Gargoyle Boyfriend: Amadou (complete)

Many years ago, the building you work in was renovated by an eccentric man who liked to collect supposedly ‘cursed’ items. He had the building’s exterior made up to mimic old cathedrals, so there was lots of stonework involved. The building was a stark, dark grey thumb sticking out among the rows of glass and brick on either side. Part of his collection was also mounted on the building facade - a wide array of gargoyles and grotesques. 

The building has remained largely untenanted for a long time because of its exterior. Not many people want to run a business out of a supposedly cursed place. Eventually, the owner started filling it with his own businesses - a laundromat in the basement, a cafe on the ground floor, a fashion design studio, a non-profit charity organization, an app development house, a makeup company, and finally a newspaper, which is where you work.

Since the paper is fairly new, it initially had to experiment. For a while, it only did feel-good stories for a world oversaturated with bad news. Then for a time, it focused on debunking popular myths. Now, the paper is leaning towards investigative work.

Recently, you’ve been between writing assignments. The previous week you traced stolen artwork from the local museum to the home of a billionaire businessman in the area. He claimed he was unaware the artwork was stolen and, as he put it, ‘donated’ the stolen artwork back to the museum. It bothered you that’s all you got out of the work you put into it, not to mention your editor told you to stop digging once you figured out where the paintings had originated from. 

You’re going through old unsolved cases now, after having written another puff piece between your preferred projects. You glance up from your laptop, lean back and glance out the window. There you see your favorite coworker.

You open the window where there is a small terrace of black iron. Hanging off the corner of the building is one of the bigger gargoyles of the whole collection. You like to call him your coworker, since he’s always by your desk and always there to listen.

“Good afternoon, Amadou,” you sigh.

Amadou is a beastly-looking figure with his shoulders hunched forward, arms straining as he holds onto the ledge so his muscles pop with sinew. His mouth gapes open wide to admit the gutter that drains water from his throat. His wings flare out, hugging the wall of the building. His huge hands and long fingers coil around the small ledge he is perched on, while his feet press back against the wall. 

You remove a coffee cup from the ledge and dump out all the rainwater within. “Need a refill there?” You place your untouched mug of cold coffee next to him, then sigh as you stare out into the distance.

“What do you think, Amadou?” you murmur. “Should I continue on that piece about these supposed hero sightings, or should I do another round of interviews at Hephaestus Academy? That new kid Spite is getting attention again. Maybe him?” You look up at Amadou and his strained, horrified expression. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” you sigh. “I think stories about the academy are played out too. And I’m exhausted with hero puff pieces.” You take in a long deep breath as close your eyes. “What’s that?” You turn back to the stone figure. “You think I should continue looking into those paintings? No? You mean Solomon Savage?” 

Amadou glares beyond you, not moving, not speaking. Part of you wishes he would respond at least once, so you wouldn’t feel so crazy. Or maybe you just don’t want to feel alone.

“But my editor told me not to.” You look thoughtfully back to your desk and drum your fingers on the windowsill. “But he doesn’t have to know about it. It’s always bothered me since I figured out where those pieces in his collection came from. How could he not know?” You look back at Amadou. “You think there is something more there?”

Amadou doesn’t reply.

“Thanks for the pep talk. That’s exactly what I needed.” You slip back inside and go to your desk. 

Solomon Savage was an extremely well known figure. He had his own news program for a while before he retired. Now he chairs several projects around the world. He funded quite a few research facilities, as well as a security company. He has an extensive art collection, which is what drew your attention.

Ages ago your father, also a journalist, covered the sudden disappearance of some artwork from a local museum. You watched him work on this project, so you were already familiar with the paintings. Once you saw a glimpse of Solomon Savage’s art collection during an interview, that’s when you jumped at the chance to finish your father’s work. 

You weren’t allowed to go beyond covering his donation of the paintings back to the museum, but it always bothered you that an avid collector like Solomon Savage didn’t know the origins of these paintings. You already have a backlog of old articles you could submit for publishing, which might allow you to continue to investigate this story.

On your way home that evening, you stop by your favorite thrift store. It’s one of your destressing rituals to go in and look around. You usually don’t get much, but it’s nice to see what’s new and catch up with the owner. That evening you find an old newsboy hat, and for some reason, it makes you think of Amadou. You also think it would be sort of a cute joke, considering he’s your ‘coworker’ at the newspaper. 

The next morning, you come into work and take the newsboy cap from your bag, feeling silly for how excited you are to dress the statue. 

