Corbin woke.
Just a snaking beneath the sheets at first, a protrusion of knee from covers. He thrashed against synthetic pillows. Claire’s sudden tension made Matt look. Rafferty’s eyes were open, staring straight up as if a sword hung over his bed. No sword, though, only a pitted moonscape of drop ceiling.
“Father,” Claire said.
Matt thought he answered “Daughter,” but the word was really “Water.”
She poured him a cup, brought it to the bedside, and set it on the table, just in reach. Rafferty did not look at the cup, or at Claire.
Matt thought he should not be here. He almost excused himself, then realized his movement would draw more attention, and kept still.
“I took care of the deliveries today,” she said. “The girls are well.”
“I saw something last night,” he said. “It was last night.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t in my body.”
“You were.”
“I was and wasn’t. I remember. I hit Matt. And Sandy.”
“You almost hit Ellen.”
“I scared her.”
“Us.”
“I was angry.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been angry. Angry or drunk. For a long time.”
“Yes.”
“I can do this. I can hold it together.”
“Sleep, Father,” Claire said, and he did.
Matt and Claire did not speak on the ride back.
*
The gargoyles were not gone by the time the Blacksuits arrived. The toll of battle was too great. The demons had carved deep grooves in the gargoyles’ stone, and dried moonlight coated their limbs. Cat stood among the fallen. The Suit kept her standing. It pressed her wounds together and filled her mind with song to drown out the background wash of pain.
Raz slumped on the dais. Tara leaned against a wall, shadows trembling around her, bleeding and exhausted but whole. The reporter, Jones, was trying to help Aev stand. Shale lay still; stone around him decayed to dust as his wounds knit. Nor was he the only Stone Man—she corrected herself—the only gargoyle in need of healing.
The demonglass steamed away. Large pieces endured longest, like gutter snowdrifts in new spring.
She felt her fellow officers climb the tower, gray beetles swarming around obstacles, leaping from windowsill to windowsill. They crested the tower and joined her, a chorus of which she was but one voice.
—see to the wounded— —stone for the gargoyles— —bandages—
Ten blocks away a train of ambulances wailed through the night, a Blacksuit crouched atop each.
As the Blacksuits arrived, Jones rose to stand between them and Aev. “These people are hurt. They need help.” A note of defiance on “people.” She thought the gargoyles and Blacksuits were enemies.
Justice considered possible responses, settled on the truth, and settled on Cat to deliver it.
We understand, she said. We will protect them. They are part of us, after all.
*
Jake opened the door before Matt could drive home the key. Donna’s voice issued from Peter’s bedroom, which was the girls’—“Is that your dad?”—and Jake stood aside. Hannah sat on the couch, strangling a pillow. Simon brought her a glass of water from the kitchen. Her fingers unclenched slowly. No one had cleared the dinner table yet. Tomato sauce streaked the flatware red.
Ellen lay on the bed in Peter’s room. Donna sopped sweat from her face and forehead with a rag. “She went stiff at the table. Cried out. They’re eating her—that’s what she said.” Ellen mumbled a word Matt could not catch. Donna pressed the cloth to Ellen’s cheek. “Scared the boys to all hells.” Her, too, though she didn’t say as much.
Claire walked to Ellen’s side and offered Donna her hand. Donna passed her the rag before Claire remembered to say “Please.” She got “Thank you” out okay.
Matt went to the kitchen for water and brought a glass back. By the time he returned, Claire had pulled Ellen upright in bed. Ellen shivered despite the heat. Donna found her a shawl, a black cable-knit thing her mother made that smelled of the cedar chest where they stored it. The girls spoke in a low voice. “Do you need us?” he asked Claire, and after a hitch of hesitation she said, “No.”
Donna wanted to stay, he could tell, but she left. “We’ll be in the next room.” They cleared the table together. He spooned pasta into a tin lunch box for tomorrow, made another box for Donna, and left the rest in the covered casserole dish. He washed and she dried. “How was the hospital?” Donna asked.
“Corbin spoke.” He ducked the sponge in soapy water, scoured the steel pan clean, and passed the pan to her. “But he’s in a bad way.”
“We’re helping the girls, at least.” She dried with a coffee-colored dish towel.
“You should have seen Claire this morning. She can run the whole business by herself.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
“How old were you when you ran the stand alone?”