Oh my God, what have I done?
How could she have ever thought that a mere firearm would prove effective against a man wielding such terrifying power?
Rhianna screamed and dropped the gun.
As the sound rang out through the medieval wing of the museum, she caught sight of three men and one woman rapidly closing in on the warlock. To her surprise there was no fear in their faces, only grit and determination. With methodical precision, crossbows slipped from underneath black trench coats. How they could’ve gotten the weapons past museum security was beyond her. Maybe these newcomers had tapped into their own brand of magic.
For a crazed second, she wondered how these strangers could think crossbows would inflict damage where bullets had failed. The thought was abruptly cut off as the first two bolts seared overhead. Nonplussed, the man in black waved his hands and the iron maiden shot up into the air just in time to intercept the volley of bolts.
Eyes blazing, the man in black now brought up his arms in a rapid move and cast the iron maiden at his attackers. It crashed into two of her would-be rescuers, sending them sprawling. Before the third could fire his crossbow, the iron maiden tore into the hapless soul. The four-hundred-pound steel coffin knocked the man aside and came crashing down on the floor. The hinged front snapped open, revealing the spike-lined interior. There was no time for the man to launch a counter attack before an invisible blast of air whisked him into the spiked interior.
Rhianna averted her gaze, shaking with revulsion as the massive spikes impaled the poor man.
The fighting was over as quickly as it had begun. The floor littered with broken, moaning bodies. Only one of the four strangers who’d come to her aid remained standing. It was a black-haired woman, her crossbow up and ready.
The man in black offered her an icy smile as he nonchalantly approached the iron maiden. Rhianna watched in horrified fascination as the mage bent over the torture device and reached past the body inside. There was a metallic snap and a previously hidden compartment in the door of the iron maiden snicked open. A small book fell out of the secret compartment. The man in black tried to catch the book before it landed in the gored man’s widening pool of blood, muttering a spell beneath his breath that snatched it out of the air.
The mysterious woman took it as her cue to make her move.
A whip of some kind snapped from her gloved hand. With a deafening crack the leather thong flicked across the warlock’s face, drawing a streak of blood.
Concentration broken, the grimoire dropped to the floor, landing right in front of Rhianna. She bent to pick it up, and her fingers brushed against the book’s leather cover. The tome radiated a palpable evil, sending waves of goosebumps up her arms. The sensation of its leather binding against her fingertips triggered an irrational feeling of existential horror, as if maggots were slithering over her skin. Nevertheless, she found it impossible to release this cursed book of horrors from her grip. Without warning, the world around her changed in a blinding flash of lightning.
Metal screeched and the floor below her feet vibrated. Rhianna now stood inside a rattling subway car as it barreled down a dark tunnel. A quick glance informed her that this was unlike any train she’d ever ridden in. Leather armchairs and plush couches had replaced the uncomfortable plastic seats. The train’s handholds and poles were gilded. The car’s air of old-world grandeur extended to its riders. Her fellow travelers looked like they’d all stepped right out of the Victorian era, decked out in fine suits and bowler hats.
The car slipped out of focus and was replaced with a circular stone chamber, the rough-hewn stone untouched by the hands of men. A jagged rock rose from the center of the chamber like a giant’s broken tooth. A terrified young man was splayed out on the makeshift altar surrounded by a circle of those same gentlemen in their fine clothes from the luxury subway train. The fine-lipped mouths framed by perfectly trimmed beards were whispering strange, ancient incantations. Rhianna recognized the words as a mixture of Greek and Aramaic.
The leader of the congregation held up a leather-bound book—the grimoire from the iron maiden. As the ring of gentleman whipped out daggers and drove them into their victim one by one, her surroundings whirled again, details growing blurry. A small mercy given the horrific scene unfolding within the temple walls, and then....
Rhianna was back in the museum, her hands soaked in the dead man’s blood, which was flowing freely from the iron maiden. Her eyes widened as she saw the series of crimson letters she’d scrawled across the museum floor during her vision. The letters spelled out two words: Manchester Line.
