Her mind cycled back to the museum. Thinking about the woman with the magical whip offered a tiny glimmer of hope. Artan had somehow been turned back into a gargoyle and had fought side by side with the woman. Who was she? What had transpired over the last twenty-four hours during which her lover had gone missing? She had no doubt Artan would move mountains to find her, but could he do it before Necron decided she no longer served any purpose to him? Her only ace was the message she’d left behind at the MET. She prayed with all her heart that Artan would be able to make sense of her cryptic words and find her in time.
With these thoughts haunting her, she studied the dark track ahead. Her breath lodged in her throat as she spotted another ghostly figure lurking in the middle of the tracks. A heartbeat later, the train barreled into the pale-skinned woman, and she vanished from view.
A chill rippled down Rhianna’s spine. The temperature must’ve dropped at least ten degrees. Sensing movement behind her, she whirled. The same eerie woman who’d vanished under the train now loomed before her. Bloodhsot eyes leered back at her from a bashed-in skull. The woman wore a torn leather jacket over a gray hoodie. As her skeletal phantom hand reached out, Rhianna let out a piercing scream.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ARTAN CHANGED INTO the clothes Nyssa had handed him. Once dressed, he slipped on a layer of Kevlar body armor. A series of magical glyphs adorned the vest, supposedly offering protection against black magic. Much good it had done against Necron’s attacks. A studded belt crossed his massive chest, holding fast his scabbard behind his powerful right shoulder. As a final touch, he donned a black trench coat, which would allow him to move among civilians without drawing undue attention. Regarding his reflection in the changing room’s mirror, he found he looked identical to the other hunters under Nyssa’s command but for one crucial difference—a demon resided within this monster hunter.
Artan buttoned up the coat and stepped out of the changing room. The computer team was busy monitoring the bank. Data and images slashed across the screens as they probed the mystery of Rhianna’s cryptic message.
“Did you learn anything new?” Artan asked Nyssa in a sober voice. “Did any of your men make it out of the museum alive?”
“Some of them were taken to the hospital. The Order will make sure they’re taken care of.”
Artan wondered how far the power of this ancient organization of monster hunters reached.
“We also received word that one of our hunters managed to elude the guards and is on his way to us.”
“I’m glad to hear that. What have you been able this find out about this Manchester Line?”
Nyssa pointed at one of the terminals, where an image of a desolate subway station was displayed. A lone car was parked in the station. Nyssa quickly brought Artan up to speed about the history of the hotel and its underground station.
“Why would the book be hidden in a private subway station?” he wanted to know.
“It’s a good question,” Nyssa said. “The hiding place of the second book might offer some valuable clues. “
Nyssa nodded at the computer tech. The iron maiden from the MET flashed on-screen.
“This medieval torture device was acquired by the Archers, one of the wealthiest blue-blood families in all of New York City, around the turn of the 20th Century. Rumors of Steven Archer’s fascination with the paranormal followed him all his life. The Order believes he might’ve been a member of a secret society that dabbled in occult rituals.”
The tech tapped a key and an old black-and-white picture of a figure decked out in a topcoat and bowler hat flashed onscreen. Pockmarked skin stretched taut over a bony face. The name below the image identified him as Steven Archer.
“Looks like a real piece of work,” one of the computer techs said.
“Just another well-adjusted citizen who got his kicks from talking to the devil,” Nyssa commented dryly.
The thought of evil men slaughtering innocent people to appease dark Gods made the hairs on Artan’s back stand up—but the gargoyle inside of him rejoiced. He thought of his brother Cael and the cult of Balor he’d led back in Kirkfall. Whispered reports of his brother’s involvement in horrible ceremonies and human sacrifice had haunted Cael’s reputation too. Artan had been in denial about these stories for a long time, considering them to be lies made up by his brother’s many enemies. By the time he’d realized the rumors were true, it was too late.
