“You better. Text me. I want details.”
Rhianna rolled her eyes.
The elevator arrived and Natalie got in. She flashed Rhianna a big grin. “You go girl!”
The elevator doors closed and erased Natalie from view. Rhianna shook her head but had to smile. Her friend was incorrigible.
Artan had finished his breakfast by the time Rhianna returned to her apartment. The resurrected medieval warrior was now inspecting Rhianna’s work area. He seemed interested in her collection of Celtic texts. He flipped through a massive coffee-table book full of glossy photographs of medieval castles.
The rays of morning sunlight filtered into her apartment and enveloped Artan’s face. An expression of joy played across his face. Noticing Rhianna’s look, he said, “It is a long time since I felt the sun on my skin.”
Rhianna smiled nervously, wondering what else Artan might not have felt in the last fifteen centuries.
Artan nodded at Rhianna’s extensive library of medieval texts. “Why are you so fascinated with my world?”
“Like father, like daughter.”
“You prefer the past over the present.”
“I love history. You don’t know where you're going unless you understand where you've been. Where you’re coming from.”
Artan nodded, accepting the wisdom of her words. He studied a Celtic blade mounted near her workstation. Noticing his interest, Rhianna said, “Maybe I just have a thing for swords.”
Rhianna could feel her face turning red the moment the words left her lips. Couldn’t she be any more obvious? But Artan seemed oblivious to any subtext, or at least he chose not to acknowledge it.
“You said you needed my help. What do you mean?” Rhianna asked.
“I need someone who understands my past to guide me through your future.”
Rhianna shook her head. “Look at me. Do I strike you as a warrior princess?”
Artan's voice filled with a deep conviction. “You have great strength in you, Rhianna.”
She looked up at the warrior from another time, surprised by his gentle yet confident tone. “I'm sorry, but I can't.”
A darker edge crept into Artan's voice offering a glimpse of the gargoyle lurking below the surface. “You have a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the mark on your hand. Your life force restored the Eye.”
A defensive note edged into Rhianna’s voice. “I cut myself. It was an accident.”
“And the world will suffer for your carelessness.”
Artan grabbed Rhianna's hand and held it up, exposing the mark. Skin touching skin, she found their closeness both erotic and scary at the same time.
“The Eye is the key to the prison of Balor, but it will require a human sacrifice for the demon to remain in our world...”
Dawning understanding spread across Rhianna's face. Artan continued, “Your blood powers the eye. You're linked now. Balor will need your life force to assure his rebirth.”
Artan released Rhianna’s wrist and she pulled away from the former king of Kirkfall, on the verge of terror. Wishing she had never set foot into the Cloisters the other day. If she could somehow just turn back the clock...
Her thoughts must’ve been plainly written across her face as Artan said, “You can hide in your library if you like, but Cael will find you.”
Rhianna looked pale as she processed this.
“What do we do?”
“I must destroy the Eye once more but to do so-“
“You need the Blade of Kings,” Rhianna finished.
Artan nodded, studying the red stone in his hand. It felt like he was holding the weight of the world.
***
Jude had been a nurse at Beth Israel for two years. In that time, she had become inured to the constant stream of human tragedy flowing through its doors, but whenever she thought she’d seen it all, life would spring a surprise on her.
There was that time a patient walked in with a drill bit stuck in his eye but otherwise seemed fine, or the woman who feared she had overdosed on mints until she was told one couldn’t O.D. on candy, at least not in the medical sense.
This evening hadn’t been unusual, but it had been hectic, not surprising, as Halloween was right around the corner. The real fun would begin tomorrow. One of the patients they brought in had died on the operating table, a skater kid who was hit by a bus. He reminded Jude of her younger brother and she fought back tears when he was pronounced dead.
It wasn’t surprising to her that the thought of a warm bath and a glass of Chianti sounded like heaven on earth at this point. She had made it halfway down the corridor when she heard the sound of breaking glass and furniture being banged around.
Jude stopped in her tracks, her attention shifting to the hospital room two doors down from her; room 305, the room where the archeologist had been put for further observation. His prognosis was excellent, so this was an unusual development.
There was a tense moment of silence before the sound repeated itself. A heavy object slammed with great force against the door, cracking the wood. Jude exchanged a dire look with a male nurse approaching from the other end of the corridor. He had heard it too. Galvanized into action, they advanced.
They burst into Room 305 and froze in their tracks. The window was shattered and the floor strewn with broken glass. The curtains whirled in the window.
There was no trace of Dr. Sharpe.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RHIANNA TYPED CRAIG McConnor‘s name into Google. Images of the video game designer and screen captures of the games themselves filled her screen. Rhianna was distracted, all too aware of Artan’s proximity. He sat right next to her on one of the kitchen chairs they had pulled over to the computer. She tried to read his expression and realized it must be a look of wonder. Computers were new to him, of course.
