Artan decided a change in scenery was in order. As long as he stayed in the park, he remained exposed and vulnerable. The gargoyle could swoop down on him and attack before he could fight back.
The ground suddenly rumbled as a subway train passed near the wall enclosing the park, and his eyes lit up with an idea. Out here, he made for an easy target—but what if he could disappear underground? The dark network of subway tunnels offered an advantage in a confrontation with an aerial attacker. The creature wouldn’t be able to surprise him from above, and the close confines would prevent the beast from flanking him. If he could somehow make it across the street to the 86th station….
Almost as if the gargoyle sensed Artan’s plan, it at last came in for the kill. He felt the creature’s approach more than saw it. There was a rush of air, and then a heavy mass slammed into him. All hopes of riding to safety were crushed as the impact catapulted him out of the saddle. For a split second, he stayed airborne before the ground came rushing up to greet him. He landed with a loud whoomp, the fall knocking the wind from his lungs, jarring his teeth, and jostling his bones.
Groggy, he lay splayed on the grass, the nearby sounds of traffic distant yet close. There was something almost soothing about the steady pulse of the city whispering at the edge of his awareness as his consciousness slipped away.
Get up and run, he ordered himself, his mental voice bristling with the authority of the King of Kirkfall. Before he could move, an enormous shadow fell across him as the gargoyle descended. The sight of it, membranous wings spread wide and claws ready to kill, filled him with rage. Creatures like this one had taken everything from him, his family, his world, his humanity.
He surged to his feet. Every muscle in his body screamed out in agony, sore from the fall. The beast’s claws tore into the ground where his head had been seconds earlier, tearing away a huge swath of earth.
Artan backed away, awareness trained on the creature while trying to locate anything he could use as a weapon. It felt like he was moving in slow motion, reflexes dulled. An hour of sparring with Rhianna wasn’t the same as facing men and monsters on the battlefield while decked out in full armor. He’d traded in a life of war for one of peace, and it showed. A fully trained knight, armored and armed, stood a slim chance at besting a gargoyle; a weak, soft citizen of this century was just easy prey for the demon.
With a ferocious roar, the gargoyle approached.
Artan noticed something glinting nearby. The dead police officer’s pistol. He must’ve dropped the gun during the attack.
Lightning fast, Artan grabbed it.
Rhianna had shown him how to use a firearm at a shooting range a few months earlier. Even though she had insisted he was a natural, Artan wasn’t enamored with the modern-day weapon. To his mind, it made killing too easy. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the gun as his finger closed around the trigger and squeezed.
Gunfire rang out through the park as he unloaded the entire magazine into the creature. Bloody holes erupted along the gargoyle’s muscled torso, but the bullets barely slowed it down. They did manage to buy him a few precious seconds, however, which allowed him to back up toward the park’s wall. The beast, more angry than hurt, resumed its inexorable approach. He tossed the now useless firearm aside and jumped over the wall. A car honked and swerved as he stormed across the street, avoiding a collision by a hair’s breath.
Artan never stopped, never looked back.
Every fiber of his being was focused on the immediate task of surviving. The subway station jumped into view. He almost expected the gargoyle to land in front of the station’s staircase and bar his retreat, but the monster never materialized. The hail of lead must’ve slowed it down for the time being. Unwilling to pause to catch his breath, he ran down the filthy stairs. The earth swallowed him as he shot into the nearly abandoned station. Only a few late-night commuters listlessly waited for the next train, most of them focused on the glowing screens of their phones.
Artan didn’t slow down as he launched himself over the turnstile. He’d made it underground, but this didn’t mean he was safe, not by a long shot.
He advanced toward the edge of the platform. The tunnel stretched before him into darkness. The station’s silence was shredded by the ear-pulverizing sound of an incoming train. Headlights raked the tunnel’s tiled walls and a blast of air buffeted Artan's face as the steel behemoth tore through the station. The express train never slowed as it headed toward its unknown destination. Seconds later, the station was once again enveloped by a preternatural silence.
