The Old Races Read online

  Had he waited another half hour for the horizon to swallow the sun, he might have seen a black crack in the church's walls, and a white-haired giant of a man exit, stop, and crouch to collect the letter. He would never have seen, though, the words that brought a smile to the giant's face:

  Should you wish to travel, the well-wrapped letter offered, you will find accommodations in Raleigh, Providence, Boston, Buffalo, and may be assured of finding them in other cities in the future.

  Your friend and admirer,

  Richard Upjohn, Architect

  1858, Queens, New York

  "I thought it unlikely you would be here," Alban Korund said in a voice unchanged by time, and Richard Upjohn turned from the chapel built to his design, smiling at first, then long-jawed with astonishment.

  It was not only Korund's voice that had gone unchanged, but his features. His clothing was more fashionable than it had been twenty years earlier, but his hair was still worn long and he was otherwise precisely the man--or creature--he had been when Upjohn had last seen him in the eighteen forties. "I like to see them newly finished, if I can," he said faintly, then more strongly, "I think I hadn't believed you, about Elizabeth and Shakespeare and Marlowe. Now I do. Why does God grant you unchanging years while I--?" He gestured at himself, two decades older and greyer for the time.

  "God," Korund said easily, though Upjohn knew he didn't believe, "has also granted you a son of talent equal to your own, and a family to have and hold. We each gain and lose things for what we are, Richard. One is no better than the other, only different. I had hoped to see you. So many of the other buildings are too far away."

  "Have you traveled?"

  "Some," Korund said with obvious delight. "Thank you for that, Richard. An unexpected gift."

  "Come." Upjohn tipped his head away from the church. "We'll find a meal and talk. It's been a long time."

  They spoke into the night, of course: through the night, and until dawn began to grey the eastern sky. Then Korund glanced toward the nearby chapel, and lifted his eyebrows in curiosity.

  Upjohn smiled. "If they've built it to my designs, yes. Shall we see?"

  Together they went to the chapel, to the same side and place where at Trinity Church a doorway was found, and Upjohn himself pressed the brick that should open a passage. The door shifted back smoothly, soundlessly, and, pleased, Upjohn swept a hand across himself, inviting Korund down. He followed the larger man deep under the chapel, unsurprised that Korund produced a tinderbox to light torches with.

  The room below was empty, no bookcases or beds, which dismayed Upjohn. He paced the room and said as much, but Korund chuckled. "I'm sure you didn't specify what furnishings should be put in your flood rooms. No matter: the safety is all I need, not a bed."

  "A stone floor is uncomfortable to sleep on."

  "Mmm. Not for one such as I. Dawn is upon us. Thank you again, Richard." Air exploded, a sound heard only a few times, years before, but unmistakable. Upjohn turned, breath drawn to respond, and held it behind parted lips instead.

  The gargoyle had become stone. Not the uncanny likeness that yet had life to it that Upjohn had seen so long ago, but stone itself, a statue of surpassing detail and quality. He stood frozen in motion; Michelangelo would have wept to achieve the naturalness of his stance and the delicate lines carving strength and power in alabaster. Planes and angles and joinings, Upjohn had said to him once, and that if he was the Devil's work, he was an excellent foil to draw Upjohn in. The Devil may quote scripture, he thought, but he could only warp and distort, never create beauty as pure as the unliving gargoyle.

  There in the small room beneath a church of his own design, alone but for a living thing turned to stone, Upjohn knelt and folded his hands, to give thanks and express wonder to the God who had drawn Alban Korund into Richard Upjohn's life.

  1878, New York

  "I am sorry," said Richard Upjohn the younger to the extraordinarily tall and pale man standing in their doorway, "I am sorry, but it's very late, and my father is very ill." His politeness was strained by sorrow and offense: no considerate soul would come knocking on the door so close to midnight even if they had no idea a man was dying within the house's walls.

  "Yes," the enormous man replied in a lightly Germanic accent, "yes, I know, it's why I've come. I'm sorry for the hour, but I have little choice. Your father was my friend, a long time ago."

