Ryder was dead, but he was still moving. His eyes turned black and savage as the dark magic revived him. Before zombie Ryder could get up, a bolt struck his forehead and he collapsed into true death.
A grim-faced Nyssa regarded Artan. Words were not needed to communicate their thoughts: Necron is here. As if to confirm it, the earth began to shift around them again. One by one, the ravenous dead fought their way out of the mass gravesite, their eternal rest disturbed. The army of zombies stumbled to their wobbly feet, clad in dirt-stained rags, teeth snapping, rotting arms flailing in murderous anticipation. Nyssa pulled out her enchanted whip, ready to engage the incoming horde.
Artan shielded Rhianna protectively, eyes searching for the figure in black. Where was the fiend?
He received his answer a second later as a winged monster swooped toward them. The ground shook as the massive gargoyle landed ten feet away from them, the beast’s gaze alive with triumph. The transformed grimoire rested in his right hand, waiting only for the third and final piece to become complete. Necron let out a terrifying bellow, and the vibrations made Albert Schmidt’s skeleton’s tremble in its open grave. The third grimoire lit up with a blue-red fire and flew out of Nyssa’s hands.
As soon as the third volume touched the other book, they fused into one, the cover and pages morphing into one fully restored super-grimoire. The most
powerful book of magic the world had ever seen was whole again—and in the hands of a madman.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE BLACK MAGIC of the Grimoire’s first two volumes had allowed Necron to raise the first wave of the dead. Now that the full power of the three books was his to wield, he could take the spell to the next level. All across the island, the mass cemetery erupted with unnatural movement. Rotting, skeletal bodies emerged from the ground, the shambling horde driven by an inhuman appetite for the flesh of the living.
Artan could imagine the undead spilling across the island and into the sea. They would wade through the choppy water, determined to reach the glittering metropolis in the near distance to begin their unholy invasion. New Yorkers would fall the same way Ryder had, their humanity no match for the zombie horde. If Necron’s army of the dead reached Manhattan, it would truly be the beginning of the end. And if the grimoire’s spell was allowed to run its course, the dead would rise all across the United States and eventually the world. An insatiable, demonic hunger would consume every person on the planet.
Artan couldn’t let this happen. Necron had to be stopped. But first he had to make sure Rhianna was safe. Nyssa had jumped out of the grave, whip in one hand, crossbow pressed tight against her breast. Cormac had joined her, battleaxe drawn. They flanked a weaponless Rhianna. The trio was backing toward the old prison workhouse. The structure’s crumbling walls wouldn’t stop the rapidly multiplying horde, but was better than remaining in the open where the zombies could easily surround them.
It would be up to Artan to buy them some time.
Sword in hand, he tapped into the power of the beast inside him. The sun was vanishing below the horizon, and the impending nightfall made the change smoother than the last time. He simply thought of the monster, and his muscles gave way to the powerful physique of the gargoyle. Exhilaration burned in his blood as the creature burst from under his skin, as if it had only ever been a disguise masking his true self. His shadow expanded as the giant wings grew from his back. Incisors lengthened, fangs replacing teeth, and then he unleashed the inhuman roar of a monster.
The gargoyle knight was ready to battle the approaching horde.
Unbridled power surged within him as the sword found the nearest zombie. The head came off with one powerful blow. Three more zombies followed as the sword-wielding gargoyle rushed into the surging mob of dead bodies. While his blade hacked and slashed a path through the heaving mass of reanimated corpses, his gaze was focused on Necron. The transformed warlock watched the battle in silence from the air, the humming grimoire in his clawed hand a reminder that the undead were the least of their problems. Would a well-placed blow from the Blade of Kings manage to separate the three volumes? Artan doubted it would be so easy, but it might be worth a shot…if he could get close enough to strike.
He felled two more zombies and advanced toward Necron, sword thirsty for gargoyle blood.
Necron regarded the enchanted blade with genuine interest. “Is that the Blade of Kings, the fabled magical weapon that defeated Cael?”