“Amadou, I have a gift.” You slip out onto the terrace and place the cap on his head. “Oh, yes, very handsome!” you remark with a smile. You take the coffee cup left on the ledge, fully expecting the old, cold coffee to be filled with bugs and debris. Instead, there’s nothing in it except a couple of coffee stain rings.

You look at Amadou, then back at the mug. “Did you… no!” You scoff, go back inside and set the empty mug on your desk. Someone must be playing a joke on you. You have big plans for that afternoon, so you set to work right away. You want to interview Solomon Savage again. It’s probably a pipe dream now - after all, he’s become secluded after he said he wanted to focus on his family. 

You make a call to the same place you did when you were researching the artwork. A woman answers. “You’ve reached Savage Industries, how may I help you?”

“I’m hoping to meet with Mr. Savage again,” you say. “I mean, I have before. I’m the reporter who covered the artwork in his collection that turned out to be stolen.”

“I remember you.” Mr. Savage’s sharp, steely voice comes over the phone.

“Mr. Savage.” You try to remain bright, but you feel chilled to your core. “It’s good to speak with you again!”

“Are you still on these artworks?” he chuckles. 

“I just wanted to do a follow-up.” Your throat grows thick as your nerves start to rise. “See what you’ve done with your current collection. Has anything happened since the paintings were identified.”

“Slow news day, I take it?”

“A lot of people are curious, Mr. Savage.” You anxiously tap your pen on the desk. “And I would be remiss if I didn’t follow up on our last interview. It felt quite open-ended to me.”

“Because of you I had to give away some of my prized pieces. I understand it was the right thing to do, but also understand that I am quite aggravated.” Then he starts to laugh. “I joke, of course. Journalists like you are a dying breed. In fact, the whole news field is dying out.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You glance back at Amadou. For some reason he makes you feel better. 

Solomon sighs. “There’s nothing much to talk about, I’m afraid. I’ve yet to replace the paintings, and I’ve been busy with my family all this time. I’ve already told you everything I knew about those paintings. I’m afraid I have nothing else to give you.”

“It doesn’t have to be about artwork this time, Mr. Savage.” You know this might be stupid, but you’re willing to throw yourself into anything at this point. “Perhaps we could discuss something you’d be more interested in.”

He’s quiet for a long pause. “I don’t think so. I have nothing to talk about that the world doesn’t already know. So for now, and hopefully a long while, I don’t have to hear back from you. Have a good day.” The call ends. 

You glance at your computer screen and get an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You get up and go, heading towards the museum. The museum director is happy to talk with you about the night the paintings were stolen - at the time, he had been a simple curator at the museum. 

It gets late, but you continue your interview. You ask hard questions, making the director think hard about the events that transpired. You take him down the hallways he speaks about from memory. You both run as if chasing the culprits. 

Eventually the director has to go to the bathroom, so you sit before the paintings. You study them, thinking about the routes the director told you about. As you’re sitting there, the lights suddenly flicker off.

“Hello?” you call out. “I’m still here!” You stand in the shadows. The only light comes from the dim security lights at each corner. You follow the red glow of the exit sign when you see something move in front of you. It darts across your vision, and you jump back.

“Hello?” you call out again. “Someone is still in here!”

Something moves behind you, and you scream. You drop your phone, which you had been using to record the interview, and sprint down the hall, following the glow of the security lights which flash as you run past them. You hear something behind you, breathing and hissing. It ricochets against the walls, bouncing off them as it follows behind you. 

Something’s wrong. None of the alarms are going off. Whatever is following behind you should be setting them off, but there’s nothing! You dash into the main showroom, where a collection of antique jewelry and gowns is on display. In the shadows all the mannequins look like people standing in wait. You turn around. You can’t see what’s chasing you, but in your gut you know it's still there watching you. 

You try to steady your breathing. Reaching into your pocket, you rub the can of mace on your keychain between your fingers. You hear something guttural in the shadows and you pull the mace out, holding it before you. 

The sound becomes a laugh, sinister and malicious. You look around, shaking, when one of the mannequins moves. It runs and lunges at you, and you spray it with the mace before it tackles you to the ground. It hisses and spits in your face, and the mace burns you, but you keep spraying it at your attacker. 

Suddenly, the mannequin is knocked away. There’s someone else here now. Two of them. You get up from the ground, every orifice in your face burning from the residue of the mace. You get up and try to run away, but you trip and fall, crashing into one of the displays. 

Something grabs your ankle and you scream, hearing shouting and fighting behind you. Your ankle is released, and you jump up to run again. 

