Idea by: Todd Jensen

Written by A Fan and Nicodemus

Previously on Gargoyles...

PRINCE DUNCAN: There will always be a Hunter, my son...and there will always be the hunted.

GOLIATH: You should thank her, Macbeth. Elisa saved your life.

MACBETH: A sad, endless existence I'm doomed to face alone.

BANQUO: Hey, boss, you were a king, and you've been alive a long time.

TRAVIS MARSHALL: Lennox, you believe we should reach out to these gargoyles?

 MACBETH: That's correct, Travis. All we need to do is approach them with tolerance.

---

 MACBETH: Madam, they burnt witches like you in the Middle Ages!

 MARGOT: Mister, you are living in a fantasy world!

 -- "The Journey"

*****

Jon Castaway leaned back in his chair, taking a moment away from his work. He took a moment to look around at his surroundings, still impressed at the setup his mysterious benefactor had given him. In the three weeks or so since he’d first met that strange man in black, he’d essentially been given an empire to rule. This office was just one small physical sample of what he now had.

The office was just one room in a large, non-descript building that had been converted into a headquarters for the Quarrymen movement. As per Castaway’s own instructions, the entire room, including the expensive wooden chairs, the carpet, and the wallpaper, were done in shades of dark blue. Embossed on the wall to one side of the room, was a large golden circle with a hammer superposed on it. The effect was that of a stylized "Q", the symbol of the movement Castaway led now. Castaway smiled proudly as he looked at it.

After a second, he heard a knock on the door. "Enter."

The door opened, and a young man entered, holding a couple of manila envelopes full of papers in one hand. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen, by the look of him, his gray eyes showing a sort of quiet competence, charged with the sort of zeal that most of the Quarrymen had about their "mission."

As the young Quarryman walked up to the desk, Castaway rose and greeted him warmly. "Good morning, Adam."

"Good morning, sir," Adam replied.

Castaway looked at him for a moment. "How’s the war wound coming?" he asked, a note of concern in his voice.

Adam gingerly touched the bandage that lay just beneath his unruly black hair. "It’s doing better, sir. The doctor says I won’t even need the bandage in another week or so."

"Excellent," Castaway beamed. "Now on to business. Do you have the reports from the rallies for this week?"

"Right here, sir," Adam said, handing the first manila envelope over to Castaway.

Castaway took the collection of reports from the manila folder and began to sort through them, mumbling incoherently as he did so. "Hmm.. It says here that new membership is down slightly from last week. Adam, do you know anything about this?"

"Yes, sir," Adam replied. "There was an expose in the Sentinel last Sunday about the Quarrymen. It seems a reporter from that newspaper managed to infiltrate one of our rallies, and he apparently didn’t like what he saw. He gave us...," Adam trailed off, trying to phrase his words carefully, "a very unflattering review. Here, see for yourself, sir." Adam took a small newspaper clipping and handed it to his employer.

As Castaway read the article, Adam interjected with some comments of his own. "He seems to go on about the fact that we give out hammers and hoods at our rallies; he likens us to the Ku Klux Klan. But he doesn’t appear to be pro-gargoyle, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking. He simply seems to be concerned that our hammers might be used for something other than self-defense."

When Castaway was sighed and shook his head for a moment, then looked up at his assistant. "Adam, where do they get these fears?"

"I don't know, sir."

"The Quarrymen have no goals beyond the gargoyle threat," Castaway insisted. "In fact, after that threat is neutralized, what purpose will we have?"

"I'm not sure, sir," Adam replied.

"And then there’s those traitors to humanity," Castaway said disdainfully. "What do they call themselves again?"

"The ‘PIT Crew’, I believe, sir," Adam answered.

"Yes, the ‘PIT Crew’," Castaway spat. "A group of traitors who are trying to convince everyone that we should coexist with those demons. How can those people sell out their own kind like that?!"

"I don’t know, sir," Adam said. "They only formed within the last few days, and so far they’ve more or less left us alone, but..."

"But they could become a very real threat in the near future," Castaway finished.

"Yes, sir," Adam confirmed.

Castaway sighed and then looked heavenward for a moment, a pained expression on his face. "All I ever wanted was to rid the world of those dangerous beasts. Why does the public protest so, when I'm only trying to help them?"

"They ridiculed Galileo about his theories," Adam said, trying to be consoling. "No one appreciates great men until they are gone."

"Very true, Adam," Castaway agreed, and after a moment, he collected himself. "Nevertheless, we need to be more careful for the time being. Send a memo to all the men, ordering them to restrain from all non-covert actions unless they have direct authorization from me to do otherwise."

"I'll get right on it, Mr. Castaway," Adam said, nodding. "In the meantime, your eleven o'clock appointment is here."

"Good," Castaway said, a slight smile on his face. "Send them in."

Adam nodded, and then went over to the door of the office and stuck his head into the next room for a minute. As he headed back to stand next to Castaway, a small group of men and women entered in after him. Castaway smiled warmly and stood up as they came up to stand in front of his desk. "Ah, ladies and gentlemen. Be seated." He gestured towards the chairs in the room, and once the scientists had gotten comfortable, he continued. "You have good news, I hope?"

The scientists looked at each other nervously before one of them answered. "Well, sir, no," a gray-haired man said. "We’ve done everything we can, based on what little is already known about gargoyles, but all our attempts to classify their species, or even trace gargoyles to a known prehistoric ancestor, have failed. And we’re at an even greater loss to explain their stone hibernation and their incredible strength. It makes absolutely no sense; as far as I know, they might have an extraterrestrial origin."

Castaway turned and began to pace behind his desk. "I’m disappointed in you people. You are all some of the finest minds in your particular fields. And I’m sure that my intelligence pales next to yours." Then he stopped and turned towards the scientists, fixing them with a harsh gaze. "So why it is that you have yet to give me one actual, never mind useful, fact about these beasts?"

"Mr. Castaway," a second, younger scientist said, "we informed you two weeks ago that, until we have actual living specimens, we cannot provide you with anything useful on these gargoyle creatures. Without such specimens, all we have been able and will be able to do is sit around and devise theories about their unique physiology."

"And so far, none of those theories seem to work in practice," Castaway said irritatedly. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have become very displeased with your lack of progress in this matter."

"But sir," another of the scientists started.

Castaway cut her off with a held up hand. "Therefore," he continued, "I regret to inform you that your expertise is not required at this time. I do however ask you to keep yourselves available as upon acquisition of a test subject or subjects our organization will be glad to rehire you. Adam, show them all out." Adam nodded again, and escorted the still somewhat stunned scientists out of the room.

After they had left, Castaway looked at the door for a moment, and then turned to his assistant, who was just now returning to his side again. "Adam, make sure to have Personnel remove them from the employment records and give them their two weeks severance." Adam nodded. "Then begin a search for a gargoyle expert, one with prior experience or historical knowledge of these beasts."

"Actually, sir," Adam informed him, "I already anticipated that. I called the boys down in Research, and the only person they’ve been able to come up with so far, other than Jason Canmore, is one Professor Lennox Macduff. Here’s a brief dossier on the man." Adam took the other manila envelope he’d been carrying and handed it to Castaway.

"Most impressive, Adam," Castaway said, smiling at his assistant’s show of foresight. He took the offered document, and read out loud as he paged through it. "Lennox Macduff - age: 52 - eyes: blue - hair: white. Birthplace: Aberdeen, Scotland - current residence: New York City. Currently a professor of medieval history at Columbia University, New York, New York. Wrote several essays on the subject of gargoyles in legend, recently compiled and published as the bestseller book, Legends of Gargoyles." He read for a few more minutes, and then turned towards Adam with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Lennox Macduff...that name sounds familiar..." Castaway mused. "Didn’t someone tell me that he was on Nightwatch a few weeks ago, debating on the ‘gargoyle issue’?"

"Yes, sir," Adam answered. Then he added, a little more hesitantly, "Of course, from what I heard, he seemed to be something of a gargoyle supporter."

Castaway nodded. "That could be a problem, yes." Then he looked down at the dossier again, "But perhaps I should pay Professor Macduff a little visit, anyway. This is the exactly the type of expert I had in mind, and maybe I can talk some sense into him."

The halls of the Pupin building at Columbia University were fairly empty as Joanna Walker made her way down them, heading for her office. "Hope I haven’t gotten myself lost again," she muttered as she walked down the deserted hallway.

"Professor Walker?" a young woman’s voice suddenly called out after her.

Joanna stopped and turned to see an Oriental student of about eighteen running up to her from behind with a notebook and pen clutched in one hand. "Iris," she said, smiling, "how are you?"

"I’m okay, Professor," Iris answered. "I just wanted to see if I could ask you a little about the midterm you’re giving out today."

"Just so long as you don’t want me to tell you the answers," Joanna said mildly.

Iris chuckled a little and said, "No, Professor. You know I’d never do that."

"Yes," Joanna said, smiling, "I know. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me about?"

"Well," Iris began, opening up her notebook and positioning her pen, "as far as Einstein's theory, are you going to be focusing more on special relativity or general relativity?"

"There will be some of both," Joanna said.

"Okay," Iris said, jotting the information down in the notebook. "And are there going to be a lot of questions on the Doppler effect?"

Joanna thought about an answer for that one for a moment. "I’d say that that’s a strong possibility," she said

"I was afraid of that," Iris said dejectedly.

"Don’t worry," Joanna said, "I know you’ll do fine. Anything else?"

"No," Iris said, tapping the point of her pen on the notebook paper as she finished writing. She closed the notebook and said, "Thanks, Professor."

"Anytime," Joanna replied, "and, by the way, you do know you can just call me ‘Joanna’." As Iris started running off again, Joanna suddenly called back, "Oh, by the way, Iris, how’s your play coming along?"

"Oh, it’s coming," Iris said.

"I’d be interested in seeing it when you’re done," Joanna offered.

Iris stared at her for a moment, blinking. Then she beamed. "Cool!" she said, and then she continued down the hall.

Joanna smiled as she turned to head back to her office. She was interrupted again, though, when she bumped into a blond-haired man in a suit, headed in the opposite direction.

"Sorry about that," he said in a British accent.

"Well, you should be," Joanna said.

"By any chance," the man asked politely, "would you happen to know where I could find Dr. Lennox Macduff?"

"Len?" she said curiously. "He should be over teaching his class right about now. It’s in Room 703 of the Hamilton Building."

"Thank you very much," the man said, and then began to walk off. After a moment, though, he stopped and turned back to Joanna. "Wait a minute," he said, "did you just call him ‘Len’?"

"Yes," Joanna answered, "I’m pretty sure that’s what I just did."

"So you would know him pretty well, then?" the blond man continued.

"Yeah," she answered, wondering where this conversation was headed, "you could probably say that. Why?"

"I wanted to talk with him, and I thought you might be able to tell me a little bit about him, since you know him so well," he said.

"I don’t know Len that well," Joanna admitted. "I’ve only been on the faculty here for three months, and in New York City for five, so I don’t know that many people, and those I do know I don’t know very well."

"Well," the man asked, "would you happen to know how he feels about gargoyles?"

Joanna thought this was a rather odd question for someone to be asking. "I know he’s interested in them," she answered slowly, "but I’m not sure, especially not about the stuff that’s been happening the last few weeks. He’s never really mentioned that to me."

The man nodded, taking the information in. "Well, thank you very much, Ms.?"

"Walker," Joanna supplied. "‘Dr.’ Walker."

The man smiled. "Thank you for time, Dr. Walker. You’ve been most helpful." And with that, he started down the hall. As she turned to head back to her office, Joanna couldn’t shake the distinctly uneasy feeling that strange man had given her.

The students of Medieval History 235, The British Isles: From the Dark Ages to the Renaissance, sat in the old, 1930’s vintage lecture hall, listening to the gray-haired professor standing at the podium and pointing to some of the things he’d written on the blackboard behind him. The chipped and fading paint on the walls and the generally poor condition of the seats showed that room probably hadn’t seen a repairman since it was built, seeming to make a statement in some way as to how much importance the school faculty placed in this particular professor’s course. Despite this, and the fact that many of the students were wishing that the room’s ventilation system was in better working condition, the room was fairly full, and most of them were listening attentively to what the professor had to say.

"...the works of Shakespeare are loosely based on history, but often he rewrote history until the events in the story were totally different from what had actually occurred," the professor lectured.

"Professor Macduff, sir," one student said, speaking up. "Why would Shakespeare want to rewrite history?"

"Good question, lad," the professor answered the student. "The reason is that Shakespeare was aiming his plays towards his more wealthy patrons, some of whom were distant relatives of the people he characterized in said plays.

"Take, for example, the play Macbeth. I know I’m jumping ahead here, but this is just to give you all an idea of what I’m talking about." he changed his tone to something slightly mocking as he went on. "Anyway, in the play we see the noble King Duncan of Scotland betrayed and murdered by Macbeth, a scheming, cowardly noble whom Duncan had believed to be loyal. Of course, after a short and brutal reign which causes nothing but woe for the land, the noble Canmore, son of the unjustly slain Duncan, comes forth and heroically defeats the treacherous nobleman."

Then Macduff continued in a more serious tone of voice. "Now, if you actually look at the history books, you’ll find that what actually happened is almost the direct opposite of what happens in the play. ‘Noble King Duncan’ was actually a brutal, paranoid tyrant, as can be seen from the fact that he was only on the throne a few years. Macbeth, on the other hand, was a good king, and his much longer reign is generally seen as a time of peace and prosperity for Scotland. Macbeth actually did kill Duncan; that’s about the only part of the story Shakespeare got right. But it was because Duncan had betrayed Macbeth, not the other way around.

