Weekend Off
by Amanda Ohlin

Prologue (Thursday)

Mists blanketed the still waters, seeming as calm and placid as the liquid mirror below. Upon closer inspection, the naked eye could catch a hint of motion beneath the outer layers of fog, an unearthly swirling and flowing that belied the motion of ordinary mist. It was almost as if the mists were alive beneath the guise of natural phenomena.

But no one really stopped for closer inspection.

Hidden under the cover of mist, the placid waters began to bubble and roil intensely in one concentrated spot, casting ripples across the mirror. A sharp wind picked up, turning the ripples to churning waves which lashed and beat against the shoreline, the foamy breakers churning and dissipating like bubbles in a massive witch's cauldron. In moments, the calm surface was alive and thoroughly agitated. As if knowing that the sudden storm took all the mortals' attention, the mists and fog condensed upon themselves and rolled slowly back out to sea.

One incredibly massive wave rose up threateningly, and the scattering of fishermen and morning beach walkers retreated inland as it pounced for the shore, self-destructing in a fountain of white foam before it was pulled away in a smooth puddle.

Yet where it crashed, a heavy, leather-bound book lay, worn by age and time. Its cover was sparsely adorned, save for an odd design in the center. One of the joggers, a middle-aged woman who really didn't care about getting her feet wet, splashed over to it through the suddenly docile water. She snatched it up just as a small, hungry tongue of salt water dove for the ground it once rested on.

Walking back up the beach, she inspected the volume in her hands. It was quite old, and worn, yet the bindings held, and the erosion seemed to have little to do with the water. Odd as that was, it intrigued her further. After working for the public library for years, she had developed a keen and consuming interest in old and ancient books. Especially books that wash up on a beach without a drop of water touching the brittle pages.

Turning the leaves over, reading across the Latin phrases and vivid inked pictures, one in particular caught her eye, and she smiled. She knew a certain employee who would love to get his hands on this.

As she shut the book, the picture she'd been looking at flashed briefly to anyone standing nearby.

That of a gargoyle.

Friday

Sarah Adams grunted as she hefted the stack of books in her arms, slowly trudging up the steps of the New York Public Library. It wasn't a long climb by any means, but with the load she was carrying, she felt like she was climbing a mountain slope. Those who passed by her, going in and out of the library, paid little or no attention to her plight. Not for the first time, she was glad for those workout sessions with Fox.

As she approached the doors, someone at least had the peace of mind to hold it open for her, and she flashed him a grateful smile. It was ignored as she stumbled inside and he let go of the handle, hurrying away.

Shrugging it off, she staggered to the nearest checkout counter and gratefully set her load down. The librarian on duty looked first at the stack, and around at the deliverer. "On time?" she asked after a moment.

"Some of them," Sarah said, and the other closed her eyes tiredly. A pang of sympathy flashed through Sarah. The books in there were for a mixture of readers: thrillers for Brooklyn, a mystery or two for Broadway, some titles on New York and modern culture for Angela, a slew of computer books for Sarah and Lex, and romances for Callista. One of the problems with having friends who were mostly gargoyle was that they couldn't easily return borrowed books.

An idea came to her at the mention of Callista, her best friend and current roommate. "Hey, can you get Drew Harrison over here?" she suggested. "He wouldn't mind."

The librarian was confused, albeit interested. "You a friend of his?"

"Sort of." Actually, she thought, his cousin is dating my roommate, but is that really any of your bleedin' business? "Unless you want to try to get through this mess with me."

Shooting her a relieved look, the librarian turned and went into the back room. A moment later, a tall, gaunt young man emerged, with bright green eyes and a mop of straight black hair that continually fell over his eyes. He was quite obviously ill; even with baggy jeans and sweatshirt, it was easy to see that his thinness stemmed from poor health. A wide grin lit up his face as he saw her, followed by an amused chuckle as his eyes fell on the skyscraper of books.

"Catching up on your literature?" he quipped, and she stuck her tongue out at him. "I couldn't read all this in a week of free time."

She shook her head, smiling. "Nope. Helped a few friends out."

Drew started to sort the pile, stacking them by their due dates. "Yeah, right. What do you want?"

Sarah grinned. "The update on Romeo and Juliet, aka Callie and Handsaw." Callista had been going out with Herb "Handsaw" Harrison for a month, and was starting to show the inevitable signs of yet another failed relationship. Since Callie never told her anything, she had to get her information elsewhere.

