Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy (5 page)

Artan arrived at the edge of the park and emerged on a bustling New York City sidewalk near Fifty-Seventh Street and Fifth Avenue. The sound in question turned out to be the steady susurration of NYC traffic, a rhythmic heartbeat that reverberated throughout the metropolis. Artan stared at the incessant flow of vehicles, a teeming sea of yellow cabs interspersed with a much smaller number of private cars. The iron machines bounced down the urban canyons, tires rippling across cement and bouncing off manhole covers while accompanied by a chorus of honks.
 

It all felt familiar yet alien. His nightmares were revealed as nothing more than the modern-day world processed on a subconscious level.
 

Artan fell in step with the other pedestrians streaming down the sidewalk, becoming part of the crowd. His body remained coiled and guarded. Every second, some new sight or sound startled him. For a moment Artan wondered if he might still be trapped in his stone prison. Was this assault on his senses nothing but another dream? But the colors and impressions were too vivid to be a simple figment of his imagination.
 

This was the real world.

Artan’s head swiveled back and forth, absorbing his alien surroundings. He was awed by the tall buildings, a marvel of engineering and human ingenuity. He gawked at men and women of all ethnicities. Races he had never encountered before. Everything felt new, exotic and thrilling. Artan took in the myriad of sights. Looking both lost and awed, he was truly a stranger in a strange land.

Artan spun toward a photo shoot in progress. A photographer snapped away at skimpily clad models. His head swiveled toward a bike messenger navigating a sea of yellow cabs before he noticed a giant electronic billboard that conjured strange images of this alien world.

Out of all the wild impressions, one stuck out. Artan spotted a giant banner mounted on a light pole. It featured an image of the one-eyed gargoyle statue. In bold letters, it read: "
THE CELTIC WORLD - HEROES AND
MONSTERS. OPENING THIS HALLOWEEN AT THE CLOISTERS."

Artan’s smile was wiped off his face, his features turning into a bloodless mask.
 

It can't be...

A college kid stood nearby, equally entranced by the ad but for different reasons. To the kid, the gargoyle represented a cool concept of fantasy; to Artan it was a sign that a war he believed he had won might soon be entering a new phase. And the outcome of this new battle was not assured. Artan had defeated his brother once, but it didn’t mean he would be able to best Cael again. Last time he was lucky enough to have the element of surprise on his side. He doubted that the same would hold true this time around. The kid shot Artan a curious look, oblivious to the thoughts cycling through the mind of the reawakened warrior.
 

“That shit looks off the hook!”
 

The kid’s words barely registered. Part of the reason was that Artan barely understood this strange tongue, though he had absorbed snippets over the centuries. But more than that, Artan was occupied with thoughts of revenge, his rage building. The billboard erased any doubt whether Cael had returned in this time period.
 

The teenager realized something wasn’t quite right here and his face filled with concern. “Hey, mister, you okay?”

Artan’s answer was to snatch the teen's arm.
 

“Hey, let go of me, bro. What the hell's wrong with you?”

Artan’s iron grip didn't loosen. Instead, he pointed at the billboard with the one-eyed gargoyle.
 

“How do I find him?”

The words were uttered in ancient Gaellic. The kid didn’t understand the old language but got the gist of it.

“Man, I don’t speak your language. You’re interested in the exhibit? It's uptown at the Cloisters. You can cab it. Just let go of me, man, or I’m calling the cops!”

The anger drained from Artan. Once again, he looked lost and alone. Nothing was making sense to him in this crazy place. The city with its towers of steel and glass, its strange moving coffins made of iron that rolled through the streets, the way people dressed, spoke and behaved.
 

Why had he returned after all this time?
 

He had wielded the
Blade of Kings
, shattered the
Eye of Balor
and broken the spell that gave unholy life to Cael’s winged army. So how had this ancient evil been unleashed once again upon an unsuspecting world?

