Gargoyle Quest (7 page)
None of them laughed. Artan recalled news reports about a series of grisly murders around Central Park. He hadn’t paid them much attention, too distracted with his own problems. Violence was as much a part of the modern world as it had ever been, and it was easy to become desensitized by the constant chatter of bad news. Looking back now, Artan felt he should’ve recognized the signs that dark forces were gathering in the city.
Nyssa’s gaze locked on his, her face grave. “By now, Necron must know that we’ve dispatched his servant. It’s only a matter of time before he tries a direct raid on the museum, but he’ll find the Order waiting for him.”
Her voice wavered on her last words, and initially Artan mistook it for excitement. But judging by the look in her eyes, it had been a tremor of fear. Nyssa didn’t strike him as the type of woman who scared easily. The dark wizard Necron was a formidable opponent, and the Order would need all the help they could get.
“Release me and I will aid you,” Artan said, the ringing tones of command in his voice. “You saw how I handled myself unarmed against the gargoyle. I can help you stop this wizard.”
Nyssa shook her head. “It’s too risky. I’m sorry, but we have no choice.”
“Please,” Artan said softly. “Let me help while I’m still human.”
“What happens when Balor’s curse erases the last shred of who you are and the world turns dark? Whose side will you be on?”
Artan recalled those terrible hours during Samhain when his gargoyle nature had seized hold of him, reducing him to Balor’s helpless puppet. Could it happen again? Would he, in fact, do more harm than good.
“We’ll do everything in our power to save Miss Sharpe.” Nyssa rose, her features tightening with determination. “And…we’ll give you until sunrise tomorrow to say your goodbyes. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”
Nyssa turned toward the freight elevator, flanked by her lieutenants, leaving Artan alone with his grim thoughts.
C
HAPTER
S
IX
RHIANNA NERVOUSLY CHEWED her bottom lip as she sent her sixth text in the last ten minutes. Where was Artan? And why had he left the party without even a simple goodbye? Taking off like that was out of character for the former King of Kirkfall. Making matters worse, Artan wasn’t answering any of her messages.
Even though he was a skilled warrior, she worried about him. Modern-day New York was a far cry from Kirkfall, and Artan was in many ways innocent about how the modern world worked. She’d insisted on getting him a phone. Texts were a poor substitute for face-to-face interactions, but it was better than nothing. And now he wasn’t even answering his phone.
A year earlier life had seemed so much simpler. That magical stretch of time after she’d finished her Ph.D., but before she’d started her new job at the MET, had been one of the happiest of her life. For two blissful months, she and Artan had been free to love each other with fierce abandon. God, how she missed those carefree days. Lately, a cloud had settled over them, and she was beginning to think it might never be lifted.
Rhianna finished her drink, welcoming the numbing effects of the alcohol on her buzzing nerves. A bespectacled Ph.D. candidate next to her kept droning on about his upcoming dissertation, and she struggled to pay attention to the conversation. Artan dominated her thoughts. More than once she’d caught him with a faraway expression on his chiseled features, eyes fixed forlornly into space. He didn’t talk about his feelings; he was a king, after all, and kings didn’t burden others with their problems. Especially not kings from fifteen centuries in the past. Adapting to this world had to be challenging, and she tried to respect Artan’s need to find his own way.
But what if something else was wrong? How was she supposed to help him when he wouldn’t talk to her?
Rhianna shook her head. Funny that she should be the one fretting about Artan when he’d saved her life on multiple occasions. Frustration growing, she checked her cell again. No message from Artan. Something was definitely wrong.
As quickly as she could, Rhianna said her goodbyes and left the party. She caught a cab within a minute of stepping out of the Upper West Side apartment building. The ride back to Brooklyn would cost her a small fortune, but she didn’t feel like braving the subway at this time of night. With Artan by her side, she wouldn’t have thought twice about taking public transportation. She longed to throw herself into his arms—but what if he wasn’t home? The more she thought about it, the less she wanted to spend the night by herself in the large loft. Mind made up to avoid her home until she heard from Artan, she instructed the cabbie to change directions and head to her father’s place on Central Park West.