  "He won't know you," Richard said tightly. "It has come on him quickly, this illness, but his mind is lost, his brain softened. He speaks only of Trinity Church and secret rooms and gargoyles who come to life. He is dying," Richard snapped, and the big German lowered his gaze with a sad smile.

  "I would still like to see him, if I may."

  "Come back in the morning." Richard pushed the door closed, only to have it meet the German's big hand, and stick. No amount of subtle force could move it, and to try more obviously would be embarrassing. Stymied, he glowered at the man, whose expression remained apologetic and determined.

  "I would have come in the morning if I could have, Master Upjohn. Please, may I visit your father?"

  Bristling with weariness and displeasure, Richard M. Upjohn snapped, "Could I stop you?"

  To his utter surprise, the big man stepped backward, examining the outside of the house, at the large windows and the trellises between them, then offered a brief smile. "Not in the slightest. But it would be more polite and more usual to come in through the front door, and not be forced to peek into bedrooms to find where your father rests."

  You wouldn't died on Richard's lips: clearly the German would, and evidently believed he could. Instead Richard stepped backward, leaving the door clear. The white-haired man inclined his head in thanks and came inside. "Which room?"

  "Upstairs to the left." Richard swallowed. "Who are you? Why is this so important?"

  "My name is Alban Korund, and your father gave me a home. Thank you, Mister Upjohn. I won't be long." He took the stairs quickly, leaving the son to frown in astonishment.

  Not long proved far longer than he might have hoped. It was midnight when Korund went up the stairs; dawn was coming on when he came down again, his expression tired but gentle. He paused in the door, looking back at Richard, and said, "Thank you," quietly. "I would like you to know that while he is old, while he is dying, he is less touched in the mind than you feared. He has not lost his faculties, only his discretion, and even that is easily forgiven in an old man."

  "Of course," Richard said bitterly. "I am so grateful for the reassurance of a stranger, that my father's mad tales aren't madness at all. I've looked through his records while you visited him. There's no mention of you, no house he built for a Korund. Who are you?"

  "A friend," Korund said again. "Goodbye, Richard Upjohn. Thank you for allowing me to see your father one last time."

  He left the house then, walking smartly across the streets toward nearby fields, and Richard stood in the doorway watching.

  The distance was not that great: Korund must have known he could still be seen in the light of the oncoming dawn. Between one step and the next he changed, an impossible change, from one step a man to the next as a winged thing that seemed half again as large as the man had been. Blazing white in the pre-dawn light, he sprang upward and flew into the morning, and for an instant it seemed he looked back, angular face as inhuman as the winged body: a gargoyle come to life.

  In a heartbeat he was gone, powerful wings taking him from view. Within minutes dawn burst over the horizon, golden light and golden light alone bringing tears to the younger Upjohn's eyes.

  August 18, 1878

  Like the letter thirty years earlier, it was delivered wrapped in wax paper: the Saturday New York Times, and with it, a note.

  Although aged, the obituary ran, although aged, Mr. Upjohn enjoyed very good health until recently, and his death occurred after but a brief sickness of a week, from a softening of the brain.

  I would not have known, the adjoining note read, had
you not visited, and I would have believed him mad in his final days; would have believed the truth of what must be said in a public notice. Instead he spoke of you, and I have learned more of my father and of this world than I had ever before known. In my mourning, I thank you.

  Richard M. Upjohn, Architect

  the end

  FALLING

  "Get in the ring and lose the fight. Make it look good. Can't have anybody suspecting."

  No one ever does. Futile words, a waste of breath. Nearly a waste of thought, and gargoyles rarely bothered with wasteful things. But there was no fight Biali couldn't win. Not against humans. Every fight he lost looked good, and no one--not even the short, putrid-breathed manager he collected scant dollars from after the matches were done--had any idea he threw all of them. All but the few he permitted himself to win, usually against broad-shouldered blondes. None of them had the wheat-pale hair of his old rival, and none of them had Alban Korund's strength, either. Beating the pulp out of look-alikes was cold comfort, but at least it was comfort.