"Now, to get back to your original question, lad: why would Shakespeare so completely mangle the story of Macbeth? Simple. The royalty of England in his time were blood-relatives of Duncan and his descendants. Defaming Duncan and Canmore would have caused the playwright a great deal of trouble."

"You mean, like, reduced ticket sales?" the student asked.

"Well," the professor admitted, "there was that. And then there was the fact that the English monarch of the time, James I, was a descendant of Canmore. There is the strong likelihood that such an act of defamation would have gotten William sent to the headsman in short order." Some of the class chuckled.

"Um, Professor?" another student asked.

"Yes?"

"What about Macbeth’s wife?" she continued.

"The Lady Macbeth?" Macduff asked, and the student nodded. The professor sighed a little sadly, and a sort of slight melancholy appeared on his features as he continued. "Yes, she was pretty badly maligned by Shakespeare. Her name was Gruoch, and she was a very warm and caring person, and a devoted wife, not some treacherous shrew like in the play."

"You sound like you used to know her," the student joked.

"No, of course not," Macduff dissembled. "It’s just that I've researched these people to the point where, in a sense, I do know them." Then the professor’s tone became lighter. "Of course, I’ve also known some women like the fictional Lady Macbeth. My last ex-wife, for instance."

The ensuing laughter from the students caused enough of a commotion that no one noticed the single man entering from one of the doorways. He simply stood by the doors, periodically looking at his watch, and listened to the lecture.

After a moment, the class settled down and the class went back to asking questions. "Wouldn't someone have raised an outcry over something like these ‘rewrites’?" another student asked.

"Actually, no," the professor explained. "For one thing, like I said earlier, most of these ‘rewrites’ in Shakespeare’s plays were made for the benefit of the ruling monarchy, and anyone who criticized the historical accuracy of his works would be criticizing the royal ancestors. As I’ve already said, doing that tended to be bad for one’s general health."

"The other reason," he continued, "is that history in those days wasn’t as formal a discipline as it is today. Remember that there were still a lot of people who thought that events in the Bible, like the story of Noah’s Ark, were factual history. And most people studied history by reading the works of others, rather than by actually going out and doing their own research. So there really wouldn’t have been anyone capable of gainsaying what Shakespeare wrote."

He paused long enough for people to take notes, and then looked at the time. "Well, lecture time is over," he noted, "so now I’ll answer any questions you might have today."

"I have one," a student near the back said. "It’s kind of personal, though."

"What is it?" the professor asked.

"Well, you talking about Macbeth just now reminded me about that book you published a while ago, the one about gargoyles," the student replied.

"What about it?" the professor asked. Several heads in the class turned in the direction of the student.

"Well," the student said slowly, "When I reading it, I started wondering if the reason you know enough about gargoyles to write a book is because you actually hang out with them."

Macbeth looked at the man strangely. "Dear sir," he asked, "Do you, by any chance, happen to work for the Daily Tattler?"

"Nope," the student said, unfazed by either the professor’s jab or the snickering it produced. "I just read the book, and heard that you were into the stuff. I was just curious, that’s all."

The professor shook his head slightly and then turned to look at him. "Well, I don’t actually ‘hang out’ with them, but I do consider myself to know a great deal about them, mostly through reading legends and stories about them."

"And yes," the professor continued, "I can imagine where my lecture today would remind you of the book. One of the segments in it details an apocryphal tale I once heard about gargoyles that actually has to do with the tale of Duncan and Macbeth. It says that Macbeth actually had a close relationship with gargoyles, and that they were one of the keys to his overthrowing Duncan and maintaining his realm. In fact, there was one gargoyle that had supposedly saved his life when he was attacked by one of Duncan’s assassins, and who Macbeth later made into one of his chief advisors. Unfortunately, in the end she was supposed to have betrayed him, bringing about the end of his reign and the beginning of the reign of Malcolm Canmore, Duncan’s son. But it’s only a story, so far as I know."

"Okay, how come you know so much about gargoyles when people only found out about them last month?" the student challenged.

"The study of legends concerning gargoyles has been something of a hobby of mine for years. And, over the years, I’ve found a great deal of references to them in many cultures."

"Like where?" the student asked.

"All over the world," Macbeth said. "I’ve heard tales about gargoyles in Europe, certainly, but also in Central America, China, even ancient Egypt. Of course, I never really believed in them until recently; I disregarded the legends as simply fiction. As I’ve said before on the matter, up till three weeks ago the only ‘winged beast’ I knew of was my ex-wife." Some more chuckles were heard through the classroom, and even the man at the door laughed somewhat.

Professor Macduff looked up at the classroom clock. "Well, it appears we’ve run out of time for today," he said as he concluded the class. "On Thursday, we'll continue with what I sometimes like to call, ‘Macbeth: what really happened before that English twit messed it up.’" Some of the students chuckled again as they got up out of their seats.

As the students filed out of the room, the man by the door made his way towards the podium where Professor Macduff was putting papers away in a briefcase. As he approached, he began clapping slightly. "Bravo, Professor," he said. "A most fascinating lecture."

Macbeth looked up at his visitor with a look of mild interest. "And just who would ye be?" he asked "I have problems remembering the names of the students enrolled in my class."

"Oh, I’m not a student here," Castaway explained. "I simply came here to speak to you, Professor, and I arrived a little early."

"What did you want to speak to me about?" Macbeth asked, a little curious.

"I want to talk to you about gargoyles," Castaway explained.

"Not about my book, I hope," Macbeth said. "I’ve had enough people getting on me case about that one."

"Well, your book did have something to do with my visit, yes," Castaway admitted, "But that’s not really why I’m here. Basically, I’d like to hire you as a consultant for the organization I head."

"And what organization might that be?" Macbeth asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A concerned organization, Professor Macduff," the blond-haired man continued. "An organization of people who are frightened. People who see beasts flying over their heads at night and fear for their families. They want to be able to find the strength to protect themselves."

"And what would this have to do with me?" Macbeth asked. There was something about the man which bothered him, but he couldn’t figure out quite what it was. He was just too...friendly.

"A wise man once said, ‘in knowledge is strength’. The people in the organization I head want to know the enemy, its strengths, weaknesses, and what it wants. And, according to my research, you are the best qualified to advise us in this matter. You can provide us with the information that we need about the gargoyles, and give us the strength to fight these beasts."

Macbeth waited a moment before answering. "They aren't beasts, Mr.?"

"Call me Jon," Castaway answered.

"Well," Macbeth continued calmly, "they aren’t beasts, Jon. From all I’ve read about them, they seem to have verra human emotions and show every sign of being intelligent."

"I would be willing to pay you quite handsomely for your time," Castaway offered.

Macbeth shook his head. "I’m sorry," he said, "but money is not of concern to me. I simply don’t want to give my service to a group of people who might use my knowledge to hurt beings that I know to be both intelligent and noble."

"Intelligent? Noble? These creatures are treacherous animals," Castaway countered.

"So, yer true colors begin to show, eh Jon?" Macbeth calmly replied.

"And what is that supposed to mean, Mr. Macduff?" Castaway asked archly.

"Ye’re not quite as neutral on the matter as ye would have lead me ta believe," Macbeth explained. "And because ye call them ‘beasts’ and ‘animals’, it tells me that ye really don’t know much about them."

"What would you know about what gargoyles are like?" Castaway asked indignantly.

"You yerself said that I’m more knowledgeable about gargoyles, Jon," Macbeth said, now really beginning to not like this other man. "And from my extensive research into the matter, I long ago came to the conclusion that most gargoyles subscribed to a higher moral code. They were protectors by nature, not destroyers. In fact, they often fought alongside humans in the past, and we betrayed them much more often than they ever betrayed us. We would build our castles and our settlements on their territory, territory they had lived on and defended for countless years. Only rarely did the gargoyles survive our annexation. In most cases they were chased off or shattered in their sleep, their eggs were smashed, and almost all of their numbers destroyed."

"From time to time," he continued, "human visionaries would make peace with a gargoyle clan, in which case the gargoyles would tend to die defending human castles from invaders for hundreds of years. Did they have a reason to protect us other than that we had moved into their area and needed protection? No. After the English had killed off all their gargoyles for no reason other than existing, didn't the Scottish gargoyles continue to protect castles simply because it was the right thing to do, rather than hiding?"

"They protected humans who lived near them simply to make sure they weren't killed in their sleep!" Castaway argued. "And most likely that arrangement wasn't enough for them, so they slaughtered any human foolish enough to call them allies."

Macbeth sighed, "Dinna ye hear my lecture just now. The story I related to the student is true, at least as far as legends and myths can be true. In 1040, a gargoyle clan in Scotland aided Clan Moray in its struggle against King Duncan. Without the gargoyles, Duncan never would have been overthrown, as he should have been. It’s in my book."

Castaway frowned. "I've read Macbeth, Professor, and I’ve heard of your reporting of the actual events behind it in your book. The example you cite is of a rebel, who sought to overthrow the legitimate government of Scotland at the time."

Macbeth sighed. "Macbeth sought to overthrow Duncan, the cousin he had previously been loyal to, because the man had killed Macbeth’s father, and then had tried to have him killed. It was partly a matter of revenge, but it was also a matter of his own survival, and it most certainly was not a desire for rule. He was wronged by his king, and he took actions that he thought were just."

"Wronged?" Castaway said indignantly. "Duncan was king, and while he did order peoples’ deaths, sometimes secretly, that was part of what being a monarch meant back then. Macbeth had no legal reason for usurping a man who, good or bad, was the rightful king."

"For most kings of that time, Jon, being a monarch meant you exploited your subjects and did whatever you could to live in luxury and keep your power. Duncan killed kin simply because he thought they would betray him. But Macbeth was loyal, and he was a far better man than Duncan, who was a tyrant of the worst sort." Macbeth's voice continued to be calm and level, as though he were giving a lecture to another of his students.

Castaway, despite his name change, was still a descendent of Duncan. He knew that family honor was at stake, and so he had to take the side of his ever-so-great great-grandfather. It was time to abandon diplomacy. "You take the side of a thief and murderer, sir!" he accused. "If Macbeth was so loyal, then why did he want to ascend the throne?"

Macbeth looked at Castaway questioningly for a moment. "You don’t read much history, do you Jon?" When Castaway failed to answer, Macbeth calmly shook his head back and forth. "Ye’re taking the side of a paranoid and a betrayer. Duncan feared losing what he had and thus became a tyrant. He ordered the deaths of relatives who he thought might try to take what he had, and when his hired man, Gillecomgain, threatened to reveal what Duncan had ordered him to do, he arranged for Gillecomgain’s death too. Honor demanded that Macbeth kill him, and after Duncan was dead, there was no one else who was responsible enough to take the throne."

"Duncan was king and he had the right to remove whoever threatened the stability of the nation!" Castaway said forcefully. "By your own words to those students, Duncan would have rightfully won, had Macbeth not made a pact with a group of those monsters! And you even admitted that they later betrayed him when Duncan's son Canmore returned with the English twenty years later."

"One gargoyle betrayed him," Macbeth said flatly. "And she also betrayed the rest of her clan as well."

"Yes," Castaway said. "They were probably rightly smashed, as all of them should be. And even if only one gargoyle betrayed him, I imagine that would have been enough for him! In fact, I think that if Macbeth were alive today, even he would renounce their species for their traitorous deeds, pick up a Quarryhammer and join in the holy crusade!"

Macbeth looked at Castaway for just a moment with an unreadable expression, and then his face brightened with a look of realization. "Wait a minute," he said slowly, a mixture of slight astonishment and fascination in his voice. "I thought I’d seen ye somewhere before. Ye’re that Jon Castaway fellow, the leader of those ‘Quarrymen’ people."

"Yes, I am," Castaway said proudly.

"Well, in that case I’m certainly not goin’ ta help you or your cronies," Macbeth replied in an almost jovial tone. "If I tell you or your people anything about gargoyles, I’m almost sure that the city’ll be filled to the brim with people trying ta exterminate them. I will not see these beings destroyed simply because a few people are afraid of what the gargoyles might do."

"Don't be blind, man!" Castaway said, finally loosing his patience. "Look at what is happening in this city, in this world. People are afraid; they need guidance. Are you afraid, Professor? Do you fear that people you care about will be hurt by winged demons? People fear the night now more than ever because they know it doesn't belong to just them anymore."

Macbeth pinned him with a firm stare. "I'd rather some foolish and gullible people hide in their homes," he said calmly, "than see a lot of reckless, narrow-minded cowards with weapons running around the city, going on some ‘grand hunt’ on peoples’ rooftops and shooting up statuary. I will have no part in what you or yer people represent: the genocide of a race of intelligent beings."

"And how can you be sure they’re so intelligent!" Castaway challenged.

Macbeth smiled calmly. "They’ve been able to keep their roosting ground hidden from ye and yer men for weeks. That seems to me to say that they’re much more intelligent than you Neanderthals."

Castaway just stared at him in shock. "And now, if ye’ll excuse me sir; I dinna think we have anything more to say to each other. Good day." Macbeth then picked up his briefcase and made a show of calmly leaving the classroom.

Castaway simply stood there for a moment, slightly astonished at how abruptly he was brushed off. The emotion was soon replaced by cold anger and outrage. "Mark my words, we shall speak again on this matter. Traitor," Castaway said towards the door the professor had left from. With nothing else left to do, he left the room himself and headed back to his car. On the way, he pulled out a portable phone and dialed Quarryman Headquarters.

