Gargoyle Quest (4 page)

Artan raised a brow. “And what sort of man is that?”

“A hero.”
 

Artan shook his head and let out a snort of derisive laughter. “The age of heroes is past. The wars of today are fought with weapons I could never understand, much less master. You may study the past, Doctor, but
I am the past
. Just another fossil that should be on display in one of your goddamn museums.”
 

A flash of anger lit up Sharpe’s one good eye. “So that’s it. You’ve already given up.”

“What do you propose I do, old man?”

 
“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? A question only you can answer.” Sharpe leaned closer. “Maybe you need to find a new purpose for a new age.”

What purpose could a warrior and former king fulfill in a world where battles were fought by machines beyond his understanding? Artan doubted that his skill with a broadsword or his mastery of fifth century siege tactics would be of use in modern-day Manhattan.

“You’ve always lived a life of service, right? So how can you best serve the modern age? Until you can answer that question, you’ll be at war with yourself.”

Artan hesitated before speaking, his mind in turmoil. “What if there isn’t anything for me here? What if I don’t have anything to offer this age?”
 

“I have a feeling you’ll figure it out,
King of Kirkfall
.”

Artan’s fingers tightened around the edge chess table, his anger erupting to the surface. “Do me a favor, Doctor Sharpe, and don’t ever call me that again. Kirkfall is gone.”

Sharpe faltered in the face of Artan’s rage. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
 

Artan nodded curtly and stood, turning away from Sharpe.

“Where are you going?” Sharpe asked

There was grim finality as Artan answered, “Apparently nowhere.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

ARTAN CUT THROUGH the city, Doctor Sharpe’s words ringing in his ears:
You must find a way to serve the modern age
.
 

In a world defined by money and technology, what did such values as courage and strength still count for? Where did one go after saving the city from an ancient evil? More importantly, why had Sharpe’s words set him off like that? The man meant well. He was the only friend Artan had besides Rhianna in this crazy century, the only one who truly understood his struggles. He was acting like a petulant child, not a warrior and king who’d saved the world from the dark forces of the Otherworld.
 

During his battle with Balor, the Celtic demon had drained his gargoyle blood, thereby restoring his lost humanity. With each passing day, the memory of his horrific transformation receded further into the past. Yet at times like now, when a near inhuman rage seized hold of him, it felt like his former gargoyle nature still cast a shadow over him. There was a fire inside of him that the last twelve months hadn’t been able to fully extinguish. Did some Fomorian blood still pump through his veins?

As the day wore on, the answers to the questions tormenting his soul continued to elude him. His feet pounded the pavement, carrying him through the varied neighborhoods of the great city. By the time six o’clock rolled around, his wanderings had brought him back full circle to the MET. Rhianna was waiting for him in front of the main entrance, leaning against a stone column, sporting a tired yet happy smile. The touch of warm lips and the clean scent of her hair made him momentarily forget his concerns.
 

To his surprise, Rhianna wasn’t quite ready to head back to their Brooklyn home. She told him a fellow co-worker was throwing an impromptu cocktail party at his Upper West Side apartment, and the invitation had included significant others. Rhianna had accepted on their behalf. She must’ve picked up on his lack of enthusiasm because she quickly said, “We don’t have to go.”
 

Artan shook his head and forced a smile. Maybe a drink would do him some good. Or maybe it would plunge him even deeper into his dark mood.

The people he’d met in Rhianna’s circle over the course of the last year never suspected they were chatting with a resurrected fifth century Celtic King, but they could tell something was different about him. Despite his many efforts to master the rules of this world, he was slightly out of step. This evening proved no different. As the conversation turned to archeological shop-talk, Rhianna’s eyes lit up while his own began to glaze over. Beer in hand, he retreated to a nearby balcony. Outside, with the twinkling lights of the city splayed out before him and the crimson sun sinking behind the majestic skyline, his problems seemed small and insignificant.
 