  Tonight's bout was against a stocky Italian, hardly taller than Biali himself. He was missing two teeth and his nose sat askew, bulbous end mashed to one side. He'd never been pretty, but there were women who liked the rough edges fights brought out. Or at least women who could be paid to say they did, and for most fighters that was enough.

  Not even the highest-paid doxies in the city looked at Biali without flinching. The left side of his face was scarred, eating his eye and flattening the cheek. It was nothing to the ruin of his gargoyle face, but he never let humans see that. Rarely looked at the marks himself, knowing all too well that they looked as if his very bones had been chiseled away. Or bludgeoned, more like, the weight of one corundum fist changing the shape of his hopes forever.

  He wore his scars belligerently. It helped in the ring, frightening some men, making others bold. He didn't need the help, but there was no reason to try harder than necessary. Not when he fought humans. And he had no real use for mortal women, but their caught breath, their sliding gazes, stung him every time. Gargoyles were less taken with the physical form: stone chipped and wore away with time, and the wreck of his face was only age hurried along.

  The Italian was in the ring already, snorting like a horse. Big slabs of marbled muscle on him, the solid stuff that would barely ripple when he took a hit. Biali might look like that someday, if all he ever had to fight again were feeble humans. The manager shoved his shoulders, hurrying him toward the fight, and because he played at being human, Biali moved. A few heavy steps into a ring made up of wooden slats and sweating men, dirt under all their feet. He could dig his toes in and become unmovable, win it that way, but then he would have to stop fighting.

  And the fight was the only thing worth living for.

  He let the Italian make first contact. A blow to the chin, hard enough to knock a man out. He saw it in the Italian's eyes, too, that he should have staggered, and gave a thin uncompromising smile. Fear and anger burst to life in the Italian's gaze, and for whole minutes there was nothing but ducking and jabbing, fists slapping against flesh. A bell rang. The Italian kept coming. Biali let him, took another hit that should have doubled him, and saw fresh anger erupt across the Italian's face. Then the Italian's manager was on him, hauling him back. Biali shrugged, returning to his own spot across the human-lined corral. Sweat and shit and animals and beer: they all stank, and no amount of washing got rid of the stench.

  Perfume, though, disguised it. Perfume, but no man would wear that. Not here, anyway, not among the ranks of dock workers and street cleaners, not where a hint of effeminacy would get him killed. That was for dandies in the hothouses, for well-dressed young fops living life large as progress rolled on. Their kind would be killed, too--or at least beaten and robbed--down here in alleys and waterside warehouses.

  It had to be a woman. A woman, where none would be welcome. A woman escorted by the sort of fool who would bring one here, and from the scent, she was beyond expensive. She smelled rich, like she hadn't been bought. The perfume was delicate, unlike what whores wore, and through the noise of betters and backers, silk shifted against silk. Humans would never hear it, but any of the Old Races would. A cowbell clanged, harsh flat sound as out of place as the woman's perfume. The crowd was moving, jostling, shouting, and finally broke apart enough to give him a glimpse of her.

  Amber skin, black curling hair, large dark eyes. A free woman of color. Well, they were all free now, but the phrase lingered. Petite and curvy, or petite for a gargoyle, at least. Tall enough for a human woman, but it wasn't a human woman he was reminded of at all.

  The name left his lips in an unvoiced whisper: "Hajnal."

  It wasn't her. Couldn't be her. He knew it; Hajnal had died decades ago. But whenever he saw a woman like this he forgot, just for a moment. Forgot, too, that he'd lost Hajnal long before she'd died. Both remembrances always came back like a mule kick to his heart. He hated them for reminding him of her. Hated them for flinching when they looked at him, as she never had. Hated them for being human, when she had proved mortal too. Hate was easier.

  She looked his way. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed, and she lowered her eyelashes. Less than a nod, but nothing coquettish. Just a greeting before the crowd closed and took her away again.

