Forty-Nine

“This is one of my favorites,” Leopold said. “Un moment.” He rubbed his jaw and opened his mouth terrifyingly wide, revealing rows of pointy teeth. Squaring his shoulders, he took a stance that made it look like he was howling at the moon.

“Or this one,” he added. He moved out of the werewolf position, shaking his body as if stretching after a workout. Next he crossed his arms, held his head high, and looked down his nose at us.

“That pose does not look scary,” Dorian said. He tried to make a frightening pose himself, spreading his wings wide, but he nearly lost his balance. The speed of his deterioration was quickening.

“You miss the point, mon amie. In this simple posture, I inch closer … and closer … . It instills fear in the hearts of men!” He guffawed.

“Er, yes,” Dorian said.

“Or how about this one?” Leopold thrust out his chin, baring his bottom row of teeth, and hunched his shoulders.

Dorian circled him. “Too humorous.”

“Oui, I suspect you are right.” Leopold shook out the pose.

At least the two gargoyles were getting along better.

For the last half hour, Leopold had been showing Dorian the various ways he’d stayed hidden since being brought to life. His family of drunken artists and writers had known of his existence (though I suspected half of them thought he was a figment of their collective imaginations), but nobody else did.

Like Dorian, Leopold had learned how to live in the shadows. As we were coming to realize, though, he pushed the boundaries. He went where he wanted then simply turned to stone on the spot if he was in danger of being seen. Often in a bizarre pose, to keep people off balance.

“And nobody ever saw you?” I asked. “Truly?”

Leopold shrugged. “In the music halls and museums, the people think with their hearts, not with their minds.”

We all gave a start when my phone buzzed. It was Brixton texting me that he was at the front door.

“You really need a doorbell,” he said after I let him inside and we were walking up the stairs. “I’ve been knocking for five minutes. You’re always in the attic.”

“Leopold Baudelaire, meet Brixton Taylor.”

“Wicked,” Brixton whispered, staring at the gargoyle.

“Your servant?” Leopold asked me.

“Our friend,” Dorian corrected.

Leopold rubbed his chin and nodded. Dorian prodded him to shake Brixton’s hand.

“I thought you were spending time with your family,” I said. “And grounded.”

“Yeah, Mom is studying for her GED in the open now, but then she and Abel … ” He cleared this throat. “I think they wanted to do things no mom should do. Ever.”

“‘From love there will be born poetry,’” Leopold recited, “‘which will spring up toward God like a rare flower.’”

“My life is too weird,” Brixton mumbled. “Anyway, I snuck out.”

“Now that we have made introductions,” Leopold said, “we have important matters to discuss. A council of war, if you will.”

Finally. He’d put me off every time I tried to address the problem of backward alchemy turning the gargoyles back into stone.

“It has been brought to my attention,” Leopold continued, “that you are cavorting with un flic. This will not do. The police are not to be trusted.”

I groaned. “My love life isn’t your concern. I thought we were going to talk about—”

“If you think this is unimportant, you are assez stupide!”

“Not cool,” Brixton said. “That’s so not cool.”

“Why don’t you play some music for us, Brixton,” Dorian said diplomatically. “I see you have brought your banjo.”

Skeptically eyeing Leopold, Brixton picked up the banjo he carried slung over his back. He strummed a 1960s folk song.

“This is not music,” Leopold said. “This is—”

He broke off when two phones began to ring at once. Grateful to head off that argument, I picked up mine and smiled.

“Max,” I said into the phone. “It’s wonderful to hear your voice, but this isn’t really a good time.”

“I won’t take long. This isn’t a social call—but I hope it’s a good one. Is Brixton there with you?”

“Yeah, he is.” How could this be good? Brixton had answered his own phone and stood in the corner, his back to us.

“Good,” Max said. “Ivan gave a confession.”

“Ivan,” I whispered, closing my eyes as I let out a sigh of relief.

“Not what I expected either,” he said, misinterpreting my surprise. “He emailed a confession, and we know he’s not lying to protect anyone, because he gave us details that led to blood evidence. The man was apparently an aggressive salesman who came to the house while Brixton was there. Grabbed Brixton’s arm, which is why Ivan threw him out. I’m betting it’ll be Brixton’s DNA the lab finds under his fingernails when they conclude their analysis. It was an accident, so I wish Brixton had just told us what happened, but I understand that he’s scared. This has been such a strange case—but now life can go back to normal.”

Normal. I bit back my true reaction. Everything would be all right without me now. It was time to make my sacrifice.