“What are you talking about?”
“None of the surveillance cams are working. I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve been trying to reach my team, but no one is answering. I’m just getting static on my end.”
“I’ll look into it,” Rhianna replied in as calm of a voice as she could muster. “Keep trying to get ahold of your team.”
Rhianna took in the various museum visitors milling around the vast gallery. A cross-section of people, tourists interspersed with local art students, all of them hoping to draw inspiration from the great masters of the past. Normally she paid the visitors no mind, too focused with her work behind the scenes. Now that the cameras were down, the milling crowds felt a little ominous. Modern technology made museum thefts a rarity nowadays, but you never knew.
Rhianna tried to reach the museum director only to discover with dismay that her phone wasn’t working properly now, either. She kept getting disconnected. What the hell was going on? What could possibly affect all communications in a museum the size of the MET?
She would have to use the landline in her office. On her way there, she passed through the medieval collection. Most of the art from that period was kept at the Cloisters, but the MET had a few rooms dedicated to it.
Passing underneath a gothic arch, her shoes echoing eerily against the stone floor, Rhianna stepped into the windowless space lined with medieval painting and sculptures. The MET was currently hosting an exhibit called Medieval Apocalypse. Two of the paintings on display never failed to send shivers down her back. The first one was the famous The Triumph of Death by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Painted in 1562 at the height of the Black Death, it showed a nightmarish doomsday landscape. An army of skeletons gathered up both the living and the dead, drawing no distinction between them, while plague carts filled with skulls rumbled through the broken wasteland.
The people of that time truly believed Judgment Day was upon them—and who could blame them? The plague was one of the deadliest pandemics in human history, killing more than half of Europe’s population.
From the corner of her eye, she registered a flicker of movement from the image. For one terrifying split second, she could’ve sworn the skeletons in the work of art had stirred, bony hands gloved in decaying skin reaching hungrily for the living…
She spun toward the painting, but the nightmarish vision of the apocalypse had returned to being just a painting.
Your mind is playing tricks on you. Pull yourself together, girl!
Her eyes shifted toward the other, equally disturbing piece of art positioned nearby: The Great Red Dragon and the Beast of the Sea by William Blake, which depicted burly men with jagged wings. The monsters were all too familiar to Rhianna. Winged demons had indeed walked this Earth, as she’d experienced firsthand a year earlier. They were called gargoyles…and she’d fallen in love with one of them.
Another sound made her whirl; she wasn’t alone in the spooky exhibit. A security guard had stepped out from behind a large row of display cases containing ancient medieval texts. He now faced one of the hellish paintings, his back turned toward her. Judging by the guard’s frame and sandy hair color, it had to be Robert, the youngest guard under Martin’s command. “Robert? Is that you?”
The guard let out a choking sound but his face remained averted.
Rhianna took a step closer.
“Martin says all the cameras are down and the mics aren’t working. Have you had any luck getting through to anyone?”
The guard responded by letting out another guttural rasp.
Rhianna stopped her advance.
A sense of dread washed over her. Something was wrong here. She was strangely reminded of that fateful day when Cael had attacked her in the Cloisters. Artan’s disappearance, Maxwell not showing up for work and the security system failure were all beginning to feel like the symptoms of a bigger, connected problem.
”Robert?” she said again.
That’s when he finally turned around. She gasped and froze in mid-step, stunned by the horror before her. Shaky words fell from the man’s lips, his terror mirroring her own: “P-please, help me.”
The guard facing her had no eyes!
CHAPTER SEVEN
RHIANNA WAS IN grave danger; of that much Artan was convinced. Would the Order reach the museum before Necron did? Once again, his girlfriend’s passion for ancient relics had put her in the crossfire of demonic powers.
