Gargoyle Quest (14 page)

There was a crackle of energy, but the sword passed straight through the specter. The blessed steel was powerless against the spirit.
 

The spirit whirled away from Nyssa and lunged at Artan instead. His blood turned to ice as a mad rush of images bombarded his mind.

There were glimpses of a man dashing down a subway track, police officers in hot pursuit. One hand clutched his chest, which was riddled with bullets wounds. The man was a drug dealer and knew the consequences if the cops caught up with him. He wasn’t going back to jail. Over his dead body. They had chased him all the way down here, had shot at him, even hit him, but he would lose them in the maze of tunnels. They’d never catch him. This was his world…

The ghost fled Artan’s body with a bone-chilling wail and the overwhelming flow of images ceased. The former King of Kirkfall gasped, grateful to be rid of the spectral invader. The brief glimpse into the dead man’s life had been quite enough for him. Artan guessed the entity wasn’t used to encountering other supernatural creatures in the subways of New York.

The monster hunters drew closer together, their crossbows leveled. If the
Blade of Kings
was any indication, magical weapons would be useless against these spectral attackers.

“Why didn’t my sword stop it?”

“They’re the souls of the living. Necron’s dark power is drawing them out, but unlike the shadows at the MET, these spirits aren’t black magic creations.”

“So how do we fight them? I can’t—” He broke off, having spotted Rhiana running toward the train.
 

Relief gave way to concern as he spotted a pale figure in hot pursuit. The ghost closed the gap in a blink, materializing in front of her and barring her from the subway car.
 

Her training guiding her, Nyssa withdrew a pouch from her coat and threw it at the spirit reaching out for Rhianna with thin, withered arms. The ghost froze in mid-attack, momentarily turning into a statue and let out a frustrated shriek, furious at being denied its prize.

“Blessed salt will paralyze spirits,” she explained, “at least for a few seconds….”

This was their chance. Nyssa leading the way, they sprinted toward Rhianna. Relief and love filled her eyes the moment she saw him. Artan had to stop himself from running toward her, heedless of the attacking ghosts on all sides. Instead, he waded into the fight alongside the Order’s hunters, moving with them like a well-seasoned team.
 

Nyssa kept spraying the ghosts with salt, who froze and dispersed upon contact with the substance. But for every spirit she stopped, two new ghosts took its place. At the rate they were going, they would be out of salt soon. Nyssa was merely delaying the inevitable.
 

The gargoyle reared once again, a beast rattling its cage. Artan fought back the urge to change. He still hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to his gargoyle’s power to win this battle
 

“Head for the train,” Nyssa shouted.

Artan had no idea how the walls of the subway car could stop entities that could pass through steel and cement. He’d just have to trust Nyssa.
 

He pressed forward, and then his hand closed around Rhianna’s arm, their eyes finding each other.
 

“Are you alright? Are you injured?”
 

Before she could answer, another silvery specter leapt at them, only to freeze when a handful of Nyssa’s salt sprayed its face. There was no time for further talk; action was required. Artan and Rhianna ran to the subway car. He sure hoped Nyssa knew what she was doing because he had entrusted her with not only his safety but his beloved’s as well.
 

In his peripheral vision, he saw one of the ghosts leaping at a hunter like a hellish beast. The man gasped and his eyes went wide. A second later, he doubled over and his face began to fall in, the skin shriveling into a living death mask. By the time Artan, Rhianna, Cormac and the rest of the team had entered the Manchester subway car, the hunter had turned into an emaciated, wizened husk of his former self. The spirit shrieked out of his mummified corpse, barely satiated by the man’s lifeforce and visibly hungry for more.
 

Unless Nyssa had a strategy here, a similar fate was undoubtedly in store for them. Artan realized with a lurch that only his gargoyle nature had spared him earlier.