The mage’s head snapped toward her, eyes widening ever so slightly when he spotted the grimoire in her hands. His cruel features settled into a knowing look. “The book spoke to you, didn’t it? It appears I may need you alive after all.”
He whispered words Rhianna couldn’t make out but suspected were part of a spell. The raven-haired woman grew still, her whip-hand raised to strike. There was nothing either of them could do but wait for the warlock’s newest horror to manifest itself.
They didn’t have to wait for long.
The woman’s eyes widened with fear as her own shadow eerily elongated… and then separated from her body. Within seconds, it gained in mass, becoming a three-dimensional phantom being.
The scene repeated itself as shadows split from the other crossbow-wielding men who were struggling back to their feet. Moving in eerie synchronized unison, the phantom army turned on their former hosts. Moments later, curses and screams rang out across the museum floor.
Eyes alive with courage, the woman faced her shadow assailant. There was a ferocious snap as the end of the whip made contact with the phantom. Energy sparkled, and the entity came apart. The whip had to be a magical weapon of some kind, similar to the Blade of Kings-
Before Rhianna could complete the thought, the book flew from her hands. As it levitated into the air, the warlock produced a nearly identical book from under his suit jacket. This second grimoire rose into the air, the two books of magic now floating side-by-side. Rhianna watched in amazement as the two books began to morph into one single volume. The newly reassembled grimoire hovered in mid-air for another second before it dropped into the warlock’s waiting palm.
He tilted his head toward Rhianna. “You’re coming with me.”
The fiend was nearly upon her when a monstrous roar assaulted her senses. It was a sound both disturbing and reassuring in its familiarity. She spun around, eyes widening, a mixture of relief and horror taking hold of her. A year had passed since the last time she’d cast her gaze on the winged creature now looming at the far end of the museum floor.
The gargoyle knight had returned to New York City.
CHAPTER NINE
ARTAN PUNCHED OPEN the steel access door and stalked onto the roof of his loft apartment building. He moved with an animal grace that belied his size. Wind blasted his demonic form as he approached the edge, the East River stretching out before him. Manhattan lurked in the distance, partially obscured behind shifting clouds of fog, the thick tendrils of swirling condensation revealing only dim outlines. The weather reminded him of Ireland. The thought of his ancestral home triggered a touch of melancholy in him, and the beast yearned to give voice to his heightened emotions.
He fought back the impulse—no, need—to draw undue attention, and focused on the task ahead. He would tap into his power of flight and head to the MET. The weather would work to his advantage and cloak his approach as he navigated the city’s skyline. The loft was five stories high, and he avoided looking down at the streets below. He’d never been too keen on heights—ironic considering what he’d become. Even back in Kirkfall, he’d always made it a point to look straight ahead when manning the guard towers. The thought made him smile inside, and before he could have a change of heart, he pushed off the ledge.
For a disorientated beat, he didn’t know what to do. The ground rushed up at him. Seconds before impact, the beast’s musc
le memory kicked in, the wings moving with experienced grace. He swooped upward and shot toward the waiting city.
The wind lashed at his inhuman skin, but he didn’t feel the cold. Gargoyles weren’t invulnerable, but for one brief moment, he felt unstoppable as the intoxicating strength of the monster literally made him soar.
Time held no meaning as he sliced over the mist-shrouded East river. He found the silence that enveloped him to be curiously soothing. There was only the air and the steady movement of his powerful wings, the man subsumed by the beast.
He let the gargoyle guide him until the Manhattan skyscrapers grew close enough that he could spot the city’s residents behind the rows of windows. Then his human consciousness regained control. He shifted his flight pattern, zeroing in on the Upper East Side. He would cut across the city and hope no one was looking up. Even if someone should spot him, who would believe it? Even if they tried to take a picture or shoot a video of the winged beast, the weather would turn the footage into a shadowy blur. In an age where computer effects could create any fantasy creature, the out-of-focus image of a black shape streaking across Manhattan would be yawn-inducing at best.