Would the world ever cease to spawn power hungry monsters like his brother? If the last fifteen centuries of war and bloodshed were any indicator, the answer was a resounding no. There would always be another disciple willing to worship ancient, cruel Gods in exchange for a taste of power. Ruthless ambition set against the ticking clock of mortality would continue to motivate men to make their dark ambitions a reality. As long as there were tyrants hell-bent on enslaving the innocent, good men would have to stand up to them.
But was Artan still a man?
For the second time in Artan’s life, gargoyle blood flowed through his veins, a hungry tide threatening to sweep away his humanity and drown him in an ocean of violence.
It is your choice, he told himself. You can let the darkness define you or make it work to your advantage.
A noble sentiment, but one he feared was bound to failure. Maybe Nyssa’s instincts were right. Maybe the gargoyle would eventually erode the man until only the monster remained. Time would tell. But as long as he stayed in control of his faculties, and was able to resist the call of Balor, he could still fight on the side of righteousness.
Artan’s features tightened with determination as he strained against his handcuffs, muscles bulging, veins sharply outlined under the skin. Sweat dripped down his face as the steel cuffs bit into his wrists. Artan gnashed his teeth in bitter frustration. It was hopeless. Even a trained warrior stood little chance to break restraints cast from iron. He would be forced to sit out the battle while the life of the woman he loved hung in the balance.
He let out a hail of expletives in his Gaellic tongue that would have made his mother blush. The last time he’d felt so helpless was when Cael’s winged Fomor army had invaded his castle. For a flash of a moment, the past roared back to terrifying life in his mind, and he held the lifeless, bloodied form of his beloved Samara in his arms while dark columns of oily smoke streaked toward the heavens, turning his world into a shattered hell-scape of darkness and death.
He lost everything on that day. He wouldn’t let it happen again. There had to be a way out. Despite the shackles, Nyssa wasn’t taking any chances and had left two armed members of the Order behind to guard him. They stood near the loft’s main entrance and observed him with cool indifference. Even if by some miracle he should succeed in breaking free, Artan held no illusion that he could escape the wrath of the guard’s crossbows. These men were trained warriors, devoted and loyal to a cause both noble and just. According to Nyssa, the Order kept the world safe from supernatural threats. He’d believed there was no room left for myths and monsters in the modern world, but apparently a secret war was being waged in the shadows.
A war that might soon claim its latest casualty.
The thought amplified his frustration and rage, and he was gripped by a terrible yet familiar sensation. He could feel the first tentative stirrings of the creature inside of him. The gargoyle had been dormant for a year, but now the beast came to inhuman life, eager to break free. A part of him was horrified by what was happening, but another rejoiced, welcoming the demon like the return of an old friend. Muscles flexed, bulging against his skin, stretching his flesh until it warped into a dark, mottled hide. With an audible snap, his fingers elongated and turned into razor-sharp talons.
The pain was unbearable.
He shook with agony as his spine reared back with a deafening crack and a pair of giant batlike wings exploded from his mauled shoulder blades. A roar surging up his throat, he tore the cuffs apart in a ferocious explosion of steel. The monster that rose from the chair wa
s neither man, nor beast—a thing caught in mid-transformation.
The stunned hunters brought up their crossbows just as the gargoyle knight attacked. Before they could fire, Artan’s monstrous bulk was upon them. Even as the hunters shrank away from the incoming gargoyle, the rational, human part of Artan wondered how he could change in the middle of the day. A year earlier he would’ve only been able to shift when the moon shone its pale light upon his cursed flesh. This time, the transformation seemed more fluid. It was as if he had wished for the power to break his bonds, and the gargoyle had answered.
A roar of bestial rage drowned out all other thoughts about his condition, reducing the world to one simple objective: Survival. The two monster hunters were trying to kill him. He would need to strike fast. Reality sped up as his fiery gaze landed on them. Moving with inhuman speed, he lunged at his opponents, bolts searing past him.
