Gargoyle Quest

by William Massa

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice sounding like his own again.

  “A six-foot naked guy will draw as much attention as a seven-foot gargoyle,” she explained in a business-like tone. “What did you do to the two men I left back at your apartment?”

  Caring about the men under one’s command was the mark of a good leader, and Artan respected the question. “They might be a little banged up, but they’re alive.”

  Steel in her voice, she said, “You better be telling the truth.”

  Her eyes remained fixed on him as she clasped her hands together and whispered a number of words in Latin. Artan didn’t need to understand the words to know that she was saying a prayer for the men she’d lost back at the MET. Nyssa was doing a good job maintaining a cool exterior, but it was obvious that the loss of her team had affected her deeply. She quickly made the sign of the cross before she palmed her cell.

  “This is Nyssa, I need a pick-up. We’ll be at Fifth and 86th street” She killed the line and nodded at Artan. “You better come with me if you want to see your woman again.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t.”

  At least she’s being honest.

  Artan held her gaze for a moment longer. Nyssa was a monster hunter. That put him near the top of her hit list, about one notch below Necron. Would she turn on him when he least expected it? It was a risk he would have to take. After all, what other options did he have at this point? He needed her. Without her help, he wouldn’t even know where to begin tracking down Rhianna.

  Artan considered himself a decent judge of character. Understanding people was part of being an effective king. Nevertheless, he was only human—well, mostly human—and emotions could cloud the judgment of the best of men. Fifteen centuries earlier, he’d misjudged his brother and thousands had paid for his mistake with their lives.

  Pushing this dark thought aside, he fell in step with Nyssa as she started to head for the rendezvous point. Despite the men she’d lost at the museum, it seemed the Order’s ranks hadn’t been completely thinned. Five minutes later, they reached Fifth and 86th street just as a large black truck pulled up to the corner. The side of the truck boasted an ad for Monster energy drinks. Clearly the Order had a sense of humor.

  Noticing his arched eyebrows, Nyssa merely shrugged. “Wasn’t my idea, I swear. Welcome to the Order’s mobile command center,” she said.

  A door opened on the side of the truck, and Artan followed Nyssa into the waiting vehicle. Anyone expecting to find crates of energy drinks within the belly of the vehicle would have been sorely disappointed. Although the wiry, sleepy-eyed figures hunched over the bank of terminals could’ve probably benefited from one. One side of the truck was lined with an assortment of monster hunting weapons. Artan spotted a series of blades engraved with various exotic glyphs, crossbows and even handguns ranging in various calibers.

  The men manning the computers kept stealing curious glances at him.

  “Your reputation precedes you, King Artan. It’s not every day that my support team gets to meet a legend.”

  “How many fighting men do you have?

  “You’re looking at them. The Order will send reinforcements, but for now, it’s just you, the two men back at your place, and our support team.”

  Artan regarded the computer techs, knowing all too well that these men were trained for a different kind of battle.

  “Why did Necron kidnap Rhianna? What does he want from her?”

  Nyssa’s face turned pensive before she answered. “My best guess is she touched the book, thereby becoming the key to locating the third grimoire.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Nyssa walked to a shelf covered in equipment. She pulled out a pair of black pants, boots and a dark shirt and tossed them at Artan.

  “We have a changing room in the back,” she said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She took a seat in one of the command chairs, the flickering screens of the computer bathing her face in a spectral green light. The truck’s engine revved, and it resumed its journey through New York City traffic.

  “These books Necron is looking for, the black magic evil in them is alive,” she said at last. “You must understand, the three grimoires want to be found and reunited.”

  Nyssa reached over to a mini-fridge for a bottle of mineral water. She offered him one too, but he shook his head, impatient for answers.

  “I saw the expression on Rhianna’s face back at the MET when she reached out for the grimoire. The book communicated with her,” Nyssa said.

  “I still don’t understand why Necron needs her. Wouldn’t he receive a similar vision now that he has the second grimoire?”

  “Similar but different. The magic of the books expresses itself differently depending on who’s receiving the message. Remember, it took Necron a whole year to locate the second book. Magic is funny that way. A grimoire might reveal that it’s in a major city yet never give you a name. This isn’t some magical GPS that exactly maps you the way. Magic isn’t a direct line, Artan; it communicates in symbols and riddles. Magic wants you to earn it.”

  Artan mulled this over. It would explain why Necron’s quest for the grimoires had taken him on such an erratic course.

  “Why play games? You said the books want to be reunited.”

  “Only if they deem you worthy to wield their power. That’s why magic challenges and tests us, trying to determine if we deserve to unlock its secrets—”

  “Or are weak enough to be seduced by them.”

  Nyssa looked at Artan as if he had slapped her. The passion in her voice had disturbed him, recalling on some level his brother’s fervor toward the dark arts. Was she a spellcaster?

  “For someone who hunts warlocks, you seem a little too enamored of magic,”Artan pointed out.

