Nicholas Kaufmann - Dying Is My Business

“Are you sure going off on your own is such a good idea?” I asked.

“Look, Trent, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, but we’ve put you in too much danger already,” she said. “It’s us the gargoyles want, not you. You’ll be safer if we go our separate ways.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” I said. “Who’s going to protect you ? You’ll be out there on your own, and those things almost killed you once already.”

“They did kill me, remember?” Thornton said.

“My point is, if they’re as tenacious as you say they are, they’re not going to stop trying until they’ve finished the job.”

“You don’t have to worry about us,” she said. “We know how to take care of ourselves.”

“Didn’t look like it back there,” I said.

“Well now you’re just being rude,” Thornton said. “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead?”

The truck ahead moved forward a few feet. I inched the Explorer along behind it until it stopped again. We were close to the intersection now. The honking and yelling got louder.

“Look, you’re in no shape to take on the gargoyles alone,” I said. “There were only six of them in the warehouse and look how that went. What happens if there are ten next time, or twenty?”

“Forget it,” she said. “I’m not about to let you get yourself killed. This isn’t your fight. You’re not going to talk me out of this, Trent. My mind is made up. I’m just going to ask you to drop us off and that’ll be the end of it.”

Damn. She was adamant. I didn’t see a way in.

The truck in front of us started rolling forward again, its right turn signal flashing. “Looks like we’re moving now,” I said, and eased my foot onto the gas pedal.

The truck turned right onto Seventh Avenue, its big white body moving away like a curtain being pulled aside, and I finally saw what had caused the traffic jam. My eyes widened in alarm. My foot instinctively stomped on the brake.

A jet-black horse stood in the center of the intersection, half shrouded in the steam that billowed from a manhole in the street beneath it. Armored metal plates covered its flanks, shoulders, and neck, and sheathed its head, nose, and muzzle. Seated atop the horse was a man wearing a full suit of coal-black armor. A tattered black cape hung from the spiked pauldrons on his shoulders and fluttered behind him in the breeze. His head was completely encased in a black helmet capped by two long, black, branching stag’s horns. He sat facing the Explorer. I couldn’t see his face beneath the helmet’s visor, but the shiver along my spine told me he was looking right through the windshield at me.

“What the hell is that?” I said.

Thornton and Bethany leaned forward in the backseat at the same time.

“Oh, fuck,” Thornton said.

“Drive!” Bethany yelled.

The horse snorted and scraped at the blacktop with one hoof, its black tail twitching. The man astride it kept one gauntleted hand on the thick black chain that doubled as the horse’s reins. With the other, he unsheathed the sword at his side. The blade was long, as dark as onyx, and curved like a scimitar. It was sharp along the front edge and serrated with nasty-looking hooked barbs on the back.

Bethany dove forward and grabbed the steering wheel, yanking it to the right. She screamed in my ear, “Go! Now! God damn it, Trent, drive!”

I hit the gas. The tires squealed against the pavement as we turned onto Seventh Avenue.

In the rearview, I saw the horse rear and gallop after us, the man in the black suit of armor holding his sword high.

I spun the Explorer wildly onto Seventh Avenue. The tires screamed in protest, the smell of burning rubber coming through the window. Bethany yelled in my ear, “Go, go, go,” and I stomped the gas pedal to the floor and nearly torpedoed right into the back of the produce truck in front of us. I gritted my teeth and spun the wheel frantically, every muscle in my body tensing in anticipation of the collision. We just missed the truck, though the front of the Explorer clipped it. The right headlight shattered and flickered out. I pulled into one of the middle lanes and hit the gas again while my heart tried to pound its way out of my rib cage.

The bright lights of retail signs and enormous video billboards lit Seventh Avenue like it was daytime, illuminating the sea of shining yellow metal ahead of us. Taxicabs, a whole fleet of them, spread out over the road like an obstacle course. I cursed under my breath. Why did it have to be Times Square? Even at this time of night, the traffic was so thick it moved at a snail’s pace. I kept my foot on the gas, drove right up behind one of the taxis, then switched lanes and did it again. It was the only way to keep moving. The street was six lanes wide, though the far left lane was taken up with parked cars. Five lanes, then. Not good. Eventually I’d run out of room to maneuver, especially once we got closer to the intersection where Seventh Avenue merged with Broadway and the traffic of two major arteries was funneled into one. Then what the hell was I going to do?

I glanced at the side mirror. The man in black armor wasn’t far behind, maybe seventy yards but gaining fast as his horse galloped through the narrow aisle between cars. Weren’t horses supposed to be spooked by traffic and blaring horns? This one wasn’t. It wasn’t even wearing blinders. The drivers, on the other hand, were plenty spooked. They swerved and collided in the horse’s wake, metal grinding against metal, glass popping. On the sidewalk, pedestrians gawked, their well-honed New York apathy momentarily shattered. Slowly, inevitably, the camera phones came out and flashes burst along the sidewalk like a chain of supernovas. I kept my focus on the road. In the backseat, Bethany and Thornton twisted around and stared through the rear window.

“We’re screwed,” Thornton said.

“I knew the gargoyles were going for help, but I didn’t think it would be him ,” Bethany said.

I swerved around a cab, then another, ignoring their angry honks. “Who the hell is that?” I demanded.

“The Black Knight,” she said. “He’s their king.”

I glowered at her in the rearview. “The gargoyles have a king ?”

“You definitely don’t want to mess with him,” Thornton said.

I shifted my gaze to the side mirror. The Black Knight was still there, closing the gap between us. The neon lights glinted off his black sword, limning the sharp edge in red, blue, and green.

“He mustn’t catch us, Trent!” Bethany said. “Do you understand me? If the Black Knight catches us, we’re dead!”

“Speak for yourself,” Thornton muttered.

Bethany ignored him. The look on her face was one of desperate terror. This was a woman who was brave enough to take on six gargoyles with what was essentially a long stick, yet just the sight of the Black Knight had terrified her. I didn’t want to find out why. I swerved to change lanes again, hoping to put more cars between us and the Black Knight. I glanced at the speedometer: fifty-nine miles per hour. And yet somehow, maddeningly, the horse was still gaining on us.

A police siren cut the air, sharp and loud, but I couldn’t see the cruiser yet, couldn’t even figure out where it was. Ahead, the light at Forty-Ninth Street turned yellow, then red. I stomped on the gas pedal and blew through the intersection just as the cross street’s traffic started to flow. Cars swerved to avoid hitting us, honking and shouting. One was the NYPD cruiser with the shrieking siren, the red and whites flashing on its roof. It skidded to a halt behind us, directly in the Black Knight’s path. I figured that ought to slow the armored bastard down. Maybe even give us enough time to shake him.