"Not good." He scowled briefly at the stack of overdue books. "He doesn't tell me much, but every night he's been in asshole mode. Keeps mentioning packing me off to a home."

"And what did you say?"

"Like hell he will," Drew said, and Sarah laughed. "But I don't know about how he's doing with Callie. The damned idiot will probably screw it all up in a week."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. From Drew, this sentiment was unexpected. "Nice thing to say about your own kin, mate."

Sighing, he finished the last scan. "Sorry. Everything's just getting to me. The only reason I still have this job is because I'm not handling food, and it would look bad if they kicked me out. And Handsaw's been getting into this really odd stuff lately." Another pause. "He doesn't deserve her, you know."

Sarah smiled down at the desk. It wasn't hard to see that he liked Callista. But there wasn't much she could do. Callie was extremely stubborn, and all they could do was wait until Handsaw ruined things. Drew, she mused, had to get out and do something.

A thought struck her suddenly. Drew, she had discovered, was extremely interested in myth and folktales, especially about gargoyles. Next to basketball, the gargoyles, especially sightings, were his main interest. He'd even considered joining the PIT crew if he knew how. Maybe he would be interested in her plans for the evening. "You know," she said, "I'm going out to see a movie with some friends tonight. D' you want to come?"

"What?" He stared at her for a moment, then his gaze shifted to something on the floor. "I don't think I can. Believe it or not, I have some plans tonight."

Sarah bit her lip. "Does it have anything to do with--"

"Sort of." Drew got a faraway look in his eyes, then shrugged it off. "I'll call you tomorrow, though. Just a checkup." The fib was obvious. "Say hello to Cal for me."

"I will," Sarah said quietly, picking up her pack and starting off. As she opened the doors, she glanced back to see Drew pick up an old, leatherbound book from the floor and flip absently through it before dealing with another overdue shipment.

New York in the late morning, during the semi-lull between rush hour and lunch hour, actually seemed a bit peaceful. Traffic was horrific as always, but not half as loud. The crowds of people dotting the sidewalks had thinned slightly, and therefore had space to breathe. It was a space of twenty minutes during which the city relaxed, albeit slightly. Considering that this was New York, slightly went a long way.

It was because of this that the figure dashing down the street got so much attention.

A young black woman, her wealth of dark hair in several long braids down her back, sprinted through the crowds at a breakneck pace, clutching a stack of folders like a drowning man to a buoy. As she bolted through the crowds, her eyes wide in panic and her braids flying every which way like a modern Medusa, people had the sense to get the hell out of her way. Anyone who could move that fast in a skirt and hose deserved a clear path.

She vaulted over a mailbox, ducked under a ladder a construction worker was moving, and nearly got hit as she crossed the street and turned into an office building. Dodging several people coming out, she practically slammed her body into the revolving doors, pushing them with her full weight. Before the security guard could stop and question her, she dived into the nearest elevator, which was just about to close.

"22, please," she gasped to a young woman near the elevator panel, her British accent discernible over her panting.

The moment the doors opened on floor 22, she jumped out and ran down the hall to an office at the end, at which point she finally hit the brakes. Taking a few moments to put her heels back on and smooth her clothes and hair, she slowly opened the door, entering the office with as much dignity as she could muster.

"Mr. Vogel, here are the invoices you requested."

Her employer looked up from the papers he was sorting, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. He was a tall, thin, dark-haired man, with a complexion some likened to a prison pallor. Silently, she wondered if he ever got out in the sun.

Preston Vogel allowed a thin smile to crack his icy facade, surprising her. "Miss Reynolds, I am impressed. I asked for these by 10:30, and it is only 10:15."

"It's a gift." As she set down the folders in a neat stack before him, Callista reminded herself to apply for a new job as soon as possible. Vogel paid his secretaries well, better than most she'd been offered, but earning her pay on his schedule was hell. Then again, it was better than the systems analyst job that she had also been offered. It was said that lunch breaks were few, and she wouldn't have had the chance to leave her cubicle. This way, at least, she got some exercise.

Besides, Cyberbiotics was next to Xanatos Enterprises in notoriety. There were almost as many rumors as to the danger of the secrets held in their systems. In this case, Callista decided, the less she knew, the better. Unlike Sarah's boss, her employer wasn't a family friend, and probably would not be inclined to protect her. Also unlike Sarah, she could not stand to be cooped up with a computer all day.

