“That was how Loki put it,” I said. “Almost like they were part of the same, ominous organization. Tiamat. Bahamut. Scylla. Fenrir.” I enunciated every name with a slash of my sword, and each time, Mason danced out of my trajectory. With his reflexes, he hardly needed his mystical shield at all. “All of the most legendary mythical beasts, from almost every culture. Apparently they all hang out together.”
“Interesting,” Carver said, watching from the far end of the room. “Very interesting indeed.”
It was an unusual setup. Mason and I were sparring on that same interdimensional platform that the Boneyard had grown explicitly for our use, the new room that we liked to think of as our magical dojo. Carver had not-so-gently suggested that my reunion with the Dark Room probably meant that I should take measures to get reacquainted with its strange powers.
Mainly the point was to practice harder, and maintain enough control to avoid a repeat of that one very awkward time that the Dark Room took possession of my body at Brandt Manor and tried to kill all my friends. No biggie.
Mason was only too happy to oblige. He said he needed the practice, too, but the past ten or so minutes that we’d been sparring had shown me that it wasn’t just an infusion of angel blood Samyaza had passed down to him, but some pretty gnarly physical fighting prowess, too.
Handling weaponry – sorry, the Vestments, as Mason called them – came so naturally to him. It helped that the golden weapons and protections he conjured out of nowhere seemed to weigh almost nothing. I mean he was strong, to be sure, but the huge kite shield he was lugging around to protect himself couldn’t have been heavier than a big piece of cardboard in his hands.
To be fair, it was the same with the shadow blade I’d learned to conjure for myself. It was thin, wicked, razor-sharp, but it handled so cleanly that fighting with it felt even smoother than swinging Vanitas around. The shadow blade brought all the danger and cutting power of a real sword, minus the weight. It took some getting used to, but I was convinced that with enough practice I could make the process as fluid and graceful as trying to murder someone with a feather.
“Wishful thinking,” Vanitas growled in my mind as I went in for another slash. He hovered just at the edge of the dojo, floating in the inky abyss that surrounded it. I forgot to mention. He’d taken the role of mentor, quite rightly pointing out early on that fighting with the shadow sword was completely different from anything he’d ever experienced in mortal life. “You need more focus,” he said, “and what did I tell you about strengthening your body?”
I gritted my teeth as I lunged, as Mason nimbly danced out of the way yet again. “What’s the point of building muscle if the sword weighs nothing?”
“Oh, nothing,” Vanitas started, his voice dripping with sarcasm, the red light of his garnets flickering in the corner of my vision. “A longer life, maybe, better physical health as a result. A stronger body, for a start. Maybe you just want to look good for your partner, eh? But don’t mind me, what do I know? I don’t even have a body.”
“Oh my God, Vanitas, shut up.”
“Never, not until you acknowledge that the sword is an extension of your body and your spirit – more literally than you know. Otherwise, it’s just a glorified toothpick.”
“Its name is Nightmare,” I roared, bringing the sword around in a huge arc.
I realized too late that I’d said that out loud with my mouth. The change in Mason’s face was only just perceptible, the corner of his lips lifting into a mischievous grin. I knew what was coming before it hit me. He lifted his shield arm to meet Nightmare, the collision clanging like metal against metal despite the two being made of ethereal energy. His shield vanished, and he smiled harder as he charged forward, extending his other arm. The shield reappeared there, mystically shunted through space, just in time to slam powerfully into my chest. I flew off my feet, then landed heavily on the dusty ground.
Breathing – no, wheezing was hard enough, the air knocked clean out of my lungs. My fingers clawed at the stone floor as I looked for purchase, struggling to get to my feet. I pushed off the ground with both hands before I realized that Nightmare was gone, disengaged and returned to the Dark because I’d lost focus. Looking down at my bloodied hand I found what was in its place: a gaping black hole, leaking pure shadow from the Dark Room.
“Dustin,” Carver called out, his voice ringing with warning. “Dustin, control yourself.”
It sounded as if his voice was coming from another room. The world felt hazier, not just from the difficulty of breathing, I knew, but because my body was surrendering to the old, familiar reflex of falling back on the Dark Room’s power. Let us take over, the shadows seemed to say. We’ll take it from here.
“No,” I said groggily, my eyes focusing on the gaps between the great stones lining the floor of the dojo. “I’m – I’m in control.”
“Dust?” It was Mason’s voice. His hand reached for my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Are you okay, man? Look, I can help you up.”
“No,” I said, chuckling.
“Mason,” Carver barked. “Get away.”
I did it again. The shadows surged from the opening in my palm, as if my body itself had become a doorway for the Dark Room. The black tendrils almost felt like a hand, curling around my fingers, pressing gently. They were reassuring, possessive.
“Get away from me,” I screamed. Whether the words were meant for Mason or the Dark Room, I wasn’t sure. But they triggered something in the shadows, causing them to gush in an eruption of midnight black, bursting from the ground in a horrible geyser of tentacles and knives.
Carver shouted out. Vanitas sped towards me, his blade readied, not to defend me, I knew, but to fight me if it came to it. But Mason only stumbled back a few paces. My eyes were still focused on the ground, on his shoes as they scuffed the floor – and on the droplets of blood that spilled onto the gray, dusty stone.
I sprang away in horror, staring at my hands, then up at Mason, expecting the worst. He looked me for a moment, his expression neutral, before he wiped one hand against his cheek. It left a streak of blood in a horizontal smear, just under his eye.
“I’m so sorry,” I muttered hoarsely, my head clearing, the myriad voices of the Dark Room fading into nothing.
Mason looked at his bloodied hand, then at me, with that same empty expression. Then he smiled. “It’s nothing. Just a nick. Don’t worry about it.”
Carver’s boot heels clacked as he crossed the floor, heading straight for Mason. Carver clutched his face, firmly, but gently, his false eye pulsing with faint light as he examined the wound.
“It’s just a scratch,” Carver said. “Go and find Asher, Mason. See that he cleans the wound and heals you up nicely.” Carver’s false eye swiveled down at me, glaring accusingly. “That will be quite enough practice for one day.”
I chewed my lip, staring at Mason’s cheek worriedly. “I’m so sorry, dude.”