  The ground shook, lumbering footsteps. Biali ignored it, still scowling into the crowd. Her scent lingered, but she was gone, not even a hint of what man she'd been with to give him a lead to follow. Behind him, the manager barked, "Fight!" and the thundering earth resolved into sense. He turned away, facing the ring again, and the Italian was there with a fist full of steel. It hit with a shattering boom, and Biali...

  ...fell.

  It had been convincing enough. He'd gotten his pay. As he should have, for the only fight in memory he hadn't thrown. But he hadn't said that to the manager, only collected his dollars and shoved his way out through the gathered mass. Out and then up, pulling rickety ladders down high walls to climb them. He didn't need them. He could leap and dig clawed fingers into the walls more easily than take fire escapes to the rooftops, but there were always people watching in this city of millions. Better to transform closer to the sky, where fewer eyes watched.

  The dull pain in his chin from the Italian's fist disappeared as he swung over a short rooftop wall and changed, explosively, into his natural form. Stone healed, or the transformation did; it was one of a dozen reasons the Old Races were hard to kill. A few quick steps brought him to the roof's far wall and he launched from it, stout wings catching the building's updraft and carrying him aloft. He was a blunt white mark against the sky, should anyone look up to glimpse him, but humans rarely looked up. And right now there was still a chance of catching the woman's scent again, following her. Of finding out who she was, why she had been at a place no woman should be. Of learning why she'd been brave enough not to flinch when she saw his scars.

  Of exposing himself, as he sometimes did, to ridicule and rejection. Gargoyles would not by nature do that to themselves, but by nature they gathered in tribes or clans. Not Biali; not since he had chosen to follow the outcast to New York decades earlier. Not since he'd been asked by the elders if he would, because Alban Korund had not joined the overmind in centuries, and the only way to learn what he knew was by watching him. In a few minutes the air currents would bring him above Trinity Church, where Korund lived. If Biali was human, he might convince himself he had taken wing to check on the other gargoyle, but he lacked the talent for that depth of self-deception. He would look to see if Korund was visible, but he wasn't Biali's prey tonight.

  Most nights, yes. Most nights, Biali was the best and worst choice for watching Korund. Best because he had reason above all others to want to catch him out. To find some way to punish him for Hajnal's death over a century earlier. She had been Biali's once, in so far as any gargoyle belonged to another. They tended to mate for life, though, and he had been more than happy with the tiny dark gargoyle whose family had
risen from obsidian veins. But she had been distracted by Alban Korund when he was just a youth, still trying out his burgeoning wings. Had been taken by his fascination with the world outside the tribes and mountains, and in the end, had been taken away by that very world. Yes, Biali was the best choice to watch Korund, both of them exiles in humanity's cities.

  And he was the worst, because desperation lay behind his willingness to leave the gestalt. He would do nearly anything to lay some avengeable blame at Korund's feet. Hajnal's death had not, despite her departure from safety with Alban, been his fault. He had not fired the guns that shattered her wings or thrust bayonets into her human body. He had murdered no one. He could be blamed, but not condemned, and even if he could be, they had no law to put one another to death. Exile was their punishment, and Alban had imposed that on himself long before Hajnal's death. No one knew why. Even Hajnal's memories, which might have answered the question, had been contained by Alban, who was closest at her death, rather than being restored to the overmind. To the precious gargoyle memories that kept all of them, every single one of the remaining Old Races, in mind. They paid a price for being the bearers of so many memories: every other Old Race could move through day or night in its human form. Gargoyles, though, were bound to stone in daytime hours. Stone endured. Memory, therefore, endured. Without the gargoyles, the Old Races themselves might forget who and what they were. That was a cost too high to pay.

  Even if it meant the dawn was likely to prevent him from finding the woman who'd been at the fight. There was time yet, December nights as long as any. There were a few gargoyle clans who lived in the far north and equally far south, having traded mountains for months of night. They slept all summer in those remote climes, but winter was theirs. Biali felt a flash of envy for that.