More black-and-white images filled the monitors, these of serious looking men with thick beards, expensive suits and haughty, entitled expressions. “Certain students of the paranormal believe these titans of industry engaged in rituals that expanded their fortunes. Others write them off as conspiracy theories meant to cast dispersion against the ruling elite,” Nyssa explained.
“What do you think?” Artan asked, eyes fixed on her.
“Considering the hiding place of the second grimoire and its apparent link to the Manchester Line—well, you do the math. I believe Archer and his cronies were part of a cult that tried to unlock the power of the two grimoires in their possession. Luckily they weren’t quite as talented as Necron.”
“What will happen if Necron gets his hands on the three books?” he asked.
“The combined power of the grimoires will allow him to cast a spell that will raise the dead. Like an ancient plague, their numbers will swell as they infect every man, woman, and child. It will be the beginning of the end.”
Artan shuddered. “How do we stop him?”
“First, we head to the Manchester Hotel and locate that subway station.”
A new voice interrupted their conversation. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Artan’s face fell, not exactly thrilled to see the huge blond warrior again. A deep gash on Cormac’s face oozed red and one arm hung limply at his side. His run-in with Necron hadn’t improved the Viking’s sour disposition or done anything to improve his charm as he stared down Artan. “What is the meaning of this? The Order hunts monsters. We don’t work with them.”
“I think I’m the least of your problems right now.” Artan leaned closer, eyes locked with Cormac. “Would you rather waste time butting heads or go after the warlock who is trying to destroy the world?”
“I don’t believe this,” Cormac grumbled, but with less conviction than before.
“The Order needs me as much as I need you. We share a common enemy for now. You’ll have plenty of time to hunt down a lone gargoyle once these grimoires are secure.”
Artan lowered his voice, his tone softening. “Nyssa told me about your fiancée. I feel your pain, and I understand your hatred. But I’m not your enemy. Necron is.”
It was Nyssa’s turn to cut into the conversation. “Artan’s right. If Necron should succeed in getting the third grimoire….”
Artan recognized the terror in the Viking’s face, and his own feeling of dread intensified.
Cotmac gritted his teeth and said, “How do you plan on fighting this warlock? You saw what happened at the museum. He took out our whole team. And that was before he got his hands on the second book.”
“I know the odds, but we can’t sit back and wait for reinforcements to arrive,” Nyssa said. “We don’t have the time.”
“The two of us don’t stand a chance.”
“You mean the three of us.”
Cormac gaped at Nyssa incredulously. “You’re thinking of bringing him along on this mission?”
“Yes.” Nyssa said, her eyes riveted on Artan. “Perhaps it takes a monster to defeat a monster.”
Artan cracked a smile. He couldn’t agree with her more.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE GHOST LURCHED at Rhianna. As soon as the specter touched her arm, reality changed around her. Gone was the luxurious train car. She now found herself on a bustling subway platform. In front of her was the same woman, but she looked like a million bucks compared to her spectral counterpart. Her face was gaunt, dark circles around her eyes but she was alive
and uninjured.
I’m witnessing the last moments before she died, Rhianna realized.
As the next train pulled into the station, no one paid attention to the woman who was moving with determined steps toward the edge of the platform. Her expression never changed as she flung herself at the incoming subway train.
Rhianna stifled a cry, unable to look away.
The world spun, a mad rush of motion, and Rhianna was back in the Manchester subway car. She reared back from the ghastly apparition as Necron’s voice cut through the train. “Enough!”
The warlock’s hand darted out at the spectral entity. His long, powerful fingers tightened around the ghost’s throat as if the woman was still solid flesh and blood, her head lolling at a horrific angle. Somehow Necron’s magic allowed him to interact with the dead woman as if she was still alive. The ghost shrieked and flapped back and forth in his steely grip like a fish on land.
“Are we close to the temple?” Necron asked.
The spirit grew still and nodded.
“Why didn’t you say so sooner?” With a dark smile, Necron unceremoniously cast the ghost woman aside. She slammed into one of the couches and disintegrated on impact. Had the mage destroyed the spirit or merely banished it from the train?
