AVALON MISTS: A momentary escape from reality.
Issue #9-A
First Released: Thursday, April 17th, 1996


* * * *Poetry* * * *

"Fox's Lament"
--Merlin Missy (mrwilson@umr.edu)

to Ms. Christine Faltz
 
I think that I shall never see
A longer time than pregnancy.
My no-no list is long and far;
I'd kill to have a Hershey Bar.
Hangliding? Please don't think me crude,
But, aerodynamically, I'm screwed.
I look like a whale, my back is sore,
Parts of me jiggle that didn't before.
My hands are cold, my ankles swell,
My muscles ache.  I am in hell.
Hormones are another thing:
My nerves are hanging by a string,
And then, teardrops, like summer rain,
Pour for "Pinky and the Brain."
As you might expect, this aggravation
Postpones our planned world domination;
Takeovers just don't seem to matter
When Junior's dancing on my bladder.
I'm not the only one who's pining;
David's done his share of whining.
(Certain *things* are put on hold
Until the baby's six weeks old.)
Can our marriage survive this kid?
I know I'm close to blowing my lid,
And peeved at *all* the masculine sex.
I can see why Demona would knock off her ex.
Owen, our ever loyal friend,
Is going to shoot me if I send
Him on another craving run.
It's not my fault my little son
Wants peanut butter on pickled beets
(And more disgusting things to eat).
Mom says this is all the norm,
That she was like me before I was born.
Sometimes I wonder, what will it be like
To bring to our castle a new little tyke?
Will I be a good mom?  He a good dad?
The baby will have all that we ever had,
And more, like this new rocking horse
(Bought from FAO, of course!).
I'll tell our kid stories of gargoyles and tailors,
Of cabbages, kings, and shipwrecked young sailors,
And ... Wait! There it is!  A definite pull!
I have to stay calm and not lose my cool.
Get David, get Owen, and get in the car;
Thank goodness the hospital isn't too far!
Now breathe, and just think, it's finally all here
The waiting is over, and so is the fear.
No more being forbidden sweets,
No more trying to remember my feet.
I'm more than ready for postpartum blues
So long as I can tie my shoes.
In no time flat, this will all be fixed ...
Oh shoot!  It was only Braxton-Hicks.


* * * *Fanfic* * * *

"Games"
-- Tara O'Shea (TaraLJC@aol.com)

Author's Notes:

In August, I attacked poor Frank Paur at a convention, sat down at his feet,
and made him talk to me about Gargoyles for about an hour.  During the course
of the conversation, I asked him if, since Owen was my favourite, we might
ever see a "day in the life of a meglomaniacal genius' personal assistant"
episode.  Frank laughed, and then got this gleam in his eye, and assured me
they had plans for our Mr. Burnett. And I left the con thinking.

A month later, I was still thinking, when "The Mirror" aired.  And I decided
"Wouldn't it be amusing if...?" and then "The Butler's Tale" happened.
 Literally.  And before I had a plot, I had Rowan. (It was at this point that
I finally informed the mailing list of my suspicions and speculations
regarding the Fay or Not Fay-ness of Owen Burnett that has become such a hot
topic of late. It actually amuses me greatly that after being humoured for
four months as a looney for ever having such a notion, other people started
wondering as well.)  However, it is all speculation. As yet the show has
given no solid clues or leads, only subtle remarks and so on which can be
interpreted a number of ways.  I simply chose to interpret Owen as one of
Oberon's Children in "The Butler's Tale" and "Games".

I didn't come up with Rowan in a vacuum, of course.  There's a little bit of
Kyuuketsuki Miyu in her, that ancient yet childlike quality that can be
really scary, not in a funny way, when threatened.  And there's a little bit
of Amanda from Highlander, though I didn't notice this until my friend Perri
yelled it in my ear during a phone call recently.  

Rowan is a fun character for me for many reasons. She's a jack, a pooka, the
kind of fairy who makes mischief not out of malice, but out of the desire *to
see what would happen*.  She's not malicious, she's exasperating.  She's the
sort of person you can take in extremely small doses, but would need to be
truly remarkable to stand for long periods.

In this respect, she is very much like me.

"Games" takes place just before "Ill Met by Moonlight.", and is dedicated to
Lindy Hensley, Leva, Perri, Diane Levitan, and Missy Merlin because one good
dedication deserves another.

* * * * *

"This just gets worse and worse." Brooklyn rested his chin on his hands. The
night sky beyond the clock tower was choked with stars between wisps of
clouds. A warm breeze blew across the city, carrying with it a weird mix of
smells, of spring flowers, exhaust fumes, several hot dog and pretzel
vendors, and new grass. Brooklyn thought back to spring in Scotland, which
lasted about two weeks, and was dominated by the smells of mud, wet wool, and
new grass. At least some things stayed he same.
	"What does?" Broadway asked, spraying pretzel crumbs. The vendor on the
corner was on the verge of moving his cart, despite the great business from
the cops. The way food disappeared and money reappeared was nice, but just
slightly on the terrifying side. Broadway had been getting creative recently,
with dollar bills tucked into paper aeroplanes, and lowered via twine and
paper clips. It gave them something to do early in the evening, when too many
people were about to go on patrol.
	"Not having any answers. Even with all that Arthur told us, that still
doesn't tell us when Goliath, Elisa and Bronx'll be back."
	"Yeah, but just think of it!" Broadway sat on the ledge next to the de-facto
leader, gazing up at the stars with a wistful smile. "The hatchlings! I never
figured we'd, you know . . ."
	"Yeah." Brooklyn sighed. "Except we'll probably never get to meet them."
	"Sure we will."
	"How? You heard what the king said. Avalon's magic doesn't take you where
you want to go, only where you need to be. Assuming Elisa, Goliath and Bronx
ever come back, what makes you think that we'd ever get to Avalon?"
	"I guess I didn't really think of it that way." Broadway's face fell. "I
guess I kinda figured maybe they'd come here, you know?"
	"It'd be pretty crowded up where with over thirty gargoyles, don't you
think?" Brooklyn smiled. "C'mon, it's time we started our patrol."
	"Yessir," Broadway grinned, and polished off the last of the pretzel,
licking mustard from his fingers.