Central Park jumped into view below, and Artan knew his destination was approaching fast. Galvanized, he blasted over the vast strip of green at the heart of the city. Already he could see the monolithic structure of the MET looming in the near distance. Like a laser-guided missile locking down on its target, he zeroed in on the museum. Senses alert, he scanned the rooftops and homed in on the large skylight of the Egyptian Exhibit. Crashing through the glass would set off alarms, but he had bigger concerns than running into a few museum guards.
He barely felt the impact as glass disintegrated around him, the skylight shattering as his monstrous bulk tore into the museum. He barely slowed as he soared over the exhibit. He had no time to appreciate the priceless artifacts, his world reduced to one objective, his senses tuned in to one frequency. He could hear her now, a muffled cry that set the Fomor blood in his veins boiling. Rhianna’s scream, tinged with terror, rang out, and he followed her cry for help with even greater urgency.
The gargoyle knight made a sharp left turn in mid-flight and rippled through an adjoining doorway, trailing the voice of his lover. He arrived in the Medieval exhibit just as a phalanx of shadow creatures encircled Nyssa. Hovering in mid-air, he surveyed the museum floor with one quick glance, a general gaining a sense of the battlefield. The downed members of Nyssa’s team of monster hunters left little doubt as to who was calling the shots at this point. Artan’s attention shifted to the man in the black suit, who was inexorably closing in on his girlfriend. He had to be Necron.
As Artan shot down toward his target, he ripped the Blade of Kings free from the scabbard strapped to his massive, heavily-muscled back. The floor shook as he nimbly landed in front of the warlock, sword up, wings rearing back and extending to their full size. The fiend would have to get past him first if he wanted to harm Rhianna.
Artan traded a look with his love. A mixture of emotions played over her lovely features. Shock, relief, and ultimately horror as it dawned on her that the curse had reclaimed the man she loved. Sadness clawed its way into his heart. By the time he shifted his attention back to the warlock, an army of shadows was surging toward Necron and formed a protective circle around their unholy master.
What sort of foul magic was this?
Artan’s taloned hand tightened around the hilt of the Blade of Kings and lashed out at the parade of shadow creatures. Air whistled as the magical steel hacked away at phantom limbs. Guttural, inhuman shrieks echoed as the shadows reared back, evaporating upon impact with the blade.
Encouraged by this sign of success, the gargoyle knight spun toward two incoming phantoms, hacking left and right, each blow resulting in the violent dissolution of his attackers. Nyssa, evidentially inspired by the changing tide of the battle, wielded her whip in tandem with his attacks, taking out one shadow monster after another.
Soon, the creatures were no more. Necron had nowhere left to hide.
Even as Artan advanced, sword leveled at the man’s heart, the warlock stepped up to Rhianna and clasped a hand around her shoulder. He was granted one final glance at his beloved before she and the wizard vanished into thin air.
He surged toward the spot where Rhianna had disappeared. He barely glanced at the dead hunter in the iron maiden, his full attention now riveted to a message his beloved must’ve painted on the floor using the slain man’s blood:
Manchester Line.
What could it possibly mean?
He spun toward Nyssa only to find her pointing a crossbow at him with one hand, the whip handle crooked in the other. The whip lapped out at him, but he caught the thong in mid-air. Sizzling agony scorched his clawed hand, and tendrils of smoke rose from the spot where the magical whip had made contact.
“Hurt’s doesn’t it?” she said, her voice cold.
His first impulse was to tear into the woman who had dared to attack him. He fought back the terrible urge and forced the monster to surrender to his will. Instead of launching a counter-attack, Artan regarded Nyssa as evenly as a gargoyle could, hoping to communicate human intelligence through his monstrous gaze.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said, each booming word an excruciating effort, the sound mangled by an inhuman throat.
Nyssa’s features softened just a tad. Was he reaching her? In the near distance, shouts grew audible. Now that Necron had fled the scene, the museum’s security team was approaching fast.
Nyssa lowered her weapon. There seemed to be little fight left in her, defeat edged in her haunted gaze as she took in the circle of broken hunters that littered the museum floor. The downed members of the Order wouldn’t make it out of the MET under their own power. Most would be lucky not to be carried out in a body bag. Necron had utterly defeated her team of monster hunters. And now Rhianna was in his clutches too.