The quiet didn’t last long.
With a keening shriek, the gargoyle dove toward Artan—not from the stairs, as he’d predicted, but from the shadows of the tunnel. Too late, he realized that it must have torn open a grate and entered the subway system farther down the line so that it could meet him head on.
All these thoughts slashed through his mind in the split second before the creature’s claws tore him off the platform. Airborne once again, man and beast hurtled through the tunnel. The station’s lights receded, and soon the only illumination came from the series of grates above. Shooting down the tunnels, the gargoyles’ talons ripped flesh and drew blood. Then the gargoyle let go of him, and he landed hard on the tracks. It was a miracle that he didn’t black out on impact or hit the electrified third rail.
Hot blood pulsed from his arm where the creature had snatched him, but he was otherwise unharmed. Stunned, and barely clinging to awareness, he weakly tilted his head up at the beast as it loomed over him. A single, dust-covered light bulb cast grotesque shadows in the claustrophobic space. A heartbeat later, the gargoyle’s jaws snapped out at him. This time the maw of jagged teeth closed around his arm, fangs sinking deep into his shoulder.
Artan cried out, knowing the moment of his death was upon him at last. The gargoyle reared back for the killing strike, mouth painted crimson, wings unfurling in triumph.
After fifteen centuries of battling the Fomor, a single gargoyle would succeed where Cael and his winged horde had failed. As the blood gushed from his shoulder, a part of Artan was ready to accept his fate. Soon he would be reunited with his wife and son, lost to him all these long centuries. He would finally take his rightful place among his people in the next world.
But something stopped him from letting go and giving in to the waves of darkness threatening to sweep him away.
Rhianna.
She would be worried sick. Who knew how long it would take for them to find his body. He couldn’t let it end this way. He had to live on.
He had to fight back.
The gargoyle let out a bone-chilling roar as it readied itself to pounce again, its hypnotic glare locking on him. Artan prepared to strike back, coiling his muscles.
And that’s when something whistled through the air and tore into one of the creature’s wings in a spray of dark gore. The gargoyle roared again, this time in pain and shock.
Artan whirled and caught a glimpse of his savior. A woman cut a shadowy silhouette on the tracks behind him. Her features remained hidden in the dark tunnel, but Artan recognized the weapon in her outstretched hand. She was wielding not a gun but a crossbow.
The woman and the winged beast regarded each other across the subway tracks. Artan, now reduced to a helpless bystander who’d stumbled into a war zone, watched them.
With one mighty beat of its wings, the gargoyle launched over Artan’s head toward the new arrival.
The woman held her ground.
Almost lazily, she aimed and fired.A second stainless-steel bolt punctured the creature's shoulder, triggering a savage wail as one massive wing crumpled, useless. The beast crashed to the ground but kept charging.
The woman dropped her crossbow and reached into her trench coat for a pair of ornate battleaxes. The woman advanced, and Artan caught his first clear glimpse of her as she stepped into a shaft of moonlight. The pale light gleamed on raven-black hair that framed high, sharp cheekbones and a full mouth. A pair
of fearless green eyes fixed on the fast-approaching nightmare. She spun the twin weapons deftly in her hands, and then the beast was upon her.
Steel hacked into the creature's tough hide with a sickening sound and thick black blood splashed the tracks. The gargoyle stumbled, its shrieks growing weaker.
In one smooth motion, the female warrior slid one axe handle over the other. With a metallic snap, the twin weapons joined together to form one massive blade head.
Despite its growing number of wounds, the gargoyle launched itself at the woman and caught her unbalanced. She was hurtled off her feet, and the axe sailed through the air. Artan heard it clang against the rail as the creature tackled the Amazonian warrior, pressing its advantage.
It was up to Artan to make his move. He jumped to his feet and lurched toward the spot where the axe had fallen. Adrenaline surged as his fingers closed around the handle. The battleaxe wasn’t the Blade of Kings, but the archaic weapon felt good in his hand. He’d take an axe over a pistol any day of the week.