A moment later, Adam’s voice answered on the other end. "Hello?"

"Adam," Castaway said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, "I have a little job I want you to do for me tonight."

As the last rays of the evening sun disappeared over the horizon, the seven statues on the battlements of Castle Wyvern began to crack, looking as though they were spontaneously disintegrating. A moment later, they exploded into a shower of stone shards as seven gargoyles awoke from their daily hibernation, roaring and stretching. As soon as they had finished dusting themselves off and leapt to the walkway on their tower, Goliath turned to the clan.

"Elisa has asked us for help in the recent robberies she and her partner have been investigating," Goliath said as everyone gathered around. "We will all be going out on patrol again tonight."

Everyone's expression fell into a look of mild unhappiness, but Brooklyn was especially displeased. "Goliath," he protested, "we've been on patrol all night long for the last three nights in a row. We're getting tired, and with the Quarrymen out there and all, I think it's time we all took a break, just for tonight."

Goliath sighed. "Brooklyn," he said, "I know you are tired; we all are. But the Yakuza have been stepping up their activities these past nights. With that and the museum robberies Elisa has told us about, right now, we cannot afford to relax."

"But Goliath," Brooklyn tried again.

"Enough Brooklyn," Goliath cut him off. "Is that understood?"

Brooklyn didn't answer.

"Is that understood, Second?" Goliath repeated more forcefully.

"Yeah," Brooklyn said reluctantly. "I understand."

"Good," Goliath said. "We'll meet on the battlements in an hour. Until then, you may do whatever you like." With that, the rest of the clan started to disperse. As Brooklyn was beginning to leave, Goliath said in a low voice, a growling edge to it, "Brooklyn, I will talk to you later, in private."

Brooklyn sighed. "Fine," he said, and then headed off to join the others.

A minute later, Brooklyn wandered past the kitchen. The door was partially open and he could see Angela and Broadway inside. His rookery brother was wearing his favorite chef's hat and chopping vegetables as he chatted. He said something that made Angela smile. Brooklyn couldn't stand it. He growled low in his throat and started to stride away from the kitchen and the happy couple, but then he had a thought. He turned on his heel and strolled into the kitchen.

"Hi, Angela," Brooklyn greeted sunnily as he walked inside.

"Hello, Brooklyn," Angela returned, turning towards him as she noticed his presence.

"Yeah, hi," Broadway said cheerfully, and turning to give a smiling expression to his rookery brother.

Brooklyn waited a moment before making his move. "Hey," he asked, "want to come walk through the arboretum with me or something?"

Angela smiled. "That’s sweet, Brooklyn," she said, "but Broadway already asked me to help him with breakfast."

"Well," Brooklyn continued, "I just thought you might want to..."

"Hey, Angela," Broadway interrupted, turning towards her. "You know where I put that oregano?"

Angela turned and went to look in the cupboard. "I’m not sure where it would be."

"Well, do you see the rack with all those little bottles in it?" Broadway asked.

"Yes," Angela said.

"Well," Broadway continued, "just look at the bottles. One of them should have the oregano in it."

As Angela searched, a look of concentration on her face, Brooklyn slowly came up next to Angela. "Look, Angie," he began, "it’s just that...well...we haven’t really been spending that much time together lately, and I thought maybe we could..."

Suddenly, Angela’s face gained a look of triumph. "Oh, here it is!" she said, pulling out the bottle of spice. She handed it to Broadway, and then turned to look towards Brooklyn "Brooklyn," she said, "it was nice of you to offer to be with me tonight, but Broadway asked me first. I’m sorry, but I just can’t accept."

For a moment, Brooklyn looked like he might press the issue, then his features slumped in defeat and he sighed. "Yeah, yeah," Brooklyn muttered, "I get the hint." And with that, he walked out of the room and down the hall.

"Bye," Broadway said absently, his face buried in a cookbook. "Hey, Angela, want to get me some eggs?"

"Yes...sure," Angela said uncertainly. As she headed over to the refrigerator, she stopped and turned to look at Brooklyn’s receding figure, a look of worry on her face.

Professor Walker checked her office one last time then picked up her midterm ladened backpack. As she turned the key in her office door she heard noise in the office across the hall. "Strange," she thought to herself, "Len should still be in class."

Her eyebrows drew down in a frown, and she stopped and set her backpack down on the floor for a moment. "Len?" she called towards the office door. "You still here?"

No answer. Her frown darkened. "Len?" she called again, as she moved towards the other office and tapped at the door. Again, there was no answer, either to her voice or to her tapping on the door. She pushed at the door to see if it was unlocked.

It door swung open easily, startling a young man who was behind Macduff’s desk. Joanna pinned him with a glare and asked, "And what, pray tell, do you think you’re doing?"

"Um--" the young man stammered, obviously scared out of his mind at having been discovered. "Uh, I was, uh, looking for Professor Macduff, and he wasn't in any of the classrooms...."

Joanna put one hand on her hip. "So you broke into his office? And thought you might find him in one of his desk drawers?"

The young man flushed a dark red, and said nothing.

"Look, I don't have to tell you that this is serious business. Snooping around a professor's office during midterms could get you called up before the dean." Joanna tilted her head at the door, and the boy quickly followed her gesture out into the hall. "It could even get you expelled, and I know you don't want that, do you?"

The boy shook his head silently.

Joanna continued to pin him with her gaze for a minute, while she thought about what to do. "You weren't in there long enough to find anything, I know that," she said at last. "So get going, and don't you try pulling a stunt like that again. If you're lucky, I might forget what you look like. Now get." She folded her arms as she watched the young man hurry out of the office and down the hall.

As soon as the young man was gone, she went over to check the desk drawer. Fortunately, the lock was still intact; the thief hadn’t managed to get anything. Nodding in satisfaction, she went out of the office, and shut the door and locked it before going on her way. "Gotta tell Len about that later," she muttered under her breath, as she continued down the hall towards her car.

An hour later, Adam sat in Castaway’s office, in a chair opposite the man himself. Adam looked at his feet unable to make eye contact with Castaway, embarrassed that he had failed the man he looked up to. Castaway, for his part, was not pleased with Adam’s performance, and made no effort to hide his "disappointment" with his assistant.

"How could let a college professor stop you from completing your assigned mission?" Castaway asked angrily.

"Well, sir," Adam tried to explain, "if I’d stayed there, she might have called campus security. It would have looked very suspicious, and there might have been trouble when they asked about why the Quarrymen would have someone break into somebody else’s office. So I assumed the best thing to do under the circumstances would be to get out of there right then. We can always try again later, sir."

Castaway waited for a moment to calm down and compose himself. "You’re right," he said, "we don’t need the police causing us problems. Besides, there probably wasn’t anything truly important in Macduff’s offices anyway."

He took a moment to look at Adam speculatively. "Do you remember the first time you and I met, Adam?"

"Yes, sir," Adam admitted.

"You were sitting in that very chair," Castaway continued, "afraid that I was going to punish you for having let the traitor Elisa Maza get away from our training field near Xanadu. I remember that look on your face, too; the look of nervousness at having to face me, the leader of this organization, about some mistake you’d made. And I also remember how surprised you were when I instead commended you and offered you this job. Do you recall what I told you then?"

"Of course, sir," Adam replied. "You said not to worry, that I’d done the right thing, and that this organization needed more quick thinkers like myself."

Castaway nodded. "Your actions at Xanadu may not have been a success," he admitted, "but you did indeed do the right thing. Your fellow Quarrymen were at least a minute away; if you’d simply gone to get them, the traitor Maza would have had more than enough time to reach the landing platform and get away scot-free on one of those flitters. As it was, you at least tried your best to stop her, to the point where you even got yourself wounded in the process. That showed dedication to the cause as well as quick thinking, and it was for those qualities that I gave you the position you hold now."

"Thank you, sir," Adam said, feeling better.

"You were one of the first people to join my organization, Adam," Castaway said, "and that gives you a special distinction, because you’ve been one of us since the beginning of this war. So far, you’ve proven yourself to be a fine assistant and an asset to this organization. Efficiency has increased greatly since I gave you this position; you’ve done a great job, and I’m proud of you." Castaway smiled warmly at his assistant.

Adam’s face brightened. "Thank you, sir. You don't know how much that means to me."

"Trying your best is all I expect of any of you," Castaway said, then he became more serious. "Now that that’s done, has there been anything else to report on Mr. Macduff?"

"Yes sir," Adam said. "After I failed to get anything from Macduff’s office, I called around to see if we could get anything else on the man."

"Did you find anything?" Castaway asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Adam replied. "I managed to get a copy of that Nightwatch debate I told you about earlier, the one Lennox Macduff was in. I think you'll find it very interesting." He popped the tape into a video cassette recorder and pressed PLAY.

"This is Nightwatch...", the tape began. Castaway's eyes grew cold as he watched Macduff debate Margot Yale.

Just as Lennox Macduff began to talk about burning Yale at the stake, Castaway hit the STOP button. "It appears I underestimated the strength of Mr. Macduff’s pro-gargoyle stance. I had assumed that anyone with an intimate knowledge of gargoyles would realize they are a threat and need to be destroyed." He turned the TV off and then looked back at Adam.

"There are too many traitors out there, Adam," he continued. "These people foolishly believe that gargoyles can be reasoned with, that peace can be maintained. But I know of at least one gargoyle that has remained alive only because of traitorous, weak members of our race foolishly aiding her - people she eventually betrays and kills in turn."

"That sounds about like those monsters," Adam put in.

"What I’d really like," Castaway stated, "is to be able to talk to someone who knows Mr. Macduff rather well. Adam, can you see about finding some of Macduff’s acquaintances?"

"As a matter of fact, sir," Adam began, "I did some checking on that when I got the tape, and I found that two of the mercenaries we currently have on our payroll used to work for Mr. Macduff."

"Mercenaries?" Castaway asked, intrigued. "Now that is interesting. Why would a noted college professor hire mercenaries?"

"I don’t know, sir," Adam replied. "But they can be brought in easily for questioning, sir."

Castaway nodded. "Do so. I want to know what our friend, Macduff, has been up to."

Castaway’s assistant phoned, and after a few moments the mercenaries known as Banquo and Fleance entered the office. When they stood before Castaway’s desk, he turned to them and looked them over for a moment. "What can you tell me about Lennox Macduff?" he asked.

"Who?" Banquo asked.

"The college professor whose financial records say you used to work for," Castaway explained.

"Him? We always called him ‘Macbeth’ when we were working for him."

"Macbeth?" Castaway asked sharply. This was starting to get interesting. "You mean as in the Macbeth from Shakespeare’s play?"

"I dunno," Banquo said. "That’s just what we called him."

"And I suppose he said that he was a king once, ‘a long time ago.’"

"Hey, how’d you know?" Fleance said, eyes widening in surprise.

"What?" Castaway asked, not understanding.

"Well," Fleance continued, a little more reluctantly, "he said that he'd been a king once, a long time ago. I was wondering how you knew that."

Castaway looked at them with an expression of startled curiosity. "Wait a moment," he said, giving them a disbelieving look, "do you mean to tell me that this man you worked for actually thought that he was the Macbeth, the mid-eleventh century Scottish king?"

"I dunno," Banquo said, shrugging. "He just had us call him that all the time. Maybe, he did, but we didn’t really care, as long as we got paid."

Castaway looked back at the dossier of Lennox Macduff on the table. Picking it up, he flipped through the pages again. "Well," he said, "there’s no mention of Mr. Macduff having ever been in a mental institution before. Actually, there isn’t much in here at all, prior to 1990."

"I’m sorry, sir," Adam said defensively. "It’s the best we could do."

"I know," Castaway said. "It’s just that I find this lack of information about the man to be highly peculiar."

Castaway thought for a moment. "I need to get more information about him from somewhere," he mused. Then he remembered something he’d heard earlier in Macduff’s lecture. "Macduff mentioned he had a wife," he said, "maybe she might know something more about him."

"Ex-wife, you mean," Fleance put in.

"You know her?" Castaway asked with interest.

"Yeah," Banquo answered. "Some good-lookin’ redhead he met in Paris about half a year ago. I was best man when they got married."

"Interesting," Castaway said slowly. "What exactly got them to break up anyway?"

"Dunno," Fleance said. "Up till the wedding day, they were making out real good. Then, the day after the wedding, she went missing and it was like somebody’d put their fires out, ya know?"

Castaway nodded in understanding. "All right then, do you know where she is now?"

"Nah," Banquo said, shaking his head. "We haven’t got a clue. All I really know about her is that she owns some big company or something now."

"What company is that?" Castaway asked.

"I can’t remember. Something like ‘Nightrock’, or ‘Nightbrick’, or -"

"‘Nightstone Unlimited’," Castaway finished for him in a suddenly quiet voice, eyes beginning to widen in what Adam could only figure as shock.

"Yeah, that’s it," Banquo confirmed.

Castaway looked down for a moment, his face slightly pale and his expression one of appalation. "By any chance," he said softly, "did her name happen to be ‘Dominique Destine’?"

"Yeah," Fleance answered. "Why?"

Castaway ignored her. "He actually married her," he said to himself in astonishment. He shook his head slightly and cursed. "He’s going to do it, isn’t he?" he said silently to himself. "That madman’s actually going to ally himself with the Demon and betray mankind to her."

"What was that, sir?" Adam asked.

Castaway quickly shook himself out of his reverie. "Nothing," he said.

Then he turned to Banquo and Fleance. "You two can go now." The two mercenaries stood there for a moment, looked at each other, and then walked out of the room, bewildered expressions on their faces.