The street was quiet, in as much as any New York street was quiet. All the
good children were tucked in bed, and all the bad children had yet to show
their faces. A dark sedan was parked unnoticed in the alley opposite the
pretzel vendor who was packing up his cart. Similarly unnoticed was a man in
a dark suit leaning casually against a fire escape, micro-binoculars
obscuring his eyes, and cellphone in the other hand. He followed the three
shadows that leapt from the roof with practised ease.
	"Sir? They're moving."


The child was completely awe-struck. Between her grubby fingers she clutched
her passport into this amazing glittering medieval world, a sealed creamy
envelope that strangely did not bear the marks of said fingers. She couldn't
have been more than ten. The Eyrie Building security guard didn't even bother
to wonder why she wasn't in bed. The duct tape that held her shoes together,
coupled with the patched and mended jeans and jacket spoke of poverty, rather
than a fashion statement. He had been on the verge of escorting the child out
when she recited her message the first time.
	"Lady said I have to give this to a man in the castle."
	"What man might that be?"
	"Whiskey Jack."
	"Yeah, right. He and the Beefeater guy are up there waiting for you--" the
guard had stepped out from behind the desk and was halfway to the door with
her when a voice came over his headset.
	"Ask her again." It was spooky as hell how Mr. Burnett always knew what was
going on in the building. Then again, the place was wired from top to bottom,
the guard reasoned, maybe he just had been flipping channels at the right
time.
	Still, spooky as hell.
	"Who you looking for again, kid? Jack Daniels?"
	"Lady said Whiskey Jack. She said she'd gimme fi'dollars if I brung this to
him." She nodded her head, dreadlocks bobbing in front of her huge dark eyes.
The guard waited.
	"Escort her to the elevator," the disembodied voice instructed and the guard
shrugged, changing directions. He brought the street kid up to the main hall
of Castle Wyvern, and looked about nervously.
	Mr. Burnett appeared from the side door, and strode purposefully towards
them. His left arm was in a navy canvas sling. The story was he'd broken his
wrist in one of Mr. Xanatos' training exercises. Burnett's eyes were cool as
a winter sky behind his glasses, but the kid just grinned.
	"Hey mister, you Jack?"
	"I believe you have a message for me." Burnett remained all business, but
dropped to one knee so as not to tower over the kid.
	The girl solemnly handed over the envelope.
	It was of heavy paper stock, almost more like cloth than paper, and was
sealed with a glob of red sealing wax that had survived its journey
surprisingly well, considering the dubious messenger. Then again, five
dollars is a lot of money when you're that young. The child wiped her nose,
and looked up at him expectantly.
	"Do you remember what this lady looked like?"
	"Pretty lady," she offered, as if that would be enough. "She came to me
especially, and told me she'd gimme fi'dollars if I come here and bring this
to Mr. Jack."
	"And where were you?"
	"In the park."
	He opened the envelope, and removed a single halfsheet of paper. The words
"You are cordially invited to a most unusual and most private unveiling" were
written across the front with ink that had dried bluish-brown. There was an
address and in place of a time, it simply said "Dusk."
	No signature, but he had a fair idea of who sent it. Tucking the note into
his breast pocket, he removed his wallet and handed the wide-eyed child a
crisp twenty-dollar bill.
	"Don't worry about your five dollars."
	"Wow." She crumpled the bill in her fist, and gazed up at him with
gap-toothed adoration, but he didn't so much as crack a smile.
	He turned to the guard, who had watched the exchange with an expression
caught between disbelief and bemusement. "Please escort the young lady back
downstairs, thank you." Owen said, and then turned on his heel and went back
through the double doors he'd entered.


The patrol had gone well: Five muggers, two car thieves, a gang of taggers,
and one overzealous hockey fan. Still, the entire time, Brooklyn had been
preoccupied with worries, fears, and speculation.
	What if Goliath never made it home? Sure, he'd had to face that fact when he
finally accepted leadership, and he wasn't shirking his duty...
	But there was so much he still had to learn. Hudson was a fine teacher, but
it was Goliath's example that Brooklyn needed right now. He couldn't talk to
his brothers about it. He was supposed to be leading them after all. If they
knew how mixed up he was, it would only make things worse. He found his eyes
drawn to Castle Wyvern, even though it had been a year since they had called
its walls home. The building glowed with reflected light from floodlights and
the city below. He wondered how different life might have been if the
massacre had never happened. Would he still be Goliath's successor? Or would
that duty have fallen to an older, more experienced gargoyle?
	Playing "What if?" wasn't really satisfying, but the game did make him
think. He turned to go back into the tower when a flicker of movement caught
his eye.
	A shadow crossed the pearly pre-dawn sky. Glancing back quickly, he did a
quick headcount. Hudson was still in his chair, and Lex and Broadway were at
the computer. Could Goliath be back?
	Leaping off the ledge, his mind still filled with the possibilities of
hatchlings, he glided towards the silhouette.
	As he grew closer, he realised it wasn't Goliath but a lissom young female,
pale as the moon that had already set as the world prepared for yet another
day.
	"Hey!" he called out to the gargoyle, and she paused and then dropped a few
feet as she lost the wind. He smiled, but she swooped into a dive. Angling
her wings to catch the updraft, she swooped tightly around a skyscraper and
out of sight. Brooklyn did the same, but when he followed the path she had
taken, she was nowhere to be found. He alighted on the roof of squat office
building, and scanned the lightening sky.
	"Okaaaaaay," Brooklyn said softly, and was answered only by the wind
whipping through the buildings. Crouched on the ledge, he could feel the sun
rising in the East. Perhaps she, whoever she was, had simply found a perch
out of sight to spend the day.


