Gargoyle Quest

by William Massa

  Nyssa sagged in relief, but it was premature. A new arrival had materialized outside the subway car. Standing in the middle of the tracks was none other than Necron. Artan’s first instinct was to shift and leap at the fiend, but a look from Nyssa made him reconsider. This wasn’t an enemy who could be defeated by blunt force.

  Artan felt the centuries-old warlock staring back at him almost as if intrigued on some level. Then a cold smile crept over the fiend’s features, and he raised his arm.

  “He’s casting a spell!” Nyssa shouted. “We have to—”

  The words died in her throat as the subway car rumbled to life. It started to gain speed, hurtling faster and faster down the tracks. Nyssa rushed toward the other end of the train, Artan right behind her. She stared through the window and her face fell, stunned into terrified silence. Artan’s features mirrored hers as he caught a glance at the steel behemoth bearing down on them at breakneck speed. The Manchester subway car was speeding toward a head-on collision with the fast-approaching F train.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE DEAFENING SHRIEK of the approaching train told Rhianna what the warlock had planned for them. At the rate they were hurtling toward the other train, a collision was inevitable.

  “Cormac, check the brakes. Maybe we can manually stop this train,” the woman shouted.

  The man rushed to the train’s control panel. Judging by the string of expletives exploding from his lips, the car’s instruments weren’t responding. Necron’s magic fueled the train. And even if Cormac could stop the train by some miracle, it would never be able to brake in time to avoid a crash with the larger train ahead.

  Bracing herself for the impact, Rhianna tightened her grip around Artan and prayed that the end would come fast. Her lover’s skin was hot to the touch and she could feel the muscles under his trench coat flexing and bulging.

  The beast is breaking free, she thought, sensing the imminent transformation. She doubted that even a seven-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound gargoyle could withstand the deadly power of a New York City subway train slamming into them at full speed. She was about to squeeze her eyes shut when Nyssa shouted to them.

  “All of you, grab each others hands. Do it now!”

  One by one, they did as instructed. Rhianna fingers locked with Artan’s outstretched hand while Cormac took her other hand.

  “Whatever you do, don’t let go!” the female warrior said. The tattoos on her arms ignited just as they had when she had painted wards across the train’s windows.

  Steel screamed as the train barreled down on them. The devastating impact that followed was accompanied by violent shockwaves as the subway car disintegrated around them. The world switched to slow-motion as metal warped and glass shattered. A piece of shrapnel passed through Rhianna as if she were made from thin air. Everyone in Nyssa’s magical circle had become immaterial beings.

  The F train powered through them, pulverizing the Manchester subway car in a tornado of steel and glass. Nyssa’s lips were moving, but the cacophony of destruction drowned out her incantations. The train blew through their ghostlike bodies, one car after another. She saw tourists looking up from their devices and newspapers, alerted by the sound of the impact but unable to see them in their dematerialized state.

  And then the rapid-fire surge of faces stopped. Rhianna, Artan, and the mysterious warriors stood amidst the debris, the F train screeching to a halt in the near distance as emergency brakes finally kicked in. Most of the Manchester subway car now decorated the tracks leading up to the back of the F train. Rhianna prayed that the driver of the other train had survived the collision.

  Nyssa released their hands, and the world turned solid again. Rhiana stared open-mouthed at the woman she now realized was both warrior and mage. Blood streamed from her nose, and she staggered, clearly spent from the effort of the spell. There were so many questions, but all Rhianna managed was, “Thank You.”

  Nyssa’s glazed expression cleared. Despite the physical toll the magic had taken on her, she was somehow still upright. “We’re not out of the woods yet. We must get out of here before Necron catches up with us.”

  They ran through the dark tunnel, and ten minutes later they arrived at the next subway platform. Bored commuters gasped with surprise and backed away as they warily took in their ragtag group. They no doubt looked like they’d been to hell and back. Passing through the station’s turnstile and surging up the stairs became a blur. As soon as they reached the surface, Rhianna took a deep, liberating breath. She’d never expected to feel the sun on her face again, and she mumbled a grateful prayer, leaning into Artan’s embrace.