As soon as the two mercenaries were out of the office, he turned towards his by now significantly confused assistant. "Um, sir," Adam said carefully, "what’s so important about this ‘Dominique Destine’ person?"

"Nothing," Castaway said, "I just know her, that’s all. I know her well enough to know that if ‘Macbeth’ even thought of associating with her, much less marriage, then he’s an even bigger traitor, and danger, than even I realized."

"So, what do you want to do, sir," Adam asked.

Castaway thought about what he was going to do for a few moments, then turned his attention back to his assistant. "Adam," he said in a calm, but barely controlled voice, "organize a small force of Quarrymen. We're going to pay a little call on ‘Macbeth’."

Not much had been going on in the castle that night. Lexington had been playing with Alex in the nursery, Hudson had been watching television with Bronx, and Brooklyn hadn’t even wanted to go anywhere near Goliath tonight, so he’d come down to the library to see if he could catch up on his reading. Now he sat comfortably in one of the overstuffed chairs, reading a science fiction book he’d taken an interest to a few nights before.

After about five minutes, Goliath came through the front door. The look on his face told the red gargoyle all he needed to know.

He groaned and set down his book. "Goliath," he said, "do we have to go over this?"

"Yes," Goliath said firmly. "I’ve been trying to ignore your recent actions, Brooklyn, but with what happened earlier tonight, I realize this situation needs to be resolved now."

"All right," Brooklyn said. "What exactly is the problem."

"The problem is your contradicting my orders in front of the entire clan," Goliath explained. "When I make a decision, the rest of the clan is supposed to abide by it, and you, as my Second, are supposed to support it. These past few days you have done just the opposite. You have also become increasingly rebellious, disobeying my orders for no apparent reason. That is not proper behavior for a Second, and I will not have it from mine."

"Well," Brooklyn retorted, "maybe I don’t like some of the orders you give. Did you ever think about that?"

"Brooklyn," Goliath said, "if you have a problem with my decisions, then discuss them with me in private..."

"How can I," Brooklyn asked sharply, "when you always tell everyone your plans to begin with?! You never let me in on anything until after it’s set in stone!"

"Brooklyn," Goliath said, "I made you Second because I thought you were the best qualified for the job. Are you trying to inform me that I made the wrong decision? I do not wish to replace you, but if that becomes necessary..."

"Oh," Brooklyn said sarcastically, "and just who would you replace me with?"

"Broadway is also a competent warrior, and he has matured greatly in the last few months," Goliath offered. "He is also more obedient than you..."

"And your daughter has him wrapped around her little finger," Brooklyn pointed out in a low voice, bringing himself up to his full height and looking Goliath in the eyes. "Bet that doesn’t hurt, either."

"That has nothing to do with this!," Goliath said, looking back into Brooklyn’s eyes.

"Oh, yeah," Brooklyn countered. "I’ll bet! After you disappeared on your little ‘world cruise’, I had to take over because you weren’t there! And we did just fine without you, too!"

Goliath’s eyes widened in momentary shock, and then he began to growl. "What are you saying?" he questioned in a threatening tone of voice. "That the clan doesn’t need to have me as leader?"

"It means whatever you think it means," Brooklyn answered in the same tone of voice.

Goliath’s eyes glowed white with suppressed rage. "Are you actually challenging me for leadership of this clan?" he asked.

"Maybe I am," Brooklyn answered.

They stood there, facing each other in a staring match, muscles tensed, eyes glowing white as they prepared to fight. After a moment, the sound of coughing caused them to stop and turn towards the door. The rest of the clan was there, watching the exchange. "Um," Lexington said uneasily, "did we interrupt anything?"

Goliath and Brooklyn paused a moment before answering. "No," Brooklyn said, casting a glance at Goliath. "We were just having a discussion about the fact that I haven’t been doing everything to Goliath’s ‘exacting standards’." He ignored the glare Goliath gave him.

Lexington looked at his rookery brother a little uneasily. "Well, you have been kind of undisciplined lately," he admitted. Brooklyn’s eyes widened a little.

Broadway nodded in agreement. "Goliath made you Second so you could help him out, Brooklyn," he said, "not act like you’re the Leader or something."

Brooklyn turned towards Hudson. "What do you think?"

Hudson sighed. "Ye have been a bit on the rambunctious side, lad," he admitted.

Brooklyn finally turned his gaze on Angela. "And you?" he asked.

Angela’s features twisted into an image of concern and uneasiness. "Well..." she began uneasily. But from the look in her eyes, Brooklyn could tell he didn’t need to hear the rest.

"Fine," Brooklyn said in a low voice, slamming his book down on the nightstand. Then he began to walk out of the room, past the other gargoyles.

"Brooklyn!" Angela said concernedly. "Where are you going?"

"Outside," he replied. "Maybe the cold air out there can cool off my temper before we leave." And with that, he exited out the door. As Brooklyn went down the hallway, however, he stopped to hear the conversation in the room.

Goliath sighed. "I’m growing concerned with the way Brooklyn has been acting recently. He’s been questioning my orders in front of the clan, and he’s begun to disobey some of my less important orders. Something must be done about this, and quickly."

"What d’ye propose to do?" Hudson asked.

"I do not know," Goliath admitted.

"Maybe we should send him to Avalon for a couple of weeks?" he heard Lexington jokingly suggest. "Maybe he can learn to behave or something."

"Yeah," Brooklyn heard Broadway agree in the same tone of voice. "Maybe he can find a girl, too, and stop bugging Angela and me."

"Broadway!" Angela protested.

"Angela," Broadway stated. "Look, we’re best buds and all, but you have to admit, he’s kind of been getting irritating, trying to use his rank just to try to make a pass at you. I think it’s time he got told to buzz off and do his job."

"Well...," Angela said reluctantly. "Maybe..."

Brooklyn didn’t bother to listen to any more of the conversation and went on his way down the hall, head hung low.

Fifteen minutes later, the clan had assembled on the castle battlements. Brooklyn was still looking depressed, a fact that worried Angela. After Goliath had made certain everyone was accounted for, he began to give out instructions.

"The Yakuza have been making more attempts on the warehouses along the East River," Goliath said. "Hudson, you, Angela, and Broadway will come with me to investigate."

The three gargoyles nodded their heads in assent, Angela looking back towards Brooklyn after she’d done so.

"Brooklyn," Goliath continued, turning to face the red gargoyle, "you and Lexington will investigate that robbery Elisa told us about last night," he continued. "Report back on what you find."

"Yeah, sure," Brooklyn said reluctantly.

Angela continued to look at him with concern for a moment, then turned to Goliath. "Father," she said quickly, "if you don’t mind, I’d like to go with Brooklyn tonight."

Brooklyn suddenly looked hopefully at her.

"May I ask why?" Goliath questioned.

"Well," Angela explained, "it’s just that I haven’t flown with him on patrol in a while, and besides that, he asked if I could spend some time with him tonight and I thought..."

"All right," Goliath interrupted, holding up his hand. "Lexington, you’ll come with us then. Angela, you may go with Brooklyn."

Brooklyn practically beamed at the news, but Broadway took Angela by the arm and lead her away for a moment. "What do you think you’re doing?" he asked when they were out of Brooklyn’s earshot.

"Broadway," Angela said in a slightly irritated tone of voice, "first of all, I’m not your personal property. I thought I mentioned something to that effect a while ago. And second, Brooklyn needs someone to talk to right now, in case you haven’t noticed."

"Well, he can talk to Lex or something," Broadway protested.

"The way you two were talking about him earlier?" she half-accused. "I don’t think either of you would make very good company. Father has too much on his mind already, and Hudson probably wouldn’t understand anyway. I’m the only he can really talk to right now."

"But Angela," Broadway protested.

"I have to do this, Broadway," she interrupted. Then she got a slightly concerned look on her face. "Besides, there’s something I need to talk to him about. Alone."

Broadway looked as though he were going to protest again, but before he could speak, Angela placed a finger on his mouth, silencing him. "Don’t be angry, okay, Broadway? It will only be for a short time," she said. Then she got a mischievous grin on her face. "We’ll be able to spend more time together after patrol."

Broadway still looked unconvinced, but he grudgingly said, "Okay."

Angela smiled at him, and then the two of them went back to the rest of the clan. "Are you two ready now?" Goliath asked.

"Yes, Father," Angela answered.

Goliath nodded and then he, Hudson, and Lexington leapt into the air, gliding off towards the East River. Angela walked up to where Brooklyn stood and said, "Shall we go?"

Brooklyn smiled as he bowed and gestured, "After you."

Angela nodded at him, alighted the battlements, and then took off into the night herself.

Just as Brooklyn was about to follow her, Broadway said, "Hey!"

Brooklyn stopped and turned to face his rookery brother. "What?"

"You better make sure nothing happens to her," Broadway warned.

"Don’t worry," Brooklyn assured, "I will....Honest."

And with that, he glided off after Angela, while Broadway went to join the others.

Macbeth sat down in the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace in the den of his house. He put the cup of hot tea that he’d brought in on the nightstand beside the chair, and then picked up the book that already lay on top of it. It was a new action thriller he’d been working his way through the past few nights. "Now for some welcome diversion," he said to himself as he opened the book and picked up the tea.

After a few minutes, the security alarm klaxons began blaring. Macbeth quickly put the tea and book back on the table, muttering, "...right when I was at a good part." He ran to the security control room and took a look at one of the monitors to see what was going on. In the monitor marked OUTSIDE, he could see a group of four helicopters and a small number of flitters approaching. "I’m being invaded!" he said to himself as he quickly punched the set of buttons designed to activate the automatic defenses.

Nothing happened. Macbeth tried activating the defenses again, and again the system failed to respond. "Blast!" Macbeth cursed, hitting the control panel in frustration. "What’s wrong with this stupid piece of junk?"

Macbeth turned towards the video monitors again and cursed a second time as he saw a large number of men in dark blue outfits climbing into the courtyard of his home, and also breaking in through the front door. Quarrymen.

"What do they want?" he said irritatedly as he continued trying to get at least part of his home’s defenses operational.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice blaring through the house on a bullhorn. "Good evening, Mr. Macduff," Castaway said cheerily. Then his tone turned deadly. "Or should I say, ‘Macbeth’!" Macbeth was stunned; did Castaway know who he was? "Actually, I don’t care who you think you are! I’ve come to punish you for your crimes against humanity!"

Macbeth continued to try to activate the castle defenses for a moment before Castaway continued. "Oh, by the way," he said, "I wouldn’t try to turn on your home security system. We’ve already deactivated it, so there’s no use in trying to use it against us."

Macbeth cursed. "How did he do that?" Seeing there was no use staying in the control room, he picked up a wireless microphone lying on the panel and started to head towards the hangar. "Maybe I can distract that hammer-wielding ninny and his men long enough ta get to the hangar," he said to himself.

"What do you want?" Macbeth shouted into the microphone. His voice echoed throughout the house as the signal was sent to various hidden speakers in the place.

"After our little ‘talk’ earlier today, I did some checking into you, ‘Macbeth’!" Castaway said. "And now I know your secret! I know you’ve made some sort of unholy pact with those demons, the gargoyles!"

"Ye're obviously a fool, Castaway," Macbeth retorted. "I don’t have any pacts with gargoyles! What makes ye think I do?"

"I know, Macbeth!" Castaway shouted. "I know that you said Macbeth had had an alliance with those accursed monsters! And, from what I gather of your own recent exploits, you seem to think you’re him! You’ve even gone so far as to try to reforge his old alliance with those monsters, including his ‘old friend’ some months ago. What do they call her now, the new ‘Lady Macbeth’?!"

Macbeth almost stopped in his tracks as he realized what Castaway must have been talking about. "That was a mistake," he said into the microphone. "I hadn’t any idea who that person was at the time."

"A likely story," Castaway spat. "You have intimately associated yourself with these demons, ‘Macbeth’! In so doing, you have betrayed your own kind! And for that you must...."

"Oh, put a cork in it, will ye!" Macbeth interrupted, as he reached the door to the hangar. "Blast it," he said to himself, as he entered the hangar "even when ye’re nowhere near me, ye still cause me grief, don’t ye, Demona?" He still felt uncomfortable thinking about some of the things he’d done with her when he’d thought she was the human, "Dominique Destine."

A minute later, a loud roar could be heard coming from one part of the castle. Castaway suddenly realized what "Macbeth" had been up to. "Quick, to the hangar!"

Five other Quarrymen followed after Castaway through the various halls of the castle, but by the time they entered the hangar, they just in time to see Macbeth’s aircraft take off and head off into the night sky. "Get to the choppers and search the city," Castaway told the others. "I want that traitor brought before me, now! A bonus to the person who captures Macbeth!"

Brooklyn carefully examined the broken display case, hoping to find some clue among the glass shards that the police might have missed. But there was nothing there; even when Brooklyn sniffed the air, all he could get was the scent of the officers who’d been there a few hours before. He shook his head and then turned to Angela, who was quietly examining another of the display cases. "Find anything?" Brooklyn asked quietly.

Angela shook her head. "You?" she asked.

"No," Brooklyn replied dejectedly. He sighed and then turned back to the display case. "What was supposed to have been stolen again?" he asked.

"I think Elisa said it was some sort of ancient map," Angela answered. "But I’m not sure."

"Well I’m sure that this whole trip was a waste of time," Brooklyn said frustratedly. "We come out all this way, and find nothing but an empty crime scene. I mean, there’s nothing here. It’s like the people who busted in here used magic or something! And I hate the fact that Goliath sent us out on some wild goose-chase, too!"