As she stood there, lost in her thoughts, she suddenly became aware that Vogel had finished surveying the files before him. "I am quite impressed," he reiterated. "There is also the matter of the merger with--"

"I called Mr. Jameson this morning. He can make it Monday at 11:30 am, which is the closest time I could barter from him." Callista absently smoothed down her skirt. "However, the condition is that you must be prompt no matter what."

Promptness, she knew, would be no problem. Vogel raised an eyebrow. "And the final budget report?"

"I put it into Vanessa Dayton's hands. If she's as smart as people say, it should be on Mr. Reynard's desk now."

With a slight sigh, Vogel steepled his fingers and sent her a steely glare. "Miss Reynolds," he said after a moment, "what is it you want?"

She smiled; they had finally come to the crux of the matter. "The weekend off."

Vogel relaxed visibly. He had apparently expected something worse, such as a pay raise. "I believe that can be arranged." He tapped at a scheduling sheet at his elbow. "According to this, you are due for time off."

"Thank you, sir." Callista turned to go, then remembered whom she was talking to. "Is that all?"

"As a matter of fact, no. I want you back at work at 8 am Monday morning." He extended a sheaf of papers towards her. "Also, before you go, type up this report and fax a copy to Rydel Systems in Chicago."

Callista nodded and left his office, settling back down at her desk outside. The moment the door clicked shut, she picked up the phone to inform Sarah that they had both made parole.

-To fly-

Seated cross-legged on his bed, Drew Harrison flipped through the brittle pages of his newest find. One of the pros about working in a library was that some of the most interesting things could be found in its depths. Actually, in this case, one of the library technicians had found it herself and given it to him. She was familiar with his interest in modern myth, especially the gargoyle sightings that had recently popped up across New York.

-to sleep-

It was a spellbook of sorts, and one spell in particular caught his eye. Something that might help him more than tons and tons of pills. Amazing, he thought, how one event could change your life. He'd started out the captain of his high school basketball team, had been offered plenty of scholarships, and was recruited right off the bat. But at the end of his sophomore year came a car crash and a bad blood transfusion, and three years later, here he was, a walking medicine cabinet. The doctors were surprised he'd been around this long.

-perchance to dream-

Now he was willing to believe anything, try anything, to improve his condition. To avoid getting put into a home, he'd left his family and holed up with his irritating cousin, who was in the bathroom getting ready for an attempt to patch things up with his date. Drew sighed. Knowing good old Herbert "Handsaw" Harrison, it would be a cold day in hell before he pulled that off. Besides, this current flame was too good for him. She was attractive, well-employed, sweet....

His thoughts trailed off. All right, all right, he did like Callista. But how could he be blamed? She was the first girl Handsaw had brought home who wasn't a self-involved airhead. Maybe if he was in better shape, and if she wasn't involved with his cousin, he might have a chance. If the afternoon's events were any indication, her roommate would be happy to fix them up.

No matter. Drew shrugged it off. He had worse things to worry about, such as Handsaw's sudden interest into checking him into a hospital or nursing home. Looking around at the sparse, meticulously clean apartment they shared, Drew shuddered at the thought. He would prefer to meet his maker in the surgical silence of the apartment right now. At least here there was some semblance of home.

A shadow passed by the window, and he jumped to his feet just in time to see a small group of flying shapes gliding away. Drew smiled; if this gambit didn't work, his last wish would be to at least meet one of them. Gargoyles had fascinated him since the sightings began, especially how certain sightings corresponded with parts of gargoyle myth. Some people had reported having been rescued from muggers, while the myths stated that a gargoyle's main purpose in life was to protect.

He briefly noted that one of the larger shapes was humped slightly, flying with a weight on its back that almost looked like a person. No, it was just his imagination. Still, the thought of it was comforting in a way.

As his cousin emerged from the bathroom, Drew shoved the book hastily out of sight, under the bed with his travel case. He didn't think Handsaw would ask. There was too much he'd kept from his cousin for the book to stand out. For instance, Handsaw, who hated gargoyles, would never know of the most recent sighting, nor that an hour before, Drew had to make a statement to the cops when a fight across the hall had turned bloody. Anything that strengthened Handsaw's resolve to get Drew packed off to a home was best left unsaid.

