3.
The elderly servant again carried his cane in his hand as he ushered
the tall, heavily built gentleman into Sally Gorgon’s work room.
“Miss Gorgon,” the servant said, “Augustus deMontoya to see you.”
Sally Gorgon’s work room was large. The wide windows made the room
seem more of a patio than an interior. Sally was working, bent over,
among pillars of marble, some coarse, rectangular, some roughly shaped.
Some were half complete sculptures of men and women in various poses.
Some finished statues were covered by rough, gray cloth. Sally stood up.
In one hand she held a massive mallet. In the other hand, a dark, metal chisel,
shaped to a wide, flat edge. “How do you do, Mr. deMontoya,” Sally said.
“I’m covered with dust, so you’ll understand if we don’t shake hands.”
“I don’t shake hands with women,” deMontoya said. His voice was deep
and seemed to fill the room. “And, as I’m sure you are well aware,
I’m not here to exchange pleasantries. I’m here to discuss my son.”
Sally gestured with her chisel to a table by the wall. “That’s your son’s
portfolio. I was going to have it delivered to you.”
DeMontoya walked to the table, opened the portfolio and looked inside.
He shrugged and tossed it back onto the table. “I don’t care about
these scribblings. I’m here about my son, Miss Gorgon. I want
my son. You’d better deliver to me more than these scratches and stains.”
“Your son painted a portrait of me the day before yesterday,” Sally said.
“It’s there on the wall by the door. When I saw your son’s paintings,
I knew he was a great talent. When I watched him work, I realized
his gift was greater than I’d imagined. The way his hand moved the brush
against the paper. The way his eyes held the model. His vision
of the world around him. I was honored to pose for him.”
“I don’t care about any of this prattle,” deMontoya said. “Tell me,
where is my son? That is all I want from you. Tell me now.”
“You must know why your son came here, Mr. deMontoya.”
“For your sake, Miss Gorgon, I am doing my best to refrain
from thinking such thoughts. Possibly for the sake of the pitiful sheep
who inhabit this province I am refraining from thinking such thoughts.
But enough nonsense. I want my son. Tell me where he is.”
DeMontoya’s eyes were tight slits. Every muscle in his body
seemed hard as the stones scattered around the room.
Sally took a step toward deMontoya. She hooked a gray cloth
with the edge of her chisel. She lifted the cloth and tossed it aside.
Under the cloth, between Sally and deMontoya, was a stone statue
of deMontoya’s son. The young man was kneeling, naked. His face
was uplifted, mouth open, captured at the moment of orgasmic ecstasy.
DeMontoya breathed heavily. His skin flushed deep red.
As he breathed, his chest expanded and his hands formed tight fists,
then, clutching empty air, extended claws. His whole body vibrated.
Shaking, deMontoya faced Sally. “Gorgon,” deMontoya growled, “my son
will be released. And his deMontoya blood will run stronger for this outrage.
He will not pass as do humans. In a way, this insane desecration of yours
is a blessing for my family. Now, my son’s deMontoya blood will be hardened
by this . . . this stone Purgatory. But it is a blessing for him that will cost you
your life. I will take it from you slowly. I will rip your skin—”
DeMontoya stopped speaking when Sally moved. She lifted her chisel
and placed the edge against the statue of deMontoya’s son. She positioned
the blade carefully between the young man’s shoulders at the base of his neck.
(“Sally Gorgon And The Shattered Werewolf” concludes tomorrow)
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