tap upon his shoulder.

* * *

"Have you seen the headlines?" Helen Mathersby fluttered her copy of the morning newspaper.

"No, Mother," Rory Mathersby said.

He didn't look up from his plate. It was disconcerting to have anyone other that Dillinger talk to him during breakfast, even his mother. Most mornings, she went straight to bed upon returning home from work.

Mrs. Mathersby manned the in-patient desk at a Seattle hospital; midnight to eight, six nights a week. She didn't need the money, of course; the Mathersby Foundation saw to that. What she needed, she told Rory, was to feel needed.

Even so, he had this niggling idea that she volunteered for graveyard shift so that he would be free, most nights, to practice being Gargoyle.

* * *

"Rory?"

He didn't turn around.

"Yes, Mother?" The voice filter on the Gargoyle costume twisted his words into an inhuman growl.

"I'm leaving for work. Don't stay in here all night."

"I won't, Mother."

He heard the low hum of her powered chair. Mrs. Mathersby had been in one wheelchair or another for as long as Rory could remember. The hum changed pitch. She had slowed at the training room exit.

"Rory?"

"Yes?"

"You need to get out more. There's a play opening at the repertory theater."

"I'll think about it."

"One more thing."

"Yes, Mother."

"I think your costume is ripped out in the seat."

"Thank you, Mother."

"You're welcome."

The door closed and she was gone. Rory reached behind him and ran the palm of his gloved hand over his posterior.

She was right.

* * *

"You should read this," Mrs. Mathersby said. She rattled her newspaper again. Rory looked up from his steak and eggs.

"What does it say?" he asked.

"Look for yourself."

He laid his knife and fork aside and scooped up the copy of The Seattle Times Dillinger had set out with the flatware. FIVE BRANCH BANKS ROBBED! It was a banner headline worthy of one of the graphic novels Rory wrote.

He read on.

Teams of masked men, dressed in tattered evening clothes, had entered five Bank of America branches, just before closing the previous day, and hauled away almost four million dollars.

Video cameras at all five banks captured the robberies, and at the fifth's branch, one bandit stopped before the camera and shouted, "Hell's Minions own Seattle!"

"Hmmmm," Rory said.

"Indeed," Mrs. Mathersby said. "It sounds to me like a job for Gargoyle."

* * *

Rory eased backward off the parapet and walked to the exit. He touched buttons on a control panel, to shut down holographic projectors, and the rooftop scene around him faded away. It left behind a cavernous space, filled with giant plastic blocks. Machinery hummed and the blocks slid upon tracks to arrange themselves along the walls.

The computer-controlled training room, with its moving pieces and elaborate holographic system, had cost Rory a fortune. He could afford it. His imagination and his father's business sense had seen to that.

"You take care of your mother, Rory," Father said, in his will. "The foundation will take care of itself."

* * *

"Mother, we both know Gargoyle isn't ready to go to the street."

"You may know that," Mrs. Mathersby said. "I know that one never has full knowledge of what can be done until one attempts to do it."

"Yes, Mother."

Rory continued to hide behind his newspaper, even after Mrs. Mathersby had wheeled off to bed.

* * *

Rory stepped from the hidden elevator at the back of his bedroom closet. As he moved, he touched a micro-switch just behind his right ear. There was a soft hiss of air, the self-contained breathing gear disengaged, and then a series of catches clicked along the dorsal spine that ran up the back of the helmet.

The entire device fell forward into Rory's waiting hands. He tossed it onto the bed and peeled off the rest of the armored costume. The ruined body suit was last. He held it before him, staring at the ripped seat.

Bartholomew Blake, alter ego for Swath, hero of Rory's graphic novels, had his share of worries and doubts. He wouldn't be a decent superhero if he didn't. But his toes never got cramped because his boots were too tight and his costume never ripped out its seams. And Blake wouldn't worry about it, even if it happened.

Rory sighed. After three years of training, he could lift his own weight above his head, push a full-sized automobile more than a mile at a dead run and scale a knotted Thread ten stories in less than two minutes while carrying a two-hundred-pound deadweight across his shoulders.

But he had never once, in all that time, ventured onto the rooftops of the real Seattle.

He tossed the ripped suit aside. He would talk to Dillinger at breakfast about repairs. For now, he would sleep. His father used to say that a good night's rest would cure a bad day's headaches. Rory prayed that that was true.