The warlock’s voice was calm and confident. Necron didn’t see him as a threat.
Necron continued in a conversational tone. “Do you truly believe a magical sword can defeat the power of the grimoire?”
Probably not, Artan thought. He doubted the sword would be able to destroy the book of magic—but it had proven quite effective against gargoyles. Necron controlled magic beyond his imagination, but the warlock was still a flesh-and-blood creature who would yield to the power of steel.
“I thought you of all people would understand, Artan,” Necron said. “We both lost the one thing we cherished more than life itself. What would you give if you knew you could bring Samara back? To share one final moment with her?”
I would give anything, Artan thought. Knowing all too well that Necron’s mindgames were leading his thoughts down a treacherous path, he forced himself to concentrate on his enemy. This mage was both an expert swordsman and a master at psychological warfare.
“Your wife is dead,” Artan said. “And so is the man who once loved her. You’ll never succeed in bringing her back. Not the way you remember her.”
Necron’s eyes grew into slits, his white hot rage almost searing. “How easily you replace your lover with a newer model. I could never do that. All I can do is find a way for my wife to return to this world. Soon she’ll walk the earth once more by my side.”
“At what price? Look at your newly risen dead. These aren’t the people they were in life.”
Clarity crept in Necron’s gaze, almost as if he recognized the validity of Artan’s words. The moment didn’t last. Rage replaced confusion, logic unable to break the grimoire’s claim on Necron’s soul.
Sudden movement made Artan whirl. Eager to strike out at the creature trying to sneak up to him, his sword came up…and froze. He’d expected to face a zombie, but instead the beautiful face of his beloved Samara stared back at him.
Artan recoiled, shocked by the vision. Two more figures lurched toward him—and these new attackers also sported his dead wife’s features. Artan knew Necron was toying with his mind through black magic, but seeing Samara’s face everywhere he looked made him falter. How could he possibly direct his sword against an enemy that looked like the woman he once loved?
The three Samaras swarmed him.
No! This isn’t real! Samara has been gone from this world for centuries. She is dead, and she would not want you to spend the rest of your life in mourning for her.
Clarity returned with a snap. The fast-approaching zombies still wore Samara’s features, but the spell was broken, the warrior back in charge. His blade shot out and went to work. After he cut down the first of the three Samara zombies, the illusion shattered for good. Looking down at his heap of enemies, the undead opponents had reverted back to their skeletal, monstrous selves.
There was no time to celebrate his victory as Necron slammed into him, sending him sprawling. Artan’s gargoyle form tumbled into the open grave, and Schmidt’s cadaver snaked out at him, forcing him to battle both zombie and the warlock gargoyle at the same time. A well-placed blow from his left fist split the zombie’s skull in two, sending Schmidt back to his eternal rest, while his right hand stabbed upward with his sword. Before the blade could pierce Necron, it vanished from Artan’s clawed hand, evaporating into thin air.
Only to reappear in Necron’s claws.
Artan had lost the Blade of Kings. Magic had disarmed him more effectively than any physical attack. There was no hesitation as the warlock drove the enchanted sword into Artan’s power
ful chest. The Blade of Kings had been forged for Artan by the druids so he could to battle monsters, its blessed steel capable of penetrating the thick hide of the Fomor. The sword’s magic drew no distinction between demon and transformed king. The sword sunk deep into his flesh until the tip burst from his shoulder in a rush of black blood.
Artan stumbled, his wings crumpling, both clawed hands clutching the hilt of the sword now sticking from his chest. He took a few weak steps back, his nerves on fire, before his legs gave out. The former King of Kirkfall was down.
As the world grew hazy, he caught a glimpse of Rhianna, Nyssa and Cormac as they disappeared into the prison workhouse.
The gargoyle warlock loomed large before him. “Look at them run, Artan. Don’t they understand they’re only delaying the inevitable?”
“Go…to hell,” Artan gasped.
“Do you know how I found you on this island?” The question lingered for a beat before Necron provided an answer. “It was you, Artan. The gargoyle blood inside of you led me straight to this place.”
