“A bit overzealous, isn’t he?” Artan commented dryly, surprised by his ability to crack a joke at a time like this.
Nyssa’s lips stretched into a serious line. “Cormac has good reasons to hate gargoyles. One of them killed his fiancée. I would think you of all people could relate.”
Artan swallowed hard, the dark expression on the Viking’s features suddenly all too familiar. Would he have acted differently if their roles were reversed?
“Tell me more about what’s happening here? Did someone restore the Eye of Balor?”
“No, the two pieces remain safely locked away.”
“Then how do you explain a gargoyle running around Central Park?”
A dark cloud fell over Nyssa’s face, her voice drained of all emotion as she spoke. “The gargoyle you encountered was one of the warlock’s creations.”
Artan arched an eyebrow.
“He calls himself Necron. I call him pure evil.” Nyssa pulled up a second chair and took a seat in front of Artan. “Like your brother—and you, I might add—Necron found a way to cheat death and has now returned to plunge the world into a new dark age.”
“How?”
Nyssa took a potion vial from her coat and held it up at the light. “A witch-hunter working for the Order captured Necron two hundred years ago after he terrorized the town of Salem, Massachusetts. He was supposed to be burned at the stake, but one of his followers slipped him this vial.”
She held it beneath his nose. Artan sniffed the glass vessel and immediately recognized the stench of copper and decay. “Fomor Blood.”
Nyssa nodded and put the vial back in her pocket.
“How would this warlock get ahold of the blood of a gargoyle?”
“Before arriving in the New World, Necron sought out black magic relics all over Europe. We believe Cael’s surviving followers preserved some of his blood, hoping to transform themselves at some point to avenge their slain master. Their attempts at vengeance failed, just as Necron’s initial ascendency failed. Do you know why?”
“They turned to stone,” Artan said.
“Gargoyles are the clay of the earth given unnatural life, animated by magic. They need a power source to sustain themselves in our world. One such power source was the Eye of Balor. Necron has, unfortunately, discovered another.”
Artan tried to wrap his mind around the idea. He’d always believed that the nightmare had ended when he destroyed the Eye of Balor, but apparently it wasn’t that simple.
“What sort of power source? And if he had it, why did he turn to stone in the first place?”
“Necron had a grimoire. A book of magical spells such as the world had never seen before. He did not have the chance to cast the spell that would keep him from turning to stone two hundred years ago, but when the two halves of the Eye of Balor were reunited last year—”
“Necron came back to life the same way Cael and I did.”
Nyssa nodded. “Yes. While you were busy battling your brother and saving this city, Necron was succeeding where he’d failed centuries earlier.”
Artan was beginning to understand. Gargoyles had returned to the world of men, and the evil Cael had unleashed so many centuries ago was living on in a new, twisted form, fueled by a different infernal power. And even as some of the pieces were beginning to come together, Artan still had more questions.
“This still doesn’t explain why Necron has come to New York City and how one of Rhianna’s coworkers turned into a gargoyle. What’s this warlock after?”
“The end of the world,” Nyssa replied, face ashen. “When the Order stopped Necron the first time, they found three books of black magic in his possession. One written in Greek, one in Latin, and a third in Aramaic, each the work of a different mage and magical system. Who knows how long it took for the fiend to gather these infernal volumes. What we do know is Necron’s plan was to magically fuse the three books into a grimoire so powerful that it could raise the dead and bring forth the apocalypse.”
“This Necron character is starting to sound a lot like my brother. What happened to the books after he turned to stone?”
“His followers managed to escape with two of the volumes. The remaining book, as well as the gargoyle statue Necron had turned into, was kept under lock and key at the Order’s headquarters in Boston.”
Artan shook his head. “So when Necron awoke a year ago, he found himself locked away with the first grimoire. That was remarkably careless.”
“Yes. Armed with the magic of only one dark magic book, he murdered eighteen of our brothers and escaped.”