  “Magic can be a force of evil or a force of good,” Nyssa said, a defensive note in her voice. “Isn’t the sword strapped around your back a perfect example of that duality?”

  “Steel can’t be corrupted. Men can.”

  “Maybe that’s why women should be the ones casting the spells,” Nyssa said, and he had the sense she was only half joking.

  Touche.

  Artan smiled and decided it would be wise to change the subject. They’d have to find a way to make this new alliance work. Better not to butt heads right out of the gate.

  “What do you make of the message scrawled on the floor? What was Rhianna trying to tell us?”

  “It has to be related to whatever vision she experienced when she touched the book. I believe she was trying to let us know us where Necron might be headed next.”

  “Sounds like it’s our turn to solve a riddle.”

  A cocky grin cracked Nyssa’s face. “The good news is that this group,” she pointed at the eager intelligence analysts gathered around the bank of monitors in the truck, “are among the best puzzle solvers on the planet.”

  Artan saw two of the techs blush at the comment and knew that every pimple-faced, hoodie-wearing, caffeine–chugging male computer analyst in this bus had a crush on her. And who could blame them? Nyssa was impressive in more ways than one. Even he couldn’t deny feeling a certain level of attraction for her, but it was fleeting. His heart belonged to Rhianna. He would do anything to get her back from Necron. She would be safe as long as the wizard needed her, but what would happen to her once Necron got what he was he looking for?

  One thing was for certain: Time was running out.

  All Artan could do was pray they’d find the third grimoire before Necron did.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RHIANNA INHALED A pleasantly musky scent and gazed up at the man carrying her in his muscular arms. Artan smiled back at her with a twinkle in his eyes, his long hair perfectly framing his square face. She smiled as she realized her lover was whisking her into their waiting bedroom. Way too much time had passed since they last made love.As Artan gently l
owered her onto the bed, Rhianna shivered in anticipation. She was ready for his touch. Nevertheless, she couldn’t fully relax. A strange sense of foreboding, an irrational feeling that something wasn’t quite right, kept tugging at her awareness. Why couldn’t she let go and be in the moment?

  Artan’s strong body leaned into her, and Rhianna pushed all her misgivings aside. Why ruin a perfect moment with silly thoughts? She needed this. For a moment there was only the sensation of his lips, the feeling of stubble brushing against her cheeks, the promise of what was to come. She closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the experience.

  When she opened them again, her body stiffened in shock. There was someone else in the room.

  The mage in the black suit was lurking at the foot of the bed. His reptilian gaze was chilling in its intensity, a predator ready to strike.

  Seeing the sinister figure broke the power of the moment, and the memories of the magical attack at the museum flooded her mind. She recalled the mage touching her shoulder, the world turning black….

  Rhianna shifted her gaze toward Artan, hoping he might offer an explanation. She recoiled in animal terror as a monstrous mask peered back her. Her lover was gone, replaced by the gargoyle. She scrambled away from the salivating beast, arms and legs flailing madly. In the process, she slipped off the mattress and fell onto a rough-hewn stone floor. Before she knew what was happening, strong hands seized her prone form and lifted her into the air. No longer was she in her bedroom. Torches painted a cave-like chamber with bloody shadows, her bed replaced by an altar pockmarked by black splotches.

  Dried blood. The altar from her vision.

  Her eyes flicked back and forth, her heartbeat quickening. If her vision was right, she was about to be sacrificed. Some of the men who’d grabbed her swayed in evil prayer while the others pinned her down on the altar, the rough stone digging into her back, hinting at the agony to come. She gasped for air as she struggled desperately against her captors. She cried out, begged them to stop. Her pleas were met with soulless indifference. No emotion registered in the cultists’ stoic faces. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of light gleaming along a raised knife. Rhianna’s lips parted, voice rising in a shrill scream as the sacrificial dagger came down on her.

  ***

  Rhianna’s cry for mercy echoed across an abandoned subway platform. She gasped, sucking in a lungful of air. The nightmare had felt so real.

  She studied the lone subway car parked on the tracks and immediately recognized the station as the legendary Manchester Line from her vision. Was she experiencing another psychic flash, or had the man in black actually brought her here? Taking in her surroundings more carefully, she decided the second possibility made the most sense. The station had the solid patina of reality.

  Gingerly, she took a few steps, leaving footprints behind in the dust-caked floor. To some, the Manchester Line was an urban legend but Rhianna knew better. Many famous men throughout American history had made use of the private subway station. When the Manchester Hotel was built in the 1920s, it had come with its own private subway station and car, to be used by the super-rich who frequented the place. The exclusive station remained active all the way into the seventies, until the fortunes of the Manchester family changed and the hotel was shuttered.

  Rhianna would’ve thought the stories to be made up if it hadn’t been for her father. She’d only been a little girl when her dad snuck her into the decaying hotel and whisked her into the secret elevator that led to the abandoned platform. He wanted to prove to her that some myths were true and that the city she called home was filled with secrets. There were hidden worlds out there ready to be explored by those adventurous enough to look past the surface.