Freaked, the college kid turned toward the street, raised his arm and hailed a cab. “Taxi!” he shouted. Luck was on his side. A yellow cab pulled up to the curb and the kid jumped into the vehicle. He quickly gave the cabbie directions. Feeling safe now, he flipped Artan the bird.
 

The taxi disappeared into traffic.

Artan’s initial sense of wonder and discovery were fading. A fire now raged within him. His focus shifted toward the sea of cabs. Being a fast learner, Artan followed the kid’s example. It didn’t take long for a cab to pull up to the curb. The cabbie, a balding Indian with sharp features, shot Artan an impatient look. Never having seen people of color before, the king regarded this strange man, his gaze lingering a moment too long.

The cabbie grew impatient.
 

“Hey Jim Morrison, you getting in or what?”

Remembering how the teen had opened the car door, Artan got into the cab. A musky odor permeated the vehicle; the air was filled with the scent of old leather, sweat and the last passenger’s cologne. Artan closed the door behind him and met the Indian’s impatient glare in the rear-view mirror.
 

“Where are we headed?”

Artan’s response was to point at the banner on the light-pole. The Indian stared at this unusual man for a beat before nodding.
 

“Get cozy. The Cloisters are coming right up!”

The cab wove its way back into traffic. Artan blankly took in the cityscape. People, buildings, cars. Strange, confounding sights streaked by as the cab bulleted through the city’s cement arteries. A kaleidoscopic blur.
 

The driver recognized Artan’s expression. He saw it day in and day out and knew it all too well.
 

“First time in the Big Apple?”

Artan nodded quietly. His forlorn, slightly lost countenance spoke louder than words.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

DR. SHARPE CLOSED up the display case containing the
Eye of Balor.
He placed the case in a foam-lined titanium box, still unaware that the shattered gem had been restored to its original condition.
 

Rhianna, her finger now wrapped in a Band-Aid, appeared behind him.
 

“Where are you off to?” she asked her dad.

“I'm having dinner with a certain gentleman who promised to contribute an important piece from his private collection to the exhibit-”

“-But only if you let him check out the
Eye
first.”
 

Dr. Sharpe smiled at his daughter’s quick assessment of the situation.

“You know how rich people are. They always have to be the first kid on the block to get a peek.”
 

Dr. Sharpe grabbed the titanium case.

“By the way, I’m afraid the papers on my desk need to be graded by Monday morning.”

Rhianna wasn't thrilled about this news and made a long face.
 

“Dad, I sort of had plans for tomorrow night.”

Dr. Sharpe felt a twinge of guilt about dumping his workload on his daughter, but he had no choice. One showcase piece was still missing from the exhibit and it would take all day to secure its loan to the museum. The collector in question, Craig McConnor, was a tad eccentric and protective of the item – a fact Dr. Sharpe couldn’t hold against the man. If their roles were reversed, he’d act much the same. McConnor had to be plied and wooed. Hopefully, an expensive dinner at one of the trendiest new restaurants in the city would make the millionaire finally relent.
 

Sharpe smiled inwardly. It was all part of the game. Not his favorite part — he’d rather be at a dig on some faraway continent than explaining to a multi-millionaire the cultural value of the upcoming exhibit. But he couldn’t let one of the most important archeological artifacts of the Celtic period mold away in some Staten Island loft and deny the world its chance to experience a vital part of history.
 

“I'm sorry, darling, but with the exhibit opening tomorrow, you know how crazy busy I’m going to be this weekend. I need all the help I can get.”

His daughter was about to protest but Sharpe stopped her with a quick peck on the cheek.
 

“I'll see you in the morning.”
 

Before Rhianna could retort, Dr. Sharpe had left the office. The door fell shut behind him and he made his way through the Celtic exhibit. His footsteps echoed eerily among the creepy artifacts.