As he stood there, doing his best to keep his demons at bay, he kept overhearing snippets of conversation from the party. Most of it was museum-related chatter, but his ears perked up when he realized one of the professors was talking about
him
. The curse of his gargoyle transformation had been broken but the heightened senses of the Fomor persisted to a degree. His enhanced hearing cut through the chatter and locked in on the man who’d mentioned his name. He recognized the voice. Rhianna had introduced him as a fellow PhD who was helping her catalogue the items in the upcoming Egyptian exhibit. What was his name again? Malcolm? Maxwell?
 

“Where did she dig up this guy? I mean, come on now, what does a brain like Rhianna see in such a long-haired himbo?”

“Have you seen his arms, Max?”
a female speaker chimed in.
“He’s a hunk straight from the cover of a romance novel.”
 

“Hey, I have nothing against a little arm candy, even of the Eurotrash flavor. I dated my share of models in my day. But a girl like Rhianna needs a man who can keep up with her intellect.”

“And you think you might be that man?”

Maxwell didn’t answer, but no words were needed for Artan to picture the man’s smug grin. Artan’s fingers tightened around the balcony railing as his blood began to boil. Making matters worse, Maxwell and the woman he’d been chatting with stepped onto the balcony. The man was polished and expensively dressed, a sharp contrast to the barbarian biker look that Artan had adopted. Maxwell flashed him a false smile, but although the woman he was with seemed embarrassed, he seemed unfazed to confront the subject of his gossip. Perhaps if he’d been aware that the former king had heard every foul word uttered behind his back, Maxwell might have greeted him differently. In his mind’s eye, Artan saw himself grabbing the pompous prick and tossing him over the balcony without a trace of hesitation. The shadow of his gargoyle self was definitely rearing its ugly head.
 

“Great night, isn’t it?” Maxwell said in a plastic voice.

Artan glowered at the man, marveling at his double-sided nature.
 

Maxwell, apparently unnerved by Artan’s silence, babbled on. “So where’s that accent from? It’s Russian, right? We’ve got a bet going at the museum.” Met with continued silence, he said, “You must be doing something right, buddy, because Rhianna can’t stop talking about you—”

Artan, his voice icy, dripping menace, said, “Might be my Eurotrash himbo charm.”

The man paled and took a step back. Artan was sure he didn’t look like some romance cover model any longer. His rippling physique wasn’t the result of some gym membership and diet fad: his muscles had been sculpted by life-and-death battles, and these modern clothes did little to disguise them.
 

Maxwell swallowed hard.
 

Artan eyed him for a beat longer and then headed back into the apartment. He had to leave, had to get away from these people with their petty gossip and false friendliness. He found Rhianna in the crowd of fellow museum workers, but she was deeply engaged in conversation. Seeing his beloved relaxed him but also triggered an unexpected wave of sadness. In some ways, this latest emotion was more disconcerting than even his anger. A vast gulf separated him from her, and for the first time he wondered if their connection could bridge the widening gap. Why hadn’t he noticed this earlier? What could an ancient king without a kingdom offer a bright young woman of this century?

As these thoughts cycled through his head, he saw one of her co-workers squeeze her arm as they shared a laugh. Something snapped inside of Artan. He knew he had to leave now before he did something he might regret. Without saying goodbye, he stormed out of the apartment and surged down the six flights of stairs leading to the streets below. He welcomed the cool night air as he emerged from the building and crossed the street into nearby Central Park.
 

A jogger and young couple cut a wide berth around him the moment they spotted him, instinctively fearful of his hostile energy. He moved deeper into the dimly lit sections of the park, the vegetation thickening around him. Truth be told, he was itching for a fight and was hoping some mugger might be foolish enough to prey upon him. Violence promised a momentary release from the dark emotions building inside of him. He was unarmed, but he wasn’t worried about his safety. After battling demons and wizards, street hoods didn’t faze him. Unfortunately for him—but fortunate for them—the shady characters avoided him, too.

