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Authors: William Massa
Tags: BluA
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symptoms of a bigger, connected problem.
”Robert?” she said again.
That’s when he finally turned around. She gasped and froze in mid-step, stunned by the horror before her. Shaky words fell from the man’s lips, his terror mirroring her own: “P-please, help me.”
The guard facing her had no eyes!
C HAPTER S EVEN
RHIANNA WAS IN grave danger; of that much Artan was convinced. Would the Order reach the museum before Necron did? Once again, his girlfriend’s passion for ancient relics had put her in the crossfire of demonic powers.
Would the world ever cease to spawn power hungry monsters like his brother? If the last fifteen centuries of war and bloodshed were any indicator, the answer was a resounding no. There would always be another disciple willing to worship ancient, cruel Gods in exchange for a taste of power. Ruthless ambition set against the ticking clock of mortality would continue to motivate men to make their dark ambitions a reality. As long as there were tyrants hell-bent on enslaving the innocent, good men would have to stand up to them.
But was Artan still a man?
For the second time in Artan’s life, gargoyle blood flowed through his veins, a hungry tide threatening to sweep away his humanity and drown him in an ocean of violence.
It is your choice, he told himself. You can let the darkness define you or make it work to your advantage.
A noble sentiment, but one he feared was bound to failure. Maybe Nyssa’s instincts were right. Maybe the gargoyle would eventually erode the man until only the monster remained. Time would tell. But as long as he stayed in control of his faculties, and was able to resist the call of Balor, he could still fight on the side of righteousness.
Artan’s features tightened with determination as he strained against his handcuffs, muscles bulging, veins sharply outlined under the skin. Sweat dripped down his face as the steel cuffs bit into his wrists. Artan gnashed his teeth in bitter frustration. It was hopeless. Even a trained warrior stood little chance to break restraints cast from iron. He would be forced to sit out the battle while the life of the woman he loved hung in the balance.
He let out a hail of expletives in his Gaellic tongue that would have made his mother blush. The last time he’d felt so helpless was when Cael’s winged Fomor army had invaded his castle. For a flash of a moment, the past roared back to terrifying life in his mind, and he held the lifeless, bloodied form of his beloved Samarain his arms while dark columns of oily smoke streaked toward the heavens, turning his world into a shattered hell-scape of darkness and death.
He lost everything on that day. He wouldn’t let it happen again. There had to be a way out. Despite the shackles, Nyssa wasn’t taking any chances and had left two armed members of the Order behind to guard him. They stood near the loft’s main entrance and observed him with cool indifference. Even if by some miracle he should succeed in breaking free, Artan held no illusion that he could escape the wrath of the guard’s crossbows. These men were trained warriors, devoted and loyal to a cause both noble and just. According to Nyssa, the Order kept the world safe from supernatural threats. He’d believed there was no room left for myths and monsters in the modern world, but apparently a secret war was being waged in the shadows.
A war that might soon claim its latest casualty.
The thought amplified his frustration and rage, and he was gripped by a terrible yet familiar sensation. He could feel the first tentative stirrings of the creature inside of him. The gargoyle had been dormant for a year, but now the beast came to inhuman life, eager to break free. A part of him was horrified by what was happening, but another rejoiced, welcoming the demon like the return of an old friend. Muscles flexed, bulging against his skin, stretching his flesh until it warped into a dark, mottled hide.
”Robert?” she said again.
That’s when he finally turned around. She gasped and froze in mid-step, stunned by the horror before her. Shaky words fell from the man’s lips, his terror mirroring her own: “P-please, help me.”
The guard facing her had no eyes!
C HAPTER S EVEN
RHIANNA WAS IN grave danger; of that much Artan was convinced. Would the Order reach the museum before Necron did? Once again, his girlfriend’s passion for ancient relics had put her in the crossfire of demonic powers.
Would the world ever cease to spawn power hungry monsters like his brother? If the last fifteen centuries of war and bloodshed were any indicator, the answer was a resounding no. There would always be another disciple willing to worship ancient, cruel Gods in exchange for a taste of power. Ruthless ambition set against the ticking clock of mortality would continue to motivate men to make their dark ambitions a reality. As long as there were tyrants hell-bent on enslaving the innocent, good men would have to stand up to them.
But was Artan still a man?
For the second time in Artan’s life, gargoyle blood flowed through his veins, a hungry tide threatening to sweep away his humanity and drown him in an ocean of violence.
It is your choice, he told himself. You can let the darkness define you or make it work to your advantage.
A noble sentiment, but one he feared was bound to failure. Maybe Nyssa’s instincts were right. Maybe the gargoyle would eventually erode the man until only the monster remained. Time would tell. But as long as he stayed in control of his faculties, and was able to resist the call of Balor, he could still fight on the side of righteousness.
Artan’s features tightened with determination as he strained against his handcuffs, muscles bulging, veins sharply outlined under the skin. Sweat dripped down his face as the steel cuffs bit into his wrists. Artan gnashed his teeth in bitter frustration. It was hopeless. Even a trained warrior stood little chance to break restraints cast from iron. He would be forced to sit out the battle while the life of the woman he loved hung in the balance.
He let out a hail of expletives in his Gaellic tongue that would have made his mother blush. The last time he’d felt so helpless was when Cael’s winged Fomor army had invaded his castle. For a flash of a moment, the past roared back to terrifying life in his mind, and he held the lifeless, bloodied form of his beloved Samarain his arms while dark columns of oily smoke streaked toward the heavens, turning his world into a shattered hell-scape of darkness and death.
He lost everything on that day. He wouldn’t let it happen again. There had to be a way out. Despite the shackles, Nyssa wasn’t taking any chances and had left two armed members of the Order behind to guard him. They stood near the loft’s main entrance and observed him with cool indifference. Even if by some miracle he should succeed in breaking free, Artan held no illusion that he could escape the wrath of the guard’s crossbows. These men were trained warriors, devoted and loyal to a cause both noble and just. According to Nyssa, the Order kept the world safe from supernatural threats. He’d believed there was no room left for myths and monsters in the modern world, but apparently a secret war was being waged in the shadows.
A war that might soon claim its latest casualty.
The thought amplified his frustration and rage, and he was gripped by a terrible yet familiar sensation. He could feel the first tentative stirrings of the creature inside of him. The gargoyle had been dormant for a year, but now the beast came to inhuman life, eager to break free. A part of him was horrified by what was happening, but another rejoiced, welcoming the demon like the return of an old friend. Muscles flexed, bulging against his skin, stretching his flesh until it warped into a dark, mottled hide.
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