Chapter 4

The Grimm and the Pearce

Ash was feeling much better after his hot shower. His black leather jacket with the cloth hood was ruined. Damn, that had been his favorite jacket, and that miserable Derek had torn it. Next time he would have to throw on a complete suit of armor, just like that scumbag Derek. The Guard was terrified of going before the Council and announcing his defeat. How many of the Pearce clan had he killed? Forty-six? Yes, that was about right. But Derek, he wouldn't die. Ash had already succeeded twice in wounding the Pearce offspring so severely that he should have died. But this Gargoyle was carved from tenacious wood and escaped him each time by a hair's breadth. His fierce fight with Derek was a matter of honor because this one was the son of the Pearce leader. And Ash was ... well, he was many things. And that's precisely why many things were demanded of him. He strode through the underground tunnel, his violet eyes like a cat's could see perfectly in the dark. It smelled musty down here. Anyone who had once had their basement flooded by a storm knew the smell. It immediately got into your nose, tickled you, played its disgusting game there. And yet the scent was more accessible to bear than that of shit or vomit. Ash headed for the large wooden door. It was decorated with many carvings. From top to bottom, it bore twelve symbols, each representing a member of the Council. At the top was the symbol Ash feared the most. It showed a snake eating an eagle, and it was the symbol of his father. Viktor was the Grimm clan leader. His rules and regulations were supreme for everyone. Ash put his hand around the door handle and tentatively pushed the handle down. Inside, he was already impatiently awaited. He entered the room, which strongly resembled a Roman auditorium in its makeup. Four columns decorated with golden leaves supported the dome-shaped roof, which was pitch black and painted with golden stars. Standing under it, one always felt looking up into the night sky. The semicircular benches formed the rear part of the room. There, arranged by rank and status, sat the twelve elders of the Grimm, looking down on Ash with cold eyes. According to his rank, Ash's father, Viktor, sat at the top. The Guardian stepped into the middle. His head was down, and just as Ash stood in the center, he opened his eyes again and saw it, the painting that had been drawn on the interrogation circle and that he deeply hated because the scene on it was one of the reasons he was here. In a startlingly real-looking scene, the painting portrayed his father Viktor and Orgun, the ranking Pearce, fighting each other to death, while around them weapons flew, axes split skulls, a veritable bloodbath took place because former friends had become bitter enemies. The trigger for this misery had been the death of Ash's mother. The Grimm and the Pearce had once coexisted peacefully. Both clans of Gargoyles had shared their vast empire, but then Orgun became greedy and demanded that Viktor hand over his treasures. When he refused, the Pearce kidnapped Viktor's wife Lavendia and killed her. Since then, the two clans have been at bitter war. What had once begun as an act of revenge quickly became a territorial war, as both sides fought for survival and the city of London.

Ash looked up as one of the twelve Council members cleared his throat. Balthazar, sitting two ranks below Ash's father, addressed him. The gargoyle with a face like that of an eagle owl might seem rather unimpressive to many. At the latest, when his deep voice boomed through the halls, one knew he was not unobtrusive, he was intimidating.

"Well, Ash, what's your report? Were you able to beat Derek this time?"

Ash's answer didn't come easily to his lips, he was ashamed of his failure again.

"Sorry to disappoint you all. But Derek got away."

A murmur crept through the crowd like a hungry predator. Discomfort settled on Ash's shoulders. His eyes drifted toward the man who, as always, had the last word. Viktor's electrifying blue eyes were fixed on his son with an icy coldness. His now graying hair had been smoothed back against his head with a moist gel in tight pulls. He had worn it like this when he was young, except it had been black then.

"He didn't escape you, you fled", the leader spat out contemptuously, "don't think I don't know about your lies. This church and all that hides beneath it is my home. It speaks to me, and I know you jumped the fence again to save your skin. You fled like a coward!"

The Guardian let his father's rebuke wash over him, his every word punishing his past successes, all of which Viktor had obviously forgotten or refused to remember. Ash's eyes now wandered to the rank below his father. From there, a pair of emerald green eyes gazed down at him. Not as angry as his father's, but he couldn't see any will in them to come to his younger brother's aid. Dean was, by law, Viktor's heir to the throne. He would take over the rule in a few years and inwardly could hardly wait until he could finally bear this office. Though Viktor was still active, and he never dreamed of abdicating and handing over the reins to his son.

"Father, my failure tonight should certainly not serve as an excuse. But Derek is a giant, he wounded me in the back with his spear. Because of him, my left wing is battered, and once again, I collided with a human."