Gregory Marlowe studied the black and white photos intently, the brandy in
his hand forgotten as he poured over them. On the low mahogany table before
him, dozens of similar photos were spread out in studied disarray, a week's
work of subterfuge.
	Fingering the gold pin on his lapel absently, he laid down the photo in his
hand, and carefully removed it. He set it in a crystal ash tray, the eye
above the pyramid winking at him in the morning sunlight.
	He had yet to go to bed. The new world he had discovered was too seductive
to give up when the sun went down.
	Now, he knew that it only began with the first breath of night.
	Now, he would make the night his.


The address proved to be an abandoned tenement near the river. Owen stepped
over sleeping squatters and street people, and made his way to a room on the
fifth floor. The windows faced west, painting the room fiery orange and gold.
Shading his eyes, he saw a figure silhouetted against the setting sun.
	Correction: saw a gargoyle silhouetted against the setting sun.
	As the meridian line crept upwards, a web of cracks appeared in the stone,
and as the last lick of flame went out in the West, the thin stone skin
exploded outward and the female gargoyle lazily spread her wings, stretching
like a cat, breathing in the night air.
	Her skin was like fine marble, rosy with the rapidly fading light. By
contrast, the silky black waves that fell to her waist seemed to swallow the
light whole. Her wings were shadows, the colour of charcoal, the insides a
dusky periwinkle. She ran her hand through her hair, smoothing it back, and
then turned at last to face him.
	"I wasn't aware gargoyles came with grey eyes."
	Her lips twitched with something that might have been a smile, and she
blinked languidly, revealing eyes like obsidian chips, the irises so dark
they swallowed the pupils.
	"Better?" Rowan smiled, baring her fangs.


Brooklyn awoke alone on the roof of an old brownstone, and immediately
scanned the skyline in the dying light of the sun for a sign of the gargoyle
he'd glimpsed last night. She couldn't have made it too far, it had been
nearly dawn. He'd been lucky to find his roost, and it was a good thing very
few people in Manhattan ever bothered to look up, because most Allied
Insurance offices don't have tastes running to the gothic, let alone a six
foot gargoyle above their entrance.
	"Well, if she wants to be seen, I'm sure she will," he muttered to himself,
but he didn't sound particularly convinced. He headed back to the clocktower,
still keeping an eye out, though. Just in case.


"Your unfailing fashion sense has failed you, my dear." Having recovered from
the initial shock of her form, Owen now turned his attention to her wardrobe.
She wore a white linen shirt that fair gleamed in the dim light, and over
that, a crushed green velvet doublet that winked with silver thread in
embroideries that shifted maddeningly. By contrast, the green velvet breeches
were positively plain. Except when she moved, they showed iridescent flashes
of purple.
	She looked down, brushing a speck of imaginary lint from the front of the
doublet, pouting prettily.
	"Can you only criticise? Not all of them wear rags. However, you do have a
point. I don't want to stand out too badly." The velvets rearranged
themselves into black cotton and denim. She spun around for his benefit, and
then folded her arms in a mirror of his stance, cocking her head slightly,
like a bird. Her eyes glittered. "So, do I pass muster?"
	He made a little sound halfway between an exhalation and a *hurumph*. "I was
under the impression, when we bid each other farewell not three months ago,
that this meant we would not be seeing each other unexpectedly again in the
near future." Owen closed his eyes as if he were in pain.
	"Can't a girl change her mind?" There was laughter in her voice, and then
she frowned. "Whatever have you done to your hand?" She pulled his left wrist
from the sling, and clucked over it like a mother hen. "Did your mother never
tell you not to put your fingers into strange cauldrons?"
	"*Rowan*--" there was a warning in his tone that she blithely ignored, and
after inspecting the stone hand and wrist carefully, let go. He flexed his
fingers, feeling the tingle of blood rushing back into flesh, and frowned.
"If I wanted to do that, I would have done it myself," he snapped. Tucking
his hand back into the sling, he made a fist and again flesh hardened into
stone.
	"Well then, why haven't you?" she sighed, exasperated, and sat on the edge
of a couch that appeared just before she settled her weight on its corner.
Her talons clicked on the wood floor, and her tail swished back and forth.
She was obviously enamoured of her new form.
	"What manner of game are you playing at now?" He looked her over once again
from top to bottom, and frowned.
	"May I remind you, last time *you* were the one playing *me* for the fool."
Her eyes darkened to storm clouds, but then her expression softened. "We
parted on such good terms, don't spoil it. Must you always believe I am
playing at something?" For a second-- nay, less than that--he actually
believed she was hurt, and his expression almost softened. Almost. He held up
the invitation, and she giggled.
	"I thought that would get your attention." She wrapped her wings around her
shoulders, and then they faded, dreamlike, and she stood before him in the
form he remembered from her last visit. In the cut-offs and shirt, she
resembled him of a human runaway. Except mortal children had the common sense
to wear shoes. She touched his arm, but he frowned and pulled back.
	"It would have gotten anyone's attention."
	"Don't tell me your man Xanatos knows Anishnabeng. My goodness, he *is* well
read."
	"He is intrigued by tricksters, more so since the Coyote incident."
	"Lucky for you." Her eyes narrowed, and then she shed all guile. "So where
*is* your human?"
	"He's not *my * human." Owen snapped, and she quirked an eyebrow. "He and
Fox are rendezvousing in Europe."
	"And you've been left all by your lonesome." She leaned her head on his
shoulder, and peered up at him through thick lashes. "Aren't you glad I've
come?"
	He simply glared at her.
	"You've become positively dour, you know that?"
	"What part would you have me play in all of this?"
	"But I thought you liked to play," she tickled his ear with a lock of her
hair twined about her finger, and he polished his glasses, seemingly
unaffected.
	"On my terms."
	"Ah, of course. Call it professional courtesy then, warning you that I was
entering your territory, as it were."
	"Then you have completed your task, and I will take my leave of you." He
sketched a mocking bow, and strode towards the door.
	"Don't you want to know--"
	"No, I do not."
	She stamped her foot, and then rose in the warm night air, her form
switching from human to gargoyle so fast it seemed instantaneous. "If you're
going to be that way about it, I shan't bother you any longer." Crouching in
the window, she scowled, and then leapt out to meet the young night, her
wings stretched wide.
	Owen paused in the doorway, but there was no trace of her now except the
curiously out of place green velvet couch, until it too faded and left not so
much as a mark on the floor to show it ever existed. He shook his head, and
then closed the door with a soft click, and made his way back to the street
below to the car. He had enough work to do in Mr. Xanatos' absence without
adding to it with Rowan's penchant for imping.
	However tempted he might be.