The gargoyle seemed to sense Artan’s approach. It spun away from the woman an instant too late. Artan whirled toward the beast, lips twisted with murderous fury. The axe sliced the air in a wide arc and then bit through the monster’s neck. The creature shuddered and then crumpled on the subway tracks.
As Artan loomed over the slain beast, battleaxe dripping black blood, the creature began to change before his eyes. The wings folded back into the shoulder blades. The dark reptilian features shrunk and gave way to pink skin. A heartbeat later, Artan was staring down at the nude form of a dead man.
This gargoyle wasn’t a Fomor but a transformed human. What the hell was going on?
Stooping to inspect the dead man more closely made Artan all too aware of the sharp pain radiating from the gargoyle bite on his shoulder. He could already sense the beast’s dark infection spreading through his body. He’d survived the battle with the gargoyle, but at what price?
Soon Balor’s curse would claim him once again.
As the horror sunk in, another realization hit him.
He knew the dead man slumped before his feet. It was Maxwell, the jerk from Rhianna’s party. While still trying to make sense of this fact, rapidly approaching footsteps behind him caught his attention. He spun around, eyes landing on three new arrivals. The biggest of them, a blonde-haired mountain of a man who looked like a Viking, leaned down to offer a hand to the female warrior and pull her back to her feet. Like the woman who’d come to his rescue, they all wore leather trench coats that disguised the body armor and weaponry they were sporting.
A quartet of serious faces regarded him grimly. The newcomers reached for their weapons.
“Who are you?” Artan asked. “What’s happening here?”
It was the woman who spoke, but her reply only confused him more. “Hello, King Artan of Kirkfall.” The enigmatic female picked up the axe Artan had dropped during the confrontation and wiped off the black blood with a gloved hand. “We’re the people who will hunt you down once the curse of the gargoyle claims your humanity again.”
Artan tried to wrap his brain around the woman’s words. The painful throbbing in his arm was growing more intense with each passing second. The world spun, the blood loss and dark magic finally taking their toll, as Artan’s legs gave way.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE RETURN TO consciousness happened in stages. First there were sounds. Distant at first, but they grew in volume. Then darkness gave way to light as heavy-lidded eyes peeled open. Artan’s head throbbed with a dull pain—and so did pretty much every part of his body. Artan tried to move his arms, only to realize they’d been cuffed to the back of a steel chair.
Who dared to shackle him like a common criminal? Fighting back a rising wave of anger, he took in his surroundings. Dust motes drifted lazily before his eyes as a spear of early morning sunlight lanced through the large windows looking out at Manhattan. It was a familiar view. He was back in his Brooklyn loft apartment.
Fear rose up in him. If they knew who he was and where he lived, had they gone after Rhianna?
Motivated by his concern for his beloved, he grunted with renewed effort and strained against the cuffs. Steel bit into his skin, but the chair remained rooted in place. He was a prisoner. But who were his captors? How did they know so much about him? And where had the axe-wielding female from the other night learned to battle gargoyles like that?
Footsteps approached. Five armed warriors decked out in flowing trench coats trailed the raven-haired mystery woman. Artan recognized a few of the faces from the fight with the gargoyle. In the light of day, the tall woman cut a striking figure. There was a fire in her almond-shaped eyes, and perhaps a trace of sadness too. She stopped three feet in front of him and spoke in a business-like, direct voice. “I see you’re awake, King Artan.”
Artan blinked at her. Where did this woman get her information?
“Who are you? How do you know about me? And what the hell are you doing in my home?” His voice shook with anger; Artan wasn’t a man used to being tied up.
“My name is Nyssa.” She took a step closer, her voice somber as she continued. “We came here last night, hoping to protect Miss Sharpe. She never came home.”
Nyssa’s words hit Artan like a punch to the gut. Protect her from what? Where was Rhianna? Had one of those monsters come after her too?