Angela noted the last remark, and immediately walked over to where Brooklyn stood. "Brooklyn," she asked, concern tingeing her voice, "what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Brooklyn said.

"That doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ to me," Angela pressed.

Brooklyn shook his head. "I’m just getting tired of Goliath ordering me around all the time."

"Why?" Angela asked. "From what Father told me, you never had a problem with his orders before. What’s different about them now?"

"Nothing," Brooklyn protested. "It’s just that..."

"You got used to being in charge while Goliath was gone?" Angela suggested. "And that now he’s back, you don’t like having to take orders rather than give them?"

"It’s not like that!" Brooklyn protested. "It’s just..."

Angela waited for a moment, until Brooklyn shrugged his shoulders, unable to say anything.

"I think we should take this someplace more private," Angela suggested quietly. Brooklyn paused for a moment, then nodded.

He followed Angela as she left the exhibit room and then went up by way of stairs, and then a servant’s entrance to the roof of the old building. When they reached the top, Angela walked over to one of the skylights and stood there, gazing at Brooklyn, the stiff wind between the nearby skyscrapers blowing her ponytail up around her shoulders.

When Brooklyn finally reached the skylight, Angela looked him in the eyes. "Now," she asked calmly, "what’s wrong between you and Father?"

"Ah," Brooklyn said, waving her away, "you wouldn’t understand."

"Why?" Angela asked, arching an eyebrow. "Because I’ve never been in your position before?"

"Yes," Brooklyn admitted. He looked at her quizzically. "How come you keep finishing my sentences?" he asked.

"Would it surprise you if I told you that I was the Second of my clan before I left Avalon?" she asked, smiling slyly.

She continued to smile as she watched Brooklyn’s eyes widen in shock. "You were..." he began.

Angela nodded. "Why do you think I was one of the two members of my clan to greet Goliath when he first arrived in Avalon?" she asked. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Brooklyn. I may look like some innocent female who’s been living in a bubble all her life, but I do actually know a few things about leadership myself."

"Man, you’re definitely your mother’s child," Brooklyn commented, still slightly in shock.

"I’ll choose to take that as a compliment," Angela said. "Now, Brooklyn, are you going to tell me what your problem is with Father’s leadership?"

"It’s not his leadership," Brooklyn said.

"Then what," Angela asked. When Brooklyn didn’t respond, Angela looked at him with concern. "Brooklyn, please," she said softly, "one of the reasons I came out here was because I knew you were having problems with Father, and that you needed someone to talk to about it. I’ve been a Second before, and while I haven’t ever been under the kind of pressure you’ve been under lately, I do have an idea of what being a Second is like. I like to help you, but you need to tell me what is wrong."

Brooklyn didn’t answer.

"Please," Angela pleaded slightly.

Brooklyn waited for a moment, and then sighed again, turning away from Angela. "It’s just..." he began.

"Go on," Angela prodded.

"It’s just...I feel like Goliath isn’t treating me or my opinion with the respect I deserve," he finally admitted.

Angela arched one eyebrow and looked questioning at Brooklyn. "With the ‘respect you deserve’?" she asked. "That sounds more like an ego problem to me."

"No, no, I don’t mean it like that," Brooklyn protested, turning to face Angela again. "What I mean is that I’m the Second..."

"And you feel like your opinion is just as important in matters of the clan as Father’s is?" she asked.

"Well...yeah," Brooklyn said. "I don’t want to take over from Goliath. But I’d like it if he acted more like he actually wanted to hear what I thought about things, or hear my opinion before he started giving orders. That’s part of what a Second is supposed to be able to do!"

"A Second’s also supposed to not contradict the Leader’s orders in front of the clan," she reminded. "The Second is supposed to voice his or her own concerns to the Leader in private. Then, when the Leader gives the orders to the clan as a whole, the Second is supposed to support him or her, even if the Second doesn’t like the order. And you have to admit, you haven’t exactly been doing that lately, have you?"

"I know that," Brooklyn insisted. "The problem is Goliath never seems to ask for my opinion on anything! He keeps everything a secret from me until he’s ready to tell everybody about it, and that means if I’m ever going to give an opinion about it, I have to do it in front of the whole clan. I don’t like it any more than Goliath, but that’s the only thing he’s left me with!"

"Well, have you talked with him about it?" Angela asked.

"Yeah, we got around to ‘discussing’ the matter earlier tonight," Brooklyn replied.

"It didn’t look like that to me," Angela said sharply. "It looked more like you two were going to try to kill each other in there. I mean, have you actually tried to talk about this with Father?"

"I’d like to," Brooklyn said slowly, "but he never seems to have the time. And every time he does, he just seems to want to use the ‘talk’ to tell me how I’ve ‘neglected my duties’ or something."

"Well," Angela said, "at least make another attempt. Please? Father’s just got a lot on his mind right now, and he’s just concerned about the rest of the clan. I’m sure you two can work this out, however. Trust me, it will be better for everyone if you two can."

"Okay," Brooklyn said, "I’ll try."

Angela smiled. "Good," she said. "And if Father doesn’t have the time, just come talk to me. I’ll make him have the time." At Brooklyn’s questioning look, Angela smiled slyly. "Broadway isn’t the only person in this clan who I’ve got ‘wrapped around my finger’."

Brooklyn suddenly turned a very deep shade of crimson. "Sorry, Angela," he apologized.

"You’re forgiven," she said.

"And thanks for the offer of help," Brooklyn said.

"You’re welcome, too," Angela said, smiling. "Now, is there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?"

Brooklyn paused for a moment, and then turned to face her, longing in his eyes. "As a matter of fact," he said softly, "there is."

Angela’s expression turned into one of mild concern. "What?"

Brooklyn brought himself up to his full height, a little taller than her own, and moved close to her. He looked into her eyes for a moment before softly saying, "Just this."

Then, before Angela could react, he gently put his arms around her, closed his eyes, and brought her next to him in a passionate embrace. For a moment, Angela hesitated, then she closed her eyes and returned his embrace, drawing her body up to his, and then folded her dark violet wings around his form. Brooklyn responded by gently enveloping her lavender frame with his own wings, and for several long moments they stood there, cocooned in each other’s double embrace, the feeling of the moment making them oblivious to the wind that blew their hair up until they looked like a picture from a romance novel.

After what seemed like an eternity to the two of them, they parted slightly, allowing them to look at each other. Brooklyn savored the feeling of euphoria for a moment, then opened his eyes and smiled when he saw Angela seemingly doing the same thing, her eyes still closed. His smile broadened slightly as she opened her eyes, turned her head away from him, and shook her head slightly, her face in an expression of mild surprise. After a moment, she managed to compose herself and turned back to face him. "What was that about?" she breathed.

He looked deep into her dark eyes. "Angela, I love you," he said gently. "And I’d like to ask you if you would consider me as a mate."

For a moment, Angela simply stared at him. Then her face twisted into an expression of extreme pity. "That’s what I thought," she said sadly. She bowed her head for a moment. "It’s the other reason I wanted to come with you tonight, to try and settle this once and for all."

"Look, Angela," Brooklyn said, "...I know I’m not the most perfect guy in the world, a-and I know I can be a real pain sometime, and I know Broadway’s probably beaten me to you anyway. But I just wanted to say that I love you, and if you’d just give me half a chance...I know I could make you happy, and..."

Angela gently placed a talon to his lips, silencing him. "Can I talk?" she asked.

Brooklyn nodded, and Angela lowered her finger. "I love you too, Brooklyn," she said. "But not like that." She slowly extricated herself from him, and then walked a few feet away before turning to him again. "You’re like a brother to me, Brooklyn," she continued. "But I love Broadway; he’s the one I want to be mated to."

"Are you sure?" Brooklyn asked. "Because I.. "

Angela cut him off with a raised hand. "Brooklyn," she said more firmly, "I guess Broadway was right; I’m going to have to be blunt with you." She walked up close to Brooklyn and looked him in the eyes. "I’m. Not. Interested. In. You," she said, gently but very firmly. "I’m sorry, but that’s the way I feel about this. I’ll always be your friend, Brooklyn; I’d like to hope I’d be a good friend. But my heart belong to Broadway."

"And that’s it?" Brooklyn asked.

Angela nodded. "That’s the decision I’ve made, yes," she said.

Brooklyn sighed and paused for a moment, thinking. "Okay," he said suddenly. "But if that’s true, why did you...respond me like that?"

Angela turned to Brooklyn, and cupped the lower tip of his beak in her hand. Then she looked into his eyes. "I did it because I do care about you very much, Brooklyn," she said softly. "I haven’t been unaware of the way you’ve been looking at Broadway and me lately. I could see that it was eating at you, wanting something you knew in your heart that you probably could never have. That sort of thing is what made my mother the way she is, and I didn’t want you to go down the same road with me. So, since I couldn’t give you my heart forever, I gave it to you for that moment."

"So, in other words, all that was some sort of runner-up prize?" Brooklyn asked sharply. "‘Sorry, Brooklyn, you can’t have me, but here’s a big hug instead?’"

"No, Brooklyn," Angela said, a hurt look on her face. "It wasn’t meant to be like that. It’s a gift I made for you, Brooklyn. I made that moment for you to keep in your heart always, so that even though you’ll never be able to share your love with me, at least you’ll know we shared a moment together. I’d like it if you would accept my gift in the spirit it’s offered in."

Brooklyn paused for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Did you enjoy that," he asked, "or was that just an act?"

Angela turned away from Brooklyn, and paused for a moment before answering. "No," she admitted, "I...did enjoy that moment too. In fact, i-...it felt...very good. But..."

"...not good enough," Brooklyn finished for her.

Angela nodded her head in silence.

Brooklyn sighed heavily, knowing by now that he’d pretty much lost. "Okay, one more question, and then I’ll stop," Brooklyn said. "Did I ever have a chance?"

Angela refused to answer.

"Did I?" Brooklyn insisted. "Angela, I have to know."

Angela continued to pause for a moment, and then she sighed and nodded her head. She turned to Brooklyn again and looked at him. "Brooklyn," she said, "you’re a very handsome male, and a great warrior. You’re intelligent, clever, and you have a great sense of humor. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll make a fine leader someday, and I’m sure that any number of females would love to be mated to you. But..."

"You’re not one of them," Brooklyn finished.

Angela nodded. "If Broadway weren’t here, I’m almost sure I would have chosen you. But he is here, and my heart belongs to him now. You’ll never be able to have it, I’m afraid. I hope you understand."

"Angela, I..." Brooklyn began, then stopped as he noticed something behind her. His eyes widened, and he quickly said, "Angela! Get down!"

"Wha..." Angela began, but she was cut off by a loud roar as a roughly circular hovercraft sped past the building, going at top speed. As Angela stared in shock at the now receding craft, Brooklyn said, "That looks like Macbeth’s plane."

The sound of gunfire coming in the other direction caught the gargoyles’ attention, causing them to whip their heads around. Two dark blue helicopters were approaching from the direction Macbeth had come from, the lead helicopter firing its guns in the direction of Macbeth’s craft. The gargoyles’ eyes widened in horror, though, as they saw the large, golden circle-and-hammer symbols stenciled in on the sides of the pursuing aircraft. "Quarrymen!" Angela said in horror, as the helicopters bore down on their position.

Quickly, the two of them raced over to a service entrance, hiding in the shadows as the helicopters approached at top speed. Brooklyn instinctively moved into a protective position in front of Angela as the two of the watched the helicopters pass by. Fortunately, the Quarrymen seemed more intent on Macbeth, and they went by the building without bothering to notice the gargoyles on the roof.

"What do you suppose that was all about?" Angela asked breathlessly, as they watched the chase recede into the distance.

"I don’t know, Angela," Brooklyn said, "but we’d better tell Goliath about this."

Angela nodded, and a minute later, the two of them were airborne, gliding towards where they thought the rest of the clan might be.

Goliath’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he and the others glided over the warehouse district on the East River. Hudson looked at his leader with mild concern, and not for the first time; the lavender gargoyle had been unnaturally quiet the entire patrol. Finally, Hudson couldn’t stand it any longer.

He maneuvered into a position next to Goliath, and turned to face him. "Would ye mind tellin’ me what’s on your mind, lad?" he asked.

"Nothing," Goliath answered quickly.

"Well, ye look like ye’re concentratin’ pretty hard on ‘nothing’," Hudson continued.

Goliath didn’t answer.

Hudson decided to try a different tack. "You two were almost at each other’s throats earlier tonight," he said. "I was wondering what ye were talking about, that got you two so upset?"

"Nothing," Goliath repeated. "Merely a small argument between us."

"‘Small?’" Hudson said in mock disbelief. "I could hear ye two clear down the hallway. So could the rest of the clan. It had ta be something serious, what with him actually challenging yuir right to lead the clan and all."

"That’s not what that was!" Goliath said quickly.

"That’s what it sounded like ta me," Hudson replied. "And probably the rest of the clan. If he’s getting that rebellious, the perhaps he’s not as good a choice for Second as ye’d first thought?"

Goliath shook his head. "No," he said, "Brooklyn did prove himself to be a capable leader while I was gone. His ability to act independently is a great asset for one in his position. And he also has a strong will, and the ability to command; fine qualities both, for a Second." Goliath sighed. "If only he could temper his impulsiveness and rebellious nature...."

"One person’s ‘rebelliousness’ is another person’s act of trying to liberate himself," Hudson pointed out. "Have ye considered the possibility that he may not be the only source of the problems between ye two?"