"It's not like him," Broadway frowned, and anxiously scanned the skyline. "Do
you think anything happened?"
	"He probably just lost track of time," Lex said over his shoulder. He was
tinkering with a stereo he'd found in a dumpster near the park. It was pretty
trashed, but he was sure he could get it up and running.
	"I'm sure he can take care of himself," Hudson clapped the big gargoyle on
the shoulder, and Broadway nodded, still unconvinced. Then his eyes lit up as
he spotted Brooklyn's silhouette.
	"Hey, sorry. I got side-tracked," Brooklyn tried not to look sheepish. He
knew he had a perfectly valid reason for staying out, but he did feel guilty
for worrying the clan. "You're never going to believe what I saw."


Crouched on a ledge, she drank in the night. . Why had she never tested the
air on gargoyle's wings before? It was sheer delight, the feeling that she
owned the darkness, the world of the night. How wonderful it must be to feel
that way all the time. Or perhaps they weren't aware of it, the gargoyles.
After all, they knew no other existence. Just as the fay had known no other
existence, until they had been cast out.
	She watched the clock tower. The young ones would be heading out soon, on
their nightly patrols. She'd been watching them for days, though she had kept
that little fact to herself. For all her posturing, she really was not half
as capricious as she let Owen believe she was. She had devoted no small
thought to this endeavour.
	She frowned. Whatever had put him in such a bad mood? It wasn't like they
hadn't played these games before. It wasn't like he wasn't playing them now .
. .
	She turned her attention back to the darkening sky, the moon slipping out
from below the skyline tentatively, masked by wispy clouds driven by the
wind.
	The silhouettes of the gargoyles were dots now, shadows across the
buildings. Smiling, she leapt from the ledge, catching an updraft and rising,
the moon tracing her wings with silver. She hung back, keeping them in sight,
and wondered what their young leader had told his rookery brothers about that
morning.


As Brooklyn finished his tale, he realised Lex and Broadway were just
staring, not looking particularly thrilled or as excited as he was. Hudson
smiled tentatively, and laid a hand on Brooklyn's shoulder.
	"Are you sure that's what you saw, lad?"
	"Of course I'm sure!" Brooklyn stepped out from under the old gargoyle's'
palm, and frowned. This wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting. Okay, he
wasn't sure what reaction exactly he'd been expecting, but this definitely
wasn't it.
	"It just sounds a little weird, that's all," Lex shrugged. "I mean, if there
are other gargoyles in New York, why haven't we run into them before?"
	"What about Griff?" Brooklyn pointed out. "Yeah, it was a shock to meet him,
but if there are gargoyles again in England, why can't there be ones here
that we don't know about? And what about the rookery eggs?"
	"Are you sure it wasn't Demona?" Broadway asked, as he flipped pancakes onto
a plate.
	"Positive." Brooklyn said dryly.
	"Maybe she was a clone, you know, like Thailog?"
	"Maybe," Brooklyn conceded, and sighed. "Well, I guess we'll just have to
wait and see. If she wants to be found, she will be."
	Deep down, he hoped she wanted to be found.