Nyssa recognized his agitated state and said, “I believe she is safe, at least for now. But dark forces are gathering, as you witnessed yourself.” The female warrior held up his cell phone and showed him a series of missed message from Rhianna. She tapped a key, and Rhianna’s voice grew audible. “Artan, please call me. I’m staying at my dad’s tonight, just didn’t feel like heading to Brooklyn without you. I hope you’re okay…”
The sound of his lover’s voice filled Artan with relief, calming the growing anxiety churning in his stomach.
“An ancient evil stalks this world, Artan. And we fear Miss Sharpe might be its next target.”
Artan vividly recalled the gargoyle transforming into Rhianna’s co-worker. He nodded slowly and asked, “How do you know this?”
“Gargoyles may be among the fiercest predators the Earth has ever seen, but there are other nightmares out there. The Order makes sure the world gets to wake up from them.”
Artan’s gaze ticked from Nyssa to her male companions.
“The Order?”
“Your brother wasn’t the first mage to unleash supernatural horrors upon this Earth, nor was he the last. The Order has been hunting demons and evil occultists for centuries.”
Artan mulled over Nyssa’s words. He’d been so focused on stopping his brother and the demon Balor that he’d never considered that other terrors might be lurking in the dark recesses of the world. “Our archives at the Vatican hold detailed historical records of every abomination which has terrorized mankind. Including your brother.”
“I hope he got his own goddamn chapter.” It was Artan’s turn to lean closer, as much as his cuffs allowed him. “If you know about Cael, then you should know why I chose to become a gargoyle.”
Her tone softened. “I’m aware of your sacrifice, King Artan.”
“Then why shackle me?”
“You know why. You’ve been infected. Soon, you’ll change.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper as she said, “I tried save you, but I was too late. I’m sorry.”
The full implication of her words sunk in. They planned to dispatch him before his terrible metamorphosis could run its course. Judging by the steely demeanors of the men behind her, they would not hesitate to strike. His downcast mood of the past few weeks suddenly seemed like the behavior of a spoiled child. Now that it was about to be all taken from him, he realized how blessed he’d been. The thought of never being able to hold Rhianna in his arms again was more than he could bear.
“I haven’t turned yet. You pull the trigger now, and you won’t be killing a monster but murdering a man.”
�
�One life means little when thousands are at risk.”
Artan had said those words himself once. The words of a man willing to trade his humanity for a chance at vengeance. A man who had nothing to lose.
Nothing to live for.
That wasn’t the case any longer. He might be an outsider in this modern world, but as long as Rhianna stood by his side, he wasn’t alone. It couldn’t end like this. He would not allow it. There had to be another solution.
“We’re wasting valuable time here,” another voice interjected. Artan shifted his gaze to the speaker. The man glaring back at him was the tall blonde warrior from the other night. “Best to get it over with,” the Viking said, his eyes devoid of any warmth or mercy.
“If I’m about to die, you could at least tell me what the hell is going on here. How is it possible for a gargoyle to be running loose in this city?” Artan said, meeting the strapping monster hunter’s blood-thirsty gaze head-on.
“He has a point, Cormac,” Nyssa conceded.
“How do we know the gargoyle isn’t already in control and trying to manipulate us? I say we end it now.”
Artan regarded Cormac coolly. The other two men were soldiers, but this man was a killer. The Viking was looking forward to driving a steel bolt through his heart.
“Artan deserves to know what’s happening here,” Nyssa said sharply. “Lower your weapon.”
The Viking stood his ground.
“I won’t repeat myself. I’m still the team leader, and I order you to put down your goddamn weapon! Now!”
Cormac glared at her a long moment before lowering the crossbow. “You’re making a mistake,” he hissed before stalking away, boots reverberating against the hardwood floor. The loft’s steel door slammed shut behind him with a deafening clang. The other monster hunters traded nervous glances with Nyssa, their loyalties torn between their commander and Cormac.
Gargoyle Quest Page 4