La Gargouille Phoenicienne

Shireen sat in her beat-up Camry which smelled of stale French fries. She leaned forward adjusting the binoculars. There he was, a gargoyle on top of the Solace of the Desert Church. Shireen shook her head. Gargoyles were rare in Phoenix, and she’d never seen one pick a church with a mission-style design. He was out of place on the white-washed adobe rooftop, but who was she to judge.

She'd heard reports of a giant bat flying around in North Phoenix, which had supposedly carried off a Chihuahua and dropped large crap-bombs on every car in a one-mile radius. Her cousin had approached her on behalf of her HOA to investigate the culprit, who they thought was a teenage miscreant.

The fact was, even if he was innocent of the other stuff, he was undocumented, unregistered with the Arizona Chamber of the Metaphysical. She didn’t much care, and wasn’t particularly fond of being registered herself, but she’d get a bonus for serving him a warning.

Shireen got out of her car, shaded her eyes, and looked at the roof. There’d be several hobs somewhere on the premises and she might have trouble getting through their wards. Ever since the Stone Massacre of 1871 when the gargoyle population had been decimated by a nut-job group of ‘devout’ humans, gargoyles and hobs had created a symbiotic relationship of protection. She’d never really had to deal with either, so she was working with the theoretical.

She made it up the bell tower steps, and scrambled over the walls, careful as she crossed the roof. Nary a hob or ward in sight. Sunset. She crouched in front of the gargoyle just as he woke.

Stone wings flexed and an eye creaked open to look at her. A strange smile cracked through the stone as it morphed into a thick rhino-like skin.

“Hello there, doll.”

Shireen raised an eyebrow. “My name is Shireen. You responsible for the target practice a couple miles north?”

“Negatory.” The gargoyle stood fully and winked.

“Uh-huh, how about the Chihuahua-napping on 43rd Ave?”

He shook his head, turning it into a neck stretch. “I don’t mess with yappers.”

“Maybe, but you’re not registered here either. This is an official warning from the AzCM. What’s your name?”

“MacGyver, on account I’m crafty. But most jus’ call me Mac.” He took a step closer.

Shireen stepped back, looking around. “Where’re your hobs?”

“They weren’t too keen on moving to the desert.”

Shireen’d never heard of a gargoyle without a hob. A prickle of unease crawled up her back. Time to go.

“Yeah, well, no more target practice and get yourself registered.” Shireen turned back to the bell tower.

“Hey doll, no need to take the stairs, I’ll get ya down.” Mac grabbed her shoulders and hopped down from the roof, depositing her gently on the ground. The gargoyle was lucky she’d been so caught off guard she hadn’t blasted him with a wicked spell.

“Er, thanks.” She hurried to her car, cursing her slow reflexes.

Shireen spent the night wondering why Mac was hob-less in Phoenix. Damn her troublesome curiosity. She walked out of her house the next morning to see Mac sleeping on her roof. She puffed out her cheeks, annoyed and just a little bit pleased.

Follow the Author:

Wordage: doll, decimate
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Wordcount: 545 (ugh, almost made it!)


  1. Lol. It gives a very Kim Harrison feel to the piece. Way to be creative. I think I went a bit more literal than I needed to in mine. - . -;

  2. I'll definitely take that compliment! You know I love Kim Harrison. :)


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