Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy

by Massa, William

  Artan was real.

  Cael was real.

  The gargoyle was real.

  The chill that permeated her body didn’t subside, not even when she reached her father’s building. A buzzing hive of activity awaited her. Two police cruisers and an ambulance, sirens bleeding into the night, were parked around the building. Gripping with mounting dread, she gingerly approached the ambulance. She realized EMTs were wheeling someone out of the building on a stretcher.

  Her father.

  Rhianna fought her way through the crowd, surging toward her dad. She traded looks with one of the EMTs.

  “How is he? Will he be all right?”

  “Miss, could you please step back...”

  Rhianna could feel her face growing tight with anger. The pent-up emotion of the last hour exploded to the surface. The EMT had unfortunately stepped on an emotional land mine.

  “I'm his daughter! Now let me see my dad!”

  Rhianna brushed past the EMT and grabbed her father's hand, fighting back tears. “Everything's going to be okay. I'm right here with you.”

  The EMTs whisked the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Rhianna followed them. One of the EMTs was about to protest, but one look from Rhianna stopped him cold. She was coming along, whether he liked it or not.

  As she hopped into the ambulance, she felt the urge to look up. The tall apartment buildings that ran down Central Park West loomed. She caught sight of a few vague silhouettes perched atop the various structures. Gargoyles. Only an hour ago, they were just a part of her everyday life. Now the stone figures were imbued with sinister portents.

  Her attention shifted back to her dad. As the grumbling EMT slammed the ambulance door shut, one of the rooftop shadows stirred.

  ***

  It was just another night in a Manhattan emergency room. In other words — barely controlled chaos. Everywhere Rhianna looked, she saw ailing people forced to wait their turn while the overwhelmed staff desperately tried to maintain order and stem the tide of suffering. Rhianna nervously paced back and forth, waiting to hear some news about her father. It had been over an hour. What was taking so long?

  Almost as if someone had read her thoughts, which wasn’t too hard to do as they were plainly written on her face, a doctor appeared before her.

  “Miss Sharpe?”

  Rhianna looked up at the doctor, doing her best to keep her emotions in check.

  “How's my dad?”j

  “He sustained a fairly severe concussion. We're going to keep him here overnight for observation, but he should be fine.”

  Rhianna let out a sigh of relief. She had feared that he may have sustained internal injuries.

  “Can I see him?”

  The doctor nodded and escorted her down a series of corridors. Doctors, nurses and various staff zipped past them and it seemed like they were all intent on stopping the doctor so they could ask some question, slowing Rhianna’s progress, but they finally arrived at her father’s hospital room and she was led inside.

  Her face grew taut as she approached the figure propped up in bed, head bandaged, asleep. Rhianna squeezed her father’s hand, relief flooding her features. “What a night. Not exactly what a Masters in Archeology prepares you for.”

  There was no response. He was out for the count. The doctor had stayed back and was watching her from the door. The tone of his voice, refined and educated, felt reassuring. “I’ll leave you two alone. Don’t worry, Miss Sharpe. Your father is in good hands.”

  The doctor left. Rhianna continued to watch her dad's sleeping form. He seemed so peaceful, like the last few hours had never happened. Rhianna took a seat at his bedside. For a moment, she stared into space. She could feel tears welling up. If anything had happened to her father...

  “I still don't believe it. How can this stuff be real?”

  The only answer Rhianna received was the sound of her father’s breathing, which seemed amplified in the otherwise silent room. She hadn’t really expected an answer, or even that her words could magically penetrate his slumber. She was talking to calm herself.

  She sat there for almost half an hour before she finally got up. Being back on her feet made her realize how exhausted she was. The horrors she had witnessed today were going to change her outlook on life.

  She was about to leave when...

  Her father woke up.

  A deep sense of urgency filled his face. He grabbed Rhianna's wrist and pulled her closer. His voice was a glassy whisper as he spoke. “There's something you need to know...”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MANHATTAN WAS BURNING...

  Fires raged all across the urban island, plumes of black smoke drifting across the skyline, a shifting landscape of heat and darkness. The pillars of steel and cement had been gutted and scorched. Broken structures thrust toward a sky of churning hellfire and clouds split by lightning. An army of winged monsters swarmed like a plague of locusts, turning sunny day into fiery night…

  Standing on the roof of a burning building was... Rhianna. As she surveyed the terrible destruction, it felt as if she had been offered a glimpse into hell itself.

  A roar pierced the air.

  Rhianna looked up. A massive gargoyle was rushing straight at her, giant wings so wide they blocked out the surrounding light.

  As the monster’s shadow loomed large, her mouth twisted into a scream...

  Rhianna jolted from her nightmare and let out a sharp gasp, face beaded in perspiration. Her whole body was trembling, affected by her vision of Armageddon. She studied her surroundings, disoriented, her waking reality still untangling the cobwebs of her dream.

  She found herself in the same spot where she spent most of her waking hours nowadays — hunched over her computer, surrounded by Celtic literature. She must have nodded off in her chair the moment she got back from the hospital.

