Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood

by D. J. MacHale

  "Seriously? What gives you that impression?" Sydney demanded.

  "Because I believe that Damon has met his match," he said. "In all of us."

  Marsh took Sydney's hand and led her to the door. "Let's go."

  "No!" Sydney protested. "We can't just leave him. Marsh! Make him come with us!"

  Marsh shook his head. "He's made up his mind."

  "I don't believe this," Sydney screamed. "He's your friend! 'And he wants us to go, so let's go."

  "I will see you soon enough," Ennis assured her. "I promise."

  "Come with us, Ennis. Please," Sydney begged. "You can stay at Marsh's house. We'll all be together, with the crucible."

  "Good-bye, miss," Ennis said. "Good-bye, Marshmallow." Marsh stood in the doorway, holding eye contact with Ennis.

  "Be careful," he cautioned.

  Ennis nodded, then closed his apartment door and locked it up tight.

  Ennis was no longer afraid.

  He'd spent every moment since the first crucible was broken in the cursed tomb fearing the spirit that he had accidentally freed. He had watched Terri Seaver die as she slipped out of his grasp to fall into the Rift. That memory was far more haunting than anything Damon had since conjured. He feared for Ree's soul, and for the lives of her family. He feared for the havoc that Damon might cause in both this world and the next. And he feared for himself. It was the least of his fears, but the most present. He had lived in unceasing terror from the moment the first crucible had been broken on the rocky floor of Damon's tomb.

  But he wasn't afraid anymore.

  Hearing the story of Damon's haunting of Marsh and of Cooper's trip to the Black gave him the confidence to believe he no longer had to be a victim. He didn't know for certain what the future might hold, but he drew strength from the fact that whatever it was, he could deal with it and quite possibly make a difference.

  He was drained. And hungry. He went to the kitchen to see if there were any unopened bags of Doritos. He was about to push open the swinging door, when he heard a sound coming from within. It was the steady drip . . . drip . . . drip of a leaky faucet. He entered the kitchen to see that the faucet was indeed dripping. Strange. That had never happened before. Had he not cranked it all the way off? He tightened the handle and began his search for a fresh bag of chips . . . when he heard another dripping sound.

  He left the kitchen and headed down the hallway to the bathroom. The hollow plunking sound grew louder, echoing through the empty apartment. He entered the bathroom to see another leaky faucet. Stepping up to the sink, he saw his wan reflection in the mirror. The man who stared back at him looked like a stranger. He had lost weight and his hair had grown gray, but that was minor compared to the haunted look he saw in his own eyes. Strangely, that too gave him confidence. He felt hardened. After all he had been through, he felt ready to take the next step.

  "I believe I am ready," he said aloud to himself.

  There were decisions to be made and he needed to think clearly, so he opened up the cold water valve and splashed his face. There were no towels left in the room, so he crooked his elbow and wiped his face down with the sleeve of his soiled shirt. Standing up, he looked back at the mirror . . .

  . . . and came face-to-face with Damon of Epirus. The scarred apparition stared back at him, smiling hideously and baring his pointed front teeth.

  "I believe it is time we met," the vision said.

  The water spigot exploded, sending a high-powered jet of water into the room. Ennis backed away in surprise. His legs hit the edge of the bathtub and he fell inside. He landed on his back and looked up to see the shower head explode the same way, spewing a pressurized jet of water down on him. The tub faucets were next, shooting off the wall as gallons of water spewed into the room . . . more water than seemed possible. The toilet was next. It was rocked off of its base by a geyser of water that shot high and hit the ceiling, sending water cascading back into the room.

  It took Ennis several seconds to gather his wits and pull himself out of the tub. There was so much water spewing into the room from so many sources that the small bathroom began to fill up. In seconds the water level had reached his ankles. Ennis splashed for the door and grabbed the handle but it wouldn't turn. He was locked inside. He yanked desperately on the knob but the door wouldn't budge. There was one large window in the bathroom. Ennis went for it and struggled to lift it but the window would not open.

