The stranger whirled toward the snakes, relieved to see their numbers thinning. The magic was growing weaker as the distance between Cael and the museum grew. The warrior-druid had merely wanted to slow them down and secure his head start. Rhianna’s savior shot her a look and offered an explanation. “The spells are powerful, but the magic wears off quickly.”
Spells? Magic?
Something snapped in Rhianna.
She bolted.
For a few seconds, she was scrambling through the thick undergrowth, driven by panic. The man caught up with her and pinned her against a tree. Mere inches separated them now, their bodies touching. Rhianna could feel the heat radiating off this man and was all too aware of the play of powerful muscles straining under his black T-shirt and leather jacket. This wasn’t the body of some male runway model or Hollywood actor who hit the gym a few times a week, but the perfectly trained physique of a man who needed every physical advantage for survival.
Rhianna studied him more closely. The long hair ruled out the military or law enforcement. He moved with too much grace to be a construction worker or some other blue-collar physical laborer type. He was too built to be a bike messenger, his physicality combining the lithe grace of a gymnast with the power of wrestler.
Who was this guy?
Rhianna decided her curiosity had its limits and she made an attempt to wiggle past the man, but she was no match for his steely grip.
“Let go of me! I'm going to scream for help...”
An edge crept into the stranger's voice. “Scream, if you must.”
Her savior radiated an intensity that Rhianna had never encountered before.
“The more time we waste here, the greater my brother's lead becomes.”
Rhianna couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“That was your brother? Who are you people?”
“I’m Artan of the Clan McKeltar.”
This gave Rhianna pause. The name was familiar to her. After all, she had spent the last few weeks digging up anything she could find on the mythical figures who went by that name. The scholars unanimously agreed that Artan and Cael weren’t actual historical figures but based on myths and legends. Clearly this fellow was of another opinion.
Rhianna took a step back. “Let me guess. If you’re Artan McKeltar, the psycho with the sword must be... Cael McKeltar?”
Artan nodded.
Rhianna shook her head, trying to cling to rational thought, but her imagination was already exerting its pull. A part of her wanted to buy this story hook, line and sinker. But the academic in her wouldn’t allow it.
“You do not believe me.”
What was the first clue?
Artan shook his head, almost as if he was sympathizing with her. “I do not understand it myself,” he said. “When my blade shattered the Eye of Balor, we both turned to stone.”
Of course you did. Makes perfect sense.
“Listen, thanks for saving me back there at the museum. Probably the less I know, the better...”
“You’re involved now.”
What Rhianna wanted to say was news flash, buddy! I don’t get involved. One look at my social calendar would clue you in. Just ask my last few dates.
Instead, Rhianna took a deep, steadying breath and said, “I'm a PhD candidate in Celtic Studies and I know for a fact that Artan never existed. The tale is a myth...“
Artan interrupted sharply. “To you, my life is a myth, but the tales are true.”
The gravity in the man’s voice wove a spell over Rhianna, and for a split second, she almost believed him.
Almost.
There was one glaring flaw in this lunatic’s story and he had forced the issue with his mad insistence on the veracity of his tale. Rhianna had tried to be nice, but she had her limits.
“Fine! Let’s go with it. If you’re Artan, how come you’re not... You know...”
A gargoyle?
Rhianna couldn’t even say it. If the man was to be believed, he was the reason thousands of gargoyles adorned New York City’s rooftops.
“The change occurs at night. The beast stirs within me. Very soon now, I must heed its call.”
Rhianna stared at Artan. Waiting for a punchline that never came.
“God, you're not kidding, are you?”
Judging from the guy’s stone-faced look, he was serious. Deadly serious.
“Rhianna, Cael spared you because he believes you can help him find the Eye of Balor.”
Artan leaned closer, his voice beseeching.
“If the Eye should fall into Cael's hands, no one will be able to withstand his power. We must find the gem before he does.”
Rhianna’s expression filled with alarm. “My dad... he took the Eye with him.”
“Then his life is in danger. You must take me to your father before Cael finds him. What is the fastest way?”
Rhianna nodded at a nearby subway stop, too preoccupied with the thought Artan just voiced.
His life is in danger.
Rhianna had a feeling her day was about to get worse.
A lot worse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SO FAR THE evening had gone off without the slightest hitch. Dr. Sharpe had arrived at Bernice, Manhattan’s latest gastronomical hotspot, half an hour before the scheduled reservation. His first order of business was to slip the host a hundred-dollar bill, an assurance that they would get seated on time and at one of the better tables.
A reservation at Bernice only meant that one would end up having dinner at some point in the evening. Sharpe had heard horror stories of people waiting for over two hours – why people put up with such nonsense was beyond him. He doubted that the man he was about to break bread with would look too kindly on killing a few hours with small talk.
Dr. Sharpe was no hipster, but a lifetime of traveling the globe and interacting with almost every culture on the planet had taught him a trick or two. He knew how the world worked. One hand washed the other. As a result, one of his most steadfast rules was to always carry cash on him. Plastic could take you only so far. And one never knew when a quick twenty could turn out to be the ticket out of a tight jam.