At least she did not lay among the wounded and the dead. That suggested Necron might need her alive. But what could he want from her? The strange message on the floor might hold the answer to his question, but he wouldn’t be able to solve this riddle on his own. Nyssa was the only one who could make sense of all of this. Which meant he needed her to trust him if he was to track down Rhianna’s kidnapper and defeat him for good.
Artan made a snap decision and surged toward a stunned Nyssa. Before she could defend herself, his powerful arm snatched her by the waist. As the guards appeared and unleashed their first mad volley of gunfire, Artan’s massive wings shielded them from the onslaught. Bullets stung his inhuman skin, the pain more of an irritation than a signal actual damage was being inflicted.
The gargoyle raged, urging him to tear into the puny humans who dared to target him with their cowardly weapons. He saw himself barreling into them, taking off faces and bathing in their gushing blood. The hellish vision of death and retribution filled the monster with mad joy.
Reason prevailed, and Artan suppressed the desire to rend human flesh. Instead, he wrapped his arm more tightly around Nyssa. Like it or not, the paranormal huntress was coming with him. Nyssa resisted him at first but soon gave in. Whether she recognized the futility of her struggle or sensed that Artan was her best ticket out of here, she allowed him to whisk her away.
As more bullets chopped the medieval artifacts around them, shattering priceless works of art, the gargoyle knight flew back into the Egyptian exhibit. Within seconds, he and Nyssa had blasted through the broken skylight above and were hurtling toward Central Park.
CHAPTER TEN
NYSSA CLUNG TO Artan’s powerful arm for dear life as they approached the park. The island of green jumped into view below, a canopy of dense foliage reaching up for them.
The gargoyle knight’s wings spread out, air currents buffeting his descent. The ground rushed up, and Artan could feel Nyssa’s body tightening against his muscles, bracing for the inevitable impact. Seconds later, his clawed feet touched grass, the l
anding far more graceful than even Artan had expected. Even though a year had passed since his last transformation, his instincts remained sharp, his body all too eager to embrace the power of the gargoyle.
As soon as they were earthbound, Nyssa backed away from him. He didn’t hold it against her. If their roles had been reversed, he’d want to put some distance between himself and a gargoyle, even if the beast had just saved his life. To Artan’s surprise, Nyssa didn’t reach for any of her blessed weapons. For a moment they merely looked at each other.
At nearly seven feet, he towered over her. A circle of trees shielded them from easy view, and none of the other people in the foggy park had taken notice of the winged demon among them. Artan knew it was only a matter of time before some stray jogger stumbled their way and started yelling his lungs out. Gargoyles belonged on rooftops, even in a jaded metropolis where the unexpected was the norm. He couldn’t remain in this form. He’d successfully willed his transformation into a monster, but could he reverse the change? It was worth a shot.
Artan calmed his mind and tried to relax. It wasn’t the easiest task, considering the events of the last few hours. His thoughts kept wandering to Necron, and it took a great effort to cast aside the image of the evil mage vanishing into thin air with his beloved. The monster hunter was the only one who could help him find Rhianna. He would have to gain Nyssa’s trust and get her to cooperate with him. Being human would be far more helpful in that task than remaining a gargoyle.
It took about a minute to slow his hammering heartbeat, during which he tried to fill his mind with memories of better times. He focused on the warmth of Rhianna’s breath, the soft caress of her touch, the sense of wonder he’d experienced as she had guided him through this age of miracles. Gradually the gargoyle was banished to a dark place deep within him.
Nyssa watched with keen eyes as the gargoyle surrendered to the man. The powerful physique began to shrink, muscles losing mass, fangs and talons retracting while the wings drew back into his shoulders. Artan lost all sense of time as he changed back. Then a shiver passed down his naked body as a gust of wind hit him. Nyssa’s expression shifted. Did he detect an appreciative twinkle in her eye? The moment passed, the hint of attraction giving way to steely professionalism. Without hesitation, she slipped off her trench coat and tossed it at him. He gratefully accepted the garment and put it on.
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