  For a split second, Rhianna hoped the experiences of the previous evening had just been a dream, but the bruises all over her body and the various gargoyle-related keywords in her search-engine history suggested otherwise. She had been combing the web for any piece of information that could add clarity to last night’s harrowing ordeal when she was overcome by exhaustion. The stress of the day took its toll on her and she must have nodded off. She felt even more tired now, the fitful nap having done little to balance out her sleep deficit.

  Rhianna was about to get up and seek out a much-needed shot of caffeine when she noticed a red discoloration on her hand. A furious scarlet line extended from where the Eye of Balor had sliced her finger all the way down to her palm. It looked like blood poisoning or a festering skin infection.

  Unnerved, Rhianna studied the strange red pattern on her hand. On closer inspection, the red line seemed to be forming a Celtic rune symbol. Rhianna was now wide-awake and stared at the mark with a growing sense of dread.

  Stay calm, she admonished herself.

  She wanted to obey the voice, but her heart throbbed against her chest and beads of sweat popped up on her face. She barely remembered returning from the kitchen and turning on her computer. A few seconds later, she was searching the web for a possible explanation for the strange symbol that had materialized on her hand.

  The computer screen flickered and bathed her face in its electronic halo. Her fingers kept tapping the keys, but the words appearing in her search engine didn’t register. Fear had seized her in its icy grip and she was consumed by memories of the horrors she’d experienced in the last few hours. She had faced death and confronted a monster from which nightmares were made of. Then there was Artan. The enigmatic king of Kirkfall who also just happened to be...

  She couldn’t bring herself to complete the thought. The memory of how the former king looked at her was etched in her mind. She had met his magnetic gaze both when he was a man and when he was a beast, and each time she’d been intimidated for different reasons. There was a promise in his eyes, as well as a warning.

  A sudden rippling sound stopped her in mid-
thought and turned her blood to ice. A dark shape had passed by her window. Gripped by fear but unable to remain seated and ignore the phenomenon, Rhianna approached the window even as her inner voice urged her to stay put. Considering what had happened at her dad’s apartment, she should be staying clear of windows. But if some fiend lurked outside and wanted to harm her, it would’ve done so already. Deep down, she hoped that Artan had returned.

  Heart hammering in her chest, she pulled the curtain back and peered through the window at the soaring city outside. The first light of dawn was beginning to chase away the shadows of the night - daylight was upon the city. Traffic was already congested as the first commuters began to arrive in Manhattan from whatever suburban haven they called home.

  A street-sweeper beeped and snorted its way down the avenue. Rhianna gazed at the neighboring building (no sign of the frisky couple across the street), paying special attention to the rooftops. At first there was just a vague sense of movement but she squinted and realized Artan sat perched atop the ledge of the neighboring building. He blended in with the cement structure and from this angle, might just be an ordinary gargoyle. The illusion was shattered the moment his onyx eyes found hers and those massive wings unfurled.

  Startled, she took a step back. The creature took to the sky. A mixture of fear and excitement flickered across Rhianna’s face as she realized Artan was headed straight for the roof of her apartment building. She took a deep breath and made for the door.

  ***

  The gargoyle sat crouched on the ledge. The first wave of morning commuters filled the city's cement arteries below. The night had started to lift and darkness was making way for morning. Artan took in the rising sun, his somber expression unreadable. His feral eyes were crimson chips. They started to change color as the sunlight hit them, turning human.

  After the incident in the alley, Artan had returned to Dr. Sharpe’s apartment building. His wounds healed themselves, a gargoyle’s constitution dealing with most of the damage. A faint discoloration remained where Cael’s claws had raked his gray flesh.

  From high above the building, his superior vision spotted Rhianna rushing toward the ambulance and his heightened senses could follow the conversation below. He didn’t yet possess a full command of the English language, but he understood enough to get the gist of the exchange. Unlike Cael, who had been trapped in a dark cave, Artan was surrounded by people during his entombment in stone. Almost through osmosis, some of the unfamiliar words and their meanings had penetrated his prison.

  Once the ambulance pulled away, Artan followed the vehicle, alert, expecting Cael to appear at any moment but there was no sign of his older brother. As he was gliding through the night air, he wondered what he was doing. He had the Eye of Balor. What more did he need from the woman and her father?

  Artan rationalized that his interest was purely of a practical nature. Cael might not possess the gem, but he posed a formidable threat as long as he walked this earth. Based on the various costumes and decorations Artan had glimpsed since his return to the world of the living, a dark celebration was approaching. Samhain. And he knew all too well the deeper significance of that date. Tomorrow night, the barrier between this world and the Otherworld would be at its most fragile. Cael would want to seize the opportunity and unleash Balor’s forces of darkness upon an unsuspecting populace.

  Artan didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t go it alone in this alien city. He’d need a guide. Rhianna spoke his tongue and understood where he came from. She could act as a bridge between the past he had left behind and the future he now faced.