He wasn’t paying close attention to his surroundings, his mind already focused on the task that lay ahead. It might require all his charm to persuade the collector to part with his most prized possession, but Sharpe wouldn’t take no for an answer. It had required weeks of back-and-forth with the man’s assistant to arrange this meeting and Dr. Sharpe swore to himself that he wasn’t going to screw it up. He had a feeling that the
Eye of Balor
would play a vital role in the upcoming negotiation. Sharpe just wished they could’ve met up sooner – cutting it so close to the exhibit’s opening wasn’t helping his ulcer, but better late than never.
 

Dr. Sharpe grew still. He wasn’t quite sure what had given him pause; perhaps some eerie sensation just below his conscious level of perception, an animal instinct telling him he wasn’t alone. He inspected the Celtic exhibit area. Pools of shadow enswathed the various items in the collection.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

No response.

The moment stretched.

Dr. Sharpe took a cautious step toward a row of lifelike mannequins clad in Celtic attire. For a moment he almost expected one of the mannequins to turn towards him; they seemed imbued with unnatural life in the muted, spooky light.
 

The archeologist circled the mannequins. He was now able to view the exhibit from another angle but...

Still nothing.

Sharpe’s breathing normalized.

His imagination was playing tricks on him.

Maybe the stress of the opening was getting to him. Or maybe he was just turning into an old fuddy-duddy scared of his own shadow. Nothing a good single-malt Scotch couldn’t fix.
 

Dr. Sharpe was about to retrace his steps when a figure popped up behind him.
 

Dr. Sharpe almost let out a sharp curse. He whirled toward the new arrival. It was none other than Kenny, the security guard. The same handsome fella who had made Rhianna blush earlier now smiled apologetically at the archeologist.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Sharpe, I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Then why did you sneak up on me like a goddamn ninja?”
 

The guard just stared at Dr. Sharpe, not sure how to respond. Recognizing the kid’s unease, Dr. Sharpe’s features softened.

“It’s okay, kid. You were just doing your job. This exhibit can get kinda creepy when no one's around.”

The guard relaxed and smiled.
 

“No kidding. Have a good evening, Dr. Sharpe.”

The guard tipped his hat and Rhianna’s father left the display area. Seconds later, he stepped through the main entrance of the museum and was greeted by a fresh gust of autumn wind. He shivered. Not so much because of the cold but because he couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody or something had stalked him through the Celtic exhibit.
 

***

The cab rolled up to the museum and came to a stop near a cobbled road that wound its way up to the main entrance. After the hectic ride through Manhattan, a mad blur of strange images and sounds, the medieval cloisters felt like familiar ground.
 

The driver turned toward the meter.
 

“Okay, that'll be twenty-five dollars...”
 

Before the cabbie could finish, Artan was already out the door, on his way toward the entrance of the museum. He could hear the driver hailing expletives at him but paid them no mind. He was busy steeling himself for the impending confrontation with his old nemesis.

Artan passed Dr. Sharpe, who had just emerged from the museum. Of course he was unaware of the magical item contained inside the doctor’s titanium case. Artan was preoccupied with a far more vexing problem – how to get through a turnstile, an incongruous touch of modernity among the medieval surroundings. He cracked the problem after a few tries and passed through the turnstile, still shaking his head at the strange contraption. Admission was donation-based so Artan’s lack of funds didn’t become a problem, though it did earn him a dirty look from the middle-aged lady in the nearby ticket booth.
 

Artan made his way through the museum and his disorientation grew. The place felt familiar yet dreamlike and the lines between the middle ages and present grew blurry. Wherever he looked, he was confronted with arches and columns, tapestries and stained glass windows. The past was alive within these walls, the Cloisters preserving a world all too familiar to the former king of Kirkfall.
 

The crowds were thinning and the place was getting ready to close its doors to the public. A voice drifted over the speakers:
"The Museum will be closing in
ten minutes. Please make your way to the exit..."

Artan paused, having come across a large banner draped above an arched doorway. The banner was a variation of the one he’d spotted near Central Park earlier. It featured the one-eyed gargoyle and advertised the upcoming Celtic exhibit. The grand opening was still a day away and the entrance cordoned off, but this didn’t stop Artan from taking a closer look.