Spirit Wars
Page 16
The death-wagon spews out Sephtimus’ guitar case, which the head reaper catches in mid-air. Ankou then stomps on the accelerator to ram the Crows’ front lines, disappearing into an uncertain fate but buying Sephtimus more time.
Sephtimus lays the guitar case on the asphalt and opens it, revealing a black electric guitar with two necks. He picks up the instrument and slings its strap over his shoulder, looking every bit the goth rock star minus the bruises and cuts. He’s the Danse Macabre reaper after all. The Pied Piper of the Black Death.
What’s the plan, Sephtimus? I ask.
I’m gonna play your and Samantha’s song, he answers as he turns to me, his Dia de los Muertos mask cracked and falling apart. His words prove it was him who paid Sam and me a visit during our breakup, probably laying the groundwork for my extraction.
Through the lopped-off top of his mask, I see that his black hair’s a mix of Mohawk and dreads, with the strip of hair in the middle hanging down in matted coils and the sides not shaven but cut short and dyed silver. Through the enlarged eye hole I also see black eyeliner that’s sharp to the point of being reptilian. Even the eyebrow is slanted and pointed upwards.
Sephtimus gives a cocky wink. Then all at once he takes off the entire mask and reveals a perfectly human face underneath.
To match his attire he has the face of an emo kid, sickly white but unmistakably human, not to mention the numerous accents of metal studs and captive hoops placed symmetrically across his face. I figure he’s of European descent and young; he can’t be more than twenty-five years old, just a little younger than me. He’s also sort of good-looking in that androgynous way that has become popular with the young generation.
“Call me Seph,” he tells me out loud.
I nod. “Call me Lachesis,” I reply.
He’s confused at first but when it dawns on him, his face breaks into a boyish grin. He starts playing the guitar.
The chords of The Right Time, the song that I wrote especially for Sam, drifts sweetly in the air amid the incessant buzzing of the Crows. The first strands of music provoke an instant reaction from the hell-birds within a ten-mile radius; the volatile mass stiffens and then shudders as though hurt.
I start singing. I can’t tell how my voice really sounds because I’m hearing it on two overlapping levels. First, in the spiritual world, my voice is reverberant and hoarse and the words are in an alien tongue, either Latin or classical Greek. Second, I’m perfectly human again and back in front of Sam’s boarding-house. And it’s this second world that I choose to believe and exist in during this moment.
When the right time comes
I shall hold you in my arms
Wrap in mine your hand
Stroke your hair, my love
Our impromptu performance drives and pushes back the Crows. We’re the last two reapers left. The only ones standing between the immortal army and all of humanity. The combined sound of Sephtimus’ playing and my singing amplifies each of our powers and creates a giant bubble of protection that the Crows are unable to penetrate.
When the right time comes
I shall whisper words of love
Shout your name out high
Let the world know why
Behind us, Lessa, as soon as she has regained consciousness, rushes to part the human crowd and cradle the unresponsive Chester.
But then all the Crows amass into one giant monster with a tapering nose that, like diamond against shock-proof glass, begins drilling through. And as the last words of the song coincide with the spending of all our energies, the monster breaks through the glass bubble to then trickle down like black sand inside an hourglass.
Lessa’s sobbing the same words over and over: “Don’t die on me, Chester! Oh God. You can’t die on me!”
Sephtimus stands up poorly to the blinding torrent of the Crows. But though his face is covered in bigger and deeper lacerations and he’s been stripped from the waist up except for a few bits of tattery coat, he still manages to turn his head to the sight of Lessa cradling Chester and, the proud Mafioso that he is, twists his burst lips into a wolfish grin.
With one last defiant laugh, the head reaper finally allows himself to be lifted just as his electric guitar snaps in two and one of his metallic wings gets ripped away. Meanwhile, I’m thrown aside by the sheer volume of Crows and disappear right under them.
The Crows take the fight higher, completely shattering our protective dome and rising all the way up to the cold night sky. Then they switch directions, turning back on themselves and creating a tornado that wraps around Sephtimus. In the center of this spiral the one-winged reaper is flung about; a ragdoll surrounded by hateful children.
The black tornado leans forward without spilling the body. It streaks back to Necro City, along the River Akheron towards the Drain of the World, where the four-eyed master plotter now waits.
Spinstra’s literally licking her chops, armed with swords and daggers in all six of her hands. Behind her, Charon stands smugly by like a dueling second.
Back in the human world, Lessa’s crying over Chester’s lifeless body.
I love you, Lessa thinks to herself. Her tears plummet and produce tiny ripples in Chester’s blood as raindrops would in mud, or on the slopes of an anthill where they would knock like tremors.
Sephtimus is bathed with glowing light. A smile lifts a corner of his mouth.
He lands on top of Spinstra and Charon like a missile, reducing the ground they’re standing on into rubble and sending two particularly large pieces hurtling all the way into Lethe, river of forgetfulness.