  The water had reached his knees and was rising fast. A strange calm came over Ennis. He had made a decision. A tough decision, but in that insane moment of impossibility he finally felt clarity. It was a good feeling. The children were right. Hiding wasn't an option. The fear wouldn't go away. Action had to be taken or they'd be lost.

  He didn't panic. It was as if he understood that what was happening was impossible, but he didn't care. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to keep his heart from racing, and moved deliberately to the sink. Looking into the mirror, he saw that the spirit was gone, though he knew Damon was still there. Somewhere. As water poured down over him, he pulled open the mirror that covered the medicine cabinet. Inside was a black Sharpie pen. He grabbed it, then glanced down to see that the water had reached his waist. Floating on the surface were several empty potato chip bags. He grabbed one and tore it apart until he had a rough piece of white plastic the size of a playing card. The vanity was already underwater so Ennis had to put the paper against the tiled wall in order to write on it. It took only a few seconds to scribble the message with the black marker. Satisfied that his words were legible, he tossed the pen and squeezed the paper into his hand.

  Above the sound of roaring water, Ennis heard another sound that was even more incongruous. It was the sweet sound of steel drum music. Being Jamaican, he was as familiar with the sound as he was with any other instrument. Rather than question why he was hearing it, he let the music calm him. The song reminded him of when he was a boy. Of soft white sand and warm tropical water. He turned to look out the window, but rather than seeing a view of New York, Ennis saw the shore of his home. A bright blue fishing boat sat beneath a small grove of palm trees on a white-sand beach under a warm Jamaican sun.

  The water had reached Ennis's chest. It wouldn't be long before it filled the room. He briefly wondered if it was possible to drown in an illusion. He focused on the window. On home. Ennis wanted to be there. He knew in his heart that he could make it. He also knew that he would first have to make another stop. It was a stop he was prepared to make. That he wanted to make.

  He was tired of being a victim.

  Marsh and Sydney hurried away from Ennis's building, headed back toward McSorley's to grab a cab to Grand Central.

  "This is wrong," Sydney declared angrily. "How can you just walk away and leave him unprotected like that?"

  "It's what he wanted."

  "He's out of his mind! Nobody can make rational choices when they're in such bad shape. This was a totally wasted—"

  She was cut off by the sound of smashing glass that was quickly followed by a terrified scream.

  Marsh stopped short. "Oh my god," he muttered to himself.

  He didn't have to look to know what was happening. Sydney did. She spun back toward Ennis's building in time to see a dark figure plummeting from the tenth floor. "No!" she screamed, and took off running back to the building.

  Marsh steeled himself and followed.

  Mercifully, neither saw the impact. The woman on the street who had screamed wasn't as lucky. She was coming out of a bodega and saw the whole thing . . . from the first sight of a man diving headfirst through the shattered glass ten stories above, to the horrifying plummet, and finally to the sickening crash as he landed in a narrow patch of grass, barely missing a spiked fence.

  Sydney ran up to the woman, who stared straight ahead in shock, pointing to the building. Sydney ran across the street, barely aware of the traffic that was screeching to a stop all around her. She only slowed when she saw the crumpled mass that was once
a human being. She stopped several feet away, not able to bring herself to go any closer.

  "Ennis?" she called out.

  There was no response.

  Marsh ran past her and went right to his friend. Looking down, he tried to convince himself that Ennis was simply unconscious. But his spine was twisted into an impossible angle that said otherwise. Marsh knelt down and forced himself to look at Ennis's face. He expected to see an expression frozen with fear but instead saw a man at peace.

  "You knew," Sydney said as she tentatively approached Marsh from behind. "You knew he was going to do this."

  "I didn't," Marsh countered.

  "Yes, you did," Sydney insisted, holding back tears.

  A far-off siren sounded. The authorities were on their way.

  "This was inevitable," Marsh said. "From the moment Ennis and my mom cracked the seal on that tomb. One way or another, Ennis was doomed."

  "And we did nothing to help him," Sydney said with disgust.