The deeper he edged into the park, the more the effects of the alcohol began to wear off. Looking back with a sober mind, he’d overreacted back at the party. Who cared about some jealous asshole mouthing off? He should not have left Rhianna like that. By now she must’ve realized he was gone. If he continued to let his fears and frustrations rule his actions, he risked losing the one good thing in his life.

He was about to turn back when he paused, growing stock-still. He knew this part of the park. He was, in fact, intimately familiar with it. After all, he’d spent centuries rooted in this spot as a stone gargoyle, exposed to the seasons and the elements, the world unraveling in an endless blur of images and sounds. Seeing the two massive statues flanking him, a griffin and a dragon, was like being reunited with two old friends.
 

The sound of his chirping cell phone shattered the moment. It had to be Rhianna. She’d insisted he get the modern-day communication device despite his numerous protests. He was about to check the incoming text when a bone-chilling scream reverberated through the park. It was followed by another sound—an animalistic shriek not of this earth.

Only one creature could make such a sound. The realization turned his blood to ice.

There was a gargoyle loose in Central Park.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

AS THE MONSTER’S roar shattered the nighttime silence a second time, Artan’s mind raced. They’d destroyed the
Eye of Balor
and put an end to Cael’s gargoyle horde. It was impossible, and yet Artan knew that sound as he knew his own voice.

The terrified cries of a man - most likely the the beast’s victim - galvanized Artan into action. Shaking off his paralysis, he burst into motion. Following the direction of the screams, he wished he was carrying the
Blade of Kings
on his side. He might have taken on a hapless mugger unarmed, but what chance did he stand against the winged nightmare? Nevertheless, the panicked screams for help couldn’t be ignored.
 

Within seconds, Artan arrived in a small clearing just as the man’s cries of terror and pain were abruptly silenced. Trees and thick undergrowth surrounded him, skeletal branches reaching out like bony fingers. Before him, patches of sickly moonlight revealed the creature. Its reptilian hide was dull and grey, the wings in constant motion. A nightmare from another age, a beast from the very pits of hell. With horror Artan witnessed the gargoyle burying its blood-caked maw into its victim.
 

He was too late.

Artan cursed in frustration, drawing the gargoyle’s attention. The beast tilted its monstrous head toward him, razor-sharp teeth dripping red. Moonlight played across the massive beast’s malformed features. The predatory eyes, slitted and unforgiving, locked on Artan’s. His body tensed for the coming fight. Instead, the gargoyle reared back from the dead man and shot up into the surrounding trees, vanishing from view. Despite Artan’s heightened gargoyle senses, his eyes couldn’t detect the winged monster among the shadowy foliage. Why had the winged beast backed off?
 

Artan ran toward the dead man. It was impossible to determine who he’d been in life under all the gore. For a brief moment, Artan was thrown back in time. He remembered looking down at similarly brutalized victims, too many to count, all the casualties of his brother’s black magic-fueled folly.
 

He was pulled from his grim musings by another familiar sound, one out of place in this mechanized modern world: the
clop-clop
of a horse’s hooves. A whinny followed, and Artan whirled, his gaze landing on a horse-mounted police officer. The cop’s face dissolved into horror when he spotted the gutted corpse. With the dead man’s blood all over Artan’s leather jacket, he had to look like some blood-crazed maniac.

“Freeze! Don’t move!” the officer shouted, raising his gun.

Artan remained rooted in place, eyes locked on the cop while his other senses searched the night. He suspected the monster was still near. The creature was biding its time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The horse seemed to sense the gargoyle’s presence too, its nervous whinnying building in volume as its flanks quivered in terrified anticipation. The officer tightened the reigns, struggling to control his mount.

“I know how this looks, but I did not harm this man,” Artan said evenly, hoping the measured tone of his voice would prevent the officer from doing something rash.
 

“Shut up, you freak! Get your hands up!” The cop’s voice cracked on the last word.

Maintaining his calm demeanor, Artan continued, “The killer is nearby. We are not safe here.”