The first hunter’s face still wore a fractured grin as Artan’s gargoyle hand closed around his throat. His arms were larger and more heavily muscled than those of a man, but still lacked the reptilian texture of a fully transformed gargoyle. Artan fought back the need to sink his fangs into the man’s throat and taste hot blood, the human part struggling to keep the monster at bay.
These men are not my enemy, he told himself over and over again, but the gargoyle seemed deaf to his words.
With inhuman strength, he lifted the terrified monster hunter off his feet and tossed him across the length of the loft apartment. The man shot through the air and crashed into the big-screen TV. Glass shattered and sparks flew. At the same time, one of Artan’s half-formed wings swept the hapless hunter aside, knocking the crossbow out of the man’s hands.
Within seconds, it was all over.
The gargoyle knight, chest heaving, body trembling with rage and adrenaline, towered over his defeated opponents. Furious frustration had given way to an explosive surge of power. Darkness pulsed, filling every fiber of his being. And with his newfound strength came the sick appetite for blood.
Finish them, his gargoyle nature whispered.
Visions of death and destruction slashed through his mind, whetting his hunger for murder.
No. I am not a beast. I am a man.
A king.
Despite the terrible force raging within him, Artan regained control, disgust at what he’d become overcoming his lust for violence. Rhianna needed his help. He had to get to the MET as quickly as possible.
And this time he wouldn’t venture into battle unarmed.
He turned toward the sword that had twice ended Cael’s dark reign. The Blade of Kings caught his reflection, and Artan barely recognized the demonic visage glaring back at him. This face didn’t belong to the man who’d stumbled through Manhattan a day earlier, wondering what to do with the rest of his life. It belonged to a nightmare.
One clawed hand closed around the hilt of the sword and pulled it from the hooks on the wall. Anyone foolish enough to harm his beloved would experience the wrath of the gargoyle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“PLEASE, HELP ME!”
The guard kept repeating the same words over and over again, a terrified mantra. His hands roamed wildly over the area where his eyes should be. They hadn’t been gouged out. No, they had simply vanished. Smooth skin covered the eyeless sockets, transforming his face into a grotesque mutant mask.
“For God’s sake, SOMEONE HELP ME!”
Rhianna recoiled as the eyeless guard lurched toward her, arms flailing. She stumbled two more steps back when strong hands clamped over her shoulder and grabbed her by the waist.
She spun around, ready to scream, but no sound escaped from her lips as she saw the man who’d snuck up behind her. He wore an expensive black suit, tailor-made for the imposing, sinewy physique. A Roman nose dominated an ascetic face, pale skin framed by a mane of black hair tied back in a bun. He could’ve passed for another New York City hipster if not for the icy intensity seething in that gaze.
“Help me, help me….”
The terror in the guard’s voice was reaching a crescendo, almost as if he could sense the presence of the man in black.
“I’m afraid you are beyond all help, my blind friend. Now be quiet.”
The man whispered words in Greek and waved a hand over his own mouth. Instantly, the guard’s lips vanished, skin now sealing the orifice in the same horrific manner as the eye sockets.
Rhianna recoiled from the sight. Only the fear of suffering a similar fate prevented her from crying out in terror. She stared at the man in black. Like Cael, he had to be a practitioner of the dark arts.
A painful invisible force pulled at her limbs. As phantom hands dragged her to the ground, the man in black approached. A grim certainty gripped her—Artan’s disappearance had to be connected with this terrifying figure. Once again, the Celtic king had become embroiled in a supernatural conflict of some kind, and she was merely collateral damage.
“Where’s Maxwell?” the mage asked. His voice sounded pleasant and assured.
Rhianna blinked in surprise. Maxwell? What could this man possibly want with Maxwell? She considered staying silent, but the growing pressure against her legs promised a fresh burst of pain.
“Your will is strong, but you are no match for my powers. That is not an idle boast; I am merely stating the facts lest you forget who is in charge. Now, where is Maxwell?”
“I d-don’t know,” Rhianna stammered. “He didn’t show up for work today, and he isn’t returning his calls.”