  She didn’t get to enjoy the moment for long as a black truck lurched up to the sidewalk. Moments later, she was seated in a comfortable command chair, eyes wide as she took in the bank of monitors and assorted weapons. This time the questions came fast and furious. The woman, who she learned was called Nyssa, fielded them as well as she could. Artan kept squeezing her reassuringly as he did his part to bring her up to speed. Even once they’d told Rhianna everything they knew, she still felt a bit lost, her brain reeling from the data overload. There was much to wrap her mind around. A secret order of monster hunters? A two-hundred-year-old warlock back from the dead hell-bent on assembling a grimoire that could bring forth the apocalypse?

  Artan wrapped one of his brawny arms around her shoulders, his strength calming her. It was Rhianna’s turn to tell her story. She quickly recapped how the second grimoire had triggered the visions that had led them to the Manchester Line and the secret temple. She paused when she came to the part about the homeless man whose obsession with the third grimoire had literally forced him to consume it. Nyssa listened to her tale with grave concentration, nodding at points and asking question when something seemed unclear to her.

  “Sounds like there’s no longer a book for Necron to hunt down,” Cormac pointed out.

  “I doubt that very much,” Nyssa replied. “Only white magic can destroy the grimoires.”

  “What do you mean?” Artan asked Nyssa.

  “If this dead John Doe consumed the book, its dark power will still be inside of him. I know it sounds unappealing, but we find his body, we find the book.”

  Cormac sighed and said, “Then I guess we’re heading back underground to locate his corpse before Necron does.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rhianna said. “His soul is trapped in the tunnels where he died but his body was recovered.”

  Nyssa’s eyes narrowed and locked on her. “You know this for certain?”

  Rhianna took a deep breath and said, “I saw things when his spirit passed through me. Picked up details here and there. His name was Albert Schmidt. He had no family or friends left by the time he succumbed to his personal demons. There was no one to claim his body, no one to pay for his funeral, no one who cared.” Her voice shook, vividly recalling the man’s despair and loneliness that had kept his soul earthbound for all these years. Her lips tightened and she she said, “But I know where he’s buried.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE POWERBOAT SLOGGED through the choppy ocean, the stark outline of an island growing visible in the near distance. Thick clouds of mist swirled around the small, 131-acre comma of land in the western end of Long Island Sound and east of the Bronx. More than one million people were buried on Hart Island, many interred in mass graves because they were too poor to afford a burial or had never been claimed by any family members.

  Rhianna believed that Albert Schmidt’s body was among them.

  According to Nyssa, access to the island was heavily restricted and photos were banned. Rikers Island inmates performed the burials in mass trenches without tombstones. First used as a cemetery in the Civil War, Hart Island had served as a training camp, a prison for captured Confederates, a workhouse, a mental asylum, and finally a Cold War missile base. The New York City Department of Transportation ran a single ferry to the island from the Fordham Street pier on City Island. Guests had to be relati
ves of the deceased and were allowed to visit the island only once a month under strict supervision. They were breaking the law by approaching the island in an unregistered powerboat.

  The plan was to dock, locate the body and the book, and leave before the Coast Guard showed up. The Order operated in the shadows and confrontations with the authorities were to be avoided at all cost.

  Peering through a pair of high-powered binoculars, Cormac scanned both air and sea for possible dangers. An aerial attack by a group of Necron’s gargoyles was as much of a possibility as an unpleasant run-in with the law enforcement boats that monitored these waters.

  As they approached the dock, they glided through a passageway formed by two long, parallel rows of wooden poles rising out of the water—a gateway to the dead.

  The boat pulled up, and Cormac expertly tied a rope to the mooring. One by one, they stepped off the bobbing boat.

  Artan spotted a number of ruined, abandoned buildings, which had served as a prison workhouse at one time. Weeds and even trees grew rampant over the walls and windows as nature reclaimed the island.

