That was stressful. I don’t have a lot of run-ins with others like me anymore, but lately it seems to be ramping up. The drive home takes a while, and this time, it’s not because of the snow. I keep rewinding the events of the day in my head. I'm glad it's over. I knew today was going to be crappy from the start, but geez. I didn't expect an incubus to show up and use one of my coworkers for sustenance. It's dark when I pull into my driveway and there’s a car I don't recognize parked in front of my place. I subtly check it out while walking toward my stairs. I can't see much more than the frame, but it is definitely running. It's an old American muscle car. A camaro, I think around mid 70s body style. It's black with polished chrome rims and a hood scoop. Some people would look at this and drool; others would think overcompensating. I'll withhold judgement until I see the owner myself. The blacked-out window tinting makes it hard to see if someone is staring back at me, so I turn to watch where I'm going. I've seen this car before, but I can't remember where; my synapses aren't firing right now. I look toward my house and see someone walk past a window in muted flashlight illumination. I look back at the car, then creep up to my door. It's clear that it has been kicked open. These thieves have no idea who they're messing with. I push the door open and run in.

In hindsight, I probably should have been more inconspicuous, maybe more cautious. But I was expecting your average, everyday thief. Y'know, vanilla human. Instead, I ran right into a rock flying at me. At least that's what I thought when it hit me in the face.

It wasn't actually a rock.

It was a fist made of it.

A fist that belonged to a very large gargoyle. I fall backward and my head bounces off the floor. Two identical gargoyles look down at me, but it’s just my double vision.

“Rocky?” I say, shaking my haze away, checking my lips with a hand and looking up at him. “What the hell?”

“How many times I gotta tell ya, Mikey. That's not my name,” he says in his deep gravelly voice. I don't ever remember his real name; he's ancient and it's too hard to pronounce. My nickname never really bothered him or I would have stopped. But I am curious why he's snooping through my house.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, man?” I ask.

He shrugs and motions to his left with a flick of his head. “Workin'.”

I look in the direction he is gesturing toward. I can't see a face in the darkness, but I can see silver hair.

“So these are ya digs, eh Mike? Nice place ya got here.” he says, looking around.

“If we could dispatch with the pleasantries,” The silver leech cuts in, glaring at Rocky. He turns his attention to me. “I did hope that we could avoid this, Mikael. I thought you'd be taking care of that girl for the better part of the evening. Did she expire?”

The question has no weight behind it. He doesn't really care what the answer is. I don't say anything. I'm not really sure what to say. The implication that he would kill someone just to stall me is, well, it's just wrong. I can't believe it.

He studies my face. “Did you think your little defense actually stopped me? You have no idea how to use that little power you have, do you?”

I still don't speak. My hands are trembling with anger against my legs. They are balled into fists and squeezed so tight that I'm pretty sure my nails are drawing blood from my own palms. My teeth feel like they'll crack under the pressure of my clenched jaw, and my blood is boiling. I feel almost nauseated with fury. I need to rein in my rage before my other half gets the better of me.

“Fine. We'll get right to the point,” he says, walking toward me.

I wait to let him get into striking distance. I want to rip out his throat, but he stops about two yards away. I get ready anyway.

“Where is it, half-breed?” he snarls, baring his perfect teeth. His animosity takes me by surprise. What does he have to be so angry about?

“Wait, what?” I ask, before thinking to choose my words carefully.

“Don't play games with me, you pitiful excuse for a demon! Your sister said you had it, where is it?”

“What? Look, man. You've got the wrong 'half-breed.' I don't have a sister, and I don't have a clue what you're talking about.”

“Hit him,” the leech tells Rocky, who looks at me and shrugs, turning up one side of his mouth.

“Sorry, Mikey,” he says. He swings hard into my stomach, and I see white. If you've never been hit by a stone golem or a gargoyle, consider yourself lucky.

It hurts.

A lot.

The air leaves my lungs, and I'm pretty sure I throw up a little bit. I splutter and cough. I can't breathe. My lungs are screaming at me, but my body won't respond. After an interminable amount of time, I suck in a deep, ragged, gasping breath and start another round of coughing.

“Wow, even though you know him, you really didn't hold back. That was brilliant,” The Silverleech says, grinning. Rocky doesn’t respond, just keeps his stance. The incubus turns back to me. “Now, tell me, Mikael. Tell me where it is.” He bares his teeth again, which are more like fangs now. He’s losing his impeccable facade.