During the ride, her feeling of dread intensified. Artan’s sense of chivalry alone wouldn’t have allowed him to let her return this late at night on her own, no matter what might’ve ticked him off at the party. Even if he decided to step out for some air, he would’ve told her first, and he definitely would’ve returned. What could possibly account for this prolonged silence? Visions of a gang of muggers descending on Artan and crazy cabbies running him over as he crossed the street haunted her imagination. Even a trained warrior could be caught off guard.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting down on the beige leather couch inside her dad’s Upper West Side condo. His home always made her feel like she’d stumbled into a hidden wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The space was stuffed with the fruits of a career spent globe-trotting the world in the pursuit of ancient treasure. Medieval helmets lined bookshelves weighed down by ancient parchments; samurai swords decorated the wall next to flintlock pistols. And then there were the books. Thick, leather-bound tomes, many of which predated the printing press. There was a subtle yet unmistakable scent of paper and aged leather in the air.
Rhianna felt at home in the cluttered space, drawing a measure of comfort from the familiar artifacts and the museum-like feel of her dad’s home. He’d instilled a passion for archeology in her, and she truly was her father’s daughter. With a relaxed smile on his face, her father poured her a generous glass of wine, and she drained half of it in one swig.
“This isn’t like him,” she said. “Something is wrong. I feel it. Part of me wants to call the police but I know what they’ll say.”
“Artan is a grown man,” her father replied. “He might’ve just needed some fresh air and accidentally forgot to turn on his phone. He’ll be able to find his way home.”
“I know, but lately….” She broke off, unsure how much about her love life she should share with her father.
His expression turned serious. “There’s something you should know. I saw Artan earlier today.”
This caught Rhianna off guard. “You did?’
“Yes. He’s…going through a bit of a rough patch.”
Rhianna lowered her wine glass, her stomach churning with anxiety. “What did he tell you?”
Her father hesitated before he answered. “He’s still trying to make sense of his new world. Discover his place in it.”
The words confirmed her deepest suspicions. “Sometimes I wonder if he’ll ever feel like he belongs.”
“With you in his corner, he’d be a fool not to.”
A grateful smile painted her face. “Damned straight.”
She’d made the right decision coming here. Already she was feeling a little less worried. All she could do was hope her father was right. She drained the rest of her wine, and at some point during their conversation, she drifted off to sleep on the couch.
The next day, fiery sunlight washed over her face and woke her with a jolt. She didn’t remember passing out. Her dad must’ve placed a blanket on her, a realization that brought a warm smile to her face. Her heart filled with deep affection for her father. She worried about him, too. He put up a brave face to the world but Cael had done a number on him. As soon as she resolved this mess with Artan, she promised herself to spend more time with him. And talking about time….
She glanced at her cell and sighed. Great, it was already eight o’clock. She’d overslept and felt hungover. She’d better get cracking if she didn’t want to be late for work. Artan still hadn’t answered any of her messages. She called him three times as she hunted about for the suitcase of clothes and toiletries she kept at her father’s house for unplanned visits like this, but she only got Artan’s voicemail. His phone must be dead. Still, didn’t mean he was in trouble, she told herself. He could be back to their Brooklyn loft right now, enjoying a leisurely snooze. Charging a phone wouldn’t exactly be high on the priority list of a fifth century warrior.
Rhianna shook her head to clear it of her racing thoughts. She had to focus on the day ahead. Without much enthusiasm, she showered and got dressed, leaving a note for her dad on the kitchen counter before she hurried out the door. Rushing down bustling city blocks against a soundtrack of honking cabs and belching buses, she balanced a bagel in one hand and a scalding cup of Starbucks in the other. Just another New Yorker forced to scarf down a not-so-balanced breakfast on the go.