"Humans can't see us, as you know", Dean said, his voice sounding schoolmasterly "all we leave behind is wonderment."

"And the belief that London is cursed", Ash countered, "almost every day there's a report in some newspaper about an attack from nowhere. People may not be able to see us, but they can sense us."

"Which is why it's all the more important that we end the war with the Pearce by destroying them completely. Only then will we regain our power, and London will then be ours", Dean blustered at Ash.

His brother's rank made it easy for Dean to speak. As a Guardian, the task of carrying out the Council's injunctions fell naturally to Ash and all the others who held the position. And how many had he already lost to the opposing clan? How many had he had to watch die? Not to mention Elaine ... he suddenly saw her face smeared with blood in his mind's eye. Saw the last breath of life leave her, and she died in his arms. The woman he had loved so much. And as he swallowed the grief, he felt something else inside him instead, sheer anger.

"The Council, as always, stays out of everything, Dean! You can only give orders. You who sit up there and sneer down at us guards. But none of you have any idea what it means to have to give your lives outside the security zone day in and day out."

"THAT'S ENOUGH!", thundered Viktor's voice, creating an echo that demanded obedience but not rebellion.

"Watch your tongue, my boy. Everyone here on the Council has served as a guard at one time or another. We know what kind of tasks we are asking you to do, and we know what kind of losses we have to take. It is an honor to serve as a Guard. If you want to sit up here one day, you should train harder and finally do your duty." Viktor sat back, his cold-hearted eyes still fixed on his son. "Bring us Derek's head, and if you're able, bring Orgun's head as well."

Viktor slapped the desk before him, and the meeting was over. All the Gargoyles present revealed their wings and rustled up from their seats. Ash heard the beating of their wings, which sounded like a swarm of bats in a setting sun. Viktor had spoken, and their blind obedience was the foundation on which the leader's throne stood. No one had ever dared to question Viktor's orders, raise concerns, or even rebel. In Ash's eyes, these Council members were all decadent scumbags who could only feast on their riches and hope that the Council meetings didn't last too long. One by one, the winged beasts flew past Ash and left the hall. In the last rush that the guard felt pass him by, his father's contempt and his brother's indifference brushed him. Ash was left alone. His gaze was fixed on the floor, on the painting in the center. He shouldn't have said that, damn it, why couldn't he keep his cheeky mouth shut? His father had done so many things for the Grimm. But even he had never succeeded in destroying Orgun. He had knocked out his eye in battle, but Viktor had never been able to bring his head home as a trophy. So why was he asking Ash for it now, when he knew what weapons Orgun used to fight with? The guard left the Council chamber behind him. He went to the library, where he liked to escape when he wanted to be alone, because few people came to this part of their underground realm, and those who arrived at all paid no attention to what he was aiming at. Between two-meter high dark oak cabinets, which contained inches of dust in addition to several documents of the time, he hid; he felt comfortable with the dim light on the walls and the smell of the paper bound in leather. One piece of writing had appealed to Ash since he was a child. The history of the Gargoyles. According to legend, the Gargoyles had been cursed never to be seen by a human. In places, Ash was grateful for that, after all, he was something like an angel, only with the wings of a devil. That was also part of their curse. Ash went to the book he always opened when he came down here. It lay neatly as always but closed on the small altar in the center of the room, forming a sort of sanctuary that would draw eyes as he walked in, while the other books sighed to themselves in frustration at not being noticed. His fingers flipped to the page where the story of the Grimm and the Pearce had been written down. How had it ever come to this? After all, they were of the same breed. So why go to war? Because of greed? If Viktor had instead given away his treasures, then Ash's mother Lavendia would still be alive and no one would have to suffer. Again the Gargoyle felt anger in his chest. Just once, he would like to be praised by his father. Would like to be recognized for his deeds. He sacrificed much to protect the Grimm clan from enemy attacks. Yes, and even Derek, he had known that bastard since childhood, had spent many hours with him. Derek was older than Ash, he had taught him many things, which must be why the two had a hard time killing each other. And Orgun, he had laughed with Viktor, had shared bread and wine with him. But then friends had suddenly become enemies. What had begun as a shared destiny had been sacrificed like a lamb in a pagan ritual by the pursuit of more wealth. More than two-hundred years had passed since his mother's murder, and Ash could only look back on a life of darkness. War and destruction have accompanied him like two watchdogs ever since and would always remind him of his rank within the clan. He and Derek had both been trained as Guardians in their youth. The original idea behind this position had been simple. As a Guard, one had to ensure that the humans did not come too close to the Gargoyles' territories. The first legion of guards had worn golden armor topped with dark blue ornaments. Even then, their helmets with their narrow vision slits offered optimal protection for the sensitive head area. In the meantime, these armors were rotting in the cellars of the Grimm clan. Their fighting techniques had also evolved. Mostly armed to their teeth, the Guardians now fought not to be left alone by the humans, but to ensure that the numbers of the opposing clan continued to shrink. It was a blood feud whose horror would not end and which, in the meantime, had taken on many faces. Ash's and Derek's task was to keep an eye out for the enemy, kill them and reclaim more of London's territory. After Lavendia's death, the two clans had scattered in all directions throughout the city. Some hiding places were known, while others had yet to be discovered. That was where the Guardians came in, because the war between the Grimm and the Pearce was also a territorial war. Last month, Ash and his team had been able to liberate a small, disused subway shaft from the Pearce. But four weeks earlier, they had lost their outpost beneath the Museum of Art. And nine years ago, that's when it had happened. Ash felt the chill rise in his heart again, the grief that threatened to break him. Elaine. Every letter in her name hurt him so much. He had loved her, but then she had died in his arms. The squad of guards had set a trap for the Pearce that had turned on them. And again, Ash saw her dying body in his mind's eye. He turned the pages quickly to distract himself and came to the two missing pages. Someone flipped the book closed in his face; it was Dean.