  The siren grew louder. Soon the police would come and take Ennis away. There would be questions. Marsh's dad would have to come. Marsh didn't care. His only concern was that the mechanics of putting Ennis to rest would take them away from their mission.

  From Ennis's mission.

  Marsh saw that Ennis had something clutched in his hand. A white piece of paper. Was it a suicide note? It had to have significance. Why else would he be holding it while jumping out of a window to his death? Marsh reached for it and gently removed it from Ennis's still-warm grasp.

  "Don't touch that," Sydney commanded.

  Marsh ignored her. Ennis's fingers gave up the paper easily. It looked to have been torn from a bag of chips. On one side was the colorful print from the product. Marsh flipped it to see that there was writing on the other side. Two simple words.

  Marsh read them and frowned. The words were familiar but he didn't know why. He looked down at Ennis, relieved that the man's eyes were closed.

  "Ennis," Marsh whispered. "Find Mom for me."

  He stood up and handed the torn paper to Sydney. "What's this?" she asked.

  "Ennis's last words."

  Sydney looked at the torn paper to see the two curious words.

  Lignum vitae.

  5

  Cooper was torn between the thrill of seeing the ancient wonder of the Colosseum in its original glory and figuring out a plan to find Damon.

  Whoever's vision he had found himself in, it was on a day when the Colosseum was rocking. Coop could hear the roar of what seemed like multiple thousands of spectators, who were inside cheering whatever mayhem was on display. The area around the stadium was also busy with hundreds of people milling about and chatting. It was like a game day tailgate scene . . . gladiator style.

  This vision was by far the most populated that Cooper had been to. Seeing the eclectic mix of spirits from so many eras made him realize that the Colosseum was just as big a tourist attraction in the Black as it was in the Light. He wondered if that applied to other interesting spots too. Could one spend their time in the Black bouncing from the Grand Canyon to the Great Wall of China and then make a quick side trip to Niagara Falls before hitting Disneyland? It made Coop think that he could be having a lot more fun in the Black than he had been.

  He stuck Damon's glove into the back pocket of his jeans and wandered toward the Colosseum, gazing up at the structure that was both familiar and alien. Though he had seen many pictures of the ruined structure, it took some imagination to recognize the iconic, crumbling image as it existed in modern day through the complete, pristine facade he now faced. It was four stories high with a ring of tall arches on the first three, many of which held large marble statues. The circular building was intact, unlike the contemporary ruins, where one whole side had collapsed. The exterior was light brown limestone that was constructed with such care to detail that it made Cooper lament the fact that the actual structure in the Light had crumbled into such disrepair.

  "It was called the Flavian Amphitheater," a man announced.

  A skinny guy wearing shorts, black knee socks, and sandals approached Coop holding a travel guide. The guy had on a loud aloha shirt and a New York Mets cap . . . not exactly a classic Roman look. It was more of a classic geektourist look.

  He continued, "Opened in 80 AD. They started calling it the Colosseum after that guy." He jerked his thumb toward the giant bronze statue that stood a few yards away. "The Emperor Nero. That statue is called the Colossus of Nero. Hence, the Colosseum."

  He looked up from his guide book to Coop, squinting against the bright sun. "Isn't that fascinating?"

  "No," Coop said flatly.

  The man shrugged and went back to his reading.

  "Does that book tell you whose vision this is?" Coop asked.

  "No. But it does say that the structure could hold up to fifty-five thousand spectators, which is roughly the capacity of Shea Stadium."

  "Or Citi Field," Coop said.

  The man gave Coop a curious look. "What's Citi Field?"

  "The new Shea."

  The man looked stunned. "No! Shea is gone?"

  "Hold on to your socks—so is the old Yankee Stadium." The guy's jaw dropped.

  "But I've only been dead a couple of years!"

  "Yeah, well, life goes on. What year is this?"

  The man scanned the surroundings. "My guess is it's pretty close to when they first opened for business. Did you know that to celebrate its opening they slaughtered over five thousand animals?"

