The Watcher said, "When I came here, it was to help the spirits deal with Brennus. I didn't do it myself. If Damon is going to be stopped, it will be up to the spirits here to do it . . . and to you."
Coop and Marshall both stared at the floor, stunned. "So we're done," Marsh said.
The Watcher stood and put on his long coat. "I didn't say that. I'm just telling you that the playing field is level. So what's the deal? Do you want to try and stop this Damon character?"
"Of course!" Marsh replied.
"Okay. Then we should find him before he gets to Brennus."
Coop looked to Marsh, stunned. "This guy is making me nuts."
"So you'll help?" Marsh asked, brightening.
"I never said I wouldn't help," the Watcher chided. "I just said it's ultimately going to be up to you. You need to understand that."
Coop nodded. "Okay. I can live with that. I think."
"Good," the Watcher added. "Who's up for a little hunting?"
Coop grinned. "Dude, now we're talking."
The Watcher looked to Marsh.
Marsh stood up quickly. "I am. I owe that guy."
"Then, let's go find him," the Watcher said, and strode for the spiral stairs that led up and out of his sanctuary.
"Wait," Marsh said. "What do we call you?"
"Whatever you'd like," the Watcher replied.
"C'mon," Coop cajoled. "You're an evolved spirit. Can't you at least come up with a name?"
The Watcher thought for a moment and said, "Perhaps you should use the name I took when I was last called upon to help. In the Light."
"What is it?" Marsh asked.
The Watcher smiled, as if lost for a moment in a pleasant memory.
"Call me . . . Press."
19
A slow-moving flotilla of boats drifted along the glowing river of orange.
Damon was in the lead, this time in the bow of the canoe that was being powered by Sanger in the stern, who paddled with authority. Damon held the lantern forward, trying to make out details onshore.
Floating behind the canoe were four small flat-bottomed barges. Each held a dozen of the small, furry demons with sunken eyes. There was one paddler to the rear of each barge. The rest of the figments sat quietly, staring ahead, their eyes locked on Damon.
Damon scanned both shores, not knowing exactly what he was looking for, though confident that he would know it when he saw it. The banshees were barely capable of communication, but Damon had learned enough to know that Brennus no longer existed in the vision of the Gothic mansion but had been imprisoned in another area of his own vision. Damon didn't care how it had happened or why. All he wanted was to find Brennus and unleash him.
They passed a small city, and then a navy battleship that lay listing on its side with guns pointing harmlessly to the purple sky. After passing the remains of a huge suspension bridge that led to nowhere, Damon spotted something on the left bank that made his heart leap.
"There," he called back to Sanger. "That way. Quickly."
The silhouette of a massive stone cathedral loomed up above gnarled trees. Its single tall tower stood as an impressive, ominous sentinel.
"You sure?" Sanger asked.
"He's there," Damon declared. "As you so quaintly put it, I set my mind to finding him, and here we are."
"Suit yourself," Sanger replied, and navigated the canoe toward shore.
The other boats followed obediently.
Cooper, Marsh, and Press walked quickly down the midway of an amusement park, surrounded by the wreckage of rides and attractions that provided no joy for the wandering, moaning souls that shuffled past.
Press carried a long, well-worn wooden stave that was covered with ancient-looking carvings.
"Good-luck charm?" Coop asked.
"A present from another spirit who means a lot to me," Press replied.
"The Watchers have friends?" Marsh asked.
Press laughed. "What good is an existence that can't be shared with others?"
"How does that work?" Coop asked. "Where do you go after the Black if—"
Press cut him off, saying, "One challenge at a time, all right?"
"It's no big deal," Coop argued. "I'd just like to know what we're fighting for."
"You're fighting for your life," Press answered soberly. "And for the lives of everyone who came before you and will come after."
Coop and Marsh exchanged looks.
Coop shrugged and sarcastically said, "Oh is that all?"
