Gargoyle Quest (2 page)

Maybe this isn’t a drug. Maybe Necron’s followers passed him a magical potion of some kind. And if that’s the case….

Enough!

Biting down on his lips, he silenced the frantic voice in his head and ordered the guards to set the pyre alight. There was no hesitation as the men lowered their torches. Within seconds, the kindling caught fire. Reassured by the growing flames, Somerset’s thudding heartbeat calmed slightly.
 

A wind stirred the circle of trees, gusts of air reaching for Somerset like icy fingers.
 

The witch hunter fought back a shiver despite the fire. He took a step closer, intent on looking into the warlock’s eyes as the blaze engulfed him. Dancing flames licked at the man’s feet. Somerset expected Necron’s screams to shatter the clearing’s eerie silence, but those cries of agony never came. Instead, as the conflagration grew, the warlock broke out into unnerving laughter. The sound echoed eerily in the clearing.

Keep laughing
, Somerset thought.

The warlock’s grating laughter gave way to a guttural roar as the inferno finally engulfed him, a sound no human throat could possibly produce. This was the bellow of a beast, a creature not of this Earth.
 

His gut churning, nails digging deep into the palms of his hands, Somerset witnessed a terrifying transformation. Necron’s features collapsed, his humanity melting away. Bones cracked and skin shifted as though some invisible sculptor had decided to use the man’s flesh and blood as his clay. The warlock’s body shook and hunched forward, the spine contorting grotesquely. Muscles expanded and bulged, tearing the black tunic to shreds. The fiend’s skin grew gray and mottled, his mouth twisting into a bestial snout lined with razor-sharp teeth. Fingers retracted into talons that glinted in the moonlight.
 

Somerset’s fascinated horror turned to panic as a pair of demonic wings exploded from the warlock’s back. A beat later, the warlock’s chains snapped. Somerset’s face lit up with pain - metal shrapnel had grazed and bloodied his cheek. Through the rising circle of fire, the witch hunter watched as the terrible transformation ran its course. Necron had become a creature of the night, his outward form finally mirroring his dark, twisted soul.
 

Somerset eyed the vial in his hand, the horrific realization sinking in. The warlock had found a way to cheat death after all. He backed away, dropping the empty vial as the winged shadow rose from the flames.

A monster from hell.

The gargoyle rose into the air from the blazing pyre like a devil bursting through the fiery gates of hell. Shredded clothing clung in long, burning strips from the creature’s physique; the once-handsome features now distorted into something monstrous. Villagers and soldiers alike retreated in terror as the gargoyle’s wings cast a jagged shadow over the clearing. The beast hung suspended for a moment, a nightmarish silhouette against the bloody sunset. Below, the bonfire raged, furious for having been denied its rightful prize.

Dark wonder kept Somerset’s terror at bay. Then another terrible roar pierced the night as the humanoid gargoyle swooped down on the paralyzed crowd. Screams accompanied the mad rush of movement as the gargoyle tore into the mob. Outstretched talons opened throats. Fangs rent vulnerable flesh. Blood sprayed as villagers fell left and right, the cries of the dying unable to drown out the monster’s inhuman shrieks.

The sound of their suffering jolted Somerset out of his paralysis. His gloved hand closed around the hilt of a whip which was fashioned from a rope used for hanging many a witch and warlock. Its magic had proven effective in the past against demons. He could only pray it would serve him well now.

Before the gargoyle could fall upon him, Somerset lashed out with the whip. It whistled through the air and met the incoming beast with an audible snap. The gargoyle’s gray skin sizzled as if doused with burning oil, but it wasn’t enough to stop its terrible advance. It roared with agony but kept coming, an unstoppable force of evil.
 

Somerset backed away. He brought up his flintlock pistol…but what good was a silver bullet when the magic of his whip had failed? Death was closing in, and all that was left to him was to face the inevitable like a man.

He ignored the talons and teeth, which dripped crimson as they glinted in the hellish light of the pyre, and instead focused on the monster’s slitted gaze. The dull grey eyes regarded him with a cruel intelligence, the same expression that had mockingly taunted him only minutes earlier. This was no mere beast, Somerset realized, but a monster gifted with the steel trap mind of a man.