"What are you doing here?", his brother nipped at him like a rabid dog.

"I read", Ash answered him calmly. He knew that Dean was sometimes hot-headed. Ash had beaten his brother in almost every fight when they were kids. Dean hated him for that, as his oldest brother, he had been outclassed by Ash. But Dean's skills amounted to something else. That was why, while still young, he had been appointed to the Council as its chief secretary. Normally, this post fell only to the elders. But Viktor had wanted it that way.

"What do you want, Dean?"

"Father sent me to get you. You know it's dinnertime."

Beneath the cathedrals of Westminster Abbey Church they had their home. Down there, the Grimm people had built themselves a veritable city. In the great hall, they sat together in the evening and shared food. Ash followed Dean down the hallway that led to the parlor. Torches danced on the walls, their warm light breaking in places where they stood no chance against the darkness. At the very front, Viktor sat as the head of the clan, drinking wine from a galvanized cup. He was talking with Vlad, one of the elders. Vlad looked fearsome, with his circular face like that of a pumpkin with circular but hollow eyes. They were perpetually red-rimmed; it was probably due to his overconsumption of wine. Ash liked to compare him to a bloated zombie that had been in the water too long. The guard was walking through the rows when he was suddenly stopped.

"Hi Ash", Jessica beeped at him, touching his hand unabashedly.

"Hi Jessica", Ash sighed, slightly annoyed. He had nothing against her, in fact he liked her, even if she was too much of a pain in his ass at times. She was his pain in the ass, and yes, Jessica's looks weren't bad. Her platinum blonde long hair fell from her head in straight strands. She had a lovely way about her but could abruptly become a beast if teased. And, Ash had to admit, her breasts hung from her body like sweet, ripe apples, and she liked to give a glimpse of them by wearing form-fitting shirts. But today, the watchman didn't feel like flirting. Firstly, he was still bitter about his father's reprimand, secondly, he felt guilty towards Elaine because his heart did not want to forget her. And third, he was uncomfortable with the thought that Jessica had signed up to train as a guard only because of him.

"Well, where did you hang out today?", she asked him, bringing him out of his mind reel.

"I ...", he started to answer but was grabbed by Dean the very next moment and dragged further forward.

"We'll talk later, okay?", he called over to Jessica, but he didn't see her raise her thumb to sign her agreement.

Viktor put down his cup and dismissed Vlad from their conversation with a wave of his hand. The latter stood up and disappeared.

"Sit down", Viktor instructed his sons.

Ash took his rightful seat while Dean joined his father right next to him. There was an empty seat between Viktor and Ash.

"Where is your sister?", the clan leader hissed out displeased.

Between all the excitement, Ash had not noticed that his older sister Freya was not present.

"You know Freya, Father, the spirit of our mother lives in her", Dean tried to reassure his father, who in turn had addressed the question not so much to his eldest son as to Ash. Again, the guardian-gargoyle was at the mercy of his creator's presumptuous gaze.

"I have no idea where she might be", Ash replied wearily.