The answers would have to wait as a jolt shook the train. The lumbering steel beast came to an abrupt, screeching halt that almost sent Rhianna sprawling.
“It appears we’ve reached our destination,” Necron said. He waved his hands and the double doors split open, revealing the dark tunnel beyond. “Be so kind as to join me.”
Rhianna immediately fell in step with the warlock, a puppet once more under his mental command. Walking side by side, they stepped out of the subway car. Ahead of them, the subway tunnel curled into darkness.
Necron pulled the grimoire from his suit jacket, and it rose into the air. For a moment, it hovered in place before it floated down the length of the tunnel, radiating an eerie, pale blue light. They followed the floating book, the grimoire leading the way to its lost brother in the hidden temple.
A series of clanking sounds, metal on metal, echoed down the tunnel. Vague human silhouettes appeared on both sides of the tracks, silent sentinels guarding the abandoned Manchester Line.
More spirits, Rhianna thought with a shiver.
She could feel their envy. These souls longed to be alive again, unwilling to move on and accept their passing. Somehow the grimoire was acting as a beacon of sorts, forcing them to materialize like the deceased woman on the train.
Farther ahead, the old tunnel opened up into a junction point. It was several tracks wide, each branching off into multiple directions. Piles of junk, clumped together, filled the space—old clothes, discarded beer cans, and fast food wrappers. Rhianna had heard stories of the homeless and desperate who made this subterranean world their home. Most likely the tunnel rats left this trash behind. There was no trace of the underworld dwellers; these tunnels now belonged to the dead and the fiend who’d appointed himself their master.
Rhianna spotted a crack on the side of the tunnel to her right. The grimoire’s unnatural light outlined the opening as it slipped through. Drawing closer, Rhianna realized the jagged fissure exposed a once sealed-off passage in the wall.
“Ladies first,” Necron said.
Heart hammering with terror, Rhianna squeezed through the crack. As soon as she set foot in the circular chamber beyond, she was hit with the unnerving impression that this place of worship hadn’t been constructed by human hands. The grimoire’s magical light painted blue shadows in the tomb-like space. It almost felt like the darkness itself had carved out the chamber, a rotten cavity deep inside the earth formed by powers beyond the imagination of most mortals. The dust-filled air, weighed down by the souls of the many victims who’d exhaled their last breath here, clawed at Rhianna’s throat.
How many innocent people had been butchered in this secret temple? How could Archer and his contemporaries live with themselves knowing that their privileged existence was paid for with the blood of innocents?
Rhianna shuddered, recalling how close she’d come to being sacrificed to Balor on an altar very much like the one which formed the centerpiece of this temple.
Necron appeared behind her and scanned the chamber, the now-open grimoire hovering above the sacrificial altar. Beams of spectral light emanated from its pages and revealed every nook and cranny of the small space. It quickly became clear that the third grimoire wasn’t here.
“Where’s the book?” Necron demanded, the question directed both at Rhianna and the grimoire suspended above the altar. Rhianna didn’t have the answer, and neither did the dark magic tome. Menace crept into Necron’s voice as he leveled his gaze on her. “You’re hiding something from me, girl.”
“No! You looked into my thoughts and memories, you saw what I saw. I know as much as you do.”
“The grimoire led us to the temple. The answers must be here.”
Necron leaned over the altar, his hands exploring its surface as if they could pry the answers from the blood-stained rock. Panic growing, Rhianna backed away from the mage. She knew that as soon as he found the third book, he would kill her. Now, she was equally terrified by the prospect of him hitting a dead end in his search. The wizard was liable to lay the blame for this failed quest at her feet and turn her into a target for his frustrations.
But for now, Necron wasn’t paying attention to her, and she seized the opportunity. She jumped through the chamber’s cracked entrance. Compared to the oppressive atmosphere of the temple, the adjacent tunnel seemed almost pleasant.