And he was definitely not telling his cousin that he was leaving tonight.

For good.

"Couldn't we just have taken a taxi?" Sarah griped as she held on to Brooklyn's neck for dear life. The crimson gargoyle grimaced, causing Lex and Broadway to howl with laughter. Angela merely smiled.

Brooklyn, for his part, was not amused. "I wish you would. If you don't stop choking me, I'll dump you right over Times Square!"

"Well, that would make for an interesting headline." As they glided between buildings, she shifted her weight, taking the stress off his neck. "Better?"

"I can breathe," Brooklyn admitted, turning to Broadway. "Which left is it again?"

Broadway gestured for them to follow him, veering off towards the roof of the nearby multiplex. As Brooklyn endeavored to follow, wobbling a bit, Sarah and Lex exchanged glances and burst out laughing again. Since Broadway was leading and Angela had hurt her shoulder on early patrol, Brooklyn had been given the task of carrying Sarah. His companions were having no small laugh at his expense.

Privately, Lex wished that he was saddled with the task; Sarah appeared to be tall, but that was due to her extreme thinness and penchant for Nikes. She wasn't very heavy, and he was sure that he could bear the weight easily. It was just irritating to still be considered the "runt" who wasn't strong enough to do anything right. And he could carry her. He knew he could, if he was only given the chance to. It wasn't fair.

As they landed on the roof of the multiplex, he found reason to amend that thought. Brooklyn landed awkwardly, stumbled, and reared back, depositing Sarah to the concrete with a thud. Landing on her rear, Sarah grabbed what shreds of dignity she had left and jumped to her feet. "Bleeding cretin! What was that for, mate?"

"Well," Brooklyn remarked, "a floor show before the movie couldn't hurt." Having said this, he tried to regain his balance and somehow succeeded in tripping over his tail. Lex and Broadway laughed even harder than before.

Angela rolled her eyes, carefully prying open a nearby trapdoor. "Knock it off, all of you. We don't want to be late for the movie."

They filed in, but not before Sarah whipped her long, pale brown ponytail defiantly at Brooklyn. "On the way back," Brooklyn muttered to no one in particular, "you carry her."

Before Sarah could retort, the lights dimmed, and a familiar overture blared out of the speakers.

Angela leaned over to Sarah. "Is this 'Star Wars' movie as good as Lex makes it out to be?"

"You won't be disappointed."

Callista tapped her shoe impatiently against the pavement, checking her watch again. Seven o'clock. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting it out in a sigh. If she'd known he was going to be this late, she would have begged Sarah to let her come see "Star Wars" with those friends of hers. At least it would be something, and she'd finally get to meet the group that Sarah regularly hung out with. All she knew about them was that they were co-workers at Xanacorp, or so Sarah said.

As the familiar green car pulled around the corner, she recognized it and relaxed. Finally. It somehow managed to make its way through the traffic and pull up beside the curb. The window rolled down to reveal a stocky young man with short reddish hair and an apologetic look on his broad, round face. "I thought you said six-fifteen. I've been waiting out here for the past forty-five minutes!"

"God, Callie, I'm sorry," he said, reaching over to unlock her side. "I really tried to make it, honest. But you know what the traffic's like on a Friday!" The puppy-dog look was on full force now.

She sighed; she was a sucker for that puppy-dog look, for some reason. "All right, all right." As she climbed in to the passenger seat, she noticed an odd pin on his coat, a sort of hammer symbol. For a second, it seemed to flare briefly, a dull crimson glare that commanded her attention. Taking it in her fingers, she peered at the pin closely. "What's this?"

Seeing the pin for the first time, he turned bright red and plucked it off, dropping it into his pocket. "Uh, nothing," he said. "You wanted to eat at Rosie's tonight, right?"

"I guess so," she said, still wondering where she'd seen that emblem. Callista had seen it somewhere, maybe on the news.

But she just wasn't sure...

"I don't believe this." Matt Bluestone glared at the pile of junk mail and useless papers that had appeared on his desk. "All right, who's the wise guy?" he shouted.

The only response was a chorus of snickers as he picked up the mess and dumped it unceremoniously in the trashcan. Matt scowled at the floor for a moment, thinking. It had been a lousy night from the outset. First he'd been late for his shift, then had to pay for it by stopping a domestic violence dispute with Morgan and taking a statement from a rather sick- looking guy across the hall.