As soon as the last hunter scrambled into the train, Nyssa slammed the door shut. She whipped out a piece of chalk and started marking a series of protective wards on the windows of the subway car. Did she truly believe glyphs could put an end to this spectral assault? Outside the train, the frozen ghosts shook off the effects of the salt, and one by one they began to advance in unholy formation.
 

They flung themselves at the subway car with ferocious force, only to encounter the unexpected obstacle of Nyssa’s wards. The glyphs lit up, charged with powerful magical energy. The subway car vibrated with the spirits’ frustrated howls as they bounced off the windows, skeletal faces pressed against the invisible barrier. One of the ghosts, half of its caved-in head covered in burn marks, flashed Artan a madman’s grin.
 

Despite the gruesome display, the wards successfully kept the spirits at bay, securing the subway car from the phantom attack. Artan had to admit he was impressed.
The train shook under the continuous assault, but the blows were growing weaker. Outside, the shrieks and howls were building into a crescendo, a chorus of the damned demanding to be acknowledged.
 

And then it all stopped.
 

One moment the ghosts were slamming into windows and doors, the subway car’s metal roof buckling under the assault, and the next the ghosts had slipped back into the darkness from which they’d first emerged.

Artan’s didn’t let down his guard. He didn’t trust the quiet.
 

“Does Necron have the third book?” Nyssa asked Rhianna. The young archeologists remained silent, still in shock. “Did the warlock find the book?”
 

This time Nyssa’s question registered, and Rhianna vehemently shook her head. “No, not yet.”
 

Nyssa sagged in relief, but it was premature. A new arrival had materialized outside the subway car. Standing in the middle of the tracks was none other than Necron. Artan’s first instinct was to shift and leap at the fiend, but a look from Nyssa made him reconsider. This wasn’t an enemy who could be defeated by blunt force.

Artan felt the centuries-old warlock staring back at him almost as if intrigued on some level. Then a cold smile crept over the fiend’s features, and he raised his arm.
 

“He’s casting a spell!” Nyssa shouted. “We have to—”

The words died in her throat as the subway car rumbled to life. It started to gain speed, hurtling faster and faster down the tracks. Nyssa rushed toward the other end of the train, Artan right behind her. She stared through the window and her face fell, stunned into terrified silence. Artan’s features mirrored hers as he caught a glance at the steel behemoth bearing down on them at breakneck speed. The Manchester subway car was speeding toward a head-on collision with the fast-approaching F train.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

THE DEAFENING SHRIEK of the approaching train told Rhianna what the warlock had planned for them. At the rate they were hurtling toward the other train, a collision was inevitable.
 

“Cormac, check the brakes. Maybe we can manually stop this train,” the woman shouted.

The man rushed to the train’s control panel. Judging by the string of expletives exploding from his lips, the car’s instruments weren’t responding. Necron’s magic fueled the train. And even if Cormac could stop the train by some miracle, it would never be able to brake in time to avoid a crash with the larger train ahead.

Bracing herself for the impact, Rhianna tightened her grip around Artan and prayed that the end would come fast. Her lover’s skin was hot to the touch and she could feel the muscles under his trench coat flexing and bulging.
 

The beast is breaking free
, she thought, sensing the imminent transformation. She doubted that even a seven-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound gargoyle could withstand the deadly power of a New York City subway train slamming into them at full speed. She was about to squeeze her eyes shut when Nyssa shouted to them.
 

“All of you, grab each others hands. Do it now!”

One by one, they did as instructed. Rhianna fingers locked with Artan’s outstretched hand while Cormac took her other hand.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go!” the female warrior said. The tattoos on her arms ignited just as they had when she had painted wards across the train’s windows.

Steel screamed as the train barreled down on them. The devastating impact that followed was accompanied by violent shockwaves as the subway car disintegrated around them. The world switched to slow-motion as metal warped and glass shattered. A piece of shrapnel passed through Rhianna as if she were made from thin air. Everyone in Nyssa’s magical circle had become immaterial beings.
 