Craig McConnor arrived a half hour late, but that was to be expected from a rock star of the video game world. Craig was the creator of the bestselling Elf War video game franchise and his fans had lovingly nick-named him Lord Irish after one of the villain’s in the game. In his mid-thirties, he stylistically occupied the space where über-geek meets rock star.He reminded Dr. Sharpe of the musician Moby, except with better tattoos and cooler facial hair. McConnor wore designer skinny jeans, an expensive leather blazer, a pair of hipster glasses and a handlebar mustache with the ends twirling upward.
Dr. Sharpe shook his guest’s hand while winking at the host, who immediately surged toward the pair. The bribe worked its magic as the attractive Puerto Rican goddess told the two men to follow her to a table while other guests were ignored, wondering what made the newcomers so special as to receive such preferential treatment.
They were seated and pleasantries were exchanged. While Lord Irish perused the menu, Dr. Sharpe couldn’t help but study the self-made millionaire. The video-game whiz kid had created a virtual world that captured the imagination of millions of gamers across the globe. Each game transported the player into a detailed digital universe inspired by myth and fantasy, a place where elves saved damsels from terrifying dragons and liberated kingdoms from evil wizards.
Dr. Sharpe wasn’t much for video games — he preferred the real world to the virtual one — but he respected the artistry and technical skill it took to construct such interactive fantasies. The game’s weaponry and settings had an air of historical authenticity and demonstrated a painstaking and admirable attention to detail. Craig McConnor knew his audience and gave them what they wanted.
There was no doubt in Sharpe’s mind that Craig had a passion for the medieval world and was well versed in many subjects that most young people would be clueless
about. He had dropped out of college and was living with his parents when he wrote the code for the first game. Now he owned an amazing loft apartment in Staten Island, in addition to many other properties across the world.
It wasn’t surprising that someone who spent his days recreating the past, albeit an imagined one, would be a collector of medieval antiquities. The man’s collection was impressive, from all accounts, and he had managed to purchase one item in particular that absolutely belonged in the upcoming exhibit. Dr. Sharpe was determined to secure a loan of the crucial item in question – the Celtic exhibit would be incomplete without it. He promised himself not to leave the dinner table until they had a deal.
They ordered multiple rounds of drinks, starting with Moscow Mules before switching to wine. The bottle cost more than Sharpe’s weekly food budget. People were nuts! The things he was willing to do in the name of archeology. They split a collection of small-plate dishes inspired by the latest trends in L.A. fusion cuisine (“hipster portions,” Dr. Sharpe liked to call the morsels). He wasn’t the type to buy into hype and he still thought that salmon just didn’t belong on a pizza.
Nonetheless, he had to admit that Bernice‘s reputation was well deserved. Once the waiter had brought their digestifs and espressos, the conversation began to taper off. The subject shifted to the real reason for them being here tonight. Dr. Sharpe had struggled to keep his cool and was relieved when Craig was the first to blink. “So you’re going to let me take a peek?” he asked, and Dr. Sharpe smiled to himself.
“That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?” Dr. Sharpe produced the small titanium case that contained the precious jewel and placed it in the middle of the table. He opened the case, making sure to do it without haste and playing up the moment for maximum effect. He could feel the anticipation of the young man sitting across from him. The lid snapped open and the Eye of Balor stood revealed. Lord Irish inched closer, his features igniting with a sense of wonder.
“It's beautiful. Can I touch it?”
There was a trace of hesitation, but Sharpe finally nodded.
Lord Irish beamed like a schoolboy who had just copped his first feel. But as he touched the gem, his elation made way for growing confusion. Dr. Sharpe picked up on the change in mood.
“Something wrong?”
Craig held up the fiery red stone, light sparkling across its fully restored surface. The two halves had perfectly fused into one untarnished whole and no trace of the cracks remained.
“Wasn't it supposed to be in two pieces?”
Dr. Sharpe’s snatched the stone from the young game designer, worried that some skilled thief had managed to switch out the real gems. He analyzed the gem with the focus of a laser beam. It was the Eye of Balor, no doubt. But at the same time, something had restored it to its original glory.
Dr. Sharpe studied the gem from every imaginable angle, hoping to spot a seam, but his efforts weren’t rewarded. As he held the gem up to the light, he was gripped by the same feeling of dread he was wrestling with since he left the museum.
Something terrible was approaching.
***
Artan and Rhianna rushed down the stairs of the Bronx subway station. She had her cell pressed against her ear, but her father wasn’t answering his phone. Damn it.
She exchanged a worried look with Artan.
“My dad's not picking up. He must still be in his meeting.”
“We must be swifter than Cael,” Artan said matter-of-factly.
“Nothing beats the subway for speed during rush hour traffic,” Rhianna said.
They entered the station. The place was packed with commuters on their way home from a long day at work. The temperature was hovering in the fifties and most people were bundled up in anticipation of a chilly evening. Rhianna spotted a few people decked out in Halloween costumes, mostly monsters and superheroes. Was that Freddy Krueger holding hands with Captain America?