Goliath sighed deeply. "Yes, I have. And I’ve begun to think that it is because I have been too hard on him," Goliath admitted. "If nothing else, what happened earlier tonight has made me think that perhaps I have not been giving Brooklyn enough respect."

"Well," Hudson pointed out, "ye have been gettin’ run pretty ragged these past few days and all."

"That’s still no reason for my treatment of him," Goliath said. "I’ve become more authoritarian with Brooklyn, and I need to change that."

Hudson turned his head to the right for a moment and caught sight of something. "Speaking of the lad," he interrupted, "there he is now."

"Where?" Goliath asked, turning his head to look with Hudson. In the distance he could indeed see Brooklyn, along with his daughter, gliding towards them as fast as they could manage. Brooklyn signaled to him to land, and a minute later the clan was gathered on the roof of a nearby warehouse.

"So, you two," Lexington teased, "how was your date?"

Broadway and Angela glared at him, but Goliath ignored the comment and looked at Brooklyn. "What happened?" he asked.

"We didn’t find anything at the museum," Brooklyn said hurriedly, "but we saw Macbeth flying around in his hovercraft."

"The Quarrymen seemed to be chasing him," Angela added.

"Aw come on," Broadway said. "What would the Quarrymen want..."

He was interrupted suddenly by the sound of the hovercraft roaring past them, followed soon after by two dark blue helicopters. As they watched, one of the helicopters started opening fire on Macbeth’s craft, while the other one split off and went to one side and ahead.

"What are they doing?" Lexington asked.

"Let’s wait and watch," Goliath said, motioning the rest of the clan to head towards a service entrance so they could be hidden from the Quarrymen.

As the clan watched, the two Quarrymen helicopters made an attempt to catch Macbeth. The first helicopter dove towards Macbeth's aircraft from behind, guns blazing. At the same time, the second helicopter went around in a large loop and came on an approach from the east, hoping to box Macbeth in so that the first Quarrymen helicopter could go for the kill. Twisting and dodging to avoid the bullets being fired from the helicopter behind him, Macbeth continued to move towards the other aircraft, playing ‘chicken’ with the other craft. The distance quickly closed, and just before the two craft collided, Macbeth threw his plane into a tight roll which brought around and under the helicopter following him. For just a second, the pilot of the first helicopter followed the hovercraft with his eyes, amazed at the maneuver he’d just seen pulled off. When he turned back, he screamed as he saw the second helicopter coming at him at full speed. The pilot tried to do something, but the Quarrymen helicopters, not nearly as maneuverable as Macbeth's aircraft, were unable to turn away from each other. A second later the sound of a crash and the shriek of metal scrapping metal could be heard as the two Quarrymen aircraft sideswiped each other in midair.

Sparks flew as the two helicopter slid past each other, and by some miracle they separated without exploding in midair. But the large clouds of blue-gray smoke coming from the main rotor systems of the now descending helicopters indicated that they’d been too severely damaged for their pilots to recover. Men in dark blue uniforms quickly jumped out of the pinwheeling aircraft, their parachutes opening up as they began their descent to the ground. A few seconds later, the first Quarrymen helicopter hit the roof of a warehouse, exploding on impact; the second waited a moment or two after hitting the street before going up in a ball of flame itself.

"He’s pretty good," Lexington said as the clan simply watched the spectacle before them.

One of the Quarryman from the first helicopter had somehow managed to hold onto his Quarryhammer during the affair, and as he floated towards the ground he cocked the weapon and threw it towards the hovercraft in a desperate attempt to damage his opponent. His aim turned out to be true, however, and the charged head of the weapon hit the hovercraft, burning a hole through its armor and then disappearing inside. A moment later, there was a bright flash from the hole, and the plane began to wobble as smoke started pouring out of the opening.

Macbeth cursed, trying desperately to find some way to reactivate the ship’s systems, but it was no use. The Quarryhammer had shorted out the main electrical system, and the craft was slowly losing altitude. "Blasted luck!" he muttered, as he prepared to evacuate his craft. He quickly steered the ship onto a course that would take it into the Hudson River, and then headed towards the rear of the aircraft, where a flitter lay parked in the ship’s cargo bay. Jumping onto the vehicle, he used a remote to open the bay doors and, once the doors were open, started the flitter’s engine. A moment later, he jetted out of the rear of the floundering hovercraft, turning to one side so as to avoid the smoke trailing from the hole in the ship’s armor. As he rocketed onwards, he suddenly notice the Manhattan Clan standing on the roof of a nearby warehouse building, looking on at what was transpiring in the sky above them.

He immediately turned and headed over to their position, slowing down when he neared the onlooking gargoyles. "Goliath," he asked, "what are ye doing here?"

"We might ask the same of you," Goliath said, "were it not already obvious."

"What got the Quarrymen so steamed at you anyway?" Broadway asked.

Macbeth shook his head. "I’m not sure, exactly, but I think Castaway found out about my little ‘mistake’ in Paris some months ago, and now he wants my head on a pike!"

"That woman causes trouble even when she isn’t around, doesn’t she?" Brooklyn wondered aloud.

Macbeth quickly nodded. "Isn’t that the bloody truth," he agreed. "I any event, I’d better get out of here before reinforcements arrive."

"Macbeth," Goliath said, "the Quarrymen are our enemies as well. I know we haven’t been on good terms in the past, but if you are being threatened by them, then I willingly offer my clan's assistance in your fight."

"Goliath!" Brooklyn protested.

"No thank ye," Macbeth declined, ignoring the red gargoyle. "I don’t need yuir help, and besides it’d be better for ye if ye'd simply leave here and take your clan elsewhere. Castaway is after me right now, but if they see ye, they'll certainly chase after ye too."

"That does not matter," Goliath said. "Gargoyles protect, regardless of risk. It is in our nature to help others. And I will not see the Quarrymen harm anyone, even you."

"I'm immortal, Goliath," Macbeth explained. "Castaway canna kill me no matter what he does. But he can kill all of you easily enough. This is my fight, and I don’t want anyone else to suffer for the sake of an old man who should have died centuries ago."

"Nevertheless," Goliath repeated, "I offer you our assistance."

"Goliath, I appreciate the offer," Macbeth insisted, "but I hafta decline. And I'd best be off before their reinforcements find me." He revved the engine of his flitter and sped off towards downtown.

Goliath looked after him for a moment, then turned to Brooklyn. "Why did you protest my offer in front of Macbeth? Are you saying we shouldn’t help him?"

"No, Goliath," Brooklyn said quickly. "It’s just that I didn’t like the way you just offered our help to him like that. I mean, this is Macbeth we’re talking about; he’s supposed to be one of our enemies."

"He is in trouble, Brooklyn," Goliath stated. "And whether we like it or not, we must help him. It is in our blood to protect those in trouble."

"I don’t know, Goliath," Brooklyn said pointed out cautiously. "He isn't exactly a friend of ours. Remember when he kidnapped Lexington, Bronx, and me, and locked us up in his dungeon? I don’t exactly appreciate getting electrocuted. And how about the Scrolls of Merlin? Or Excalibur? Or when he and Demona teamed up and made off with Coldstone?"

Lexington and Broadway both nodded. "He's got a point, Goliath," Broadway said.

"He was not after any of us two years ago," Goliath countered, "only Demona. Nor were we his primary targets when he tried to acquire the Scrolls of Merlin. Or when he made that attempt on Excalibur, if what you yourself have told me is true. And Macbeth was under the spell of the Weird Sisters when he and Demona abducted Coldstone."

Brooklyn sighed. "Yeah, I know," Brooklyn said, "but he still doesn’t have a very impressive track record. I don’t know if we can trust him not to backstab us after we’ve helped him out."

"Macbeth is a man of honor," Goliath pointed out. "He proved that when we first met him. He could have shattered us easily, but he did not."

"Yeah," Brooklyn snorted. "He waited until we woke up to send ten-thousand volts of electricity through our bodies. Real nice of him. Remind me to send him a thank-you note."

"I’ve seen another side of him, Brooklyn," Angela added. "When Father, Elisa, Bronx, and I saw Macbeth in Paris, he seemed more like a victim than anything else. And he seemed....sad."

"Were you in the way of one of his plots?" Brooklyn asked.

"Well," Angela said uncertainly, "no, but..."

"Then you don’t know what I’m talking about," he finished. At Angela’s shocked look, Brooklyn quickly apologized. "I’m sorry, Angela, but you just don’t. It wasn’t meant as an offense."

He turned back to face Goliath. "Then there’s the fact that the Quarrymen had two helicopters after him," Brooklyn pointed out. "If those were just the ‘advance party’, who knows what else we might have to face."

At that moment, a squad of five flitters, painted in the dark blue of the Quarrymen, sped past, heading in the direction Macbeth had taken earlier.

"See what I mean?" he said. "We don’t know what we’ll be facing if we go after Macbeth. We might even get killed over something that doesn’t even concern us!"

"Those are the risks we take," Goliath said. "Being a protector is not easy, but it is what we do."

"And how do we know this isn’t some sort of trap?" Brooklyn offered. "Maybe he and Castaway cooked up some scheme against us, and all that stuff up there was just to make us think Macbeth needed our help

"I don’t think so," Lexington interjected. "I mean, we just saw him lose his hovercraft, and the Quarrymen just lost two helicopters. If they’re just giving us a show, then it’s an awfully expensive one."

"B’sides," Hudson added, "Macbeth was on the television, arguing about gargoyles with another human. She called us beasts and wanted us captured fer study and whatnot, but he defended us; said that humans should approach us with tolerance and the like. That kind of behavior doesn’t strike me as that of a man who’d join up with Castaway and his ruffians."

"And if it is a trap," Broadway added, "then we need to see what it is."

"Brooklyn," Goliath said, beginning to grow tired of the argument, "if you have such concerns about trust, then why did you not argue with me more about staying with Xanatos?"

Brooklyn sighed. "We had no choice in whether to stay with Xanatos or not," he said, "that’s why I shut up about it. That, and the fact that I didn’t want to start a big fracas with you that time."

Goliath started as Brooklyn continued. "But we do have a choice here, Goliath. Macbeth has caused us a lot of grief in the past, no matter what his motives were. And you’re asking us to go risk our necks on his behalf, when we’re not even sure if we can trust him afterwards. It’s even worse than Xanatos because at least Xanatos’ life was in jeopardy, and so was the city. Macbeth can’t be killed by anyone other than Demona. And even if the Quarrymen did kill him; they’re not threatening the city..."

"Yet," Goliath interrupted. "But they will eventually."

"Yes," Brooklyn continued, "but how can we protect anyone from those people if we don’t make it past tonight in one piece?"

"I understand, Brooklyn," Goliath said. "But I am clan leader, and in spite of what you’ve said, I have decided that we will help Macbeth. Will you support me on this decision?"

Brooklyn paused for a moment, to see if he could come up with anything else, then sighed when he couldn’t. "All right," he finally agreed, "if you say we help him, we help him. But I want to go on record that I have problems about doing this."

"Noted," Goliath said.

Then he and the rest of the clan turned to leap off the building, and few seconds later the clan was airborne again, trying to catch up with Macbeth and his pursuers.

Margot Yale picked up a glass of water from her desk and drank about half of it before setting it back down. She looked longingly towards the bottom drawer for a moment, and then turned to look across her desk at her late-evening visitor. "So, Ms. O'Connor," she said politely to her guest, "how are you enjoying New York so far?"

Mavis O’Connor sat comfortably across from Margot, her hands clasped in the lap of her forest green business suit. She cast a slightly concerned look towards the district attorney. "Well, Mrs. Yale...," Mavis began.

"~Ms.~ Yale," Margot corrected.

"Well, Ms. Yale," Mavis continued, "it’s nice enough, but New York is a great deal more lawless than I’d been expectin’. I mean, I’ve actually been places where people were shootin’ at each other in the broad daylight! I tell ye, they never had anythin’ like this back in the part of Ireland where I come from! Though I must say they’ve their share of violence in Northern Ireland, what with the IRA and all!" She shook her head sadly. "Me own cousin Corbie joined up with the hooligans a while back, if ye can believe it!"

"Oh," Margot gasped.

Mavis nodded her head. "Sure and she always was a bit off in the head, the poor mite. I haven't heard from her since; I don’t even know if the poor girl’s still alive."

"I’m sorry," Margot said comfortingly.

"It’s all right," Mavis said. She smiled ironically. "Me family's no stranger to violence, but we've managed." She chuckled a little. "But then there's all the things I've seen in this city that are more than a wee bit odd. It's just yesterday I saw a man runnin' down the street shoutin' 'Tally Ho!', and him wavin' an umbrella all over Creation. And here's meself staring at him like a fool, and no one else givin' so much as a second glance."

"Well," Margot admitted, smiling, "after a while living here, you don't even notice the strangeness anymore. Besides, I’m originally from southern California, and you can believe me when I say that that place makes this city look positively normal." Mavis still looked a little unconvinced. "Don’t worry," Margot continued, "you’ll get used to it."

"Well, if you say so," Mavis said. "But I need to be gettin’ down to business with ye anyway. What I came here for was ta ask ye if yer department has been gettin’ any closer ta catching those people who tried to rob one of our warehouses about two weeks ago."

"Well," Margot said, "we’ve been doing the best job we can, but there isn’t much in the way of hard evidence against the Yakuza that’s been found yet. I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to wait until we find something that can stick on them."

"Ms. Yale...," Mavis said, sounding somewhat indignant now, "d'ye think Mr. Maddox and I moved our business here to be robbed blind by a pack of thieves? If you can't find some way of keepin' these bandits out of our house, we'll be having to move back to Europe!"