As large an army as the Crows, from a distance but gaining fast, a flock of colossal Storks beat their wings with a thunderous noise.
EPILOGUE: More Infernal Affairs
Everything fades into regular, high-pitched beeping.
I open my eyes to the unsettling sight of machinery next to the bed I’m lying on.
Where in God’s name am I?
I tear some of the tubes off my chest and this starts a rapid, insistent sound.
Sam’s at the park, I remember vaguely. No, that can’t be right. Sam’s waiting for me…
…at…
All at once the memory of the past week comes rushing back. It feels terribly discomforting yet also as natural as puzzle pieces sliding together.
I sit bolt upright and nurses walk into the room with their mouths hanging open.
“I know everything,” I tell myself. “I know who I am now.”
The rebellion that spilled over to the surface world shall be known forevermore as the Battle of the Bolgias. A great number of Death’s loyal guards, the Helter-Skeletals, have shed marrow and nutrients to restore the balance between the Fates. Restore is an apt word because the minds of Spinstra and Charon have both been reborn by Lethe, the old-school equivalent of a factory reset.
After some quick but heartfelt grieving for the fallen, Seph proceeds to freeze the Sands of the Horologium and pay Manchester Imagay a visit in his bedroom. He makes the barista sleepwalk and then pushes him down several flights of stairs, not intending to kill him but just to paint him the right shade of black and blue.
During the ride to the hospital, the empty, broken husk that was Sephtimus’ costume is switched with the real sleeping Chester. It’s one of those cases the experts just can’t explain. And neither can Chester. He regains consciousness, suffering from a head trauma that has conveniently wiped out all memory of the previous night, wrapped in unbelievably soft arms and being soothed by an angel.
As for me, I go on to live a full life by the sea together with Sam. Though I’m perfectly and grimly aware of how frail and ephemeral humans are, that doesn’t stop me from loving and being loved.
The big guy downstairs is back to his old grouchy and at times mischievous self. With no room for love in his heart – or so he makes it appear outside. He’s often deep in his sanctum santorum, digging his hand into a bucket of popcorn while monitoring the human realm through the
magic-mirror screens. He and every bit of skull embossed on the curves and edges of his throne howl in laughter and sometimes cry at the simplest human things.
All his gothic rings are back on his fingers except one. And the Infernal Affairs agents stand heroically at the Helm once more. Behind this last tableau, a larger-than-life logo of a hip skull can be seen hanging from the ceiling, with the words of Virgil on its rim: Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo, which translates to: If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell.
The End
Also from the Author
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3 Earths
When Earth ended, three worlds began.
As far back as anyone can remember, humanity has been divided into three different breeds: Empyreans, Tritonians, and Terrans. The first are the epitome of wisdom; aloft on their floating fortress, they are the keepers of light, last living legacies of a once great species. The second are water-breathers who prefer a life of neutrality and isolation, sunk in the depths of their underwater kingdom. The third have been cast away to a cold and dark life on the blighted earth, shunning the light to dwell underground.
Into these three worlds, Riktor, Alaric, and Aerie are born. Twin brothers, two lovers, and one woman whose heart is torn between them.
But a war is brewing among the three nations. To tip the scales, a new source of power rises after lying dormant for decades. Within our heroes’ own genetic makeup, legends have been written and destinies are waiting to be fulfilled.
About the Author
For a long time Mon D Rea has taught English as a foreign language, but his one true love has always been writing stories. He never stopped scribbling – between classes or in between part-time work, on napkins or on the back of receipts, with or without a pen, on the bus or in the shower, awake or asleep.
Spirit Wars is his first published work and he’s currently adding the finishing touches to another novel involving a zombie, a ninja, and a cowboy goat. His motto both as a writer and a teacher is “Break Barriers Build Bridges.”
Mon Rea lives in a sunny, idyllic spot in the Philippines.
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Spirit Wars
Copyright: Mon D Rea
Published: 30th April 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
Interior Images by Mon D Rea
Cover Art by SwoonWorthy Book Covers
Table of Contents
PART ONE: The Foundling
Chapter I: The Clock in My Brain
Chapter II: Welcome to the Flip Side
Chapter III: Lounge of the Dead
Chapter IV: Hell’s Supercomputer
Chapter V: Love Macabre
Chapter VI: Cry of the Fershee
Chapter VII: The Reluctant Reaper
Chapter VIII: Love after Death
PART TWO: The Sleeper
Chapter IX: A Vision of Balloons
Chapter X: The Crow Man
Chapter XI: Homeschool Hell
Chapter XII: Infernal Affairs
Chapter XIII: Graduation Day
Chapter XIV: Picking Up Lessa
Chapter XV: The Bucket List
PART THREE: The Wyrd One
Chapter XVI: The First Soulmates
Chapter XVII: Atropos Reborn
Chapter XVIII: Sam and Me
Chapter XIX: Hell-Breaker
Chapter XX: The Appointment
Chapter XXI: The Mutiny of the Crows
Chapter XXII: Unholy Alliance