  “How do you expect to find one buried body among all the dead here?” Artan asked Nyssa.

  Nyssa’s answer was to point at Rhianna. “Your girlfriend’s psychic connection to the grimoires will guide us. Are you ready for this, Rhianna?”

  Rhianna nodded, her expression determined. Despite what she’d been through, her spirit was strong and focused. “What do I do?” she asked.

  “Don’t force anything. The grimoire will communicate with you once it senses your presence and the link you’ve shared with the other books. Just walk among the graves and see what happens.”

  Artan tore the Blade of Kings free from the scabbard strapped over his right shoulder. He watched Rhianna with wary eyes as she stepped away from the group. There were no tombstones on the eerie, barren island. Instead, white posts rose from the ground, each one marking a mass gravesite of a hundred and fifty bodies.

  At least the island was small enough to provide a complete view of the surrounding terrain, making it difficult for anyone to sneak up on them. No human foe would be able to approach unseen—but was Necron still human at this point? Like himself, the warlock had embraced the curse of the gargoyle. He hadn’t witnessed Necron turn into the beast yet, but he’d sensed the creature’s presence back in the subway tunnels.

  Cormac and and the last surviving hunter whose name was Ryder kept a watchful eye on the dock as Rhianna roamed the island’s mass graves, an expression of dogged determination etched into her face. Despite the ordeal she’d been through, Rhianna was hanging in there. He felt genuine admiration for the young woman who’d earned her way into his heart. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk since being reunited. Even though they’d been separated for less than twenty-four hours, so much had changed. The dark forces that had brought them together a year earlier had returned. Would they succeed this time in tearing them apart? He hoped not.

  The minutes ticked away as Rhianna continued to explore the grave markers. Artan and Nyssa followed her progress from afar, giving her some space so she could mentally open herself to the grimoire.

  “She hasn’t said much since we saved her from Necron,” Artan remarked, surprised at his willingness to confide in Nyssa. Maybe her opening up to him back in the subway tunnels made it easier for him to voice his own concerns.

  “Neither have you,” she said.

  Artan eyed her for a beat before a smile curled his lips. She had a point. After the initial joy of being reunited, it had seemed like they were tiptoeing around each other, afraid to touch upon the elephant in the room. The gargoyle was back, and they were both uncertain how the monster’s presence would impact their future.

  Rhianna froze near the center of a mass grave, her still form framed by skeletal trees. Her red mane of hair danced in the wind, and Artan experienced a momentary sense of déjà vu. For a surreal instant he felt he was back in Kirkfall looking at his wife, Samara.

  “She’s an impressive girl,” Nyssa said.

  Artan nodded in agreement.

  “How does someone like you end up dating an archeologist?”

  “Maybe she has a thing for old fossils.”

  Nyssa’s normally cool demeanor cracked, and she flashed him a grin. “You asked me earlier whether the grimoire could free you from the beast. The answer is yes. But it would come at a price most of us wouldn’t be willing to pay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whoever uses the book, even if their intentions are noble, runs the risk of being seduced by its evil. Necron is a perfect example.”

  Artan’s eyebrows turned upward. “What are you saying? Necron is evil, isn’t he?”

  “Necron lost his wife to the plague. He became obsessed with bringing her back to life. The grimoire offered him a chance at mastering the forces of life and death. But its darkness infected him, turned him into the monster we face today.”

  Artan considered this for a second and said, “So then I must accept what I’ve become.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Artan eyed her curiously.

  “When I was first brought to the Order, many of its members saw me and my abilities as a threat. No one with magical powers had ever served among their ranks. Fortunately for me, a senior member recognized my potential. He took me under his wing and guided me as I developed my abilities.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Maybe we don’t have to be enemies once this is over. You’ve demonstrated that you can control the evil inside.”

  For now, a skeptical Artan thought. But what about tomorrow? Or the day after? For how long will I be able to control this monster?