And now his desk had become the Valley of the Forgotten Junk Mail. He rubbed his temples, groaning. What a night. Already he had a migraine, and was even starting to hallucinate. For example, that guy in the crowd was starting to look like the one who'd given the statement.

Matt blinked. Wait, that wasn't a hallucination. As if he sensed Matt's eyes on him, the kid ducked back into the crowd. Trying to follow, his ankle caught on a taut string, sending Matt crashing to the floor. More laughter ensued.

As he propped himself up on his elbows, he found himself staring into the smiling face of his partner. "That," Elisa said smugly, "is for filling my car with balloons yesterday."

"I should have known," he grunted, pulling himself to his feet. Looking around, there was no sign of the kid.

Elisa's smile faded. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Matt shook his head. "Must have been my imagination."

"Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-daaaa!" Even Brooklyn was adding a bass line to the rendition of the overture by Sarah, Broadway, and Lexington as they climbed onto the roof and out into the night. Angela was trying not to laugh.

Suddenly, a sharp ringing sound cut through the chorus. Sarah swore and reached into her backpack, pulling out the cellular phone Fox had given her for emergencies. "Quiet down a second. Hello?" A pause. "Callie? How the hell did you get this number?"

Brooklyn rolled his eyes. "Oh boy. Got a copy of 'War and Peace' to read?" Lex started humming again, leaning close to the receiver, and Sarah gently shoved him away.

"No, that was just a friend of mine. Are you all right?" The smile vanished from her face. "Slow down, Callie, tell me what happened. He did WHAT??"

The four gargoyles exchanged glances.

Sarah bit her lip. "Where are you? All right, Callie, go back into Rosie's and stay in there. I think I can get you a ride." Another pause. "How long?" She looked at her friends contemplatively. "About an hour."

There was a squawk that even Angela could hear. "Well, it's the best I can do! This is New York! Just go to Rosie's, find a booth, and get yourself a cup of coffee! I'll get over there as soon as I can." She sighed and hung up. "Looks like our evening's cut short, mates."

"What happened?" Lex asked her as they took off, Sarah clinging to his neck this time.

Sarah sighed. "The inevitable. At least now she has no pretext to kick me out."

Sunrise was coming.

Concealed amidst piles of rubble, Drew sketched the circle on the bare patch of ground he knelt on, taking care not to smudge the line or break the chalk. As he completed the circle, he pulled himself to his feet, but not before gently blowing away the excess chalk dust scattered about. If he didn't want to screw things up, he was going to have to do everything to the letter. No room for mistakes.

Looking out at the skyline for a moment, he reflected on the sanity of what he was doing. At first glance, it seemed ludicrous to be using a book of magic to heal himself, especially when the healing was only a side effect of the true purpose. Then again, what did he have to lose? His father hadn't bothered to come after him, even though he knew exactly where Drew and Handsaw lived; since the accident, Drew and his father had rarely spoken. With his son's basketball playing (and with it his scholarships) out the window, so was most of the affection. Drew couldn't look to his mother; she had been gone for eight years now.

The prospect of being thrown into a home was becoming inevitable. Someday in the near future, he wouldn't be able to resist his family's wishes. They would easily cart him off to a hospital to die hooked up to half a dozen machines. Right now, his prospects were dim.

And if it worked....if it worked, he'd survive. There were other gargoyles in Manhattan, perhaps he could seek their aid. At the least, they might know of a safe haven for him. Hell, the PIT crew might take him in. From what he'd seen and heard, they'd be glad to.

Snapping out of his reverie, he opened the book and turned to the proper page. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, crossing his fingers, and then spoke the words neatly scripted on the page. Although he hadn't bothered to run through them or rehearse them, the unfamiliar words came easily to his lips, as if he'd known them all his life.

He stood there for a few moments as the last word faded into an echo. Nothing happened, and he feared that all his planning had been for naught. Handsaw would give him hell once he got home, that cop who'd spotted him would most likely catch him, and he'd find himself in a home no matter what he did. Damn it!

Then the sun poked its first rays over the horizon.

Suddenly, a feeling of sleepiness, like an intense wave, settled over him. Yet he couldn't slump to the ground, or move at all. As unconsciousness claimed him, the wind picked up, swirling the chalk circle into a cloud of white dust that hovered a moment, then drifted away.

As it cleared, there remained a stone statue of a young man clutching a book.