Margot closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. "Ms. O’Connor, I can sympathize," she said calmly, "and the city of New York certainly doesn’t want to see Maddox Technologies move away. But you have to understand that we’re being terribly overworked right now, what with the gargoyles, these recent museum theft, this one group of federal officers, and the Quarrymen...."

"That’s another thing that been disturbin’ me about this city," Mavis interrupted. "...those Quarrymen people. Sure I can't be sleeping easy in this city and those hammer-wielding hooligans smashin' every piece of sculpture they set eyes on. What's to say they'll not take it into their heads to be smashin' somethin' else next? People could be gettin' hurt like that."

Margot sighed. "Ms. O'Connor, I understand your concern," she said reassuringly, "but you must know that the city of New York and the Quarrymen do not condone the injuring of civilians or the destruction of public property. So far, the Quarrymen’s activities, though they have seemed alarming to some, have been totally benign..." Her voice was suddenly drowned out by a roar outside her large picture window.

A flitter flew a few feet outside her office, the roar of its engine rattling the windows. It was so close, in fact, that Margot was almost positive that she could actually identify its driver. It looked like that horrid man she had been debating on television, Lennox Macduff. Margot looked over to see Mavis look at the sight with a mixture of mild surprise and curiosity.

Then, few seconds later, an even louder roar and bigger rattling of windows announced the passing of a squad of mask-wearing, blue-clad Quarrymen on aircycles. As they flew by the windows, one of them aimed and shot a laser rifle, the thin red beam going off in the direction the first man had gone in.

Mavis got a bemused expression on her face as she asked, "You were sayin’, Ms. Yale?"

Margot was too stunned to say anything for a minute, and just as she was getting calmed down, several winged shapes glided past the window, one of them coming so close by that it nearly scared her out of her seat. After a moment she managed to calm herself enough to turn around and open up the drawer she’d been eyeing earlier about halfway.

She reached in and pulled out a small bottle of aspirin, unstopped it, and then popped a couple of the white pills into her mouth, washing then down with the last of the water. After a moment, she set the bottle and the glass down and moaned, "Not those creatures again!"

"I take you’ve run inta them a time or two?" Mavis inquired, having relaxed and seemingly been unperturbed by the passing of the gargoyles by the building.

Margot leaned back in her chair and sighed, her features sagging. "You have no idea," she muttered. "You have absolutely no idea."

The leader of the Quarrymen flitter squad chasing after Macbeth smiled as he maneuvered between the buildings of downtown Manhattan. Macbeth weaved and turned through the concrete canyons made by the skyscrapers

After a moment, he switched on his radio. "Team Two to Leader," he said into the device. "We are in pursuit of target and will soon be in weapons range. Do we have permission to fire? Over."

The radio crackled. "This is Leader," Castaway voice answered. "Permission granted. But do not, repeat, do not shoot to kill. I want Macduff alive. Force him down, but under no circumstances are you to use lethal force. Is that understood, Team Two? Over."

"Yes sir," the flitter leader said. "Over."

"Good," Castaway’s voice said. "In the meantime, I will be bringing the rest of the force to rendezvous with you and assist in the capture of the traitor. If you can’t bring Macbeth down yourself, try to push him towards us. Is that understood, Team Two? Over."

"Acknowledged, Leader. Over and out," he relayed the instructions to the rest of his team and then increased the throttle on his flitter, pushing it to the limit of its speed. The others followed suit, and soon they were within weapons range of Macbeth’s vehicle.

"Team Two," the leader said into his radio, "target is in range. Fire at will!"

Beams of blue-white light erupted from the front of each of the five Quarrymen flitters, the laser beams lancing towards Macbeth’s vehicle. Macbeth dodged and weaved, trying to keep from getting hit, but eventually one of the laser beams hit his vehicle, and soon a cloud of dark gray smoke started coming of the rear of it.

Macbeth cursed as the engine on his flitter began to stutter and he began to lose altitude. Quickly, he turned it towards a nearby building, and made what could have only be called a controlled crash on its flat roof. "One of these days," he muttered, as he got off the flitter and backed away from it before it could have a chance to explode, "I'm going to have report this to the insurance companies just to see what they say. They'd probably have me committed."

Just then the flitter exploded with a deafening roar, a ball of fire rising from where it used to be. The shock wave knocked Macbeth a few feet onto the roof, dazing him slightly. For a few moments he lay there, then, groaning and shaking his head, he slowly got back up onto his feet.

By now the Quarrymen had reached his location and he saw that they’d surrounded him, landing their flitters in a circle around him. Quickly, Macbeth whipped out his lightning-thrower and aimed it at what he assumed to be the leader of the Quarrymen flitter squad.

"Drop your weapon," the leader ordered.

Macbeth continued to aim his weapon at the leader.

"I said, drop your weapon," the leader ordered again, and this time Macbeth could hear the multiple clicks of laser rifles being brought to bear on him. He took a moment to look and saw that the other flitter drivers indeed had their weapons trained on him, the laser sights marking him with several iridescent red dots.

Macbeth paused for a moment, then, with a look of disgust and frustration on his face, he dropped his lightning-thrower and turned to face his pursuers.

"Kick it over to us," the leader said.

Macbeth did as was told. "So, what are ye goin' to do with me?" he asked.

"That’s for Castaway to decide," the leader said.

"And I assume if I try to escape, ye’ll shoot me?" Macbeth guessed.

"That's right," the leader of the flitter team confirmed. He palmed his radio and switched it on. "Leader, this is Team Two. We have the old geezer at gunpoint..."

"Geezer?!" Macbeth interrupted, outraged.

"...and are awaiting further orders. Over," the flitter team leader finished, ignoring Macbeth.

"Excellent!" Castaway’s voice said. "We are two minutes from your position with the rest of the strike team. Hold onto him until we can reach you. Over."

"Acknowledged. Over and out," the leader said, turning his radio off and putting it away. He and his men kept their weapons trained on Macbeth, who simply stood there, defiantly.

A couple of minutes later, the last two Quarryman helicopters arrived. They landed near where the flitter pilots sat and after a moment, their occupants filed out guns or Quarryhammers in their hands. Macbeth turned to face these new people, and immediately identified Castaway. But his eyes widened in shock when he also recognized his former employees, Banquo and Fleance.

The mercenaries noted the look on their former employer’s face and smiled. "Surprised to see us, Mr. Macbeth?" Fleance asked.

"Wh-what are ye two doing here?" Macbeth asked, astonished. "And in those outfits?"

Castaway smiled at him. "Isn’t it obvious, Mr. Macduff?" he said. "I hired them after they left your service a few months ago. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that they had previously been in your employ, ‘Macbeth’." He turned towards the two mercenaries. "I must say, though, you have excellent taste in servants. These two have done many a valuable service to me and my little organization."

"But why?" Macbeth asked, turning to the two mercenaries and still not quite believing what he was seeing. "I trusted ye two; treated ye like family!"

"Two reasons," Banquo explained. "First is all that stuff you put us through when we were working for ya. People we can handle, no problem. And even those gargoyle things weren’t too bad."

"But that flying stone dragon was too much," Fleance added. "I mean, we’re mercenaries, not the Knights of the Round Table or anything."

"But you knew the risks, I told ye something of them meself when I hired ye both," Macbeth protested. "And, anyway, I paid you well for your work."

"That’s the other thing," Fleance said. "We don’t care about you or your stupid treasure hunts. All we care about is getting paid. Castaway offered us more money than you did, so we left you for him."

Castaway continued to smile, a hint of his inner madness in his eyes. "Well, enough of the chit-chat. Let’s get down to business." With that, he cocked the Quarryhammer he held in his hands, charging the head. As the head vibrated, Castaway turned to it for a second to listen to the sound, then turned to Macbeth saying, "‘Hear it not, Macbeth? For it is a knell, that summons thee to heaven or to hell.’"

"If ye’re planning on doing away with me with that oversized nutcracker, Castaway, just do it and stop trying to bore me to death by quoting that man and his book of lies."

Castaway smiled. "It seems that even Shakespeare has his critics. Perhaps another quote will change your mind. ‘Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’ Now there is one that probably rings a few bells, eh, ‘Macbeth’? Unless you have a better suggestion on how I should kill you? Perhaps the same way you supposedly killed King Duncan? How exactly was that, again?"

"He killed my father, I killed him, you try to kill me, and so on. This kind of thing accomplishes nothing." He looked up, his eyes widening in mild disbelief for a moment. Then he turned back towards Castaway, smiling. "Which is why, even after all I have done to them, they are helping me."

"Who..." Castaway began.

A loud roar in the distance cut him off, and everyone turned to see several winged shapes off in the distance. "Not now!" Castaway cursed. He turned to the flitter squad. "Well," he ordered, "don’t just sit there! Get the monsters!"

The leader of the team nodded, and the four flitters took off, streaking towards the gargoyles.

Castaway turned his attention back to Macbeth. "Now where were w-" he started.

"I think we were doing this," Macbeth interrupted as he punched Castaway in the face. Castaway fell to the floor, letting go of his still-charged Quarryhammer. Fleance tried to aim the gun she carried at her former employer, but before she could fire, Macbeth quickly picked up Castaway’s Quarryhammer and threw it at her. The head hit the mercenary’s gun, causing it to explode as the hammer’s charge was released.

While everyone was distracted, Macbeth jumped and rolled over to where his own weapon lay. Picking it up, he quickly ran over to one of the surface vents and, using it for cover, began to fire at the now-reorganized Quarrymen. They returned fire, Banquo, Fleance, and some of the others using the helicopters for cover, and soon the air between the two sides was brightly light by laser-fire and electricity as the shoot-out commenced.

Goliath watched as the five Quarrymen flitters took off from the roof of the building and headed towards him and his clan. "Brooklyn, Angela," he ordered, "go on ahead and help Macbeth. The rest of you, follow me!" And with that he headed towards the flitters, Broadway, Lexington, and Hudson turned to follow him, while Brooklyn and Angela dove towards the shoot-out between Macbeth and the Quarrymen.

As Goliath and the three gargoyles with him approached the Quarrymen, they split up, going off in different directions. One flitter peeled off from formation to follow each gargoyle, except for the leader of the unit, who decided to stay somewhat out of the zone of fighting, adding cover fire to whoever needed it.

Goliath and Lexington flew off together, looking behind for a moment to see two of the Quarrymen flitters behind them. Then Goliath turned to Lexington and gave him a signal. Lexington nodded in understanding, and then the two gargoyles separated, taking their respective pursuers with them. They each made their way through the spaces between the buildings, each rounding a block with a Quarrymen flitter right after him. As their paths brought them back onto the same street, they headed towards each other on a collision course, their respective pursuers staying right behind them, firing their weapons at the gargoyles. They dodged the bullets from the flitters as they came closer and closer, and then at the last second, the two gargoyles dove steeply, getting out of the line of sight of the Quarrymen. The two flitter pilots screamed as they suddenly saw that they were heading on a collision course, and quickly jumped off their vehicles. A moment later, the two flitters collided and exploded in mid-air.

Meanwhile, Castaway had managed to come to and run behind one of the helicopters for protection, and was now joining his men in the shoot-out with his own laser pistol. And while Macbeth was putting up a good fight, several of the Quarrymen were trying to swing around and come at him from behind while their brethren kept him pinned down.

Suddenly, there was a loud roar, and Macbeth turned to see Brooklyn approaching the Quarrymen from the side, eyes glowing. One of the Quarrymen turned and raised his weapon to shoot at Brooklyn while he was still incoming, but Macbeth shot the man with his lightning thrower, stunning him before he could fire. A second later, Brooklyn plowed into a couple of the Quarrymen, using them to break his momentum, and as soon as he was stopped, he began fighting with the others.

After a few seconds, one more of the Quarrymen was out cold, and Brooklyn was battling with another couple when one came up from behind, Quarryhammer raised to strike. As he prepared to bring the hammer down, Macbeth shot him, stunning the Quarryman and causing him to drop his weapon. The clank of the hammer on the roof made Brooklyn notice the person behind him. He looked back for a moment, then at Macbeth with a look of surprise on his face.

Suddenly, the look turned to one of horror, and as Macbeth turned to see what Brooklyn had seen, he was hit with butt of a laser rifle, stunning him and knocking him to the ground. The small group of Quarrymen going around the roof had finally made it to Macbeth’s position, and now one of them stood over Macbeth, rifle in hands. The Quarryman turned his rifle around, and aimed it at Macbeth’s head, saying, "So long, old man!"

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you!" a female voice suddenly said from the side. The Quarryman had just enough time to turned his head in the direction of the voice before Angela, eyes glowing crimson, punched him in the face. The hit knocked the man back several feet, into a couple of the others behind him.

Macbeth shook his head and looked up at his rescuer. "Thank you," he said quickly, before picking up his weapon again and using it to help out Angela.

"You’re welcome," Angela said, not bothering to look back as she took on the other Quarrymen there.

Several hundred yards away, Hudson dodged another stream of bullets fired from the flitter after him. "This is gettin’ old," he said to himself. "I think it’s time I ended it."

Adjusting his wings, he caused himself to slow rapidly, making sure not get hit by any of the bullets or laser beams coming from the flitter. After a few second, the flitter overshot him, and he advanced on it from behind.

The flitter pilot looked around, wondering where his quarry had gone, when suddenly he was grabbed from behind. He cried out in fear as a pair of brownish gargoyle hands grabbed him on the shoulders and lifted him out of his seat.