Necron leaned closer, his features grotesquely distorted in his moment of triumph.
“I hope you die slowly. I’m so looking forward to killing that little red-headed bitch in front of you—and then bringing her back as one of my undead.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NECRON HAD FOUND them. Rhianna, more than anyone on the island, had seen the full extent of the warlock’s power, witnessed the depths of his depravity firsthand. The warlock was a monster even without Balor’s curse.
Her latest vision had drained her. Her limbs felt heavy, and an ear-splitting headache was building behind her eyes. She allowed Nyssa to drag her along, almost too tired to be frightened by the zombies pursuing them. The horde’s state of decomposition varied. Some resembled living skeletons, while others were wearing masks of rotting flesh—the most recently deceased being the most disturbing. Rhianna was reminded of the painting that had come alive at the MET. Necron had offered her a glimpse at the future he hoped to herald in, a world where the dead roamed.
As Rhianna, Nyssa, and Cormac set off toward the ruins of the prison workhouse, she hazarded a glance over her shoulder. Artan had transformed into a gargoyle and was now fighting off the living dead. Their escape was possible thanks to his sacrifice. So much had remained unsaid since their reunion, and now she might never get a chance to tell him what had been on her mind earlier. She didn’t care if Balor’s curse had infected him again; her love beat stronger than ever for Artan. She would stand by his side no matter what happened.
A group of shambling, moaning zombies loped toward them, easily outpacing the tired trio of humans. Cormac fired his crossbow pistol, and the first zombie’s mud-caked head snapped back. It fell into a lifeless heap. Nyssa’s whip licked the air and found dead flesh. The weapon didn’t destroy the revenants, but its magic was strong enough to drive them back, allowing Nyssa to clear a path through the mob.
Moments later, they stumbled into the old prison workhouse, the walls of the structure creating a momentary illusion of safety. Debris littered the workhouse’s main floor. A steel catwalk encircled the space, and they quickly scaled the rickety staircase to gain higher ground. Most of the roof had caved in, and the giant hole at its center offered a glimpse of the darkening night sky.
Rhianna peered through one of the broken windows. With horror she saw more zombies digging themselves up near the workhouse. The undead kept on coming, their numbers growing exponentially. How many people were buried on this island?
A chill settled between her shoulder blades. There was no way of winning this battle, much less the war. The zombies would ultimately overrun their position—but Rhianna planned to fight alongside Nyssa and Cormac until she drew her final breath.
She turned her focus from the zombies to the two gargoyles now engaged in a bitter death match. The gargoyle knight circled the gargoyle warlock, the two monsters preparing to tear into each other with bestial savagery. What good was Artan’s formidable swordsmanship when pitted against Necron’s grimoire?
Her question was answered seconds later as the Blade of Kings vanished from Artan’s grip in mid-attack and materialized in Necron’s clawed hand. The gargoyle warlock thrust the blade downward and pierced Artan’s chest. As his roar shook the broken walls of the workhouse, all hope within her died. Her love fell, his own sword sticking from his chest like one of the makeshift grave markers dotting the island.
Rhianna grabbed Nyssa’s arm. “Artan is in trouble. We have to help him!”
“There’s nothing we can do! At least not yet.”
“How the hell did Necron even find us?”
“Both Artan and Necron have been touched by Balor’s curse,” Nyssa said calmly. “The gargoyle blood connects them. Necron only had to tap into that connection to experience the world through Artan’s eyes—all without him knowing he was being spied on.”
Rhianna tried to process this new information. Part of her was relieved; she’d secretly worried that the warlock had marked her somehow and followed her to the island. But then she realized something else: This wasn’t random speculation on Nyssa’s part. “You knew this was going to happen.” Rhianna said.
Nyssa’s chagrined look spoke louder than words. “I was counting on it.”
