The very first blow sent a spiderweb of cracks through the name Theresa Seaver. Marsh screamed with agony and adrenaline as he continued, hammering away at the marble, desperate to get the job done quickly.
Each blow traveled through Coop's spirit. He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness the destruction of the tomb . . . and his best friend.
With a tortured howl Marsh gave one final swing. The crowbar made contact and shattered the marble facing. The arc of Marsh's swing continued into the uncovered crypt, where the hook of the crowbar snagged onto something. Marsh followed through like a batter swinging for the fences and pulled out a snarl of branches.
Lignum vitae.
He had caught the sculpture with the crowbar. As he yanked it out of the crypt, along with it came a golden orb that had been nestled in its branches. It was too late for Marsh to stop the momentum. The glass ball flew across the room, landed on the marble floor . . .
And shattered.
Red liquid exploded from the broken ball, spraying across the floor and the far wall of crypts.
Another crucible was history.
Cooper saw the eruption and deflated.
"And . . . here we go," he uttered with resignation.
The floor shook. Marsh knew the feeling. An earthquake was rocking the mausoleum, though both Marsh and Cooper knew that it wasn't a natural geological event.
Marsh staggered back a few steps, nearly tripping over a large, jagged chunk of marble. The stone veneer that had sealed Terri Seaver's final resting place was gone. Behind it, in a niche that was barely big enough to contain it, was a mahogany coffin.
Marsh stared at the casket, wide-eyed.
"Pull it out," Cooper commanded to Marsh.
Marsh didn't react.
The mausoleum continued to shake and rumble. "Marsh!" Coop screamed. "If the poleax is there, you gotta get it! Now!"
Marsh shook himself into action. He jumped to the open crypt and reached for the brass handles of the coffin. He grasped them both, and froze.
"What's the matter?" Coop asked.
"I can't," Marsh said with a whimper.
Cooper jumped down next to his friend and got right into his face. "You started this. You can't bail now."
Marsh was in tears. "It—it's my mother," he stammered. "What if—"
"Too late!" Coop screamed above the rumbling of the quake. "The crucible's gone. He's coming. If the poleax is in there, we sure as hell better get it before he does. Pull it out!"
Marsh screamed in despair . . . and pulled. The coffin was heavier than he expected, but he was charged with adrenaline and the wooden casket slid out easily. Once out of the enclosure there was no place for it to go but down. There was one crypt below Ree's, so it was a three-foot drop to the floor. Marsh hesitated, looking for a way to gently ease the casket to the ground.
"Drop it!" Coop screamed.
Marsh obeyed and yanked the coffin off the ledge. The heavy casket fell and landed with a dull thud. The force cracked the seal, springing the lid open a small inch.
Marsh staggered back, overcome with grief. And fear. The rumbling continued, making it difficult for him to stand on legs that were already weak.
"Open it, Ralph," Coop commanded with calm force.
"What if I'm wrong?" Marsh cried, hysterical.
"I hope you are. Open it!"
Marsh wiped his eyes and staggered forward, his gaze focused on the narrow opening where the lid of the coffin had released from the bottom shell. Coop ran right up alongside him.
"I know, Ralph. It doesn't get any worse than this. But you know what? I think you're right. I think the only thing we're going to find in that box is a sword. Your mother is in the Black. She fell through the Rift. She's not in there. But the poleax might be, and if it is, you've got to get it before Damon does."
Coop's words gave Marsh strength. He approached the coffin, knelt down beside it, and grasped the lid. His hands were shaking. His tears flowed again.
He couldn't move.
"Open it, Marsh," Coop coaxed. "If I'm going to save her, I'll need the poleax."
Marsh steeled himself, took a deep breath, and lifted the lid to reveal . . .
. . . skeletal remains.
The last time Marsh had seen his mother was the day she had left for Greece and her rendezvous with destiny. Since that day the hurt had only grown worse as memories of her slowly faded. He often relied on pictures to remind him of the way she smiled or the shape of her eyes. He feared that someday he would have only memories of her pictures but not of the woman herself. He hated to think that might happen. He wanted to remember her. The person.