As the pilot looked up at his captor, Hudson looked down at him and comment, "You know, lad, boys like yerself shouldn’t be playing with such dangerous toys." The flitter, now pilotless, continued forward until it crashed into the side of one of the buildings, exploding on impact. Hudson quickly deposited the pilot on the roof of one of the other buildings, and then flew off to help the others.

The fourth flitter pilot was chasing Broadway, who by now had despaired of ever getting the dark blue craft or its pilot of his tail. To add to that, the remaining flitter pilot had joined his comrade, and was now adding his firepower to the first flitter. Broadway dodged and dived to avoid the laser beams from the aircraft as he headed into an alleyway.

Quickly, he hid in the shadows, waiting for the Quarrymen to come after him. The two flitters stopped at the entrance to the alleyway, and stayed there for a moment as the two pilots looked inside. Then, they slowly entered, carefully looking from side to side.

Broadway waited until the first one had passed by his position, and then jumped onto the second flitter. The pilot, shocked by the sudden appearance of the big, aquamarine gargoyle, put up only a token resistance as Broadway threw him off the flitter and into a nearby trash bin. The flitter pilot in front of him looked back to see what was happening, and once he did, he started turning his flitter around to shoot Broadway out of the sky.

Broadway frantically looked at the controls for a moment, before finally finding the trigger for the forward lasers. Just as the other flitter had turned around to face him, Broadway hit the button, and a moment later a beam of red light shot out from the front of the vehicle. The flitter leader had just enough time to scramble off his flitter before the laser hit it, destroying the vehicle in a ball of fire. As the flitter pilot fell into another trash bin, Broadway figured out how to fly the aircraft he was on, and promptly used it to head back to the others.

When he rejoined the other gargoyles on the Quarrymen flitter, Lexington took a moment to look at the vehicle. "Nice wheels," he commented.

"Thanks," Broadway said, smiling. "Just something I borrowed for a while."

"Is that all of them?" Goliath asked the others.

"As far as we know," Hudson answered.

Goliath nodded. "Then we must go to help the others." And with that, the gargoyles went off towards the warehouse.

On the warehouse roof, it was becoming apparent to both sides that the tide was turning against the Quarrymen. Most of the Quarrymen outside the helicopters there had been knocked out, while rest were scrambling into the aircraft, trying to keep from getting attacked by Brooklyn. The helicopter pilots began to frantically work their controls and the rotors began to spin as the craft were started up.

Castaway looked at Macbeth and Angela fighting with the last of the Quarrymen near them. As Angela took out the last of the Quarrymen, Castaway took aim and fired at Macbeth. The shot hit him in the shoulder, and the lavender gargoyle turned in horror as he went down.

As Castaway prepared to fire at Angela, Brooklyn shouted, "No!" and quickly tackled him. The shot went wild, but it managed to graze Angela, bringing her down as well. Brooklyn took a second to look in horror at the sight, which gave Castaway enough time to pick up a Quarryhammer that had been laying down next to him. Brooklyn cried out as the charged head came down on him, and when it dissipated, Brooklyn fell to the ground, stunned.

Castaway was about to deliver a second, final, blow when he heard a roar in the distance and saw the rest of the Manhattan Clan coming towards them. Knowing that he couldn’t fight them off with his ground forces at this point, Castaway retreated to the helicopters.

"Come on," he said as he got into the helicopter nearest him, along with Banquo and Fleance, "Get these planes into the air, and then destroy them with the main guns! Then turn the them on the gargoyles that are incoming!" The pilot quickly nodded, and radioed in to the other aircraft to do the same.

As Brooklyn began to rouse himself, he could see the second helicopter lifting off the roof and turning towards Macbeth and Angela’s position. Both were still sprawled out on the roof, seemingly unconscious, as the aircraft hovered and rotated, bringing it’s forward guns to bare on the two of them. Quickly, Brooklyn looked around him for a weapon, finally picking up the Quarryhammer the one Quarryman had almost hit him with. As the helicopter’s guns finally moved into position and prepared to fire, Brooklyn cocked the hammer and threw it with all his might towards the main rotor of the aircraft.

The weapon hit dead on and discharged its energy into the rotor system of the helicopter, which promptly exploded. Without the main rotors holding it aloft, the helicopter crashed back onto the roof, damaging its guns beyond repair. One of the rotor blades, meanwhile, sailed off into the other helicopter, damaging its tail section.

As Angela and Macbeth began to come to, they could hear Jon Castaway practically screaming at Banquo and Fleance to continue going after the gargoyles. A moment later, they saw him look back and see the rest of the Manhattan Clan heading in their general direction. After a moment he nodded his head, and the helicopter, still reeling from the damage it had sustained, began to head away at its best speed.

As the Quarrymen helicopter was leaving, Castaway stuck his head out of one of the side doors. "This isn't over, monsters!" he shouted. Then he pulled his head back in, and a moment later the helicopter sped off through the city streets, faster than the gargoyles could hope to follow.

Brooklyn paused to watch the receding craft for a few seconds, and then immediately headed over to where Angela was, groaning as she tried to get up. Brooklyn helped to stand on her feet and let her lean on him as she wobbled slightly.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a concerned tone.

Angela nodded her head. "I’m fine," she said, "just a little shaken."

"What about me?" Brooklyn heard, and turned to see Macbeth getting up, a look of mock hurt on his face.

"Well, you said you were immortal, didn’t you?" Brooklyn explained. "You’ll live," then he turned back to Angela as the clan landed behind him.

After Broadway had landed and gotten off of the Quarrymen flitter, he rushed over to their position. And as he approached, Angela went to him immediately, leaving Brooklyn slightly stunned. She and Broadway embraced for a moment. "Are you all right, Angela?"

"Yes," she said, smiling. Then she turned back to Brooklyn. "I’m fine thanks to Brooklyn."

Broadway turned to look at his rookery brother. "Hey, Brooklyn," he said seriously, "I saw what you did when we were coming in. You don’t know how much she means to me. Thanks for saving her." Then he offered his hand, "I owe you one, pal."

"Thanks," Brooklyn said, accepting the offer of a handshake. "You can pay me back later."

After a moment of shaking hands, Broadway left with Angela to go help with tying up the Quarrymen. As Brooklyn began to go off to help, he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turned to see Macbeth standing behind him, a solemn look on his face.

"Brooklyn," he said, "I also want to thank you for saving me."

"Well, I don’t know why," Brooklyn said. "I mean, Demona wasn’t behind the trigger on either of those choppers."

"Ach," Macbeth said, "could we refrain from using that woman’s name again? I’ve run into it enough times for one day!"

"All right," Brooklyn said, smiling amusedly.

"Never mind that that witch wasn’t here," Macbeth said. "Getting killed by a machine gun isn’t a pleasant experience. Believe me, I should know."

Brooklyn paused for a moment. "Well,...you know," Brooklyn said slowly, "I was actually the one who didn’t want to come after you. I didn’t trust you, and I didn’t think it was such a great idea for us to risk our hides coming after you."

Macbeth sighed. "I understand," he said. "If I had been in yuir position, I probably would have advised my leader ta take the same course of action."

"Yeah, well," Brooklyn said, "I have to admit, I guess I was wrong about you. You did help me out a couple of times back there, when you could have just let me get beaten up by those guys. So I apologize about what I said to Goliath about you, and about what I thought of you."

"There is no need for that, Brooklyn," a voice said from behind the red gargoyle.

He turned again, and saw Goliath standing behind him. "You were giving me what you considered sound advice at the time," he continued. "While it turned out to be incorrect later on, your concerns were valid. And perhaps you did have a point about my being impulsive."

Brooklyn looked at Goliath in mild shock. "Well...thanks," he said.

"I must admit that, while you have been somewhat rambunctious, I have also been a bit too authoritarian in my dealings with you," he said. "I suppose that must have come from not having a strong Second for some two years; I came to view my authority as somewhat absolute among the clan. I apologize, Brooklyn, and I will try to give you more of a voice in the affairs of the clan."

"Well, thanks," Brooklyn said, still somewhat stunned. "And from now on, I’ll try to get a little more under control of myself."

"Good," Goliath said, smiling. "Now, can you ‘stomach’ another order from me?"

"What is it?" Brooklyn asked.

"Would you help the others to tie up the Quarrymen for the police," Goliath asked.

Brooklyn smiled. "Now that’s one order I don’t mind following," he said cheerfully. A moment later, he went to join the rest of the clan, leaving Goliath and Macbeth alone.

"Goliath," Macbeth asked, turning to the lavender gargoyle, "why did ye offer ta help me in the first place, anyway? After all the things that I’ve done ta ye and yuir clan, I would have thought that ye’d leave me ta Castaway’s dogs."

"I know from prior experience that you are not an evil man, Macbeth," Goliath explained. "I felt that you deserved a second chance. The question is, was I correct in assuming that?"

Macbeth got a troubled look on his face. "Goliath," he said, "I know that I’ve done yuir clan wrongs in the past. But I never truly intended yuir clan harm, ye must understand."

"I understand," Goliath said.

"Perhaps it is time for me to make amends," Macbeth said. "I think the first thing I will do is to try to speak out against Castaway and his bigotry, maybe help out that one group I’ve heard about, the PIT Crew."

Goliath smiled. "I think that would be a good start," he agreed.

Macbeth smiled as well. "Ye know," he said wistfully, "it brings back old memories to be fighting side by side with gargoyles, rather than against them." He turned to Goliath. "If your clan is ever in need of help, Goliath, I’ll be there fer ye. Ye can count on it."

"Thank you," Goliath said.

For a moment, they stood there in silence. Then Macbeth started to look around at the scene before them. "I think it best if I got out of here before the police arrive," he said. "Though how ta do it, I wouldn’t know."

"What about that?" Goliath asked, pointing to the Quarrymen flitter.

Macbeth eyed it speculatively. "I think that might work well enough," he said. He walked over to it, looked at for a few seconds, and then got on it. "It’s not much," he said to Goliath, "but at least it’s something for my troubles."

Macbeth started the engine, and as it began to lift off the ground, he waved good-bye to Goliath and the clan. Brooklyn and Angela waved back, as the immortal Scottish king gunned the engine, and then headed off back to his home.

"You know," Brooklyn idly commented as he watched Macbeth speed off into the night, "we can't seem to stay enemies with anyone nowadays. First Xanatos and Fox, and now Macbeth. Next thing you know, Demona’ll be knocking at our door, asking to be readmitted."

"Are you changing your opinion of her?" Goliath asked idly.

"No way," Brooklyn quickly said. "Don’t expect me to stick around when that happens!"

Angela glared at him slightly. "Sorry," he said quickly.

Goliath ignored the by-play and turned in the direction of Wyvern Castle. "Brooklyn, you said earlier tonight that the clan needed to rest for a while," he said. "And right now, I think we earned such a rest. Let’s go home."

With that, he, Hudson and Lexington leapt off the building’s edge, and glided off for Wyvern. As Broadway began to do so himself, he turned and looked at Angela. "Coming?" he asked.

"I’ll be with you in a minute," Angela said, smiling. Broadway nodded and went to join the others.

Angela turned back towards Brooklyn. "I wanted to thank you as well for saving me tonight, Brooklyn," Angela said.

"I did it because I didn’t want either you or Macbeth to get hurt," Brooklyn said. "And also because I care about you, Angela."

"I care about you, too," Angela said. "But you must know that I’ll always love Broadway."

Brooklyn sighed. "I know," he said depressedly.

At Brooklyn’s sudden sad face, Angela put her hand on his shoulder and lifted his head until their eyes met. "There are plenty of other females out there besides me, Brooklyn. I’m sure one of these days you’ll find the one that’s right for you." She shrugged. "Who knows, you might find someone you like so much that, after you’ve met them, you’ll wonder what you saw in me anyway."

Well," Brooklyn said, looking at her speculatively, "you have a great body, and..."

"Brooklyn!" Angela cried out in mock outrage, slapping him playfully on the shoulder.

"...and a wonderful personality," Brooklyn continued. "You’re beautiful both inside and out, and I’d take all the fighting Broadway and I have been having over you as a compliment. You’re a real prize, Angela."

"You aren’t saying that because I’m Goliath’s daughter, are you?" Angela asked.

"No," Brooklyn said, "I’m saying it because you’re you." He sighed. "Look, Angela, I’ll always have feelings for you. But if you just want to keep our relationship to just being ‘good friends’, then I’ll leave it at that."

Angela smiled at that. "Thanks," she said softly. "I appreciate it. And don’t worry, Brooklyn. I’m sure there’s someone out there for you; you just have to find her, or she has to find you. Like my father said to Macbeth once, ‘Keep searching for that love. She’s out there, somewhere.’"

Brooklyn smiled at her for a moment, and then she returned with a smile of her own. Then she went over to the edge of the building and prepared to jump off. She paused for a moment, and then looked back. "Oh, by the way," she said, "don’t call me ‘Angie’ again, okay?"

"Yeah, well, sorry about that," Brooklyn said. "I’ll try not to let it happen again, just so long as you don’t start calling me ‘Brook’."

"Deal," she agreed, smiling back. Then she spread her wings, leapt off the edge, and headed off to join the clan along with Broadway.

Brooklyn stayed on the building rooftop for a moment, watching as Angela glided over to Broadway and then held hands with him. He bowed his head sadly and sighed. "I’ll search, Angela. But I don’t think I’ll ever find someone as good as you," he said after them sadly.

Then, jumping up on the roof ledge, he leapt into the air, and glided off to join with the rest of his clan on the way back to their home.

THE END