“I can tell you where it isn't,” I rasp when I can talk again. I'm still pretty winded, so it may not have even been audible. I see the leech nod at Rocky and the animate statue brings his fist up for another swing.

“Whoa, wait!” I say, putting my hands up. It was an involuntary action. I have no idea what this guy wants, but I really don't want Rocky to hit me again. I'm trying to buy time to think of something to say. But it's no use.

“Well?” the Incubus gets closer. I don't have anything. Time to strike.

“I don't know what you're looking for, but I do have this.” I summon the reserves of energy I keep inside and launch myself at him. I boost the punch with my reserved strength right before it connects. But, alas--the gargoyle was behind me waiting for such a move. There’s a sharp pain in my scalp, and I fall to the floor. Everything goes dark. I hear them talking as I lose consciousness.

“I don't think he's got it, boss,” says Rocky.

“Hmm, I don’t remember paying you to think. But, I suppose you may be right. That wench must have lied to me. Well, nothing to be done for it now. Kill him.”

“I can't do that. I don't kill. I told you that.”

The Incubus sighs.

“Well, I can't either. Father wouldn't like it.”

I fight to stay awake, but sweet sleep lulls me away.

I wake up with a stiff neck and a sore back from being on the floor. Gargoyle fists should be avoided at all costs. There’s a knot on my head that feels like it’s the size of an ostrich egg, and my stomach hurts. I hiss at the sting of my hand against the lump and jerk away quickly. Turns out, it’s only the size of a quarter.

How long have I been laying here? I got home at around nine o'clock. When I check my watch, it shows it is now well after midnight. It's too bad being unconscious isn’t restful, because it's probably the only sleep I'll get tonight. When your house is broken into, suddenly you feel like the whole world is unsafe. Like, if things can get to you here, they can get you anywhere. That's the first effect. And the spirits I have to deal with are bad, but they don’t make me feel like this.

The second effect is the cleanup. It sucks. My place is trashed. A lack of a threshold barrier is an unfortunate side effect of being damned. Aside from the obvious. Supernatural creatures don't get one. Any of them. It's mostly for humans. Not many are alive today that were around when this law was created. It was put into place by some long dead wizard council. Most wizards are humans. Other creatures that can use magic, but are ‘tainted’ by supernatural blood, are called sorcerers. That's what I would be if I embraced that side of me and the magic that comes with it. So these human wizards made the threshold law so that people would be protected in their homes. It’s some big magic that I’m sure some unsavory creatures wish they could get rid of, but this hasn’t happened–yet. Anywhere else is fair game though. My house used to have the threshold power, but as soon as my mother signed the house over to me and moved out of town, it faded quickly. That's when the ghosts and spirits started making their way to me. While she's living it up in Florida, as a lot of Ohioans end up doing, I'm here getting haunted, beat up by rocks, and my house is getting trashed. You know–just livin' the good life.

I take stock of everything I think I own. I keep my place tidy usually and try to make it look homey so that, in the unlikely event I bring someone home, it doesn’t look like a serial killer lives here. The furniture is a collection of goodwill buys and yard sales that came as close to matching as I felt like making it. I have pictures of young me, me with my mom, and me in grade school throughout the living room. No other rooms are decorated as much. They are kept in a state of efficiency rather than displaying an aesthetic. I walk through each room, coming to the conclusion that it all seems to be here. I don't really keep anything to tie me to my demonic half, because I make an effort to be human. So I have no idea what that assbag was looking for, but I'm an only child: no sisters, no brothers. I'm not sure what he and this mystery woman were fighting about, but it was none of my business. That 'wench' should've kept me out of it. My life won’t stay quiet while they are around. I have to find out what the hell is going on so I don’t get any more unexpected visits.

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By the time I've finished cleaning and taking breaks here and there, it's late afternoon. I should be getting ready for work, but I think I'm gonna call off. I'm feeling a little murderous today and I don't think I can be civil to people. Besides, it's time to investigate. I was forced into a game without any explanation or an understanding of how to play. That means I get to make up my own rules. I like making my own rules.

I get into the shower and clean yesterday off of me. There's even some hot water–or maybe I'm just burning angry right now. Whichever the case, I feel better afterward. I sit in the steamy bathroom for a couple of minutes and take deep breaths, collecting my thoughts. A mentor of mine taught me some meditation techniques for when my other half gets a foot in the door. I employ them to get into a better headspace. When I finally do come out into my bedroom, the cold air is an assault on my senses. The thermostat clicks when I turn the heat up. Walking downstairs and into the living room, I rummage for a notepad and pencil from my desk drawer, then sit down with my towel wrapped around me. It’s time to make a list.