"Well, go find her! It's getting late, she should be back by now. Surely she's at one of our safe places. Your best bet is to fly over to St. Paul's Cathedral and see if she's there."

Ash was furious. He hadn't even gotten a chance to sit down properly and get something between his teeth after a hard day. Now he had to look for his adventurous sister, too. He stood up, his chair squeaking across the floor with the begrudging sound he had intended to make. Viktor's attitude had made him understand where his place was and what the bloody hell his job was. To babysit his sister again.

The witch’s curse

Tabitha and Abigail Lane were two sisters who could not have been more different. They lived together in their deceased mother's house in a place called Salem. Salem, in the beautiful American state of Massachusetts, would later go down in the history books as the place where most witch trials took place and numerous women were accused of witchcraft, convicted and eventually burned alive at the stake. Salem would later be named the birthplace of witch hunts. What no one in the little town suspected in 1602, there were two witches among the population. Abigail stood for good, she was a feast for every man's eyes, had golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and every local woman envied her. Tabitha was not inferior to her sister in beauty. Her head was covered with raven-black hair and in her eye sockets sparkled deep green emeralds, but in her heart, there was an arctic coldness. With her gloomy aura, she could almost kill people. Abigail loved long walks in the great outdoors, her sister often only went outside when there was lightning and thunder that made you think all hell had broken loose. Yes, they had nothing in common except for one tiny thing. They were both witches. Abigail served the good, using only white magic. Even though many envied her dazzling looks, she always gave people a cheerful smile. She planted hope in hearts whose bottoms had already grown cold. Tabitha was avoided like the plague, the villagers despised her, and their stories about her instilled naked horror in children. As luck would have it, they both had their eye on the same man. George Steam was known as an artist in Salem. A rather gaunt, nondescript man, his face was adorned by a pair of vision aids. He was a sculptor and had carved the Passion of Christ in stone for the local church. George was a free spirit. He didn't care much for the world outside his workshop. But Abigail's insurmountable charm melted even him. If it hadn't been for a little devil named Tabitha. George knew it was wrong to harbor feelings for two women, so he sought solace in further work. He toiled day and night on large blocks of stone, working them with hammer and chisel. Despite the sweaty work, his thoughts about the two women gave him no peace. So the pain he felt about his predicament flowed into his art. Armed with his tools, he formed massive sculptures out of the rock. They had wings that at first looked like those of an angel and lovely faces to go with them, and he called them Gargoyles. One June afternoon, George invited Abigail to his workshop. The good witch had kept her feelings for the sculptor secret from her jealous sister. However, she had no idea that Tabitha had already met with George several times and that he was secretly courting her. Trapped in the bubble of her illusion, George led his beloved to his place of creation that afternoon and proudly presented her with his latest work. Twelve stone figures, as tall and wide as humans themselves, lined up before Abigail's eyes, sending her into a state of wonder.

"And how do you like them?", asked George to his secret love.

Abigail walked past the sculptures. Her delicate hands touched the material, abruptly feeling the devoted love and passion with which they had been made.

"Oh George, they are just beautiful. I can't remember ever beholding anything so magnificent."

Each of the figures was different in its way of making and, therefore, unique. However, one detail united them, their angelic wings on their backs. A feature that stood out that massively distinguished them from other sculptures by other artists and made them special. George had worked on their faces with perfect precision, you got the feeling when you were near them that you were standing in front of a god surrounded by pure light.

"I've even named them," George said, walking up to the two foremost figures, who were obviously male, "these two here are called Viktor and Orgun," he said proudly, his chest lifting as he did so.

"And these two beauties," he continued, pointing to the female figures standing behind Viktor and Orgun, "I have christened Lavendia and Augustine."

Abby let the moment sink in.

"George, your art is so inspiring, but I fear no one in Salem will take notice of them. Worse, maybe people will think you are a heretic and kill you", there was fear in Abigail's voice. She didn't want to lose George at any cost, any more than he wanted to lose her.

"So what do you propose?", the artist asked.

"We need to get them out of Salem. This is not the place for your art. Believe it or not, I have a feeling there will be riots in Salem soon enough. London is a big city with a lot of educated people. I know someone there who might be interested in your sculptures. Together we can make sure they get the attention they deserve."

"Oh Abigail“, George exulted, walking over to her and wrapping his rough artisan hands around her delicate elven fingers, "you are so good to me, how did I ever deserve that? Your plan sounds quite good, but it would consume a vast amount of money, which I'm afraid I don't have."