Arriving at the MET, she couldn’t shake the growing feeling of unease. Normally she entered the museum with an enthusiastic grin, thrilled by the prospect of spending another day among its countless treasures. Today the place triggered only a budding sense of claustrophobia, the artifact-stuffed walls closing in on her. She was trapped in here while Artan was God knows where. If she didn’t hear from him soon, she’d call the cops and file a missing persons report. Another emotion was beginning to lace her concern: Anger. How could Artan have done this to her? Didn’t he realize she’d be worried sick about him?
As soon as she stepped into her office, the phone started ringing non-stop and she was swept up by the responsibilities of the new day. Compounding the stress was the fact that Maxwell hadn’t shown up for work. Although she didn’t much care for her newest co-worker personally, he was a rising start at the MET and had made himself indispensable. Rhianna now had to shoulder the workload of two people. Adding to her frustration, her co-worker hadn’t even called in sick, and all her attempts of getting in touch with him ended with her reaching his voicemail. What the hell was going on this morning? Did no one answer their phones anymore?
After two hours of running around the museum non-stop, feeling like she was always a step behind, she bumped into Martin, the chief of security, inside the Art of Africa wing. This section of the MET housed more than 11,000 pieces from sub-Saharan Africa, the Pacific Islands and Americas. Surrounded by ancient images of gods, ancestors and spirits, and a variety of decorative and ceremonial objects, the twenty-first century seemed like a distant place.
As Rhianna zeroed in on Martin, she noticed the deep concern lining the guard’s face. His troubled expression mirrored her own.
“What’s wrong, Martin?” she asked.
He gestured at the security cameras positioned around the ceiling. “Our security system is down. I don’t know how, but-”
“What are you talking about?”
“None of the surveillance cams are working. I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve been trying to reach my team, but no one is answering. I’m just getting static on my end.”
“I’ll look into it,” Rhianna replied in as calm of a voice as she could muster. “Keep trying to get ahold of your team.”
Rhianna took in the various museum visitors milling around the vast gallery. A cross-section of people, tourists interspersed with local art students, all of them hoping to draw inspiration from the great masters of the past. Normally she paid the visitors no mind, too focused with her work behind the scenes. Now that the cameras were down, the milling crowds felt a little ominous. Modern technology made museum thefts a rarity nowadays, but you never knew.
Rhianna tried to reach the museum director only to discover with dismay that her phone wasn’t working properly now, either. She kept getting disconnected. What the hell was going on? What could possibly affect all communications in a museum the size of the MET?
She would have to use the landline in her office. On her way there, she passed through the medieval collection. Most of the art from that period was kept at the Cloisters, but the MET had a few rooms dedicated to it.
Passing underneath a gothic arch, her shoes echoing eerily against the stone floor, Rhianna stepped into the windowless space lined with medieval painting and sculptures. The MET was currently hosting an exhibit called
Medieval Apocalypse
. Two of the paintings on display never failed to send shivers down her back. The first one was the famous
The Triumph of Death
by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Painted in 1562 at the height of the Black Death, it showed a nightmarish doomsday landscape. An army of skeletons gathered up both the living and the dead, drawing no distinction between them, while plague carts filled with skulls rumbled through the broken wasteland.
The people of that time truly believed Judgment Day was upon them—and who could blame them? The plague was one of the deadliest pandemics in human history, killing more than half of Europe’s population.
From the corner of her eye, she registered a flicker of movement from the image. For one terrifying split second, she could’ve sworn the skeletons in the work of art had stirred, bony hands gloved in decaying skin reaching hungrily for the living…
She spun toward the painting, but the nightmarish vision of the apocalypse had returned to being just a painting.
Your mind is playing tricks on you. Pull yourself together, girl!
Her eyes shifted toward the other, equally disturbing piece of art positioned nearby:
The Great Red Dragon and the Beast of the Sea
by William Blake, which depicted burly men with jagged wings. The monsters were all too familiar to Rhianna. Winged demons had indeed walked this Earth, as she’d experienced firsthand a year earlier. They were called gargoyles…and she’d fallen in love with one of them.