The mage nodded almost as if he expected this explanation. “My enemies must’ve gotten to poor Maxwell before he could prove himself useful.” He regarded her with an unflinching, penetrating intensity. “Ironic that my quest for the grimoires should make me cross paths with the bride of the Celtic king who sacrificed his humanity to save the world from the abyss. I wonder what he sees in you?”
How did this fiend know about Artan and herself?
“Who are you?” she said, each word a struggle to get out. The man’s words confirmed her worst fears regarding Artan’s disappearance.
He bent down, only inches between them. She could feel his breath against her cheek, and she picked up a musky, almost animalistic scent that was all too familiar. Rhianna recoiled, trying to turn her face away.
“You sense the beast inside of me, don’t you?” The mage grinned. “Living with one has no doubt taught you to recognize Balor’s dark gift.”
“You’re wrong. Balor is dead, and Artan isn’t…isn’t like you,” she said, but her certainty was wavering. What if the demon’s evil hadn’t been banished from this world for good? She summoned the rest of her courage and spat, “What do you want?”
A year earlier, Rhianna would’ve been a terrified mess, unable to form a coherent thought. But this wasn’t her first brush with the dark side. She’d faced true evil and lived. Her heart hammered in her chest like it was ready to burst, adrenaline spiking. Fear could keep her alive, but panic would get her killed. This practitioner of the black arts was after something - a grimoire of some kind judging by his words - and he would let her live as long as he believed she might prove useful in his quest.
An icy smile stole across the warlock’s features and he waved his hand. “Rise.”
Rhianna felt herself being dragged back to her feet, a helpless plaything under the command of a magical puppeteer.
“The Archer collection, where do you keep the pieces?”
The question hung in the air and for a moment as her mind threatened to go blank.
Keep it together. Think!
Rhianna sucked in a deep breath of air. She could push through this as long as she stayed focused on facts. Approaching the question like an academic problem calmed her.
Catching her breath, she mentally reviewed the information at her disposal: Real estate tycoon Robert Archer had loaned several pieces of art from his private collection to the MET for a six-month period. His great-great grandfather had used his wealth to assemble an
impressive collection of medieval artifacts during his lifetime, and the collection had remained in the family for generations. As far as Rhianna could recall, the pieces consisted mostly of paintings and medieval furniture, not books. A carved wooden throne, an ornate suit of armor, and an iron maiden were among the highlights of the exhibit. She would definitely have remembered a medieval text on magic.
“All the Archer pieces are here, in this room. But there’s no grimoire in the collection. Look for yourself.”
The warlock considered this. “Items of great value have a tendency to remain hidden,” he mused. “The book is here. I can feel it.”
The warlock’s intense gaze swept over the displays. He carefully examined the wooden throne and then turned to the iron maiden. Most people had heard of the heavy metal band of the same name, but iron maidens were actually medieval torture devices. The contraption had originated in Germany around the fourteenth century and resembled a steel Egyptian mummy sarcophagus, tall enough to enclose a human being.
For a moment, the warlock was distracted—and Rhianna recognized an opportunity. She had no idea what she was up against, but after Cael, she’d vowed never to play the role of the helpless victim again. Fighting back a wave of pity and revulsion, she turned to Robert. A beat later she spotted what she was looking for: his pistol. There was no hesitation as she went for the gun. In one smooth motion, she sprung to her feet, gun leveled at the fiend. The warlock almost seemed amused by her desperate effort.
She squeezed the trigger and the stench of metal and cordite singed her nostrils. At first, every shot seemed to have missed the mage. Then Rhianna saw three scarlet bullet holes open up in the guard’s torso, putting the poor soul out of his misery. Without a mouth to release a scream, the guard merely twitched violently under the onslaught of the bullets.
Shock washed over Rhianna. She’d aimed at the warlock. There was no way the shots meant for the mage could have hit the now lifeless guard behind her.
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