As he looked down into that coffin, he knew that no matter how fleeting his memories might be, he could be absolutely certain of one thing:
"It's not her," he said, the tension leaving his body.
"How can you tell?" Coop asked, squinting, trying not to look too closely.
"Because it's a man," was Marsh's simple reply.
Coop forced himself to look.
"Jeez, it is."
The remains had decomposed to the point where there was little skin left on the bones, but the hair and the clothing were fairly intact. Ree Seaver was of medium build and had long wavy brown hair. The poor man in the coffin had short, black hair and wore a gray suit.
Marsh couldn't take his eyes off the remains. "Who could it be?" he asked.
"Uh-oh," Coop said.
"What?"
"The rumbling stopped."
"You're right. Does that mean—"
Marsh felt a strong hand grab his arm and yank him forcefully away from the coffin. He half stumbled, half flew across the room, landed on his butt, and slid through the drying blood of Alexander the Great. Once he came to a stop, he twisted around to see . . .
Damon of Epirus was standing over the open coffin.
"Sometimes the most complicated question can be answered by the simplest of answers," he exclaimed, barely hiding his excitement. "This has taken far too long."
Cooper ran at Damon, desperate to tackle him and pull him away from the coffin. But instead of driving his shoulder into Damon's chest, Coop passed right through him . . . like a ghost. Coop stopped and spun around, stunned.
"How is that possible?" he shouted. "We're both spirits!"
Damon shrugged casually. "Yet I can manipulate physical matter like no other," he said. "Surely you know that by now."
"Marsh!" Coop yelled. "Stop him!"
Marsh didn't have to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, ran at Damon, and dove at him with his arms out wide, ready to tackle him up and drive him into the wall of crypts. Instead he traveled through Damon as if he were . . . a spirit. Marsh slammed into the marble wall himself and grunted in pain as he smashed his shoulder into the unforgiving surface.
Damon chuckled. "It's quite futile, you know."
Marsh and Coop were helpless to do anything but watch in horror as Damon reached down into the coffin, grabbed the jacket of the skeleton, and pulled it up out of the casket. He appraised the remains briefly, the way one would examine a unique bug. It didn't hold his attention for long. With a dismissive shrug he tossed the remains to the floor behind the coffin, where it fell in a crumpled heap like a broken doll.
"Coop, do something!" Marsh yelled.
Coop didn't move.
"Like what?" he said. "We're done, Ralph."
Damon looked back down to the coffin, and his eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning.
When Marsh saw that reaction, he knew Cooper was right. They were done.
Damon reached into the casket and removed a four-foot long black sword that was unlike any weapon Marsh and Coop had ever seen or imagined. Its tip came to a bayonet-like point, which could do plenty of damage on its own, but there was more. A foot down from the tip were two more equally dangerous devices. One was a curved pick a foot and a half long that came to a sharp point . . . perfect for impaling a skull. Opposite it was an eight-inch cle
averlike blade . . . the ideal tool for chopping the heads off defenseless enemy prisoners.
Damon held the weapon aloft with one hand, admiring his prize. "I never gave up hope," he said to the weapon, as if it cared.
"That's it?" Marsh exclaimed, incredulous. "All the horror, the deaths, the lives you've turned inside out? It was all for that sword?"
Damon gave Marsh a sly smile.
"Not just a sword," he said. "This blade is infused with the energy of every spirit that it tore from its living vessel. I cannot begin to estimate the numbers."
"The Butcher of Epirus speaks," Coop said with disdain. "You must be so proud."
"Foley," Damon said. "Perhaps you can help your friend understand. You've seen what the spirit swords are capable of. Those were once ordinary weapons that were brought through the Rift into the Black to become spirit-killers." He held up the poleax and continued, "This sword, this magnificent weapon, held that kind of power without having to leave the Light. Imagine what it will become once it journeys along the Morpheus Road. I believe that justifies all that I went through to retrieve it."