“I’ve got you. It’s safe,” a deep voice says as you’re lifted from the ground. A window shatters, and you’re flown out into the night. You hear the flapping of wings, and you cling to whoever, or whatever, is holding you.

You’re set down upon a roof and you scramble away from whoever is holding you. You can barely make out its shape as your eyes still burn from the mace.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” the voice soothes. You notice it has a slight French accent.

“What’s going on?” you stammer. “Who are you?”

“That’s going to be hard to explain.”

You want to rub your eyes, but you know that will make things worse. You ball your fists up tight, trying to focus on the pain of your nails digging into your palms rather than the pain in your eyes and throat. “I’m so sure!”

“You were attacked by Rabid,” the voice says gently. 

You spit, hoping to get some of the mace out. “Rabid? The villain? What the hell would he want to attack me for?”

“Calm down and I can explain.”

Your vision is slowly returning. You can see the creature standing before you as more than an amorphous blob. It’s dark grey in color and looks monstrous in size. You see long legs, a narrow waist, and huge shoulders. Is it wearing a cape? Or is that wings? It’s standing in shadow, but the glow of streetlights is between you.

You close one eye and squint the other one. “Step into the light.”

The creature moves into the glow, and finally you can take him in. His large hands, his powerful shoulders, the great big wings on his back, the newsboy cap on his head.

You try to open your eyes wider, but that only hurts them more. You wince in pain.

“Easy now, easy.” The gargoyle approaches you and places his hand on your arm. “Let me help.”

“I must be seeing things! This mace is doing more damage than I thought. It can’t be.” You take hold of his wrist, turning his monstrous hand over to see all sides of it. The long fingers, the sharp nails, the extra nub at the wrist. It’s just like his.

“When you didn’t come back, I got worried.”

You glance up. His face is blurry, but when you touch his head you can feel the horns, the elongated ears, the small, squished nose.

“Amadou?” you whisper in awe.

“It’s me,” he says reassuringly. “I’m here to protect you.”

“Holy fuck.” You use both hands to feel his face. It isn’t stone, but velvety skin that’s cold to the touch. His horns feel like bone, and you feel sinew and muscle as you touch his chest. “Holy fucking fuck!” You pull back in alarm. “You’re THE Amadou? The one on the window? The one I give coffee to?”

Amadou lowers himself and smiles. “I appreciate that, by the way. Do you know how hard it is getting anything, looking like this?”

“Oh!” You press your hands around your head and pull at your hair. “You’re alive!”

“Technically,” he says with a shrug. “Only at night, but I at least have you to thank for that.” He holds out his hand. “Let me take you home. I’ll keep watch over you tonight.”

“I have so many questions!” You blurt out. “This is crazy! You and Rabid? Just because of some paintings?”

“You’ve kicked the wrong hornet’s nest, I’m afraid.” Amadou takes your hand and pulls you back into his arms. He holds you like a princess, and your confused brain stills for a moment. “Hold on tight. I’m about to take off.”

“Take off what?” You turn to look up at him, and he smirks. He flaps his wings and jumps into the air. As you sail into the night sky you cling tightly to him, burying your face in his impressive chest musculature.

Eventually you’re able to lift your head, and you watch the city twinkle below you. As you look back at Amadou, so many questions run through your head, but they go quiet as you observe him. He was always the bright spot in your day. Who knew he was even brighter at night?

Amadou sets you down on the roof of your building. “You’ll be safe here. Too many people live in this building, so there are too many witnesses.”

“For Rabid?” you ask. “Why is he chasing me?”

“I can’t be certain. All that I know is that somehow he and Solomon Savage are linked. I think he’s sent Rabid after you.” Amadou touches your temple and gently tucks your hair behind your ear. “Not to worry. I’m going to watch over you during the evenings. Hopefully, during the day, you’ll be safe.”

You swallow, finding your throat still raw from the mace. “Why only at night?”

“Those are the rules,” he chuckles. “For now, at least.” He takes your hand into his. “It’s a lot to explain, but right now is not the time. I’ll go to your window, get inside and lock all your doors. Don’t answer for anyone.”

“So the gargoyles on the building are cursed?” you exclaim, almost excited. “I always knew there was something remarkable about you!”

Amadou chuckles shyly. “I’m trying to protect you. Now is not the time.”

All you want to do is race up to him and study every facet of his face and body. He’s beautiful as a statue, and he looks even more stunning now. But this is no time to be getting starry-eyed. There is a villain after you.