  Almost as if Nyssa could read his mind—and given her abilities, perhaps she could—she said, ”If you fail to reign in the beast, the Order will hunt you down. Until then, maybe we can help each other.” She took a step closer. “I’ve seen you in action. The gargoyle is a powerful weapon. I believe it’s a weapon we could use in our battle with the forces of darkness.”

  Artan stared at her, stunned by her words. Was Nyssa seriously proposing he should join her band of monster hunters for good?

  “You think the Order will go for this idea?”

  She smiled. “I can be persuasive.”

  Artan didn’t doubt it. He had to admit that her proposal intrigued him. For centuries he’d seen the gargoyle as a curse. Could Balor’s evil be channeled into an instrument for good? It all depended if he could resist the dark call of the Fomor blood.The Order hinted at a world far bigger and stranger than he’d known, a world in which he had a purpose again.

  Their conversation came to an abrupt end when Rhianna collapsed near the center of the pauper’s cemetery. A cold hand tightened around Artan’s heart and he burst into motion. Sinews working like pistons, he surged toward his girlfriend, Nyssa right behind him.

  By the time he reached Rhianna, she was already regaining consciousness. Artan helped her get back to her feet. The moment their eyes met, he felt convinced they would find a way to overcome any obstacles life might throw their way.

  “What happened?” Nyssa asked as she stepped up to them. “Did you see something?”

  “Yes. I saw Schmidt being put into the earth. His body is right here. We’re standing on it.”

  Nyssa waved Cormac and Ryder over. Both hunters had shovels in hand, ready to do the dirty job of digging up the body. It didn’t take long before the steel edge of their shovels hit a wooden casket.

  Disinterring a man who’d been dead for years was no one’s idea of fun, but nevertheless Artan saw a gleam in Nyssa’s eyes. The moment of reckoning was at hand. They were about to beat Necron at his own game.

  Nyssa jumped into the freshly dug hole and used a shovel to pry open the wooden coffin. A sickening cloud of stale air wafted up at them, and Artan suppressed a gag. A mud-encrusted skeleton lay revealed in the fading sunlight. The creatures of the earth had feasted on
his flesh, and the bones were bare. Long strands of gray hair sprouted from the skull like a tangle of weeds.

  Nyssa kneeled over the corpse, and from her steely expression, Artan guessed this wasn’t the first dead body she’d had to exhume. Using a dagger, she popped open the buttons of the corpse’s ragged coat. What Nyssa did next made Artan’s stomach turn. She reached into the ribcage. If Schmidt had devoured the pages of the book in a fit of magic-enhanced insanity, wouldn’t his stomach acids have digested them? Clearly magic operated under a different set of laws because Nyssa was now pulling a perfectly preserved grimoire from the ribcage. She opened the tome, and Artan caught a glimmer of dark fascination in her eyes as she studied it. Was the book already tempting her?

  Artan was having a bad feeling about all of this. Was it wise to let a woman who’d been seduced by black magic before handle such a powerful spellbook? Nyssa paused, eyes glued on the open book, and then snapped it shut, almost as if she’d successfully fought back the impulse to decipher the tome’s horrifying secrets.

  Ryder leaned over the edge of the open grave, clearly hoping to get a better look at what Nyssa was doing. The ground moved beneath his feet, and a rotten arm erupted from it in an explosion of soil. Ryder cried out in surprise as another mold-covered limb shot out, followed by a skull half-covered in decomposing flesh. The zombie drove its hungry, mud-encrusted teeth into Ryder’s left leg as it scrambled out of the ground with the speed of an attacking shark. A heartbeat later, the undead monster was on top of Ryder, biting and clawing, teeth glistening with their scarlet prize.

  Artan spun toward the monster and drew his sword. An arc of steel took off the zombie’s head at the neck. The creature’s headless body slumped forward. It was too late for Ryder, who was gasping his last, bloody breath. Artan bowed his head for a moment, cursing himself for not being fast enough, when Rhianna’s shriek alerted him to new danger.