Gregory Marlowe stood in the window of his Manhattan town house, eyes
fastened on the darkening sky. His man Clermont had already set out, just as
he had for the past six nights. Ever since Marlowe had first seen the
Society's files on the gargoyles, he had been consumed with passion. And
Marlowe was a man of great passions.
	Marlowe wanted to know, to understand. He had pursued and finally joined the
Society when he was a young man, and at first he had believed the Illuminati
held the keys to all the answers he sought. Why shouldn't they? Longevity
alone should have accounted for half their store of knowledge, and contacts
the other half. But the society was stingy with its knowledge, and the sheer
enormity of the hierarchy kept him from advancing at a speed that would
guarantee him the kind of knowledge he sought.
	Knowledge was power, real power. It could bring you all the trappings
usually associated with power. Money, influence, respect, they all followed
in the wake of knowledge. Hadn't that been true up until this point? Up until
his disappearance, he had been on of the most influential men in America.
Even now, he still maintained a great deal of control, with holdings
squirreled away in foreign banks, under pseudonyms and dummy corporations the
Society didn't even dream existed. But knowledge of business, the world, men
and women's minds, it wasn't enough. In the Society, he had seen the promise
of knowledge of everything outside his ken. All the sciences and arts that
were said not to exist, he was sure flourished under the Illuminati's hands.
And he had seen the gargoyles as proof of this. The files David Xanatos had
given them had been abbreviated, but enough to spark a burning desire to
understand, the know this second race that had inhabited the earth in shadow
and secret and near extinction for tens of thousands of years. It fascinated
him, the mere idea of it.
	And now, he was determined to own that knowledge. And using the gargoyles,
he could storm the gates of the Society and wrest all the secrets they had
kept hidden from him, he was sure of it. They were too passive, too
secretive, too old and stagnant to withstand an attack. And with the Society
under his control, nothing could be denied him. The world's knowledge would
lay at his feet.
	It was the promise of ultimate power. He swore it wouldn't remain a promise
unfulfilled for long.


It was well past midnight when he finally saw her.
	Lex was scrounging the dumpster behind a Radio Shack, looking for parts for
his radio. Broadway was handing out behind an Armenian restaurant that had
just opened, savouring the new smells. Brooklyn sat on the roof of the
building, ready to call the alarm if anyone came near either end of the
alley. It had been a quiet night. At least, in the neighbourhoods they had
chosen to cover. Crime was happening somewhere, but they couldn't be
everywhere, and as they weren't omniscient, there wasn't much they could do
other than relax and enjoy the night.
	Brooklyn almost didn't see her. The moon had slipped behind the clouds, and
half the street lights on the block had their wires ripped out long before,
and the city showed no signs of repairing them. It was why they'd chosen this
block; less light meant less chance of being spotted. In this one instance,
the criminal mind worked much the same way as gargoyle. But after they
rousted one lone tagger, the alley was deserted.
	When the light wind blew the clouds from the face of the moon, she was
almost directly in front of him, crouching on the ledge of the building
across from him, she peeked down at his rookery brothers. Her hair spilled
over her shoulder, touched by the same wind, and she tucked the dark strands
behind one delicately pointed ear as she leaned forward. The moon was
reflected off her fair skin like a beacon, and Brooklyn felt his jaw drop.
	"Hey!" he called out, and she looked up, frozen as her eyes met his. Then
she scrambled to her feet, slithering up a drain pipe and over the roof.
	At Brooklyn's yell, Lex looked up to see his rookery brother leap from his
perch to the opposite roof. He scrambled out of sight, thinking someone was
coming, and saw Broadway do the same. When no one appeared, they emerged
scratching their heads.
	"Brooklyn?" Lex called out, but there was no answer.

~To be continued in the next issue.

*************


The Fool and The Demon
A Gargoyles/Blakes Seven crossover
-- Calico Laganthrope  (Jacksone@vax.sonoma.edu)

For the uninitiated, Blakes 7 was a sci-fi drama about a motley band 
of revolutionaries who attempt to overthrow a totalitarian regime and 
fail miserably. This story is set a few days after the final episode 
of B7 and, as such, several hundred years after the most recent 
'Gargoyles.' This is grim: be warned.