Halloween was in the air, though the actual holiday was still a day away. Halloween fell on a Saturday this year and people were turning it into a three-day escape from reality. Rhianna envied their easy smiles and happy spirits, their sense of abandonment and pure, unbridled fun. Not a worry or responsibility to taint the day. Their lives seemed so perfect and uncomplicated, at least from where she was standing.
Rhianna returned her attention to her mysterious new friend. As a train screamed into the station, he was peering down the endless dark tunnel, a sense of wonder on his face. Was it possible he had never seen a subway before? Another thought suddenly occurred to her. “You seem pretty well adjusted for a man who skipped the last fifteen centuries. I would expect complete culture shock, like a total meltdown...”
“I saw the changes unfolding over the years, a dream I couldn’t wake up from.”
“What are you saying? The magic turned you into a stone gargoyle but you were aware all this time?”
“I saw the world without being part of it, cursed to be a silent witness until the end of time.”
There was a somber, almost forlorn quality to his words.
Rhianna's guarded expression softened.
“How did you stop yourself from going insane?”
“One thought. That one day vengeance would be mine.”
Rhianna digested this, still struggling with the reality of what was unfolding here.
“Why has Cael returned today? If you defeated him...”
The moment she asked the question, she grew silent. A terrible suspicion had hijacked her mind. She realized she may have answered her own question. If she thought about it, it made perfect sense. Within the context of this crazy story, it all seemed to add up.
“My blade shattered the gem,“ Artan explained. “But someone must have brought the two pieces together...”
Rhianna’s words came haltingly. “My father...”
Artan's face darkened, his suspicion confirmed.
“How could he be so foolish?”
A defensive note edged into Rhianna’s voice.
“It's the 21st Century. No one believes in this stuff.”
Artan took a step closer and a chill crept up Rhianna’s spine. She could feel the man’s coiled intensity, an inner darkness bubbling below the surface veneer of civilization, merely biding its time to erupt to the surface. The man’s voice echoed with icy intensity as he broke it down for Rhianna.
“Cael does not care what your world believes in. His magic is real and he will not hesitate to use it.”
Rhianna couldn’t stop the sour feeling rising from the pit of her stomach. Artan’s grave message was getting to her.
She suddenly believed this man.
Believed every word.
***
The police siren wailed as the cruiser hurtled down Seventh Avenue, leaving rush-hour traffic in the dust.
From the passenger seat, Cael watched as the city tore past him. He studied the towers of light, feeling disgusted at the display of cement and steel and technological excess.
Lord Balor, what have they turned your world into?
The city’s flashing lights bled into a kaleidoscopic blur and Cael’s thoughts turned toward the past.
Toward the beginning.
As far back as he could remember, Artan was his father’s favorite and the favoritism had over time become a festering wound. Cael could see why their father gravitated toward Artan: he saw a younger version of himself in the strapping, charismatic warrior with the easy smile and the twinkle in his eyes. While Artan effortlessly made friends, Cael was withdrawn and introspective. Artan would banter with the knights, at ease with himself and the world. No matter where he went, he’d catch the admiring glances of females everywhere.
Cael, on the other hand, was drawn to the mystical arts and chose to spend his free time with the druids, hunched over esoteric tomes that offered insights into the mysteries of the world. The two of them could not have been more different if they tried, and their father never ceased to remind Cael of the vast gul
f separating his sons.
Cael was fourteen when he realized he hated his father. He was eighteen when he started looking forward to the day when his father would pass from this world and he could finally embrace his birthright and rule Kirkfall.
In the meantime, he would be patient and wait for his turn at the crown. But his father had other plans; he was going to take his favoritism one step further. Even though his younger brother prided himself as a warrior, it was Cael who drew up the battle plans against the neighboring states. In his mind, he envisioned a different future for Ireland. The island hadn’t reached its full potential and Kirkfall could overrun the surrounding kingdoms, unite the Emerald Isle under one banner and push its forces into Scotland and beyond. But Cael’s father was adamantly opposed to his oldest son’s dreams of conquest.
As Cael laid out his war plans on the large, oval-shaped conference table in the king’s tower, he could feel the energy of the various generals and advisors traveling from the young prince to their king, waiting for a decision to be made. Cael knew many of the men thought as he did and were consumed with visions of glorious battles that could expand their power base. But nothing would come of it until his father gave his nod of approval.
Cael’s voice shook with urgency as he addressed the king. “The men are ready and willing, father. The time has come to strike. The surrounding territories can be ours.”
To his surprise, his father grabbed Cael’s carefully drawn battle plans and tore them up right in front of him. “I will not start a war to satisfy your dreams of conquest,” the king said in a voice that entertained no further debate on the matter.
The generals and advisors who had earlier supported Cael now averted their eyes, knowing the matter was decided. Cael knew the wise and strategic response was to take a step back and bow his head. But something ignited in the young warrior-druid. A childhood of anger and hatred exploded to the surface and became plain for everyone to see. Cael slammed his steel-gloved hand down on the conference table, not bothering to disguise his unbridled fury.
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