They arrived at the edge of a lake that was glowing orange. Press led the way as they stepped across a series of floating docks where several small, burned-out boats were tied up.
Marsh shuddered. "Reminds me of the marina on Thistledown Lake. Last time I was there, Damon sent a guy to kill me."
Tied to the farthest float was a small, wooden fishing boat with an outboard engine.
Coop said, "The last time I was in one of these, I died." Press hopped aboard the craft, fired up the engine with ease, and looked at the other two.
"Coming?"
Coop and Marsh jumped aboard and they pushed off. As Press motored quickly across the glassy orange lake, both were grateful that the steady sound of the engine drowned out the distant wailing moans.
"What did you have to do?" Marsh asked Press. "I mean, to capture Brennus?"
"He wasn't about to go down without a fight. Like I told you, physical existence here isn't much different than in the Light. It came down to an old-fashioned battle between Brennus and the spirits who stood against him."
"Been there," Coop said knowingly.
"I doubt that," Press shot back. "Brennus was protecting himself with these figments. I'm not sure how to describe them other than to say they are physical manifestations of fear."
Marsh asked, "You mean like living nightmares?"
"You could say that. I think they're more of a nuisance than a danger but Brennus was able to corral them and influence them into helping him."
The lake narrowed down to a river that snaked through a dark forest and eventually merged with another, wider river that glowed as orange as the lake.
"Did you actually get in the fight?" Coop asked. "With that stick?"
"I helped," Press said evasively. "They ambushed Brennus and sealed him in a vault that's part of his own vision. In the Light the guy lived near a cathedral full of ancient tombs."
"Well that's . . . creepy," Coop said.
Press said, "They forced Brennus into one of the cement tombs and sealed him inside."
"They buried him alive?" Marsh asked.
"So to speak," Press agreed.
"I don't know which is worse," Coop added, "being destroyed or living in a box for eternity."
Press didn't comment.
Sanger guided the canoe expertly to the riverbank and beached the craft. Damon jumped ashore quickly and stood in awe of the sight before him.
It was an immense cathedral made of gray stone. There was a massive single tower that dominated the structure, beneath which was an arched roof that was mostly collapsed. Whatever wooden elements had been part of the structure were long gone, leaving only the imposing stone shell. The building stood nearly a hundred yards back from the shore. The space between held the forlorn remains of a lush garden with winding paths, toppled walls, and curved arbors.
"He's here," Damon said eagerly. "I know it."
"What's the plan?" Sanger asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Damon gave him a dismissive glance. "The plan is for you to follow me and do exactly as I say."
He looked back to shore to see that the barges had all landed and the dozens of small demons were standing silently, shoulder to shoulder, ready. He allowed himself a small smile. He had only been in the Blood for a short while and he already had a following. His confidence soared.
He grabbed the poleax and held it up, if only for show.
"I will now free the spirit known as Brennus," he bellowed. "And take command
of his legions."
Damon expected the figments to let out a cheer of encouragement. Instead they remained chillingly silent, staring back at him with empty eyes.
Damon looked to Sanger, who shrugged and offered a weak, "Hooray."
Damon wanted to slash him with the poleax. Instead he kept his anger in check, turned, and strode toward the cathedral. Sanger glanced at the figments nervously and followed.
"Gotta tell ya," Sanger said. "I don't trust them little beasts."
"They are loyal to Brennus," Damon replied. "That is all that matters. Once Brennus joins me, their loyalty will be with me."
Suddenly the entire group of demons let out a collective, earsplitting shriek.
Damon spun in time to see the figments rushing toward him. He held out the poleax, ready to fight, but the demons wanted nothing to do with either of them. They ran past Damon and Sanger and continued on toward the cathedral.
Sanger said, "Now, what do you s'pose got into them?"
"Look!" Damon ordered, pointing to the cathedral.
The dark, empty building showed no signs of life . . . until spirits began pouring from the crumbled doorways and gaping windows.
