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HAPTER T HREE

    ARTAN CUT THROUGH the city, Doctor Sharpe’s words ringing in his ears: You must find a way to serve the modern age .  
    In a world defined by money and technology, what did such values as courage and strength still count for? Where did one go after saving the city from an ancient evil? More importantly, why had Sharpe’s words set him off like that? The man meant well. He was the only friend Artan had besides Rhianna in this crazy century, the only one who truly understood his struggles. He was acting like a petulant child, not a warrior and king who’d saved the world from the dark forces of the Otherworld.  
    During his battle with Balor, the Celtic demon had drained his gargoyle blood, thereby restoring his lost humanity. With each passing day, the memory of his horrific transformation receded further into the past. Yet at times like now, when a near inhuman rage seized hold of him, it felt like his former gargoyle nature still cast a shadow over him. There was a fire inside of him that the last twelve months hadn’t been able to fully extinguish. Did some Fomorian blood still pump through his veins?
    As the day wore on, the answers to the questions tormenting his soul continued to elude him. His feet pounded the pavement, carrying him through the varied neighborhoods of the great city. By the time six o’clock rolled around, his wanderings had brought him back full circle to the MET. Rhianna was waiting for him in front of the main entrance, leaning against a stone column, sporting a tired yet happy smile. The touch of warm lips and the clean scent of her hair made him momentarily forget his concerns.  
    To his surprise, Rhianna wasn’t quite ready to head back to their Brooklyn home. She told him a fellow co-worker was throwing an impromptu cocktail party at his Upper West Side apartment, and the invitation had included significant others. Rhianna had accepted on their behalf. She must’ve picked up on his lack of enthusiasm because she quickly said, “We don’t have to go.”  
    Artan shook his head and forced a smile. Maybe a drink would do him some good. Or maybe it would plunge him even deeper into his dark mood.
    The people he’d met in Rhianna’s circle over the course of the last year never suspected they were chatting with a resurrected fifth century Celtic King, but they could tell something was different about him. Despite his many efforts to master the rules of this world, he was slightly out of step. This evening proved no different. As the conversation turned to archeological shop-talk, Rhianna’s eyes lit up while his own began to glaze over. Beer in hand, he retreated to a nearby balcony. Outside, with the twinkling lights of the city splayed out before him and the crimson sun sinking behind the majestic skyline, his problems seemed small and insignificant.  
    As he stood there, doing his best to keep his demons at bay, he kept overhearing snippets of conversation from the party. Most of it was museum-related chatter, but his ears perked up when he realized one of the professors was talking about him . The curse of his gargoyle transformation had been broken but the heightened senses of the Fomor persisted to a degree. His enhanced hearing cut through the chatter and locked in on the man who’d mentioned his name. He recognized the voice. Rhianna had introduced him as a fellow PhD who was helping her catalogue the items in the upcoming Egyptian exhibit. What was his name again? Malcolm? Maxwell?  
    “Where did she dig up this guy? I mean, come on now, what does a brain like Rhianna see in such a long-haired himbo?”
    “Have you seen his arms, Max?” a female speaker chimed in. “He’s a hunk straight from the cover of a romance novel.”  
    “Hey, I have nothing against a little arm candy, even of the Eurotrash flavor. I dated my share of models in my day. But a girl like Rhianna needs a man who can keep up with her intellect.”
    “And you think you might be