She’d barely moved a few feet down the passage when a pale shape emerged from the darkness. A fat, bloated face pushed toward her, the shapeless body wrapped like a mummy in layers of moldy rags. She gagged at the stench, bile rising in her throat as the man’s chubby fingers closed around her wrist and….
She was back in the temple, watching the man who just assaulted her. He was shivering as he approached the altar, his shaky flashlight barely able to chase away the encroaching shadows. A terrible chill gripped Rhianna. Once again she was feeling what the ghost had experienced, and she protectively hugged herself.
A mad jumble of the dead man’s erratic thoughts slashed through her mind. It had been the coldest January in twenty years and everyone had urged him to seek out a shelter.
Screw the shelters! They’re full of thieves who want to make me swallow pills and stick me with needles.
No, he’d much rather take his chances down here in the tunnels. Seek heat where he found it, free of charge. His bottle of rum was almost empty, and he greedily drained the last drop. At first, the alcohol had offered a slight reprieve from the biting cold, but it now barely warmed his frostbitten limbs. The chill was everywhere, seeping through the bedrock of the city into his frozen bones.
The light emanating from the leather-bound tome resting on the altar promised an end to his suffering, an escape from the terrible cold. It whispered to him, painting mental images of sunny beaches and sweltering summers that reminded him of the better days of his youth. He laid his hands on the book, and soothing warmth washed over his whole body. The pages rustled as he eagerly flipped through them.
The third grimoire had been lost down here for many decades, left behind by the occultists as their members died off and the younger generation lost interest in black magic rituals. The book had been abandoned, but the dark power churning within its pages was eager to trade the blackness of the temple for the light of the surface world. The homeless man rifling through its cursed pages might be too deranged to ever decipher its mysteries, but he had been chosen to preserve its secrets.
Touching the book sent tantalizing sensations of heat through his ailing body, but what if he could take in more of it? Hit with sudden inspiration, he tore out a page from the grimoire and stuffed it into his mouth. He eagerly started chomping down on the piece of paper. Immediately, the cold seeped from his bones, and he se
emed to practically glow with a newfound warmth and energy. One by one, he kept swallowing the pages, devouring the grimoire in a mad frenzy. By the time his teeth tore through the last page, his lips and gums cracked with blood, he was barely human.
Rhianna backed away from the pitiful figure, breaking contact with the dead man’s spirit. The subway tunnel reasserted itself around her, the dead man’s spirit barring the tracks leading back to the subway car. The poor, deranged fool had eaten the book and still succumbed to the cold, just another statistic in one of the coldest New York winters on record.
“I’m freeeeeziiiiing,” the ghost screeched, blood bubbling down its chapped lips, and then melded back into the shadows from which it had sprung.
Rhianna broke into a run. Legs pumping, heart pounding in her chest, she flew down the tunnel, running as fast as she’d ever run in her entire life.
The Manchester subway car jumped into view, suddenly seeming like a safe haven from the spectral madness all around. Rhianna’s relief turned out to be short-lived as more ghosts separated from the darkness ahead.The circle of specters blocked the tunnel, barring her escape.
The entities mouthed words, but the voices emanating from their lifeless lips belonged to their new master, Necron. The wizard was using these spirits like his personal set of ventriloquist dummies.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The answer, Rhianna realized, was nowhere.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time the Order’s mobile command center turned off the West Side Highway and pulled up to the Manchester Hotel. After careful examination of the hotel’s floor plan, Nyssa’s support team believed they’d located the secret elevator that would take them to the private subway station.
As soon as the driver killed the truck’s engine, Artan and Nyssa stepped out of the vehicle, the remaining team members trailing behind them. An hour earlier they’d picked up the two hunters Artan had left unconscious at his loft apartment. They’d experienced the wrath of the gargoyle knight firsthand and made sure to maintain a careful distance from him. Their mistrustful eyes bored into Artan, and he tightened his grip around the Blade of Kings.
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