“I don’t understand, why would you want Necron to follow us to the island and get his hands on the third—”
She was interrupted by a terrible sound from below. The undead horde had spilled into the main floor, a throng of gaping mouths and gnashing teeth. Some wore the cheap suits they’d been buried in, now streaked with mud; others were nearly naked with tattered death shrouds clinging to their bony, contorted forms. They explored their surroundings, hunting for their human quarry, and then spotted them on the catwalk. The nearest zombies shuffled toward the staircase. Cormac stood at the top of the stairs, weapons out. He looked ready to battle to the death.
Nyssa handed Rhianna her pistol crossbow. She gratefully accepted the weapon even though she would have preferred a sword. Downstairs, the door of the workhouse swung open and more corpses pressed into the ruined structure, a rising tide of the dead. At the same time, glass shattered near the catwalk and Rhianna saw with horror that some of the zombies had scaled the crumbling walls of the workhouse and were now crawling onto the catwalk through the shattered second-floor windows.
We are going to need a miracle to get out of here alive.
Rhianna leveled her pistol crossbow at the first zombie and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ARTAN BARELY CLUNG to consciousness as the world swum in and out of focus. His own magical sword, which had shattered the Eye of Balor and decapitated his evil brother, had been turned against him.
If he hadn’t been bleeding to death, he might have appreciated the irony.
From the periphery of his blurry vision, he saw the mob of zombies shuffling into the ruined workhouse. How long would Nyssa, Cormac, and Rhianna be able to ward them off? Two of them might be seasoned monster hunters, but they were no match for Necron’s army of the dead.
He fought back a renewed wave of despair. His will needed to be stronger than his battered body. He couldn’t give up. He had to find a way to fight back.
His gaze fell onto the grimoire. Something was happening to the dark magic book. It was vibrating in the gargoyle warlock’s claws, radiating a fiery red light. The hellish light spread across the potter’s field like a crimson tide. Judging from the stunned expression carved into Necron’s gargoyle features, he too was caught off guard by this latest development.
Without warning, the grimoire liberated itself from Necron’s grip and took flight. The crackling red energy grew brighter as the tome hovered above them both like the burning eye of some mad god.
“No!” Necron shouted as the supernatural light went supernova, exploding outward in a web of sizzling magical energy. The air hummed with occult power as the stabbing tongues of flame cut down the zombies
like laser beams. Somehow the same black magic that had revived the dead was now being turned against them.
All across the island of the dead, the zombies transformed into howling, human torches, their movements slowing as the fire consumed them. Necron leaped toward the burning grimoire in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. His fingers clasped the magical book, placing him at ground zero of the grimoire’s destructive power. A corona of blinding magical energy engulfed him, lighting up his gargoyle form. He unleashed a roar equal part agony and rage.
Artan had no idea what was happening, but he recognized an opportunity when he saw it. Energized by this unexpected turn, his hand closed around the hilt of the Blade of Kings protruding from his chest and, inch by strenuous inch, began to pull the sword from his gray flesh. He thought of Samara and his son, of Rhianna and Dr. Sharpe. Even Nyssa. She’d given him hope that there might be a role for him to play in this new century.
Whether man or gargoyle, there was a war out there that needed him.
Fueled by these thoughts, he fought the dark temptation to succumb and let go. This was his sword. It had been forged for him so he could stop the gargoyles and shatter the source of Cael’s power. He would not allow it to end him.
He grunted with agonizing effort and at last pulled the sword from his chest with a bestial roar. As soon as he’d liberated the blessed steel, the gaping wound in his chest closed up, the regenerative power of Balor’s blood restoring him within seconds.
As he scrambled to his feet, wings extending to their full size, he saw Necron surging toward the workhouse. The warlock was still on fire, a creature of flame descending on the ruins of the building. By now, Necron had probably drawn the same conclusion as Artan. Somehow Nyssa had tampered with the third grimoire before it fused with the other two volumes. Necron might be dying, but Artan would bet he planned to take his enemy with him. An opponent facing imminent defeat with nothing left to lose often proved to be the most dangerous enemy of them all.
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