"What is this?" Damon asked, stunned.
Sanger said, "I do believe we're in for a fight."
"What's that?" Marsh asked, listening.
"More wailing spirits," Coop said dismissively. "I'm getting used to it."
"No," Press said, his attention focused. "I think Damon may have beaten us here."
"Why do you say that?" Marsh asked nervously.
"The spirits who imprisoned Brennus have stood guard over the tomb. It sounds as though they have visitors." Coop and Marsh looked downriver to see a cathedral tower looming in the distance.
"Is that it?" Coop asked.
"That's it," Press said as he gunned the engine.
He turned the small craft quickly and sped toward the building.
Marsh's heart started to pound.
Coop pulled out his black sword.
"What's the plan?" Marsh asked nervously.
"Stay in the boat," Coop ordered. "I'll go after Damon."
Marsh didn't argue but had no intention of being left out. As frightened as he was to enter the battle, he had something that gave him confidence. He reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and grasped the crucible.
The sounds of battle grew louder as the boat neared shore.
"Avoid the spirits," Press said to Coop. "If they haven't stopped Damon, then you've got to get by them and stop him from unsealing the tomb, and you don't want to have to fight your way through them."
"Where is the tomb?" Coop asked.
"Inside the cathedral in the floor along the right aisle."
"Okay. What are you going to do?" Coop asked.
Press held the wooden stave out and said, "I'm your backup."
Marsh kept quiet.
Moments later they hit the riverbank. Press drove the boat up onto shore, grabbed his wooden stave, and leaped from the craft before it stopped moving. He was already running toward the cathedral before Marsh could reach back to kill the engine.
"That's how he backs me up?" Coop said, incredulous.
"I like that guy," Marsh said.
"Okay, Ralph, this is it. Wish me luck."
Before Marsh could respond, Coop jumped from the boat with his black sword out and ready.
Marsh clutched the golden crucible, waited until Coop was out of sight, then climbed out of the boat and ran toward the cathedral. His only plan was to get to Brennus's prison before Damon and hope that the crucible would prevent Damon from breaking in and releasing the spirit. He ran along the darkened, winding path, skirting skeletal bushes and dead trees, drawn to the sounds of clashing metal against shields and the screams of wounded spirits. When he shot through an opening in a mostly collapsed stone wall, he came upon the mayhem.
Dozens of human spirits battled the small animal-like figments. There was nothing elegant about the fight. The furry creatures clawed and bit at the spirits. The spirits were armed with short, crude clubs that they swung to keep the demons off them. The sound of the weapons hitting the figments was sickening. Spirits felt pain in the Blood, which was obvious from the agonized screeches coming from both sides.
The Watcher named Press had jumped into the thick of it. He spun his wooden stave expertly, knocking the figments aside, working his way through the battle to get to the cathedral.
Marsh saw that Cooper was in the midst of it as well, but he wasn't fighting the demons. Coop was in a fistfight with one of the human spirits. Marsh feared that he might have been fighting someone who was trying to protect the tomb, which is why Press told him to avoid the spirits. The tall, thin spirit was an old guy who threw punches with authority. Unlike most of the other spirits, it looked as though he had been in a few fights before, which wasn't good for Coop, because he had dropped his black sword. It lay several yards away from where they were fighting. Marsh thought of running to grab it for Coop, but realized he had a more important mission.
Damon was nowhere to be seen. There was only one possible explanation for where he could be, and it wasn't a good one. Marsh knew he had to get to the cathedral quickly and plotted a route that would skirt around the battleground to avoid getting caught up and slowed down by the conflict. He was about to take off running, when he felt a sharp point in his back.
"You are the absolute last person I expected to see here," came an all-too-familiar voice.
Marsh had been wrong . . . Damon wasn't in the cathedral.
Marsh took a quick step forward and spun to face his tormentor. His stomach turned when he realized that the weapon that was now held to his chest . . . was the poleax.