“Do you know where the other books are?”
Nyssa sighed and leaned back in her chair, looking suddenly weary. “Over the centuries, the Order tried to locate the missing volumes with little success. Necron believes he’ll succeed where we failed. Ever since his return to the modern age, he’s been on a mad quest to retrieve the two missing grimoires. We’ve been tracking Necron for a year now, but all this time he’s managed to stay one step ahead of us. The Order almost captured him two months ago in Chicago, but he escaped after murdering Cormac’s fiancée.”
“And now he’s here in Manhattan,” Artan said, his voice heavy.
“Spreading Balor’s curse, spawning gargoyles wherever he goes to keep us distracted while he gets closer to locating the two missing volumes.”
Artan considered everything Nyssa had shared with him and said, “One last question. Why do you believe Rhianna is being targeted by this fiend?”
“There’s only one explanation that makes sense. Necron must think the grimoires are at the museum where she works. That’s why we believe he turned Maxwell into one of his monsters—to infiltrate the museum and locate the missing books.”
“Why did Necron send Maxwell after me?”
“Maybe he didn’t,” Nyssa said.
Artan played back the events of the last evening. He knew all too well how Fomor blood could amplify emotion. Clearly Maxwell was interested in Rhianna. Maybe Maxwell had followed him into the park merely to dispatch a romantic rival. This time, Artan had not been infected by the curse of the gargoyle as a result of his own noble sacrifice. No, this time it was because of a petty man’s jealousy.
Nyssa’s voice was softened by empathy as she said, “It’s a terrible twist of fate that your life should be touched twice by this evil now.”
Artan cracked a fatalistic smile. “My luck.” There was still a part of Nyssa’s tale that failed to add up for Artan. “How did you manage to arrive in the subway tunnel when you did?”
One of the gargoyle hunters, who’d been listening in on their conversation, offered an explanation. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the park for a few days now, monitoring police scanners after two other brutal murders which we suspected of being the work of gargoyles. We were hoping to capture one of the beasts alive so it could lead us back to its master. You ruined that plan when you decide to take its head off.”
Artan raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, next time I’ll make sure to let it rip my throat out so you can successfully carry out your mission.”
None of them laughed. Artan recalled news reports about a series of grisly murders around Central Park. He hadn’t paid them much attention, too distracted with his own problems. Violence was as much a part of the modern world as it had ever been, and it was easy to become desensitized by the constant chatter of bad news. Looking back now, Artan felt he should’ve recognized the signs that dark forces were gathering in the city.
Nyssa’s gaze locked on his, her face grave. “By now, Necron must know that we’ve dispatched his servant. It’s only a matter of time before he tries a direct raid on the museum, but he’ll find the Order waiting for him.”
Her voice wavered on her last words, and initially Artan mistook it for excitement. But judging by the look in her eyes, it had been a tremor of fear. Nyssa didn’t strike him as the type of woman who scared easily. The dark wizard Necron was a formidable opponent, and the Order wo
uld need all the help they could get.
“Release me and I will aid you,” Artan said, the ringing tones of command in his voice. “You saw how I handled myself unarmed against the gargoyle. I can help you stop this wizard.”
Nyssa shook her head. “It’s too risky. I’m sorry, but we have no choice.”
“Please,” Artan said softly. “Let me help while I’m still human.”
“What happens when Balor’s curse erases the last shred of who you are and the world turns dark? Whose side will you be on?”
Artan recalled those terrible hours during Samhain when his gargoyle nature had seized hold of him, reducing him to Balor’s helpless puppet. Could it happen again? Would he, in fact, do more harm than good.
“We’ll do everything in our power to save Miss Sharpe.” Nyssa rose, her features tightening with determination. “And…we’ll give you until sunrise tomorrow to say your goodbyes. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”
Nyssa turned toward the freight elevator, flanked by her lieutenants, leaving Artan alone with his grim thoughts.