  "No," Coop said coldly. "And I don't think that's fascinating either."

  "And they held a hundred straight days of competition. Right now they've got gladiators going at it inside. I took a peek but it's a tad barbaric for my taste. They outlawed gladiator battles in 438, so this vision is somewhere between 80 and 438. AD."

  "That's, like, a 350-year window," Coop said. "What kind of tour guide are you?"

  The guy straightened up, offended. "Just trying to help."

  He turned with a huff and hurried off in search of some other vision-hopping spirit to impress with his wealth of Roman trivia. Coop figured that if Damon had come to this vision, his reasons must have something to do with the action inside the Colosseum, so that's where he had to go.

  Entering the ancient stadium was simple. No ticket was required. He wandered through a tall archway into the cool of the shade beneath the seats and made his way toward the arena.

  "Man," he marveled aloud. "It's just like a stadium back at home."

  The general design concept was the same, but rather than steel and cement the Colosseum was constructed with wood, marble, and limestone. Coop pushed past bystanders to make his way through a long tunnel until he re-emerged into the hot sun . . . and was instantly dazzled by the spectacle of the arena. The mix of the familiar and the bizarre was overwhelming. He was on the lowest level, the same level as the competition. He looked up and around at the imposing structure to see that it was packed with cheering fans, and not all of them were citizens of ancient Rome. The raucous crowd had come from every other vision and age imaginable. There were soldiers from many different eras and countries, who sat in small groups, possibly having died together. The majority of the spectators were men, but there was also a peppering of women. Ladies with parasols sat next to primitive tribesmen in colorful wraps. They wore every kind of headgear imaginable, from turbans to feathered crowns, baseball caps to helmets, burkas to sun visors.

  "Peanuts!" Coop shouted, though he didn't expect to have a vendor toss him a bag. That was one of the few obvious differences between an event in ancient Rome and a baseball game at home. No vending.

  Though the spectators were as varied as could be, they all seemed to have one thing in common: They were all caught up in the excitement of the contest that was playing out on the floor of the arena. Coop walked down to the brick wall that surrounded the competition area and peered over the top to see that a fight was under way.

  Man, right out of the movies, he tho
ught.

  Two gladiators in full armor were hammering away at each other with oversize swords. There wasn't much elegance to the fight. It was a brutal battle of strength and stamina. Whoever ran out of gas first would lose. If it had been an actual battle in ancient Rome, a loss would have meant death. In the Black the worst that would happen is that the loser would experience the pain of being skewered and then have to endure the shame of defeat. Knowing that neither of the contenders was actually in danger of dying took some of the thrill of the fight away for Cooper.

  But not for the other spectators, who were leaning over from every level as if trying to get closer to the fight, while screaming commands and encouragement.

  No wonder they're all still stuck in the Black, Coop thought. They're vicious.

  Above him, on the second level, Cooper saw what looked to be an open-air royal luxury box with several men and women sitting in elaborate carved chairs. Unlike the rest of the stadium, which was in a fever pitch, these people looked totally bored, as if the sight of two huge men beating each other's brains out was an everyday occurrence . . . which it probably was.

  In the center of the box, seated in an elaborate golden throne, was a rotund man in a toga who casually ate from a tray of fruit.

  Coop grabbed a U.S. sailor who was walking by and asked, "Who's that guy?"

  The sailor looked up and said, "Emperor Titus. This is his show."

  "It's his vision?" Coop asked.

  "Yeah. He's been putting on these battles forever."

  Coop said, "Staging battles to the death isn't exactly a smart way to get out of the Black."

  The sailor shrugged. "Like I should care about him? Gotta go, pal. I got money riding on this fight."

  The sailor kept walking. Cooper thought the guy wouldn't be getting out of the Black anytime soon either.

  It wasn't that Coop felt as though everybody should be running around the Black picking flowers and spreading sunshine, but the people in that stadium were out for blood . . . not exactly proof that they were working hard toward becoming evolved spirits.