Marcus caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, and turned his gaze from the pulpit to
the nearby altar. Covered in a pristine white doth with golden stitching, the altar was backed by an
oversized heavy plaster sculpture depicting Christ in his agony on the cross.
Tiny sparks of bluish-white light seemed to be playing around the altar. Some of them rolled off the
top, more like globules of mercury than flashes of light. Everyone else was fixated on Consody in the
pulpit, and Raymond Marcus felt a sudden elation welling up inside him.
Lurching to his feet, he pushed past a couple of people and into the aisle. The bluish light grew
stronger as Marcus walked purposefully toward the altar, his gaze never leaving it.
A miracle! The words soared in his mind like a hymn of praise. There's going to be a miracle!
A couple of feet from the altar, the pain in his face forgotten, he stopped and leached out a hand
toward the sparkling light that danced in front of him.
The altar erupted with a roar like thunder.
A dense column of blue energy shot straight up from it, engulfing Marcus's outstretched hand. He
screamed in sudden, surprised pain as the skin on his hand and wrist began to blister. Dazedly, he
smelled the reek of his own burning flesh and desperately wrenched his hand away.
He stared at his wrist in shock, unable for a moment to comprehend what had happened. His hand had
disappeared almost entirely, leaving only a few strips of charred skin flapping off burned bone.
Dimly, he was aware of voices shouting and people leaping to their feet. Then the column of energy
struck the cathedral ceiling, twenty-five feet above. Beams and rafters cracked and broke, then
tumbled down into the church interior.
Raymond Marcus looked up, just in time to see the falling wooden crossbeam that crushed him to
death.
The column of blue light seemed to dance on the altar, still bringing sections of the cathedral roof
crashing down on the people below. Dozens lay where they'd fallen, their bodies crushed and broken,
while hundreds of others milled around in panic and confusion. The pulpit had shattered like
matchwood under the weight of falling timber, and John Consody's lifeless body lay sprawled next to it.