CHAPTER 41

THE SEVEN SYMBOLS

To understand your enemies, search for the method behind their actions.

—PA ABNER

The Lost Causes gazed up in disbelief at the colossal corkscrew. The architecture of the hollowed-out ceiling was unmistakable. It was Rose’s brand.

“The Reverend must’ve based his mark on that image,” Keech said. “He must’ve stood in this very place and looked up, like we’re doing now.”

“He’s been trapped here for so long, he likely grew obsessed with it,” Quinn added.

Nearby, Strong Heart called out to them. She had slipped away from the group and now stood inside a small passage whose mouth began where their spiral walkway ended.

When Keech and the others joined her, they found her standing next to a series of petroglyphs arranged in a rough circle on the wall. “Look at these.” She pointed at the shapes.

The young riders gathered around the alcove to study the images.

“What are these?” asked Sam.

Keech couldn’t believe his own eyes. “These are the same symbols we saw in the House of the Rabbit!”

Duck’s eyes flared with exhilaration. “Except here the Devil’s mark stands in their center.” She lightly traced each symbol in the air, careful not to touch them.

“You were right, Duck. These are the same seven images engraved on the shards; I’m sure of it,” Keech said.

Duck pulled out her silver charm to have a look. The fragment showed part of a crooked Y, like the branching symbol on the wall. The other side of the shard revealed a portion of a slitted, sideways eye—again, the same image as the eye carved before them. “I knew it! If we assembled all five shards, we’d see each of these symbols.”

Sam looked nervous. “The number seven’s mighty important in the Bible.”

Keech said, “That’s what I said at first, too. Except I don’t think we’d find these symbols in the Bible. I think they do tell a story, but one about the Big Snake.”

“What do you mean?” asked Quinn.

“Seven symbols, seven rascals we’ve encountered.” Keech held up his hands and counted fingers. “One. Bad Whiskey Nelson. Two. Big Ben Loving. Three. Coward. Four. Ignatio. That awful Weaver, Black Charlie, makes five. And Lost Tucker, the fiend Sheriff Turner and O’Brien are fighting outside—that makes six. And last but not least…”

“Rose,” Duck answered.

Keech tapped the concentric shapes carved into the stone. “Seven outlaws, all gathering together inside the great spiral, the Palace of the Thunders. I don’t know what the symbols are supposed to mean, but I’d wager Enoch prophesied about the coming of the Big Snake, and the taking of the relics. That’s what we’re seeing.”

Sam’s eyes bulged in surprise. “Did you say Enoch? As in the Old Testament Enoch?”

Keech slapped a hand against Sam’s back. “Long story. I’ll tell it on the ride home.” He gave all his trailmates a serious look. “And we will ride home. All of us.”

The Lost Causes started down the passage, their footsteps echoing along the walkway. As they moved, they noticed the walls were covered with more etchings of grotesque creatures. The unsettling images made Keech wonder about the ancient inhabitants who had created this secret place. Perhaps they had built the Palace to revere the Dead Rift, the cataclysmic result of destructive magic. Or, perhaps, they had built it to keep the Dead Rift and its monsters from spreading over the Earth.

After a short time, the corridor leveled out and the walls widened till the young riders emerged into a cavern, a mind-boggling chamber that glowed with a fierce yellow light. Rows of giant pillars supported the ceiling, each column stretching on for several yards.

“I ain’t believing my eyes,” muttered Quinn.

The illumination didn’t look like any natural light Keech had ever seen. It seemed to fill the chamber, yet numerous shadows lurked in the edges and cracks of the cavern. There was something sickly about the light, as if it wanted desperately to be darkness but was cursed to glimmer instead.

“The Dead Rift has tainted this place,” Strong Heart said.

Moldering heaps of gray muck were scattered across the cavern floor. Quinn stepped toward one, then reeled back. “It smells bad.”

“Best not touch it,” Duck said.

Keech lifted his eyes to survey the vast room. Despite the morbid light, the Palace walls and the columns jutting up to the ceiling were the deepest black. Engravings that depicted unnatural beasts and terrible monsters covered every inch. The etchings seemed to move, as if they were trying to rise from the very stone.

Keech whispered, “Duck, we know this place.”

“Our dream.” Duck gripped his hand. “This is the place we dreamed about!”

A barrage of horrid images assaulted Keech’s mind, images from the nightmare he and Duck had shared inside the Moss House in Kansas, where they’d first met Doyle and slept mere feet from the Char Stone. The dream had shown them horrible things. A great cavern filled with impossible light, black stone walls teeming with grotesque life, and shadow versions of their fathers, Bill Blackwood and Noah Embry, leading them toward the Reverend.

“In the dream, my father said the Reverend had woken in the Palace…”

“My pa said the same thing,” Duck reminded him. “But why would the dream show us this place?”

“Because you were always meant to come here.”

The voice spoke from the reaches of the vast chamber. It was a baritone voice, calm and inviting, and it echoed off the walls. Keech recognized it immediately.

Edgar Doyle stepped out of a shadowy corner, limping as he approached.

“When the Reverend first brought us here, he called this room the Antechamber,” the Ranger continued, waving his arms at the walls and ceiling. “Based on his readings of the Enoch scroll, he believed it to be some kind of courtyard, or great hall, where gatherings occurred. This room leads into the main temple, the source of the power.”

Doyle’s face remained hidden, but Keech could make out splotches of blood on his leather garb. The Ranger grinned, his whiskered mouth the only visible part of his features. He lifted his hand toward them, an open palm inviting them closer. When they didn’t budge, he gently laughed. “Don’t fret, my friends. I’ve taken care of everything. The Reverend won’t pose a problem anymore.”

“Ranger Doyle? Are you okay?” asked Quinn, frowning.

“Of course, Mr. Revels! I was mighty sick before, blind to the true consequences of my actions, but now I’ve been…” Doyle’s voice faded to a mere whisper. “Fixed.” When the Lost Causes glanced at one another with concern, the man added, “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

“Not a chance, Doyle.” Perhaps a few months ago, Keech would have granted the Ranger the benefit of the doubt, but he’d learned plenty of lessons on trust.

The Enforcer once known as Red Jeffreys stepped closer, moving out of the shadows so that Keech could see the rest of his face. Doyle’s skin looked pasty and ill, his neck dripping with sweat, his dark eyes winking maniacal energy. The Ranger’s forehead had been badly charred. The burn was not a simple wound, but a deliberate shape.

A spiral.