The gargoyle triumphantly raised a blood-caked claw, its winged shadow becoming Somerset’s world. Razor-sharp talons whistled toward his face—

—And came to a complete stop mere inches before they would’ve opened up his throat.
 

The monster had frozen in mid-attack. Surprise flickered across the gargoyle’s gaze. Whatever had happened was as much of a shock to Necron as it was to Somerset

Life seeped from the creature’s eyes as the reptilian skin turned to stone, the rearing creature now turned into a statue. What could account for this fortunate turn of events? Perhaps it was divine intervention. Or perhaps Necron had miscalculated and his own infernal magic was backfiring in a spectacular fashion.

Somerset took a deep breath and holstered his magical weapons. He took a cautious step toward the stone gargoyle. The monster’s jaw remained open in a howl of rage and shock. This second transformation had not been part of the wizard’s plan.
 

Somerset recalled reading ancient texts about these winged monsters. A complex history surrounded gargoyles, a history that reached all the way back into the barbarian Celts of old, but too many years had passed since he’d read those ancient parchments. Undoubtedly the coming days would give birth to new legends as the surviving villagers struggled to explain what had happened. Right now, all that mattered was that he was alive and the evil was contained. At least on this night, Salem would be safe from the warlock’s magic.
 

But as he assisted the survivors and tended to the wounded, Somerset found no relief in his victory. A question tormented him. How long would the warlock’s stone prison endure?
 

And if the spell should ever be broken, who would be brave enough to protect the world from Necron’s inhuman fury?

C
HAPTER
T
WO

THE WOODEN BLADE lashed out at Artan with ferocious speed and precision. Circling his attacker, the ancient Irish king brought up his own training sword and expertly blocked the incoming attack. Even though Rhianna was still learning the fine art of combat, the last six months of sparring had turned the young archeologist into a fighter to be reckoned with. She was quickly becoming adept at both defending herself and taking the offensive. Artan was soaked in sweat.
 

The large windows of their Brooklyn loft looked out at the Manhattan skyline on the other side of the East River and provided a breathtaking backdrop to their duel. Lord Irish’s
Gargoyle Knight
video-game had been a smash seller, and the royalties combined with Rhianna’s income from her new position at the Metropolitan Museum of Art had allowed them to trade her cramped studio apartment for more spacious digs. According to Rhianna, her job involved handling cultural objects at the MET while gaining experience as a hands-on desk facilitator. Artan wasn’t quite sure what that exactly meant, but he knew the new job made her happy and that was all that mattered to him.
 

Air whistled as Rhianna closed in for another attack, the blade in her hand an extension of her arm. Using her light frame and flexibility to her advantage, she stayed in constant motion, her eyes never leaving him.
 

Good girl!
You’re learning fast.

The daily sparring sessions were a blend of hand-to-hand combat and swordplay. To his surprise, it was Rhianna who’d insisted on the sword-fighting lessons. She’d hated feeling like a damsel in distress during their encounter with his brother Cael twelve months earlier, and she vowed never to be so helpless again.

Rhianna lunged at him, and for a moment she was slightly off balance. Before she could correct her form, Artan drove the edge of his blade down on her outstretched training sword. The impact sent Rhianna’s blade flying across the loft, and she tumbled to the hardwood floor. Unarmed now, her face broke into a sexy grin.
 

“Okay, big boy, you win,” she said, slumping her shoulders in defeat.

Artan lowered his sword and offered Rhianna a hand. As she grabbed it, he noted there was a lot more strength in those delicate fingers now than when he’d first met her. Her physicality was beginning to catch up with her razor sharp intellect.

A devilish smile dazzled Rhianna’s lovely features, and Artan realized that her vulnerability had been a ploy. She simultaneously brought up both her legs while wrapping her hands around his outstretched arm and used her lower body strength for leverage. Artan went flying and hit the ground with a loud thump. Stunned, he shook his head and raised his arm just as Rhianna pounced on him like a wildcat.
 