  Setting foot in the cobwebbed station, though it was a shadow of its former glory, had filled young Rhianna with awe and instilled a healthy respect for the power of history. At the time, she had wondered if this was how the early Egyptologists felt when they first set foot into the pyramids. The forgotten subway station served as a sharp reminder that time stood still for no one, neither rich nor poor.

  The station looked exactly the way she remembered it. She recalled the message she’d scrawled in blood across the floor of the medieval exhibit. It had not been a conscious act, more of a form of automatic writing triggered by the images rushing through her mind. Hopefully Artan would be able to decipher the clue.

  The ancient subway car parked at the station hummed to life, interrupting her thoughts. Brilliant headlights chased away the shadows, beckoning her to come closer. The sound of the car’s engine felt out of place in the tomblike space.

  Rhianna took a hesitant step toward the car. As she drew near, she became convinced that she wasn’t alone any longer. Somebody was watching her—and she had a good idea who it might be.

  Anger masked her fear as she spoke. “I’m tired of your games. I don’t know who you are, but you better show yourself.”

  “Or what?”

  The man in black peeled from the shadows. Rhianna let out a startled cry and jumped back.

  “Idle threats don’t impress me. I would have thought living with a monster would make you embrace the darkness. Yet you run into the light like everyone else.”

  “What do you want from me? Who are you?”

  You can call me Necron, a silky voice whispered in her head. She could feel the man’s presence in her mind, a foreign parasite tainting her thoughts with darkness. Were there any limits to his powers? Had Necron probed her memories perhaps, gaining access to her vision of the Manchester Line? Is that how he knew to bring her to this forsaken station hundreds of feet below the earth? And had he perhaps conjured the bedroom nightmare too? She wondered with growing anxiety if this moment might be a continuation of the nightmare.

  Is any of this real?

  Necron responded to the mental question, this time using his voice. “What is reality but a collection of smoke and mirrors to keep us from asking those questions to which we don’t want the answers? A house of cards meant to distract us from the inevitability of our own mortality. There’s only one absolute truth in this world: Everything that lives must die. Rich or poor, good or bad, death awaits us all. The solution isn’t to fear it but to embrace the inevitable. And by doing so, you conquer man’s greatest fear and learn to control its power.”

  The words were those of a madman. A madman who could read thoughts and cast spells.

  “What do you want from me?” Rhianna asked, doing her best to control her fear.

  “Answers, my dear. The grimoire spoke to you, and I want to know the secrets it whispered in your ears.”

  Rhianna was beginning to understand. The visions were clues, guideposts pointing toward the missing third book. Pointing them toward the underground temple…

  A smile curled Necron’s lips. “I see you’re beginning to understand. Very good.”

  “What are you going to do with that book?”

  “Change the world.” His chilling smile held a horrific promise. “Come now, it’s time we made our way to the temple.”

  The fact that Necron knew about the temple made her wonder if he had scanned her mind for this information or if the grimoire had spoken to him too.

  How do you expect to find the temple? Rhianna wondered.

  “The dead will guide us,” Necron said, responding to her thought. Every time the mage probed her mind, it felt like cold, clammy fingers brushing through her memories, the sense of violation absolute. “Restless spirits haunt these tunnels. The suicides, the homeless, the lost and the broken. The damned souls who crawled into the bowels of this city never to be seen again. They linger, unable to move on, but they’re more than willing to tell their stories. They will show us the way.”

  It was all coming together in Rhianna’s mind. A cabal of super-wealthy occultists had been the custodians of the two grimoires Necron was after. Archer’s great-great grandfather must’ve been one of them, which would explain why the second book had bee
n hidden in the iron maiden his descendant had loaned to the museum.

  The mere thought of the privileged elite dragging down their hapless victims into the city’s catacombs sickened Rhianna. Down here these monsters would board a private subway car— the ultimate symbol of their elevated status—that would take them to their infernal place of worship. And what for? Why shed innocent blood when they already possessed everything? Maybe this world deserved to be conquered by men such as Cael or Necron.

  Rhianna choked back her physical revulsion and stepped into the subway car. Resistance was useless. For the time being she had to play along and give Necron what he wanted.

  Unlike the perfectly maintained train from her vision, this subway car had seen better days. Time had taken its toll. The walls were cracked, the gilded handlebars blackened. A thick layer of dust caked the armchairs and couches. She stifled a cough, the stale air raking her lungs.

  The doors slid shut. Necron’s gaze remained riveted on her as the train vibrated and started to move. As the tunnel rushed past the windows, Rhianna caught sight of a bony man watching them from the tracks outside. Black eyes glared back at her from a demented face.

  The dead will show us the way.

  Could the spectral figure really be a ghost?

  The question quickened her pulse, her fear metastasizing. Her sparring lessons with Artan seemed laughable now. Fancy swordplay wouldn’t impress a man who could control the dead or be enough to stop his mad plans of conquests. She was lost, at the mercy of powers beyond her understanding.