"Just leave it to me, dearest", she finally added before the two kissed each other and said their goodbyes. Abigail instructed George not to tell anyone else about his Gargoyles. With the help of loyal friends, Abigail got the sculptures out of George's workshop overnight and booked a ship to London for passage. Loading the Gargoyles as cargo, George and Abigail set sail for London in the morning of June 26, in 1602. None of the crew suspected they had a stowaway with them who would rob the loving couple of their happiness and feed it to the crows.

The crossing lasted three days. A time in which George and Abigail were accompanied by pleasant happiness. Not least because the good witch carried a little secret under her heart, which she wanted to tell the artist after their arrival in the city. London's harbor reeked of fish, the salty sea air, and the foul breath of the people. As Abigail and George left their cabin, wild, uncouth rabble from the sailors reached their ears. he gulls were circling high in the air, filling it with screeches that sounded like a saw blade ground over stone. They cavorted on the beams of the many jetties, speculating that a careless sailor somewhere might drop a fish. The rough dock was soon behind George and Abigail, who set off toward town. The good witch had written to the director of the Museum of Art asking for a meeting. She had spoken highly of George's art. To himself, his situation still seemed too surreal, something directed not by human hands but by magic. Workers unloaded George's sculptures from the carts and carried them inside the building at the chosen meeting place. It was down deep into the basement vault for the Gargoyles. Hidden under lino ceilings, the workers, who had been sweating quite a lot while loading, finally put the figures down one by one. The director was already on the scene. George's moment had come, unveiling his artwork. The director, a pot-bellied man named Andrew Powell, who wore a monocle and had a fondness for goatees, looked at the Gargoyles with raised brows. The basement vault was well lit, so he could easily see and judge the performance. George's heart was beating up to his throat. He didn't know how to interpret Mister Powell's facial expression

and the

occasional grunt. Hopefully, the ride had not been in vain.

"Well, Mister Steam", the director began, pursing his lips, "I wish we had met earlier. Your sculptures are extraordinary, and their craftsmanship suggests brilliance. So let me congratulate you, George. With my help, you will soon rise to be one of the best-known artists in all of London. Your, what do you call them, Gargoyles, these figures will soon grace all the churches in the city, oh what am I talking about, the whole world."

George's knees buckled. "Thank you, Mister Powell, that means a lot to me."

The director shook George's hand vigorously. "George, don't you run away from me, my dear boy. I'll see you again tomorrow morning and I'll discuss everything else with you then. I don't want to be too hasty, George, but with your talent, I wouldn't be surprised if the royal family hires you soon."

Following the glow of the many torches, Mister Powell left George and Abigail. Since their departure from the harbor, the two finally had a moment to themselves.

"My dearest Abby", George gushed“, it is only to you that I owe this."

"But only you deserve the credit. The director is right, you have so much talent, George, you can't leave it in such a puny place as Salem."

She stepped closer to him. "My love, there is something else I want to tell you. I carry your child under my heart."

George didn't know how to respond to Abby's confession at first. He felt so much rushing through his chest like a torrent. Most of all, he experienced the bliss that left him speechless for a brief moment.

"Abby ... this ... is ... just AWESOME!"

He lifted his beloved in his arms and spun her in a circle.

"I love you, Abigail. I have always loved you. You are the one I want by my side, for now and ..."

"...Forever and ever, Amen," said a cold-hearted voice that suddenly came out of nowhere.

Its bitter aura preceded it like a shadow as Tabitha made herself known. As always, she was dressed in black clothes; you would have thought she was going to a funeral.

"I knew it, you two were flirting behind my back", the wicked witch spat angrily. Her green cat-like eyes sparkled as if a volcano had exploded.

"Tabitha, let me explain", George tried to calm her down.

"You wretched traitor, don't you dare try to talk your way out of this! I gave you my heart, and this is your thanks? For choosing my boring sister?"

"Leave him alone, Tabitha, this is between you and me."