Artan blocked the attack, but he was caught off guard when Rhianna darted in for a kiss. Her luscious lips found his mouth, and all his defenses crumbled. He loosened his steely hold, realizing their workout—or at least the combat training—had ended for the day. He returned her kiss hungrily, their fierce sparring giving way to fiery passion.

As their kisses deepened, he scooped up her delicate form in his powerful arms and carried her toward the waiting bedroom. Rhianna pulled away and placed her hands flat on his chest. Dismay flickered over her beautiful face.

“There’s nothing I’d rather do right now, but….”

“You’ll be late for work,” Artan finished, unable to hide his disappointment.
 

 
This wasn’t the first time Rhianna’s new job at the museum had thwarted their morning romance.
 

“I have to make a presentation to a new group of investors before lunch,” she continued, her voice faltering a bit.
 

Artan raised his finger to his lips, silencing her.

“I understand,” he said, his words tinged by an ancient Irish Gaellic accent. Most people failed to place his country of origin, mistaking his exotic inflection for Eastern European; after all, there weren’t too many fifth century Irish kings running around Manhattan whose mother tongue was Gaelic. He was nearly fluent in English now, thanks to cable television and the Rosetta Stone program of study Rhianna had set up on her computer.
 

“You don’t have to explain, my love. Your duties demand your attention, as they should.”

There was a time for play and a time for work. As a former king, Artan understood both the burden and commitment of a leadership position.
 

Rhianna squeezed his shoulder, clearly not thrilled about letting her new responsibilities get in the way of their relationship. “I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

Artan smiled. “It will give me something to look forward to.”

Despite his words, Artan knew all too well that by the time Rhianna returned from work in the evening, the stress of her busy day would leave her too exhausted to watch television, much less engage in any romantic activities. Life in the twenty-first century never failed to surprise the former king of Kirkfall. The many amazing advances in science and technology complicated life as much as they simplified it, creating new obligations at each turn.
 

Rhianna walked to the bathroom, stripping off clothing as she went. Artan smiled as he admired her beauty. The swanlike neck, porcelain skin and fiery mane of hair quickened his pulse every time he laid eyes upon her.
 

While she showered, he scooped up the wooden training swords and hung the weapons back on the wall. A massive sword held a place of honor above the others. This sword was no mere toy designed for mock combat but the
Blade of Kings
itself. The magical weapon had played an instrumental role in defeating Cael. Its power had shattered the
Eye of Balor
, thereby reverting Cael’s gargoyle army to their original stone form.
 

Nowadays the two halves of the magical gem Cael had used were securely kept under lock and key in two separate museums located on different continents. Rhianna’s father, Doctor Sharpe, had returned one half of the Eye to the National Museum of Ireland while the other piece remained here in New York City. Even though the fierce battle over the Eye had been waged only a year earlier, it seemed to Artan like an eternity ago.
 

He clenched his jaw and turned away from the wall of weapons. The sight of the sword always dredged up memories he’d rather not dwell upon. So much had changed over the stretch of this long year, and Artan marveled at the strides he was making in adapting to this modern age. Much of his progress was due to his beautiful, patient teacher. Just as he was schooling Rhianna in the ways of combat, she was guiding him through the wonders and horrors of this new millennium.
 

He stepped into the kitchen area, the sound of the running shower audible in the background, reminding him he was not alone. He took a seat at the rustic wooden table and wolfed down the leftover scrambled eggs and toast Rhianna had prepared for them before their morning workout. In a world where people consumed such, to him, strange food items as “burgers” and “pizza,” it was nice to know that eggs remained on the menu. He was famished, and the eggs tasted delicious despite being cold.
 

The heady aroma of brewing coffee filled the air as he devoured his morning meal. Rhianna had quit her canned energy drink habit by switching over to coffee, a far healthier alternative in her opinion. The bitter brew held little appeal for Artan. He much preferred a good, honest ale, but she’d explained that most people didn’t drink beer at every meal. Still, the coffee was preferable to the Monster energy drink, which he’d spat out the first time he’d sampled it. How could Rhianna consume such a foul, unnatural concoction? Certain aspects of this age would always remain a mystery to him, no matter how hard he tried to unlock its many secrets.