Rhianna was still adjusting to what the ancient warrior knew of her world and the vast gaps that defined his understanding of her age. He had explained to her that during his years as a stone gargoyle, reality had seeped into his awareness and invaded his thoughts. These disjointed snippets didn’t add up to much in a mind reared fifteen centuries ago, but certain truths about mankind remained constant throughout the ages. Technology and culture changed, but human nature had remained the same. Despite all the gadgets, the advances in medicine and the marvels of the digital age, there was still love and there was still death. In Artan’s case, the latter had robbed him of the former.
Rhianna was intimately familiar with the myths that had sprung up around Artan, and his haunted demeanor lent credence to the legends. Cael had taken everything away from his brother, pushing him to the point where he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice in the name of love and honor.
Rhianna forced herself to focus on her MacBook instead of McKeltar. Lord Irish grinned back at her from the screen as if mocking her for this feeble attempt to maintain her professional cool. During his moment of lucidity the other night, her father had told her about the blade and identified its new owner... “Craig McConnor,” she said to Artan. ”Better known as Lord Irish. Computer whiz kid who made a fortune before his 21st birthday creating bestselling fantasy RPG games. Elf War, ForeverQuest, Elflord...”
She paused, having noticed Artan’s growing impatience. She was babbling. Which meant she was nervous. Which meant...
She had to get a grip on herself.
She pursed her lips in a thin smile and said, “Besides creating hugely popular computer games, he also loves to collect medieval artifacts. My dad had dinner with him the other night. He was trying to persuade Lord Irish to lend the museum his most prized possession...”
Her fingers tapped the keys and the image of a sword filled her computer screen. It had a black blade etched with a series of elegant runes. This was the same weapon Artan used to halve the Eye of Balor centuries earlier.
“We must seek out this Lord,” Artan said.
“Technically, he's not r
oyalty,” Rhianna tried to explain. “Lord Irish was the villain in Craig McConnor’s computer games...”
Rhianna trailed off. Her chatter was becoming grating even to herself. Artan was obviously not interested in the subtleties of the gamer community. He studied her with ferocious determination. “Take me to him and I will ask nothing more from you, Rhianna.”
Easier said than done. The video game designer’s address and phone number were unlisted. Scanning the online fan forums for the Elf War games, Rhianna concluded that his constituents made Trekkies seem like casual hobbyists. Lord Irish wisely kept a low profile and went to great lengths to secure his privacy. Secrecy was required if he didn’t want his home turning into a mecca for every gamer on the Eastern Seaboard.
Under normal circumstances, locating the man would’ve necessitated detective work, but Dr. Sharpe had provided her with Lord Irish’s contact info. “I’ve tried calling and emailing, but he isn’t answering. I mean, we can’t just show up on his doorstep...”
Judging from the expression on Artan's face, he had no qualms with that particular strategy. Rhianna stifled a sigh while another thought occurred to her.
“Wait a minute. If you destroy the Eye, won't you...”
Turn back into a gargoyle statue?
Artan's dark look was all the answer Rhianna needed. The former king faced a no-win situation. If he lost this battle, it could spell the end of the world as they knew it but if he won, it would mean a return to the terrible limbo state he had endured for interminable centuries, a fate far worse than death.
“Is there any way you can...?” Rhianna’s voice was tentative, emotional.
“The curse cannot be broken.”
“So this is your last day before...”
Rhianna didn't finish. Artan’s heavy silence told her all she needed to know.
“There must be another way?”
Artan wore a fatalistic, faraway expression as he spoke. “I wish it were so.”
***
Sunlight speared a wasteland of twisted steel and mangled car engines. Dr. Sharpe's battered body lay sprawled on the ground, surrounded by mountains of junked cars precariously stacked on top of each other. He could taste blood and dust.
The scent of rusting metal, gasoline and melting plastic permeated the air. The pneumatic hiss of a trash compactor assaulted his senses as wrecks were turned into scrap so they could be shipped off to China or some other faraway destination in need of cheap steel. The junkyard felt like an industrial version of hell and it took Dr. Sharpe back to the time he visited Cuba. The pervasive smell of fumes had followed him wherever he went, a result of too many Russian cars running on cheaper stuff than petrol.
A shadow fell across the archeologist. Cael had arrived. Human again, the dark prince leered down at him. Dr. Sharpe finally understood that the myths were real and the world faced a terrible danger.
Centuries earlier, Artan had saved his kingdom from being overrun by the forces of the Otherworld. History could repeat itself. Technology had progressed, but Dr. Sharpe doubted that human ingenuity could prevail when confronted with the darkly magical forces of the Otherworld. In some ways, the modern age was far less prepared to deal with such an enemy than the ancient world had been. People wouldn’t believe the threat was real until it was too late.
“What do you want from me?” Dr. Sharpe asked, though he had a pretty good idea what the answer would be.
“My brother has the Eye. He will use it to stop me. That must not happen.”
Cael knelt beside Dr. Sharpe, sunlight glittering on the dagger in his hand. “I ask myself, what will my brother do now and I keep coming up with the same answer.”
He leaned closer, his raw eye-socket almost touching Dr. Sharpe’s face. “He will seek out the one thing that can destroy the Eye.”
“I don't know what you're talking about...”
Before Sharpe could pull away, Cael had him in his iron grip. The warrior-druid began to caress Dr. Sharpe's neck with his knife. He drew a bloody circle across the archeologist’s cheek.