I write: 'What I know,' and underline it. Underneath, I write the things I've gleaned from the brief encounter, which are:

* This Silver leech is looking for something

* Someone directed him at me

* He somehow persuaded Rocky to help him (which may not be too hard as Gargoyles usually take 'muscle' jobs)

* He has no regard for life, human or non-human

* There is someone he thought was or had claimed to be my sister

I’m missing a lot of information. So I make a second column on the right side of the paper and write: 'What I need to find out,' and underline it. This side of the list will be harder, because as of yet, I have no details. So I write:

* What 'It' is

* Who 'Wench' is

* What Silverleech's real name is (although I must admit, I'm growing quite attached to the name I gave him)

* Why was I involved

That last one is the most important to me. I keep as far away from demon and non-human affairs as possible. I feel like it's super weird to involve me in this when I've had no contact since I was a teen. It's not a fun story. I once made the mistake of trying to summon my father so I could tell him off. I may have been a bit angsty, so what? I was young and inexperienced, and I botched the summoning, which resulted in a neighborhood block being terrorized by a “Big Dog.” At least that's what the reports said. It was actually a hellhound. And to be fair, they are really big dog-ish creatures. I think it's still out there somewhere. Once it came through the gateway I created, I ran. Like I said, I was young and dumb. I never told anyone about it, and I haven’t heard anything about it in the news or anything, so maybe it just ran too? I mean, it's not like random humans would know how to kill it. And I never even got to talk to the old man, so it was all for naught.

Other than that, yeah, no contact. I sit back and look at the notepad. I know: Nothing. I need to find out: Everything. Great. Time to get started.

I need clothes. I go back upstairs to my room and pull some pants from my closet. I pick up a few shirts from the floor and sniff them, hoping there’s a cleanish one. On my way back out, my stomach rumbles loudly and I put a hand to it and pain spreads through my abdomen. I have a pretty large purpling bruise there. I've been up all night and most of this day without eating. I'm hungry. I walk back through the house, and glance into the now-clean living room as I pass by. I do a double take, but my momentum carries me past the wall. I stop and lean back to look in. I could have sworn I saw a woman with dark curly-ringlet hair sitting on my recliner. It better not be another frickin' ghost. I’ve got more pressing matters to deal with right now. I shrug it off and walk over to open my fridge. I stare at the emptiness for some time before closing it. My priorities have changed. Investigating is now number two. Food is number one. The question is, do I go to the store, or pick up fast food? I really don't want to go grocery shopping hungry–it's not good for my wallet. By that, I also mean I don't want to go shopping, then come home and wait until whatever I buy is done cooking. In this modern age, I demand instant gratification. It's a sad time.

I pick up my keys and head outside to another cold morning. It's warmer than yesterday and there's no ice–just melting snow. At least I don’t have to baby waddle to my car. The car on the curb is no longer there. Must have been the Incubus’s. I want to say he’s clearly overcompensating, but they are literally made to be beautiful, so . . .

I open my car door easily and am about to get in when I see something shiny sticking out of my wheel port on the front driver's side. Upon closer inspection, I see that a beautifully detailed hilt belonging to a knife is protruding from the tire. Fantastic. I pull the knife out of the tire, and there is a piece of paper wrapped around the handle tied with a short piece of twine. I untie it, unravel the paper, and it reads, “Hope you had sweet dreams. Next time, your sleep will be eternal.” I shake my head. Who is this guy? He had me knocked out and took the time to threaten me afterward? Now I have more questions. But my resolve is solidifying.

I turn around and walk to my garage, fumbling with my keys until I find the right one. I try to push the key in, but it's not going easily. I'm not gonna try to do the breath thing again, so I just push hard, and the key finally slides in the rest of the way. I unlock it and the doors creak in protest. They haven’t been opened in months. They start to swing open but stop short. There are chunks of ice blocking them from opening. Pushing the doors closed again, I kick the ice chunks away and they open unhindered. Inside there's mostly a lot of boxes in here that have stuff my mom didn't want to move with her, but there are also some old tools and random junk that I really need to get rid of. I move some stuff around and spot my spare. I don't really want to take the one out of my trunk because then I'd have to replace it again. So I roll it out and get to work changing the tire. It takes a while because the lugs take a lot to break and turn in the cold weather. I don't mind, though. The more I have to deal with, the angrier I’ll get. The angrier I get, the hotter I'll run. And I mean that literally. It’s a cycle of annoyances like these that keep me warm in the winter. I roll the flat to the garage and lock it up again. I'm finally ready to start the day. I get into the car and turn it on. My hunger takes me to the nearest fast food place, and I devour more greasy food and Coke than I should. When you're hungry, sometimes you make bad decisions. Oh well. I throw the wrappers and trash away in a trash can next to my car, then wait for my stomach to realize it has food in it.