* * * * *

     The little thief was bleeding again.
     "This is painful. Did you know I didn't like pain? Hurts too much." Vila
glanced at the sky for the thousandth time, his hazel eyes bright with
apprehention, as they staggered through the silent, darkening forest. He
looked back to his companion.
     "C'mon, you crimo, movitall, will you? It'll be dark soon, we can rest
then." his voice turned pleading. "Now, Avon, there's bound to be another
deserted farmhouse around here somewhere, poor farmer lucky us, y'know, only
we have to _get_ there..."
    Vila winced. "You know, this really hurts." He clutched at his 
side again.
    "Shut--up--Vila." It was the first thing the other man had said in miles,
and Vila immediately dropped to his side.
    Avon's eyes were ringed in shadow, and his skin was blanched in pain. He
looked awful; what little they had done to cleanse his wounds had only made
them worse, and his favorite leather outfit was stiff and clotted. The
thief's wound was mainly superficial; his theatrics at the time had been to
divert the attention of those troopers away 
from him. Besides, they had better prey, such as Avon, whose wounds were not
superficial at all.
    "Now, that's better," Vila cajoled. "You'll get on. Shouldn't be alive,
you know that? But then you always were a survivor, not a blaster made that
could get you, just everyone around you..."
    Avon's lips curled like the muzzle of a hurt wolf. "Stop it, Vila." he
lurched forward.
    What was left of Blake's rebellion had come, but too late. They had been
gunned as dead as Blake, but the brief confusion they had caused had given
Vila enough time to scoop up what was left of Avon and run. He'd stolen a
hover, which had run out of fuel miles back, and now, three days later, they
were back in the forest, lost and without hope of recovery.
     There was a hum in the twilit sky above them. Avon's head shot up, his
eyes menacing and feral as he lifted his weapon gracefully into position. It
was the big projectile gun he had used to kill Blake. Vila's stomach turned.
    "They've found us, Avon, hide quick!" Avon did not see to hear, only
stood with his teeth bared against the lights of the aircraft. Vila ducked
for the paltry cover of a boulder.
   "Suppose you won't run, will you?" babbled the thief hysterically. "Not
that you ever much liked it. Avon, duck!"
    The hover fired; Avon returned swiftly. The craft's fuel tank was
punctured, and it veered sharply, far worse than it should have.
     "Avon!" Vila screamed.
     The thief shuddered in terror. *Something* was crouched on the cockpit,
had broken the glass, and was clawing at the pilot. An animal roar howled
above the engine's whine. Vila saw the outline of huge leathery wings against
the setting sun.
     There was a shot from within the plane, and the thing roared in anguish.
    "They hurt it!" cried Vila, "Whatever it was. Avon!"
    The black-clad man was nowhere to be seen; presumably he had taken cover.
The aircraft dipped fatally close to the ground, and in an instant became a
burning hulk on the forest floor. Its fire control systems did a good job;
the wreck smouldered but did not ignite the duff. Vila sprang up, desperate
to find his companion. If he had fallen, he might never move again.
     He found the winged thing first.
     It...she, obviously...was unconscious, and Vila was afraid to touch her
to see if she was alive. Her skin was as blue as peaceful skies, her hair
flame-red. She wore a worn gray shirt, a loincloth and some old and tarnished
ornaments. One wing was twisted underneath her painfully; it looked badly
torn, and she had fallen on it.
    "Oh, my...Avon! Avon!"
    "What...Vila?"
     Vila spun wildly, to see the dark-haired man lurch toward him like an
apparition from beyond the grave. He suddenly didn't know which was worse,
the dead monster or the living Avon.
     Avon knelt before her, almost falling, his eyes lit with something
almost like his old curiosity. He touched the side of her throat with a
bloodflecked hand.
    Her talons shot up and grabbed his wrists, her eyes glowing bright red,
and she roared again. Avon hissed with pain but reacted swiftly, closing on
her throat.
    "He wasn't going to hurt you," Vila yelled. Desperate, he grabbed the
projectile gun and waved it at the monster. "You! Let go! Or I'll hoot!"
    The monster threw Avon aside easily and staggered to her feet, snarling.
She advanced, her eyes glowing madly. Vila shot.
     After picking himself up off the ground, he rushed to the place where
Avon was trying to regain his feet, and the monster lay still.
     "Congradulations, Vila, I didn't think you could do it," he said coldly.
"Since it was the last shot I'm glad you used it well."
    Vila looked sadly down at the fallen creature. "Too bad. She saved us,
you know. And she's kind of a pretty monster..."
     "Oh, shut *up*, Vila, let's go." The leather-clad man turned away.
     The creature growled.
    "It's impossible...she's alive!"
    The blue woman jumped to her feet, spreading her wings threateningly. The
wounded one would not fully open.
    Vila skittered between Avon and the creature, holding his nimble hands
towards her in a placating gesture. "Now, I'm sorry for that, really I am,
wouldn't have done it but you were going to kill my ... well, he's not really
a friend, I guess. But he's nearly dead anyway, you know? Thanks for dropping
that flier, by the way. You don't work for the Federation, do you?"
    "No." her eyes were fixed on Avon, dripping hate, and he in turn poised
ready to lunge.
     "Um, and not a bounty hunter, right? You wouldn't be something like
that. So what are you, by the way..."
    "Quiet, fool." Her voice was hard, but it had a timbre to it that Vila
liked.
     "See now, we'll get on fine, you remind me of Avon already. Now that's
him, and I'm Vila, and you don't happen to have a good hiding place, do you?
the Federation's chasing us as usual, and if you don't want to see them you
might want to hide us up for a bit."
     The creature looked at each of them in turn. As the fire faded from her
eyes, Vila could see that they were dark like Avon's, and more than that,
hurt like his and mad. The litte thief shuddered, wondering how things could
possibly have gotten worse.
    Finally, her stance relaxed, and her wings drooped. "I should kill you
humans. But I can hear another flier. Come on." She trotted lightly into the
thick trees, and looked back.
    "I am," she said coldly, "called Demona."
                         