“I do not wish to hurt you, but I shall if you leave me no choice.”
Cael brushed the bloodstained knife against one of his tattoos, the paw-print of a forest animal, perhaps a dog or a wolf. Once again, the tattoo absorbed the blood and lit up.
“The world has forgotten the old ways. Where man was once part of nature, he now considers himself above the will of the gods. Above Balor. Twisting steel into grotesque shapes, polluting the air with his stench, multiplying like...”
Rats.
Dark shapes emerged from the rotting car husks. Dr. Sharpe caught glimpses of fat, shiny tails, dirt-caked fur, and sharp teeth. The squeaking shapes scrambled into the light. “Soon enough, the world will experience the full power of Balor.”
Sharpe’s face drained of all color as the vermin encircled them, a shrieking carpet of snapping teeth. Beady eyes studied him with dark intent. The rats were waiting, all their attention focused on the archeologist, ignoring Cael.
“Think of your daughter. If you cannot help me, maybe she can.”
The threat hung in the air. Sharpe could feel the anger bubbling up from the pit of his stomach, even though he knew he shouldn’t provoke Cael, the words came unbidden.
“Don't you dare...”
He was cut off as the first rat sank its teeth into his forearm. The archeologist cried out in pain.
“I want the blade. How do I find it?”
The rat that had bitten him stood still, licking its bloody paws, just waiting to be unleashed once more. The first attack had been a warning. The vermin was squirming, their eagerness to draw more blood amplified by the coppery smell impregnating the air.
Sharpe was terrified and dreaded the terrible fate he faced, but he was even more scared to think of what would become of the world if Cael succeeded and released Balor.
Sharpe took in the sea of rats before looking up at the sun. So beautiful and bright, so far away from the horror that was unspooling in this steel cemetery.
If Cael succeeded, the sun would never rise again and the world would be drowned in eternal darkness. Cael could not discover the whereabouts of the Eye. He had to be delayed as much as possible. Sharpe hoped Artan would give the evil sorcerer a run for his money...
There was defiance in his voice as he spoke. “Go to hell!”
“Have it your way. Once they are finished with your eyes, you will wish to talk.”
With these words, the surging tide of rats swept over Dr. Sharpe.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A FERRY PUTTERED toward Staten Island. Artan stood on the upper deck, leaning against the railing, awed as he studied the receding skyline. The Statue of Liberty loomed in the distance. He had seen glimpses of this metropolis in his dreams, but he had never grasped its full size and scope. New York City had to have been built by gods, not mere mortals.
For the moment, Artan’s mind was not on his mission. He was just a man awed by the spectacle of human progress and achievement. Absorbing the multitude of impressive sights made him wonder about his old home. What would it be like today, after all this time? He yearned to return to Ireland, but a part of him feared what awaited him if he did.
Artan shot a look at Rhianna. “I am impressed with this city of yours.”
“I guess I take it for granted. I’ve lived here most of my life.”
“I wonder what the Emerald Isle must be like in this time. Would I know it after all these years?”
Artan hadn’t meant to put this latest sentiment into words, but it just slipped out. Rhianna looked questioningly at him. “How did you end up on this side of the pond?”
“I spent centuries at McKeltar Castle. When my clan immigrated to the New World, I was brought to this city.”
The memories of the journey were vague, like all his memories of the last fifteen centuries. He had been moved from the castle. Then there was darkness and once that blackness lifted, he had found himself perched
atop a rooftop overlooking the Manhattan skyline of the early Twentieth Century.
He stayed there, frozen in place, for many years with the sounds of the city and the lights of the buildings his sole companions. When the building was scheduled for demolition to make way for a new steel tower, he was taken to Central Park, where he had remained until yesterday.
The park made him happy. Its lush vegetation reminded him of Kirkfall. He saw the leaves turn golden in the fall before they withered and died in the winter. He experienced the park encased in a blanket of white, ice forming on his stone body as the crowds thinned. He was there when life returned in the spring and made way for the crowds of summer. An unmoving sentinel bearing witness to the cycle of life while remaining untouched by the passage of time. Ever-present but always remaining apart. These impressions came to him as if he was looking up at the world from the bottom of a deep well.
Artan's tone grew wistful as he addressed Rhianna. “Over the centuries, truth became myth. Even my own bloodline stopped believing in the old ways.”
The words earned him a sympathetic look. “What's it like? When you transform?”
Artan considered Rhianna’s question, searching for the right words to describe the experience. “It is an agony and my world becomes a place of darkness and rage.”
“But you stay in control... When I looked at the gargoyle, I could see you inside the monster...”
Rhianna was right. His body changed, but his mind remained his own.
In despair, last night he had felt himself slipping away. The gargoyle was growing stronger.
“As Samhain approaches, the darkness inside me grows. Every time I change, I lose a little bit more of myself. In time, the curse of Balor will corrupt me.”
“What are you saying? You think you’ll become like Cael?”
Artan didn’t answer the last question. The possibility filled him with dread, but it also fueled him. There was a new urgency to their mission. Time was running out.
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