  Of course, there was another reason, too. He was drawn to this young woman. Her presence was calming, an echo of his beloved Samara. After all these centuries of isolation and stony entombment, the need for human contact and connection had become overwhelming. His yearning filled him with guilt. Such emotions made Artan feel like a traitor to the memory of his long-dead wife. His thoughts turned to the here and now as the sun washed over his bestial features. Unlike the nighttime transformation into a gargoyle, which was filled with agony as dark magic ripped his body apart, reverting back to his human form was almost painless. As he exhaled, a giant weight was lifted from his shoulders. Massive muscles melted away within seconds, the demonic wings retracted, and his skin reverted from gray to its natural pink. One moment the Eye of Balor sat nestled in a clawed gargoyle paw and the next it rested in the palm of a human hand.

  As the sun rose to its full daytime glory, the curse was lifted. Once again, Artan was human, at least until nightfall. He grew aware of his nakedness and his attention shifted to a clothesline strung up across the roof. Laundry hung from the line, flapping in the morning breeze.

  Artan snatched a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, quickly slipping into the clothes. His timing was perfect as a roof access door opened and Rhianna appeared. Artan’s full attention fixed on the young archeologist. Her easy smile and open, forthright demeanor made Artan think of his wife again. His chest tightened and his fists clenched with emotion.

  Rhianna eyed him with trepidation. Her beautiful red hair swirled in the morning breeze and for a moment, Artan’s mind turned to his past.

  Samara... I thought I would never see you again...

  The thought came unbidden and was followed by an angry admonishment. This wasn’t the same woman who had haunted his memories for the last fifteen centuries. His wife was gone and the man who’d taken her from him was still out there.

  “Why did you come back here?” Rhianna asked.

  The question hung in the air for a moment before Artan offered the simplest answer possible. “I need your help.”

  ***

  Rhianna watched the man who sat at her kitchen counter. He was busy wolfing down a breakfast of eggs and toast that she had whipped together for her unexpected guest. She couldn’t help but be distracted by this striking medieval warrior who had saved her life twice now.

  “I think you're the first man who likes my cooking. I guess after fifteen centuries away from food, everything tastes pretty good.”

  Artan looked up from his plate, nodded his gratitude and resumed eating. Rhianna watched, fascinated to have an ancient warrior – the mythical Artan McKeltar - sitting in her kitchen and enjoying her culinary creation.

  “I have so many questions. I do not even know where to begin.”

  Artan focused on the meal.

  “By the way, I never thanked you for saving my life.”

  Artan nodded and grunted.

  Rhianna shook her head. This conversation was getting a bit... one-sided. “You don't talk much, do you now?”

  Artan stopped eating. Looked up from his plate.

  “I am out of practice.”

  The silence returned. Rhianna could almost see Artan’s mind working, trying to find a topic to discuss. Atrophied social skills creaked to life as he took his first stab at small talk.

  “How fares your father?”

  “I think he's going to be okay.”

  “I am glad to hear that.

  Rhianna was touched by the genuine concern in Artan’s voice and it brought a flicker of emotion to her face. “Thank you.”

  The silence returned. It seemed like the conversation had petered out before it had a chance to get started. Then he said, “How come you do not have a husband?”

  This question gave Rhianna pause. Was it obvious that she was single? Her apartment must be telling. Before she could stop herself, she said in a voice she hoped wasn’t too defensive, “How do you know I’m single?”

  “I see no children.”

  Rhianna was both amused and peeved by Artan’s matter-of-fact response.

  “It's hard to find a good man when you're busy cramming for a PhD.” Artan gave Rhianna a long, uncomprehending look. PhD didn’t mean much to a medieval warrior. She tried to put it in terms he might understand. “The 21st Century is a bit different,” she explained. “The girls actually have a say in who they marry.”
>
  Artan snorted and stifled a gruff laugh.

  “You have not met a Celtic woman, have you?”

  Before Rhianna could retort, the door opened and Natalie popped into the kitchen. She did a quick double take when she spotted Artan, her curiosity piqued.

  “I thought I heard voices. Hi there. And who'd you be? Rhianna has told me absolutely nothing about you.”

  Natalie winked at Rhianna and had extended her hand to Artan when Rhianna got between them. She shot a quick look at the resurrected medieval warrior.

  “Excuse me for a minute...”

  Rhianna grabbed Natalie's arm and pulled her from the kitchen. Dark forces were at work and Cael was still out there. Rhianna saw what had happened to her dad. She couldn’t risk getting her roommate involved. And perhaps – if she was honest with herself – she didn’t want to share the attention. Natalie had a million suitors. She didn’t need Artan too.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” Natalie protested as she was dragged through the door. She managed to trade a final look with Artan before she was whisked away. “Nice to meet you...”

  Rhianna pulled Natalie out of the apartment and walked her toward the industrial freight elevators of their prewar building. Natalie was grinning ear to ear. “I see you've been working hard on your presentation.”

  “I'll explain later.”