The F train powered through them, pulverizing the Manchester subway car in a tornado of steel and glass. Nyssa’s lips were moving, but the cacophony of destruction drowned out her incantations. The train blew through their ghostlike bodies, one car after another. She saw tourists looking up from their devices and newspapers, alerted by the sound of the impact but unable to see them in their dematerialized state.

And then the rapid-fire surge of faces stopped. Rhianna, Artan, and the mysterious warriors stood amidst the debris, the F train screeching to a halt in the near distance as emergency brakes finally kicked in. Most of the Manchester subway car now decorated the tracks leading up to the back of the F train. Rhianna prayed that the driver of the other train had survived the collision.
 

Nyssa released their hands, and the world turned solid again. Rhiana stared open-mouthed at the woman she now realized was both warrior and mage. Blood streamed from her nose, and she staggered, clearly spent from the effort of the spell. There were so many questions, but all Rhianna managed was, “Thank You.”

Nyssa’s glazed expression cleared. Despite the physical toll the magic had taken on her, she was somehow still upright. “We’re not out of the woods yet. We must get out of here before Necron catches up with us.”

They ran through the dark tunnel, and ten minutes later they arrived at the next subway platform. Bored commuters gasped with surprise and backed away as they warily took in their ragtag group. They no doubt looked like they’d been to hell and back. Passing through the station’s turnstile and surging up the stairs became a blur. As soon as they reached the surface, Rhianna took a deep, liberating breath. She’d never expected to feel the sun on her face again, and she mumbled a grateful prayer, leaning into Artan’s embrace.
 

She didn’t get to enjoy the moment for long as a black truck lurched up to the sidewalk. Moments later, she was seated in a comfortable command chair, eyes wide as she took in the bank of monitors and assorted weapons. This time the questions came fast and furious. The woman, who she learned was called Nyssa, fielded them as well as she could. Artan kept squeezing her reassuringly as he did his part to bring her up to speed. Even once they’d told Rhianna everything they knew, she still felt a bit lost, her brain reeling from the data overload. There was much to wrap her mind around. A secret order of monster hunters? A two-hundred-year-old warlock back from the dead hell-bent on assembling a grimoire that could bring forth the apocalypse?

Artan wrapped one of his brawny arms around her shoulders, his strength calming her. It was Rhianna’s turn to tell her story. She quickly recapped how the second grimoire had triggered the visions that had led them to the Manchester Line and the secret temple. She paused when she came to the part about the homeless man whose obsession with the third grimoire had literally forced him to consume it. Nyssa listened to her tale with grave concentration, nodding at points and asking question when something seemed unclear to her.

“Sounds like there’s no longer a book for Necron to hunt down,” Cormac pointed out.

“I doubt that very much,” Nyssa replied. “Only white magic can destroy the grimoires.”

“What do you mean?” Artan asked Nyssa.

“If this dead John Doe consumed the book, its dark power will still be inside of him. I know it sounds unappealing, but we find his body, we find the book.”

Cormac sighed and said, “Then I guess we’re heading back underground to locate his corpse before Necron does.”
 

“I don’t think so,” Rhianna said. “His soul is trapped in the tunnels where he died but his body was recovered.”
 

Nyssa’s eyes narrowed and locked on her. “You know this for certain?”

Rhianna took a deep breath and said, “I saw things when his spirit passed through me. Picked up details here and there. His name was Albert Schmidt. He had no family or friends left by the time he succumbed to his personal demons. There was no one to claim his body, no one to pay for his funeral, no one who cared.” Her voice shook, vividly recalling the man’s despair and loneliness that had kept his soul earthbound for all these years. Her lips tightened and she she said, “But I know where he’s buried.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

THE POWERBOAT SLOGGED through the choppy ocean, the stark outline of an island growing visible in the near distance. Thick clouds of mist swirled around the small, 131-acre comma of land in the western end of Long Island Sound and east of the Bronx. More than one million people were buried on Hart Island, many interred in mass graves because they were too poor to afford a burial or had never been claimed by any family members.