* * *

"May I clear the dishes, Sir?" It was Dillinger.

"Yes," Rory said. Dillinger moved to Rory's end of the table and stopped.

"Was there something wrong with your steak, Sir?"

Rory lowered the newspaper. Dillinger was studying him, one eyebrow raised, in much the same way as he had done when Rory, at seven, had refused to climb back onto his new bicycle, after he failed his first attempt to ride it. Dillinger glanced at the meat remaining upon the plate.

"It was fine," Rory said. "I'm just not hungry."

"Very well, Sir." Dillinger began to collect the dishes. "Your mother informed me that the Gargoyle costume is torn."

"Yes."

"I shall see to repairs."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, Sir," Dillinger said. And he swept away, though the door to the kitchen, bearing the breakfast remains.

* * *

Over the next ten days, the same bandits committed robberies throughout Seattle. Each was planned and executed to perfection. No one was injured. No property was damaged. No one was caught.

The only new information was the spelling error.

"It's Hel's Minions," a shadowy figure said, in a video tape delivered to all the television stations the afternoon after the first robberies. "H-E-L. Not H-E-L-L. Don't you people read?"

Rory was envious. Hel was a great name for a criminal mastermind; a perfect opponent for Swath. Hel was a perfect opponent for Gargoyle, as well. Rory fretted over what his mother had said. She had remained silent, since that morning at the breakfast table, but Rory still could hear her final words. Perhaps it was time to listen to them.

* * *

Gargoyle crouched at the edge of the parapet, oblivious to the drop, scanning the rooftops below him. The world about him glowed in variegated shades of luminescent green, thanks to the light-enhancing filters in the lenses of his helmet.

To the west, a full moon set the water of Elliot Bay aglow. Gargoyle had been on the hunt for five days, catching only a few hours sleep each night, but he felt glorious.

In those five days, there had been seven more attempted bank robberies. Gargoyle had foiled each one and now only Hel and Hel's Chief Minion remained at large. They were his targets tonight.

"I'm coming for you, Hel," he whispered.

Beneath the helmet, Rory smiled. No one escaped Gargoyle. He reached to his right temple, about to touch the ceramic wart that would engage the infrared filters, and felt a tap upon his shoulder.

He spun upon the parapet. A woman stood there, clad in red leather and spandex. She was slender and rounded; just his height. Her ebony hair was cut short and slicked close to her skull. Her chin was delicate but firm, and her lips full and inviting. She was wrapped in a gossamer cape and an ephemeral circlet of light hovered just above her head. He wanted to ask how she managed that. Instead he made a demand.

"Who are you?" The resulting rasp was almost unintelligible.

"Hel's Angel," she replied. "And you're Gargoyle." Her voice had an undertone to it, as if each word was being echoed by a choir.

"I've never heard - "

Before Rory could finish, the Angel was upon him, gripping his costume, pulling him toward her, as she rolled backward. Rory tumbled across the roof and smashed into the brick wall of an equipment shed. He levered his way back to his feet, pushing away the pain, and prepared to face her next attack.

The Angel was gone.

"Hey! Ugly!"

Her cape floated about her as if it was a pair of wings, and she was hovering over him, fifteen feet above the roof. Rory would have liked to ask how she did that, too.

She brought her hands together and a ball of light, the size of a softball, took shape between her palms. Rory didn't like the look of that. He drew his Spout from a concealed holster on his left hip and swung it upward, pulling the trigger as it moved. A high-pressure water jet shot from the gun, struck the Angel and sent her tumbling through the air. The light within her hands blinked out but she stayed aloft. She brushed her hair back into place with the palms of her hands and shook the water away.

God, she was beautiful!

"If you just surrender," she said. "It would be so much easier for both of us."

"Heroes never surrender," Rory said.

"You're no hero! Hel told me all about your nefarious plans!"

Rory almost laughed. He had never heard anyone use that word outside of a graphic novel.

"Are you for real?" he asked. Her lips gathered into a pout that Rory though was marvelous.

"I'll show you how real I am," she replied.

She drew her hands together again, but before either she or Rory could take action, there was a clattering on the roof behind them. Rory turned in time to see Hel's Chief Minion aiming a nasty-looking tube at Angel. There was a muffled explosion and a mass of weighted ropes rushed through the air. It struck Angel full on, wrapped about her and knocked her from the air. Before Rory could act, she was carried beyond the building's edge into a thirty-five-story fall.