I need to find someone who knows what’s going on with the otherworld–someone who hears all the gossip. Someone who can perhaps impart some useful information to me. Preferably free information. And I have someone in mind, but for that I need to wait for nightfall. I start to flip through my phone out of bored anxiety and see Anna's name. I hope she's doing alright. She'll be going through some heavy withdrawals right now. I wish I could check up on her, but I’ll wait until she messages me.

I drive downtown to one of the many very tall office buildings. I'm pretty sure this is where he sleeps. I walk inside and check out the lobby. Right when you come inside, there’s a little fountain in the middle next to a security desk. There’s stairs leading up on either side of the building and open pathways where people walking to different areas are easily seen. There’s a hallway in front of me that leads to an elevator bank. I look at my watch. It's a little past five pm, and there are a lot of people on their way out. I walk up to the elevator to wait for the doors to open. Security guards at the check-in desk are eying me warily, but they don't seem to want to stop me. One of them talks into a walkie, probably calling up to make me someone else's problem. Thank God for end-of-the-workday laziness. The elevator doors chime and open. I step aside, and after the flood of people exit, I walk in and hit the button for the top floor. Oldies play on the speakers while I ride up. How does he get in and out of this place? You'd think it'd be hard, this building is like twelve storeys high. Someone would have to see him coming and going.

It takes a while to get to the top. When I get out, there are a few people packing items into briefcases, and they look over at me. Security on this floor is walking toward me. Luckily, I don't have to think of how to ditch them. My salvation comes in the form of an executive-looking man holding a stack of papers.

“Ah, perfect,” he says, looking me over and putting the papers in my hand. “I need these sent to–” I stop listening. They are going right into the trash. I just nod like I'm supposed to be here until he stops talking. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” I say and scurry away like I assume I should. The security officers stop and speak into their walkies and ignore my established peon presence. I search around for a few minutes with the papers, hoping no one will give me any more. Luckily, no one does. Once I’m clear of anyone’s line of sight, I drop them into the nearest trash can and continue my search. The sun sets pretty early in the winter, and the light outside is dimming. After hours lights are turning on, but I finally find the door to the stairs and take them up to go out onto the roof. I look around at the figures perched up here. They all look the same. I feel a little racist for saying that. I go and stand by one of them and wait. As the sun dips below the horizon, the feral power of evening is nearly palpable as it washes over the city. I watch the figure next to me.

“C’mon,” I say, waiting. How do they get up here? They couldn’t have taken the same path I did, how would that even work? I shiver as the temperature goes down.

“Mikey?” I hear from behind me. I turn and see Rocky standing about twenty or so feet from me with a raised eyebrow. “Whadda ya doin' here, kid?”

I look at the statue next to me and it turns its head to look back. “Uh, nothin', man. I was coming to see you,” I say walking toward him.

“You thought that was me, didn't ya?”

I sigh. “No, I . . . Yeah, sorry.”

The statue behind me chuckles.

“S'ok, all you's guys look the same tuh us too. Whatcha here for? You wanna hit me back?” he asks.

I can't tell if he's serious.

“It did hurt a lot.”

“It was just business, Mikey. You know that. I didn't kill ya or nothin'.”

I think he thinks that makes it better, but I'm not here to fight him.

“That's not why I'm here. Well, not to fight you anyway. I need some info on the guy you were with.”

Rocky looks around with just his eyes. “I can't do that, buddy,” he says, and turns to walk toward his perch, “It's bad for business.” I follow him over to the edge of the building and he turns back to me. “Not here, man. Meet me at Sweet Vic's,” he whispers, “I’ll be there for a few hours tonight.”

I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly there are loud grinding sounds and wings burst from his back. He jumps off the edge and disappears into the fading light. So that's how they get in and out. I didn't know they could do that. I look around and watch the other Gargoyles do the same. Watching giant creatures made of rock fly through the air is truly bizarre. I pull on the handle of the door to the roof. It's locked.

I hate everything.