"All you went through?" Coop said sarcastically. "We didn't ask for any of this."
"Yet here we are," Damon said with no sympathy.
"What happens now?" Marsh asked tentatively.
"Now?" Damon asked, his voice booming through the mausoleum. He raised the poleax up high overhead, grasping it with both hands. "Now . . . we begin."
He spun around and with a single, violent swing brought the sword straight down and sliced the blade into the wall of crypts. The black blade tore through the marble like it was paper, sending a spray of blinding purple light through the tomb that forced Marsh and Coop to shield their eyes. The earthquake returned, knocking Marsh off his feet, but he kept watching as Damon ripped a vertical slice through the marble. The sound of the cutting was anything but natural. It was a chorus of howls and agony; pain and power all blending into a massive roar of sound that made Marsh want to cry out in despair.
The cutting was finished in seconds and the demonic howling ended, along with the firing lights. What was left was a gaping black hole in the wall through which could be heard the desolate sound of eternity.
A new Rift had been created.
His job complete, Damon turned to Marsh and Cooper and declared, "I trust I will not see either of you again."
"What about my mother?" Marsh cried.
Damon shrugged. "She is no longer my concern."
"You got what you wanted! Where is she?"
"Thank you both," Damon said, ignoring Marsh's plea. "This would not have been possible without your help."
He gave a formal bow, stepped backward, and leaped through the Rift.
"No, stop!" Marsh screamed at no one.
Cooper and Marsh stood staring at the tear in the seam of existence, stunned to the point of paralysis.
"He's going to rally his troops," Coop said, breathless. "And now that he's got the poleax, he can open up as many Rifts as he wants."
"And I let it happen," Marsh finally said, dumbfounded.
"No," Coop corrected quickly. "You were right. He wasn't going to stop until he got that thing. This was bound to happen someday, with or without us."
"Except it happened today."
Coop stepped closer to the wall and stared into the abyss. The opening cut right through Terri Seaver's empty tomb along with the crypt below it. Coop feared that whoever the poor guy was who occupied the lower berth had been cut in two, but the edges of the opening had no thickness. It wasn't so much a physical gash in the marble as it was a tear in the thin fabric that separated two worlds . . . as it did on the floor of Ree's vision of Grand Central Terminal. It was as if the wall of crypts was a paper-thin curtain that had been sliced apart to reveal another existence beyond.
"Go home, Ralph," Coop said. "You're finished."
"What do you mean?"
Coop ran his hand back through his hair, quickly getting his wits back.
"Damon doesn't care about you anymore," he said. "Or Sydney or anybody else in the Light. He got what he wanted and now he's moving on."
"But . . . it can't be over."
"It's not, but your part in this is. Go find Sydney. Tell her what happened. And hang on to that crucible. I don't think you'll need it anymore, but I might."
"What are you going to do?" Marsh asked.
"I have no idea, except to keep my promise."
"What promise?"
"I'm going to find your mother, and not just for you. She has to bring the Guardians back together."
"But . . . I can't just sit around waiting. Pretending like nothing's going on."
"That's exactly what you're going to do," Coop ordered. "This battle has moved farther down the road."
"Yeah, until it comes back here."
Coop shot Marsh a pained look. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
"I'm sorry," Marsh said softly.
"Don't be. Find Sydney."
"She doesn't want anything to do with me."
"Then, convince her she's wrong. I can't believe I'm saying this, but you guys are good together."
Marsh nodded. "I don't like this. It's starting to feel like a farewell moment."
Coop scoffed and was ready with a quick comeback to tell his friend how wrong he was, but thought better of it and said, "It isn't. We'll see each other again."
Coop turned back to the Rift and squared off against the dark hole. "Let's hope no other spirit, living or dead, ever crosses through that thing . . . in either direction." He looked to Marsh, smiled, and gave him the double okay sign.