    *  *  *

  She awoke groggily. From the brightness seeping into her cave she knew that
it was the middle of the day (curses on the daylight!) and from the ache in
her shoulder and wing she knew that she was badly hurt. At such times Demona
regretted leaving her homeworld, and the transformations either into human or
stone that had gone with it. She would take awhile to heal.
     There was a sound to her right, and an unfamiliar bloodsmell. Demona
jumped forward, hissing, and met terrified hazel eyes. Ah. The humans.
     "Easy, easy there." the little one, Vila, stepped slowly away from her.
She heard a click, and looked up to see the other one leveling a small
blaster at her. She flashed her eyes at him, unimpressed.
     "Now, Avon, don't do that," said Vila nervously. The cold one did as he
was bidden, but never took his eyes from her.
     Vila turned to Demona. "I got an animal and cooked it with the blaster.
You look hurt. Would you like some?"
     Every fibre of her territorial soul screamed at her to tear the lives
from these two who had invaed her lair. They were indeed a sorry pair, and
even in her present condition she could take them easily. 
     But the stew smelled amazing, and she had not had cooked food in months.
    As she hesitated, the small man handed her a dented metal cup filled with
savoury broth. Demona decided to kill them later and took it gratefully.
Times had been hard, these last few centuries, not that they had ever been
otherwise. Hunting on Gauda Prime was good, but even here she could not
escape the cursed humans. She had long ago acknowledged that they had won,
but the knowledge was still bitter, and running had made her lean.
     "You collapsed and then slept like a rock," Vila said. "I was worried."
     Demona nodded curtly and settled into a more comfortable position on her
bed of dry grasses. Besides that the cave was furnished only with a small
locked box and a weathered chair, which was occupied by the leather-clad
human. It was small and uncomfortable, but dry.
     "It is my way," she said coldly to Vila's expectant look, denying
further conversation.
     He kept on anyway. "So, you live here? Nice place, really, are you
hiding from the Federation too?"
     "_Vila._" At the one word, both turned abrubtly to Avon, Vila hanging
his head in apology, Demona's eyes narrowing.
     The little one was harmless, pathetic and fawning, easy meat. This Avon
was another matter. He had cleaned himself somewhat but he still reeked of
blood. He was obviously dying, though he showed no outward sign of pain, and
his stare revealed a feral coldness that she did not like it all. Now he
glared at her in a dare to make something of his lackey's comment, though he
had to know that he was no threat 
to her.
     "I care nothing for human affairs," she said, squarely meeting Avon's
dark gaze. "I avoid them, and kill them if they come too close. I shall have
to find a new place to live, now."
     "No, no need to do that," cajoled Vila. "We won't tell anybody, and
we'll...well, we'll do something in a few days at least." His face fell, and
Demona knew for certain that these two, whoever they were, were at the end of
their line. Pushed beyond endurance, they still ran...a state she knew too
well. Was that why she had let them live?
     Thousands of years, she thought bitterly, and I am still running from
hunters and hiding in caves.
     "You," she said, "are running from your Federation, I take it?"
     The dark one grinned at her, a sudden, dazzling bearing of teeth that
was utterly unexpected and completely false. "Well, not _our_ Federaton, per
se. We are.." he paused, and his next word dripped irony. "Revolutionaries.
Or we were. Or we tried to be. It dosen't matter, does it, because you do not
care at all."
     "No," said Demona, "I don't."
     "Which brings us," Avon said easily, "To you. What, if I may ask, are
you?"
     "Are you native to this planet?" Vila piped in, for which he was 
given a black scowl.
     "No," growled Demona, wrapping her wings around her narrow shoulders.
"We were native to the same place as you, a long time ago."
     "There are more of you?" asked Avon flatly.
     A faint red tinge backlit Demona's eyes for a moment, and then slowly
died. "I am the last," she said. "Again."
     "I'm sorry," said Vila, and when she shot him an accusing glare, his
expression seemed sincere and genuinely sad. She thought again of killing
him, but the dark inscrutable stare of his companion pinned her.
     She didn't like this conversation at all, and it wasn't good to think of
the others. "So," she said, "You're running."
     Avon smiled again, knowingly. "Yes. And you are hiding."
     "I prefer to be alone."
     "Avon understands about that, don't you Avon?" Vila piped in and was
rewarded with scowls from both.
     "You aren't going anywhere like that," she contenued, gesturing
cavalierly at Avon's wounds. For all his smooth talk, the man did not look
well. He could not flee any longer.
     "I know," said Avon. "That is, after all, why we are here. Will 
your wing heal?"
     It was more a pointed baiting than a question after her health.  Demona
glared. "Yes," she said curtly. "Well, then. we shall all stay here until it
does, if he hunts." She gestured at Vila without looking at him.
     "Fine," said the black-clad man.
     "Very well. But ... I don't trust you, human."
      His eyes were as serious as death. "You shouldn't. And I do not trust
you, either." He paused. "But that dosen't change anything, does it?"

                             *  *  *

     It was the fifth patrol. Aircars whirred above the cave. Curled on her
pile of hay, leaning against the cold stone wall, Demona could hear voices.
     "We've been looking over this site for days," one complained. "They're
long gone by now."
     "Or they're dead," said a second. "You saw 'im go down, didn't you?
Dead, completely. Couldn't have got this far to begin with."
     "Blake's people," growled the first, and neither said anything after
that.
    After awhile, the soldiers left, and the three fugitives were alone
again. Demona chewed slowly on the front parts of a rabbit and watched her
two unwelcome humans.
     The little thief had finally gotten Avon out of his studded leather
shell and was trying to clean his wounds. It was taking a long time, and the
pale skin was streaked with fresh red. Avon made no protest but snapped at
Vila as Vila prattled to keep his attention, and the work continued as well
as it could.
     Demona tried not to think of her wounds, which had known no concerned
hand save her own, and looked away.
     They have been together for a long time, Demona thought, feeling a vague
pang that she could not define. I wonder why the little one stays, he could
leave now, and from the looks of things he means less than dirt to that Avon.
Avon would rather he go and be ... alone.
     After awhile, Avon slept. Vila started work on his ruined leather as far
from Demona as possible, but from the tension in his pose, she knew he felt
her watching.
     "So," said Vila, "Who's this, if you don't mind me asking?"
     He raised his hand to reveal a clear pastic disc within the nimble
fingers. In its center was fixed a very old image.
     Demona sprang to her feet, unfurling her rapidly healing wings. 
     The thief cowered.
     "Oh, I don't care anymore," she sighed, and sat down. "He was someone I
knew once, when I was very young."
     Vila looked at the image, the visage of one like her, a male with
lavender-gray skin, dark hair and somber eyes. Demona pulled her knees to her
chest and wrapped her wings around herself.
     "I'm sorry," said Vila. "Can't stand a locked box, it's a failing, I
know." He smiled depreciatingly. "I didn't mean to pry. He rose, and sat down
gingerly beside her, resting a careful hand on her shoulder. "Who was he?"
     "It dosen't matter," she said tiredly, wishing the conversation over.
"He's long gone now."
     The thief looked at her quizzically for a moment, then said, "You loved
him?"
     "Once." She glanced down at him, eyes narrowing. "Shut up, Vila."
     Vila grinned. "Hey, now, that's Avon's line."
     Demona laughed once, in spite of herself. "Why do you stay with him?
He's insane."
     "Oh, I know that, and he'll shorten my life yet, I just know it. But
it's too late for either of us now, y'know? There were others, but they're
gone, too. And who else would stay with Avon? Without me, he'd really be
lost."
     Demona made a noncommittal sound and turned away from Vila, who returned
his unwelcome hand to her shoulder and offered her the photograph.
     "Put it back," she said, and he did, and after that obeyed her desire
for privacy and silence.