CHAPTER SIX
RHIANNA NERVOUSLY CHEWED her bottom lip as she sent her sixth text in the last ten minutes. Where was Artan? And why had he left the party without even a simple goodbye? Taking off like that was out of character for the former King of Kirkfall. Making matters worse, Artan wasn’t answering any of her messages.
Even though he was a skilled warrior, she worried about him. Modern-day New York was a far cry from Kirkfall, and Artan was in many ways innocent about how the modern world worked. She’d insisted on getting him a phone. Texts were a poor substitute for face-to-face interactions, but it was better than nothing. And now he wasn’t even answering his phone.
A year earlier life had seemed so much simpler. That magical stretch of time after she’d finished her Ph.D., but before she’d started her new job at the MET, had been one of the happiest of her life. For two blissful months, she and Artan had been free to love each other with fierce abandon. God, how she missed those carefree days. Lately, a cloud had settled over them, and she was beginning to think it might never be lifted.
Rhianna finished her drink, welcoming the numbing effects of the alcohol on her buzzing nerves. A bespectacled Ph.D. candidate next to her kept droning on about his upcoming dissertation, and she struggled to pay attention to the conversation. Artan dominated her thoughts. More than once she’d caught him with a faraway expression on his chiseled features, eyes fixed forlornly into space. He didn’t talk about his feelings; he was a king, after all, and kings didn’t burden others with their problems. Especially not kings from fifteen centuries in the past. Adapting to this world had to be challenging, and she tried to respect Artan’s need to find his own way.
But what if something else was wrong? How was she supposed to help him when he wouldn’t talk to her?
Rhianna shook her head. Funny that she should be the one fretting about Artan when he’d saved her life on multiple occasions. Frustration growing, she checked her cell again. No message from Artan. Something was definitely wrong.
As quickly as she could, Rhianna said her goodbyes and left the party. She caught a cab within a minute of stepping out of the Upper West Side apartment building. The ride back to Brooklyn would cost her a small fortune, but she didn’t feel like braving the subway at this time of night. With Artan by her side, she wouldn’t have thought twice about taking public transportation. She longed to throw herself into his arms—but what if he wasn’t home? The more she thought about it, the less she wanted to spend the night by herself in the large loft. Mind made up to avoid her home until she heard from Artan, she instructed the cabbie to change directions and head to her father’s place on Central Park West.
During the ride, her feeling of dread intensified. Artan’s sense of chivalry alone wouldn’t have allowed him to let her return this late at night on her own, no matter what might’ve ticked him off at the party. Even if he decided to step out for some air, he would’ve told her first, and he definitely would’ve returned. What could possibly account for this prolonged silence? Visions of a gang of muggers descending on Artan and crazy cabbies running him over as he crossed the street haunted her imagination. Even a trained warrior could be caught off guard.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting down on the beige leather couch inside her dad’s Upper West Side condo. His home always made her feel like she’d stumbled into a hidden wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The space was stuffed with the fruits of a career spent globe-trotting the world in the pursuit of ancient treasure. Medieval helmets lined bookshelves weighed down by ancient parchments; samurai swords decorated the wall next to flintlock pistols. And then there were the books. Thick, leather-bound tomes, many of which predated the printing press. There was a subtle yet unmistakable scent of paper and aged leather in the air.
Rhianna felt at home in the cluttered space, drawing a measure of comfort from the familiar artifacts and the museum-like feel of her dad’s home. He’d instilled a passion for archeology in her, and she truly was her father’s daughter. With a relaxed smile on his face, her father poured her a generous glass of wine, and she drained half of it in one swig.
“This isn’t like him,” she said. “Something is wrong. I feel it. Part of me wants to call the police but I know what they’ll say.”
“Artan is a grown man,” her father replied. “He might’ve just needed some fresh air and accidentally forgot to turn on his phone. He’ll be able to find his way home.”
