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  Artan turned toward the downed graffiti artist, who let out an audible gasp. The kid’s arm flailed out but Artan snatched his wrist in mid-attack and brought it up and around his back, twisting tendons and bending bone.

  The kid gasped and Artan eased his grip, his instincts still dulled from his fifteen-hundred-year slumber. Artan had no interest in harming the young man.

  There was something else he needed from the kid.

  ***

  Artan emerged from the foliage, now clad in the graffiti artist’s jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket, and approached a large body of water surrounded by hanging trees. Sunlight dappled the pond's tranquil surface.

  Artan stepped up to the water and peered down at his reflection in the calm surface. For a moment he was transfixed. With his long hair and Celtic warrior tattoos, Artan could have been an escapee from a rock band.

  He kneeled down, his hand touching the water. A smile curled his lips as the cool sensation filled him with delight. He felt reborn and every experience was like a moment he was living for the first time. The magic that had turned him to stone had not been able to extinguish Artan’s ability to process his surroundings. He had remained aware during his long slumber, a maddening fever dream from which he could not wake no matter how hard he tried. His consciousness was trapped in a fog where the external world only filtered through in bits and pieces. He retained half-remembered impressions and fragments of sound — weird, disjointed pieces of a puzzle with no solution.

  It was Artan’s personal hell, a limbo he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemies. It had been a sacrifice he was willing to make to save Kirkfall. There were flashes of clarity over the centuries during which his sanity hung by a delicate thread. He’d gotten through those darkest of moments by reminding himself that he had saved the people of Kirkfall and defeated a terrible enemy. But as the years went by and the veil of time obscured Artan’s great sacrifice, the former king drew less and less comfort from the memories of his heroic deed. His people were replaced by new tribes and nations, his world eroded by the passage of time until only the ruins and statues remained, buried in the dust of ages.

  As the decades turned into centuries, Artan had seen kingdoms rise and fall, nations appear and disappear. A tortuous cycle of death and rebirth, repeating over and over again. He felt trapped in an eternal prison, doomed to bear witness to events without being able to influence them.

  Artan appealed to the Gods during his more lucid moments, hoping they might show mercy on him and put an end to his suffering. He prayed for his own death and release from this terrible fate. Maybe his prayers were heard, but no deity ever deigned to answer them. He was denied extinction and remained a man frozen in time while the world rippled along, a furious river with no end.

  The former king of Kirkfall felt elated to be given this moment, but his joy was tempered by a terrible knowledge and a growing unease. The curse of their stone imprisonment had been broken. If he had returned to the world, so must his enemy. And even though Artan was human at the moment, he could feel the dark blood of the gargoyle pumping through his veins. The knowledge of what he’d become clung to him like a dark shadow, a grim certainty he could not shake off. Once the sun vanished, the change would overtake him and he would transform into a monster. He had received another chance to walk among men, but it would be temporary...

  He gave himself an internal push, found his center and pushed these negative thoughts aside. Ruminating about the future was a waste of time. He had to live in the here and now, experience the moment, regain his bearings and go from there.

  Artan cupped the water in his hands and drank greedily, quenching a powerful thirst. Cold water still trickled down his lips and chin when he heard a sound behind him. A low growl that rose in intensity.

  Artan whirled and came face to face with a German Shepherd. The dog crouched about twenty feet away, haunches poised, paws rooted, eyes fixed on the Celtic warrior.

  Artan smiled at the animal and held out his hand, welcoming the contact. His outstretched hand was met with a warning – the canine bared its teeth and the growl grew more insistent.

  Smart dog.

  The animal must have caught a whiff of the ancient darkness that had infected Artan – it knew what he had become. A dismayed look crept across Artan's features and the dog's growl degenerated into a pitiful, scared whimper. The canine backed away from Artan and sat cowering near his owner, who had just emerged from the nearby bushes. The dog’s owner took in Artan before eyeing his pet with concern.

  ”What's the matter, boy? What's gotten into you?”

  The owner traded a suspicious look with Artan. Warily, Artan touched the dark scar on his arm where the gargoyle’s fangs had punctured soft tissue fifteen centuries earlier. And for one brief moment, a somber realization descended on him like a dark cloud. He was cut off from anything and anyone he had ever known and loved. A monster outside of time and nature. Not man, not beast.

  A gargoyle.

  Artan had grown up in a society both savage and warm. There was kinship, there was family, and there was love. His thoughts turned to Samara and his family, but the memories were bereft of any joy. There was only the pain of loss. The people who Artan had cared for the most had paid the ultimate price while he and Cael were spared. Reality pressed down on him, a burden that threatened to tear him apart. His home and everything he once held dear was gone, swept away by the tides of time.

  As the full crushing weight of his situation bore down on him, the former king of Kirkfall felt like the loneliest man on earth.

  ***

  Artan emerged from the thick underbrush and stepped onto Sheep's Meadow, a wide expanse of green. During the summer months one would find sunbathers and picnickers crowding the 15-acre field. Over its tumultuous history, the area had been home to a variety of concerts, political movements and demonstrations. At the moment, the meadow was deserted except for a couple kids flying kites and the occasional tourist enjoying the beautiful spot while taking a break from their sightseeing. The grass made Artan think of the lush plains of Kirkfall and the thought was accompanied by a sharp sense of loss.

  Before he could succumb to melancholy, the all-too familiar clip-clop of a horse’s hooves drew his attention. It was followed by a whinny. Artan turned, finding a cop on horseback trotting down a stone path that ran along Sheep’s Meadow. Artan’s eyes grew distant as the horse filled his field of vision. Watching its nostrils flaring and flanks quivering, for a split second he was transported back in time...

  Artan sat astride his mount, face covered in blue-green war paint, and surveyed his fallen city. Kirkfall had been transformed into a hellish battlefield, a burned wasteland of gutted houses and smoldering ruins. Flames painted the night crimson while an armada of shrieking gargoyles devoured the sky...

  Artan blinked and was hurled back into present-day reality. His face had turned the color of chalk and his hands were clenched. He wisely leaned against a tree for support. The memories threatened to overwhelm him, every new impression creating an internal chain reaction.

  It was all too much, too soon.

  Artan saw the cop approaching. He must have noticed the sorry state Artan was in. The reawakened warrior heard the crackle of a mic and even though his knowledge of this world was limited, he recognized that this uniformed man wielded authority and must be a knight of some kind.

  Artan decided the wise course of action was to leave before a confrontation became inevitable. He’d rather save his anger for Cael instead of squandering it on an honorable man who was just carrying out his duty.

  The former king of Kirkfall darted into a forested area and made his way through the trees and underbrush. He followed a sound he couldn’t quite identify but which seemed familiar. It must have penetrated his stone slumber over the years, but its origin remained a mystery to him.

  Artan arrived at the edge of the park and emerged on a bustling New York City sidewalk near Fifty-Seventh Street and Fifth Avenue. Th
e 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.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  AUTHOR INFO

  CROSSING THE DARKNESS

  Crossing Sample

  FEAR THE LIGHT

  Fear Sample

  GARGOYLE KNIGHT

  Gargoyle Sample