Rory forgot about all else. He rushed to the parapet and, stretched straight, arms at his side, hurled over the edge after the Angel.

With eighteen stories left, he managed to wrap a Thread about her ankles. With fourteen stories left, he drew her to him. With nine stories left, he threw one end of another weighted Thread toward the building's surface. It caught but broke free.

Frantic, he released it and tried again.

With five stories left, the looped Thread jerked against his wrist, nearly dislocating his shoulder. It held. They swung inward, slamming into the cold stone facade with a sound like God's own thunder.

Rory hung there for long seconds, the Angel limp in his arms. Then he shifted her to his shoulders and began the climb back to the roof. The street was closer, but he felt more secure on the heights. By the time he reached the parapet, the Angel was awake. He settled her upon the rooftop, cut away the weighted ropes and stepped back, ready to return to the battle. She stood, not moving, arms folded across her chest, hugging herself. He waited.

"You saved my life," she said.

"Of course."

"I was at your mercy. You could have let me die," she said.

Rory reached to his neck and touched the hidden switch to deactivate the voice filter. He cleared his throat and found his normal baritone.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"To get me out of the way."

"Out of the way of what?"

"Your evil machinations," she said. Rory laughed this time.

"You've been reading too many comics," he said. "But then, so have I."

Rory reached up and touched the switch behind his ear. With a hiss, his helmet opened along the back seam and dropped into his waiting hands. Clutching the mask in his left hand, he extended his right hand toward her.

"Hi," he said. "My name is Rory Mathersby and I have no machinations of any sort."

She examined his hand, for a heartbeat, and then held out her own gloved hand.

"Hello. I'm Sheri Parker."

They shook hands, and as they did so both took a half-step closer to the other. Rory caught a whiff of her perfume. Oranges. Honey. Almond. He recognized the fragrance. Angel Innocent. He had sampled it, upon his mother's wrist, during one of their infrequent shopping trips together not long ago.

"I know who you are," Sheri said. "You're the creator of Swath. I saw you once, at RiverCon in Pittsburgh."

"That's me."

"Oh, wow! I can't believe it's really you. I have been a fan of Swath for - " Her smile faded, just a bit, and she examined him, weighing the rightness of the situation.

"Are you sure you have no evil machinations?"

"Cross my claws and talons," Rory said. She laughed.

"You're funny. I like you."

"I like you, too." He pulled her toward the parapet and patted the wall beside him, as he sat.

"C'mon. Sit down. Let's talk."

She slid onto the stone but did not release his hand.

"Where did you come from?" Rory asked.

"Cleveland," she replied. Rory laughed.

"No, I mean where did Hel's Angel come from?"

"Oh. Hel found me two years ago; furnished all this swell equipment. I've been in training all this time, getting ready to fight you."

"But why?"

"I don't know. I should have asked more questions, but I was so taken up by the idea."

They soon were lost in conversation. Neither saw the tiny concealed camera, stuck to the elevator housing wall. A red light blinked there, just below the fisheye lens.

Not so far away, Hel sat in shadows, watching the rooftop scene unfold upon a video monitor. A tall man, dressed in ragged black evening clothes, stood close at hand.

"Touching, isn't it?" Hel said.

"Indeed, quite touching," the man said. "I trust you were satisfied with my performance?"

"Yes. As always." Hel's attention returned to the monitor. One hand slid from the shadows.

"Look at the lovebirds," Hel said. "I think we've made a match." The man in the tattered tuxedo was silent, for he knew his place.

"Time to make our exit," Hel said. "Have the ill-gotten gains been returned?"

"Almost all. Even as we speak, an armored car should be arriving for an unscheduled deposit. That will be the last of it."

"Good. And the video disk has been delivered to the television stations?"

"Yes. The people of Seattle soon will learn that Gargoyle and his Angel have made the town too hot even for the likes of Hel."

"You are a treasure," Hel said. The Chief Minion nodded, accepting his due.

"Thank you. And if I may be allowed to say so, you are a treasure, as well."

Hel smiled and settled back into the powered wheelchair that had been a part of her life for more years now than she cared to remember.

"Goodness, Dillinger," she said. "What else is a mother to do?"