“I know, but lately….” She broke off, unsure how much about her love life she should share with her father.
His expression turned serious. “There’s something you should know. I saw Artan earlier today.”
This caught Rhianna off guard. “You did?’
“Yes. He’s…going through a bit of a rough patch.”
Rhianna lowered her wine glass, her stomach churning with anxiety. “What did he tell you?”
Her father hesitated before he answered. “He’s still trying to make sense of his new world. Discover his place in it.”
The words confirmed her deepest suspicions. “Sometimes I wonder if he’ll ever feel like he belongs.”
“With you in his corner, he’d be a fool not to.”
A grateful smile painted her face. “Damned straight.”
She’d made the right decision coming here. Already she was feeling a little less worried. All she could do was hope her father was right. She drained the rest of her wine, and at some point during their conversation, she drifted off to sleep on the couch.
The next day, fiery sunlight washed over her face and woke her with a jolt. She didn’t remember passing out. Her dad must’ve placed a blanket on her, a realization that brought a warm smile to her face. Her heart filled with deep affection for her father. She worried about him, too. He put up a brave face to the world but Cael had done a number on him. As soon as she resolved this mess with Artan, she promised herself to spend more time with him. And talking about time….
She glanced at her cell and sighed. Great, it was already eight o’clock. She’d overslept and felt hungover. She’d better get cracking if she didn’t want to be late for work. Artan still hadn’t answered any of her messages. She called him three times as she hunted about for the suitcase of clothes and toiletries she kept at her father’s house for unplanned visits like this, but she only got Artan’s voicemail. His phone must be dead. Still, didn’t mean he was in trouble, she told herself. He could be back to their Brooklyn loft right now, enjoying a leisurely snooze. Charging a phone wouldn’t exactly be high on the priority list of a fifth century warrior.
Rhianna shook her head to clear it of her racing thoughts. She had to focus on the day ahead. Without much enthusiasm, she showered and got dressed, leaving a note for her dad on the kitchen counter before she hurried out the door. Rushing down bustling city blocks against a soundtrack of honking cabs and belching buses, she balanced a bagel in one hand and a scaldi
ng cup of Starbucks in the other. Just another New Yorker forced to scarf down a not-so-balanced breakfast on the go.
Arriving at the MET, she couldn’t shake the growing feeling of unease. Normally she entered the museum with an enthusiastic grin, thrilled by the prospect of spending another day among its countless treasures. Today the place triggered only a budding sense of claustrophobia, the artifact-stuffed walls closing in on her. She was trapped in here while Artan was God knows where. If she didn’t hear from him soon, she’d call the cops and file a missing persons report. Another emotion was beginning to lace her concern: Anger. How could Artan have done this to her? Didn’t he realize she’d be worried sick about him?
As soon as she stepped into her office, the phone started ringing non-stop and she was swept up by the responsibilities of the new day. Compounding the stress was the fact that Maxwell hadn’t shown up for work. Although she didn’t much care for her newest co-worker personally, he was a rising start at the MET and had made himself indispensable. Rhianna now had to shoulder the workload of two people. Adding to her frustration, her co-worker hadn’t even called in sick, and all her attempts of getting in touch with him ended with her reaching his voicemail. What the hell was going on this morning? Did no one answer their phones anymore?
After two hours of running around the museum non-stop, feeling like she was always a step behind, she bumped into Martin, the chief of security, inside the Art of Africa wing. This section of the MET housed more than 11,000 pieces from sub-Saharan Africa, the Pacific Islands and Americas. Surrounded by ancient images of gods, ancestors and spirits, and a variety of decorative and ceremonial objects, the twenty-first century seemed like a distant place.
As Rhianna zeroed in on Martin, she noticed the deep concern lining the guard’s face. His troubled expression mirrored her own.
“What’s wrong, Martin?” she asked.
He gestured at the security cameras positioned around the ceiling. “Our security system is down. I don’t know how, but-”
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