Gargoyle Knight: A Dark Urban Fantasy (9 page)

“Please, don't hurt me.”

“I mean you no harm.”

Rhianna regarded the man with surprise. That made the second man who addressed her in ancient Gaellic today. What was going on? There was something in the stranger’s voice that transcended his exotic tongue: an earnestness of character that she could not deny. Rhianna realized she believed him. After all, he had selflessly put himself at risk to save her from the psycho back at the museum.
 

“What is your name?” the man asked.

There was a moment of hesitation before she answered. “Rhianna.”
 

“A good name.”
 

Rhianna realized that the man was trying to calm her down, and this insight achieved the desired effect.
 

“What’s happening here? How could he make those objects move without touching them?”

“Dark druid magic. The spells are inked across his skin and require the blood of his victims to be cast.”

Rhianna swallowed an acerbic comeback.
 

Dark druid magic.
 

Hmm, why hadn’t she thought of that?
 

One answer immediately came to mind.
 

“This is crazy...”
 

Rhianna’s voice trailed off as a mass of hissing snakes burst from the bushes.
 

“Oh my God...”

The stranger reacted immediately. He grabbed Rhianna by the arm again and they kept moving deeper into the park. Everywhere they turned, more serpents appeared, relentlessly closing in. They were burrowing their way out of the ground, dropping from the trees... An undulating mass of hissing death.

Rhianna’s savior managed to sidestep the snakes, cutting a brisk path through the carpet of slithering reptiles, and they arrived at a street that ran alongside the park — just in time to see a police cruiser scream past them. Rhianna caught a super-fast glimpse of the one-eyed killer inside the vehicle. Cael flashed them a mocking grin. A moment later, the druid was gone.

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.
 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

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.”