Abigail stood protectively in front of George. Tabitha slunk back and forth in front of her like a predatory beast. The knife of the betrayal committed against her stabbed deep into her heart, making the black witch forget what she had ever felt for George. She attacked the two of them. Green lightning twitched from her hands and directed itself like flying spears against her sister. Abigail was thrown backwards. George lost his cover and fell victim to Tabitha's unleashed power. A bolt of lightning struck him on the temple, and he fell unconscious. Abigail had recovered from her sister's attack. Although she was a bearer of Good, she had no choice but to confront her vicious blood relative. She countered Tabitha's attack with a bluish beam that shattered the green lightning like a falling china plate. George regained consciousness. At first, he thought he was having a bad dream when he saw the two women fighting. Was it possible? Abigail and Tabitha were witches? Under all the pain, he felt his moral world gradually collapse like a poorly built house. The sisters were engaged in a fierce battle, Good was trying to defeat Evil, Evil was countering with more lightning, intending to subjugate Good. But the dark side in Tabitha had too much power, so she broke Abigail's shield. The good witch stumbled backward, Tabitha's green lightning bolts striking her shoulder, disabling her. George watched as his pregnant mistress lay gasping on the ground in his vulnerable position. Her chest went up and down rapidly at first in panting intervals before flattening out and moving arrhythmically. Smiling triumphantly, Tabitha positioned herself like a menacing shadow over George.

"If you think my revenge is complete with this, you are mistaken. It's not just Abigail you care about, it's your art."

She glanced at the Gargoyles, a diabolical laugh crowning her lips.

"Listen to me carefully, I hereby curse you, George Steam, may your characters be defined by the face of the devil. Never shall any mortal being be able to see them. They are cursed to live a life of darkness and loneliness."

Poisonous green swaths enveloped George's artwork. The rock mass from which they had been crafted splintered from them like scales from a lizard. The Gargoyles had come to life. Their angel wings turned into hideous dragon wings that hung leathery from their backs, branding them as children of evil, while their faces were spared the witch's curse. Like startled ravens and with a scream that sounded like a harpy's attack, George Steam's once magnificent sculptures flew in all directions, creating a hellish noise above their heads. The gargoyles took flight one by one, and Tabitha gazed with a crazed look at her desecration. She was distracted and didn't see Abigail coming from behind her back, pulling a knife from her pocket and plunging it into her devilish sister's heart. Blood gushed from Tabitha's mouth, who, with her last strength, grabbed Abby by the shoulders and whispered, "This changes nothing. My curse continues. From now until forever."

She crashed to the ground. Her lifeblood spread in a circle around her, making it seem as if an alien aura appeared behind her. Abby ran to George, whose life was also hanging by a thread.

"Stay with me, dearest", she pleaded to him, barely able to hold back her tears.

"It's too late, Abigail. My legacy is destroyed. You have seen it, you have seen the Gargoyles flee, and never will a human be able to gaze upon them." Speaking was difficult for him, like a boiling cauldron, his breath went from his chest, a clacking, almost metallic sound. "They may have been tainted with dark magic, but they didn't deserve it. I've come this far, and in the end, I've lost everything."

One last breath, one last look into Abby's beautiful eyes. George Steam died on the spot. Abigail removed his body from the basement vault and buried him secretly in a cemetery. She had no idea where George's sculptures had fled to. London was big; the Gargoyles could be anywhere. Inwardly, she prayed they might find each other and comfort each other. When Abby had shoveled the last bit of earth over George's grave, she knelt.

"My beloved, Tabitha's curse is too powerful for me to undo. But I don't want you to turn in your grave from now on, so I'll try my best to give your sculptures, your gargoyles, at least a small glimmer of hope."

She left George's burial place and walked to a tree that still stood in the cemetery hidden behind bushes and other undergrowth. Abigail touched the trunk, a crack splitting from bottom to top, first the bark and then driving deeper into the wood. It was comparable to Moses parting the sea. Her spell tore the tree in two, creating a zigzagging rift in the earth. White stones lined the path where Abigail's feet tread in this aisle. At the end of the path, Abigail used her magic to create a shrine, an altar. It was very plain, in fact, it was also just a basin that filled with water to the top.

"George, I know I can't make up for lying to you about my true nature", Abigail spoke, turning to the sky, "but this spring shall henceforth serve as a healing chance for your Gargoyles. From this day forth, it shall be known as the Spring of Samhain. Its waters can drive away approaching death or give human life."

To keep prying eyes away from the spring, Abigail placed a protective spell around the site. She completed her work by sealing the spring for a very long time. The Gargoyles had gone up and away. Neither the wind nor the birds saw them, and Abby remained in the dark about their whereabouts. The next year, she gave birth to her and George's son. A single widow, she traveled with Christopher to the south of England, where she settled on a farm and raised her son in proper manner. Christopher suspected his mother was special but never found the courage to ask her about her true origins. Abigail fell ill when he had grown to manhood and was old enough to have a family of his own. The night before she died, she sat down in front of the fireplace and the flames transmitted a vision to her. She saw the Gargoyles and that war would break out between