Marsh smiled in return, but it was forced.
Coop winked. The swirl of colorful fog appeared before him and he was gone.
Marsh was left alone in the mausoleum. He stood in the same spot, not moving, unsure of what to do. He stared into the dark hole that could very well have opened a pathway to a cataclysm. A doorway he helped create. He had been used and manipulated by someone smarter than he was. Marsh knew that he had fought back with everything he had, but in the end it wasn't enough. He was still a weak little boy who didn't have the smarts, or the courage, to do the right thing. Staring into that void, Marsh felt as though he was looking into his own empty future. He would always have to live with the knowledge that when challenged, he had failed on a colossal level.
It was something he couldn't imagine living with.
He glanced down to the broken body of the man who had rested in his mother's grave. Who was he? Where did Ennis find him? Did his spirit know of the role he had played in this tragic drama? Seeing him lying next to the open coffin, looking so vulnerable, pushed Marsh to imagine what might be in store for every living person if Damon succeeded in mounting an army to march into the Light. The man's broken body seemed so inconsequential compared to the spirit that once gave it life. How many others would meet the same fate when Damon returned, brandishing his villainous weapon? How many more spirits would be torn from their living vessels? The idea was unbearable to imagine, made more so by the knowledge that he had put the poleax back into Damon's hands.
Marsh knelt down close to the remains and said, "I'm sorry I disturbed you."
As he knelt there, at the lowest point of life possible . . . he felt a glimmer of hope.
If he had learned anything from his experience, it was about the amazing nature and power of the human spirit. It was a power that insured life would continue beyond the mortal time frame spent in the Light. Cooper's adventure proved that. Damon's existence proved that. Every stop along the Morpheus Road had meaning, every person's journey was a unique adventure. It was the natural course of existence. It was right. It was good.
Marsh knew he had to do whatever it took to make sure it wouldn't end.
He looked around the subterranean mausoleum and wondered how long it would take before somebody discovered the carnage. How often did people go down there?
With any luck it wouldn't be until Da
mon's quest had ended . . . one way or another.
He felt a surge of confidence. For the first time in a very long while he knew what he had to do. His only regret was that it would absolutely crush his dad. And Sydney. Maybe. He vowed to do all he could to make sure they both understood that everything was cool. Sydney would get it. Dad would take a little more work, but he trusted Sydney to help him through it. They would both have to understand that there were bigger issues at stake than any one person's life.
Or death.
Marsh looked to the Rift. He heard the hollow echo of the void, but saw nothing. Nothing but black.
He was more excited than scared.
Cooper was wrong. It wasn't over for him.
With that belief in mind, Marsh held his breath . . . and stepped into the Rift.
11
When Cooper stepped out of the Light and onto the beach of Zoe's vision in the Black, he was struck again by its simple perfection. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the ocean water as the palm trees rustled lazily in a warm breeze that carried the citrusy smell of oranges from a nearby grove. Making the scene appear even more ideal was the sight of his grandfather kneeling over the glowing coals of a fire, expertly cooking fish and vegetables on a spit.
"Hello, Cooper," came a welcoming voice.
Cooper turned quickly to see Maggie walking lazily toward him along the shore in ankle-deep water. She had her shoes in one hand while gripping the hem of her dress in the other to keep it dry.
Seeing Maggie approach him with the sweet smile that she had finally found, Coop allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to forget he had ever heard of Damon the Butcher and stay on that idyllic beach to enjoy whatever time that was left of normal.
"I've been worried about you," Maggie said as she joined him.
"I'm fine. Sort of. What about you guys?"
Maggie gestured toward the village and said, "We've had a guardian angel."
Coop looked to where she was pointing and the illusion of paradise instantly vaporized.
Zoe sat on an overturned boat, grasping the black spirit sword, vigilantly watching over them. She was on alert and ready to roll. Her steely gaze told the real story: There was no way they could forget Damon.
The Blood Page 10