                                 *  *  *

     They hunted at twilight. All three were well enough to be abroad now,
though Avon walked with short, halting steps and Demona could not fly for
long. They had all been growing restless, holed in the small cave, and so all
three ventured forth.
     There had been no Federation scouting party for days, and it appeared
that their enemies, for the time being, had given up on the fugitives. But
Gauda Prime was filled with bounty hunters, since the once-lawless planet had
been a haven to their quarry for years.
    The had landed their flier some distance and walked quietly upon their
prey; even so they did not take their quarry quit by surprise. there were
four of them, all healthy, and they saw the faces of prey that were good
prizes indeed. So they attacked.
     Avon stood his ground viciously, and the mercenaries could not close
with him. Vila, as always, hid.
     Demona was furious beyond all reason. She had hidden from them, these
humans with whom she had fought so long and finally lost. She had fled them,
avoided them, hated them in silence. But they would nottake this last squalid
cave from her.
     One of them stalked Avon from behind, coming far too close to the hidden
entrance to her cave. Demona lunged and clawed for the face, as she had long
ago, but in so doing put herself in range of another. He had no qualms and
shot her in the back, between the wings, point blank. Demona crumpled without
a sound.
     "No!" Vila cried.
     A mechanical whine filled the air. Avon dove for cover, snarling.
     The flier landed easily and the bounty hunters ran, knowing when they
were outclassed. Avon stood again as the air settled, ready to face whatever
it was. He liked the vehicle immediately. It was pitch black, understated,
and deadly.
     A man jumped out of the hatch, barely pausing to notice Avon as he
jogged to the side of the fallen gargoyle. He was tall, and dressed in black
leather a bit less showy than Avon's. His hair and beard were silver.
     "Ah, Demona." he shook his head and scooped the limp winged form from
the dust. "I finally caught up with you. Just had to wait until you were hurt
enough to feel."
     Vila stepped to his side while Avon, blaster raised, watched
impassively.
     "I'm sorry," the thief said, looking sadly at Demona's thin, still form.
"Was she a friend of yours?"
     The silver haired man looked at Demona, then at him. A very faint smile
touched his lips. "Not hardly," he said, "But we are bound."
     Demona stirred and Vila jumped back, yelping. She looked up and
struggled weakly, narrowing her eyes when she saw who held her.
      "_You_." she hissed, but there was resignation in her tone as well as
anger.
     "Aye, lady," MacBeth sighed. "Look what you've done to yourself."
     "Let me be."
     "For what?" He looked down at the clawed bounty hunter, who 
moaned feebly, and the sparce and empty forest. "Demona. Please."
     "I'm so tired," she sighed, beginning to lose conciousness. "Sick of
running..."
     The man smiled wanly as her eyes closed. "You're a strong one, Demona.
It's only taken you a few thousand years to acknowledge that." The gargoyle
went limp, her head falling against his shoulder.
     "Well, sleep, lass, I'll have you to a better place than this at least."
He walked to the aircraft and placed her almost tenderly in the cockpit,
wrapping her wings carefully around her. Without a word, he turned and walked
towards the hidden cave.
     After a moment, Avon and Vila followed.
     He found it easily, though none of the searchers had, and movd to stand
in the middle of it. For the first time he looked at Avon, who met his glance
with a challenge.
     MacBeth ignored it. "Gargoyles," he said with an edge of disgust. "Such
independent creatures, and look at this." he shook his head, "I still find
them in dirty caves. Well, I can take her with me, for awhile anyway."
     The silvered man bent down, and carefully lifted the small photograph
from its dusty box. For a moment, he looked terribly sad and impossibly old.
"Ah, Demona," he sighed, and slipped it carefully into a pocket. "My poor
Demona."
    MacBeth turned to leave, and even Avon stepped out of his way. He stopped
suddenly, and gave the fugitives a measuring look.
     "You didn't harm her," he said, "and she let you share her hiding place.
That is something of a rarity." he motioned to the cave's dark exit. "I know
who you are. I have a ship in orbit, and I will take you from here if you
wish."
     "Oh, we'd love to," said Vila brightly. "And we thank you. She's a nice
monster, your Demona."
     MacBeth nodded. "Well. Come on, then."
     Avon stood indecisive, distrust written plain on his aquiline face, as
he stared at the stranger's retreating back.
     Vila turned to him with a look of concern. "Come n, Avon. The nice
fella's taking us off here now. It's time to go."
     Avon looked at the stranger, and then down at his old shipmate. It might
have been Vila's imagination that the cold eyes softened somewhat.
     But Avon turned and followed him out of the cave.
                     
~The End