"I do not understand," Damon said. "I was done with you, yet here you are. What did you hope to accomplish by sacrificing your life after you fought so hard to protect it?"
"I . . . I'm going to stop you," Marsh said, trying to keep his voice from cracking.
Damon chuckled dismissively. "I admire your tenacity, but you have no hope of deterring me from my quest."
"Quest?" Marsh shot back. "Quest for what? To prove you weren't a coward in life? You can't change history." Damon stiffened.
"And what is it you hope to prove by coming here?" he said coldly. "That you are something other than a coddled mother's boy who shies at the realities of a cruel world? Let me offer you one last dose of reality. Your misguided act has doomed you to forever remain the pathetic, frightened little boy you so wished to leave behind."
Marsh grabbed the crucible, yanked it out of his pocket, and held it out toward Damon threateningly.
Damon was taken aback at the sight of the crucible, but didn't drop his sword.
Marsh held the orb out farther, expecting something to happen. Hoping for something to happen. The two stood facing each other, with Damon holding the point of the poleax at Marsh's chest.
Nothing happened.
Finally Damon offered a condescending smile.
"You do know that this is a dead existence," he said, smug. "There is no spiritual power in the Blood."
Marsh's stomach fell. The crucible was useless.
Damon swung the poleax without warning and knocked the orb out of Marsh's hand.
Marsh tried to catch it . . . too late. The golden ball hit the ground and shattered, splashing the blood of Alexander across the stone walkway. There was no earthquake or any other sign of the power that the crucible possessed in other dimensions. In the Blood it was no more powerful than an ordinary piece of shattered glass.
Marsh stared at the thick blood that trickled down and disappeared between the stones of the walkway, not wanting to believe that another crucible was gone.
Damon smiled in triumph. "I believe there is one last crucible still in the possession of the lovely Sydney."
Marsh looked up to the warrior, steeled himself, and said, "Which means you'll never get close to her."
"Not at first," Dam
on replied. "But these wretched crucibles hold no power over other spirits. Once my army marches into the Light, rest assured there will be no shortage of volunteers to hunt her down and destroy the infernal trinket that has kept me at bay for so long. Once it is gone, there will be nothing left to protect your lovely friend . . . from me."
Marsh screamed and jumped at Damon.
Damon quickly and calmly swung the poleax back toward Marsh . . . and drove the blade directly into his heart.
20
Marsh had never known such pain.
His entire body was racked with an excruciating agony that radiated out from the center of his chest. He couldn't even catch enough breath to scream out. The feeling of an alien object inside his body, cutting his flesh, nearly made his mind snap.
Damon pulled his lips back in an unconscious gesture, revealing the points of his two sharpened front teeth.
Marsh feared that Damon was going to rip out his heart and eat it, as he had done with so many of his enemies in the Light.
Damon shook his head, as if forcing that very desire from his mind. He pulled the poleax out of Marsh and examined the blade. It was clean. Spirits didn't bleed. Marsh fell to his knees, clutching his chest, holding his hand to the wound in a vain attempt to stop the searing agony.
"You are fortunate," Damon declared. "Pray I will not have this same opportunity in the Black."
With Marsh dismissed, Damon sidestepped him and strode toward the cathedral.
Marsh fell onto his side, gasping for air, willing the pain to go away. The sounds of the battle meant nothing to him. The battle itself was inconsequential. What mattered was that he had stood up to Damon and lost. The hurt that came from his pathetic failure rivaled the pain that tore through his chest. The only difference was that the pain from the injury slowly diminished. He blinked back the tears and dared to take his hand away from his wound. He examined it, expecting to see blood but not surprised when he didn't. Injuries were only a temporary setback. A painful setback, but minor nonetheless.
Marsh didn't want to have to go through anything like that again. He wanted to run off, find the Rift that led back into the Black, find his own vision, and crawl under his bed to hide.