Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood

by D. J. MacHale

  Sydney stepped even closer, mesmerized by the glow from within. It would be so simple to step inside and begin her own adventure. Everyone had to do it sooner or later. Everyone walked the Morpheus Road. She stood inches from the opening and put her hand on the marble wall of the crypt. It felt solid. And real. What lay beyond was just as real. Maybe more so. Answers to so many questions lay just beyond the opening. She tried to focus deeper inside to see if she could make out shapes. She looked up, to the sides, and then down.

  What she saw on the floor just beyond the edge of the Rift made her catch her breath and jump back.

  It was a hand. A lifeless hand. She got down onto her knees and peered into the bright light to see if she could see who it belonged to.

  "Marsh!" she exclaimed.

  Marsh's lifeless body lay just beyond the opening of the Rift. Sydney fought panic and acted out of instinct rather than logic. She reached inside, grabbed Marsh's wrist, and dragged him out into the mausoleum.

  She put her head to his chest, hoping to hear a heartbeat . . . and didn't. His skin was still warm to the touch, but his spirit had left his body. For the first time in her life, Sydney lost control and broke down sobbing. She had gotten the answer to one of her questions and wished she hadn't. The room seemed to spin beneath her.

  "Are you here?" she cried, looking around the tomb. "Are you with me? Talk to me. Cooper? Where is he?"

  There were no answers. Sydney was alone. She sat with Marsh's head in her lap for a good long time, weeping. In the span of a few short weeks she had lost two people who couldn't have been any closer to her. It made her feel painfully alone. She looked up to the Rift, staring into the inviting light.

  Gently resting Marsh's head down onto the marble floor, she stood up on shaky legs and walked toward the opening. She wanted to see Marsh again, not just his body. She wanted to hold him. She even wanted to hold Cooper. The two meant everything to her and she couldn't imagine being without them. Not anymore. Never before had she felt so utterly powerless and alone.

  She took a step closer to the gash, ready to step through . . . when she stopped.

  There was a weight in her jacket pocket. A familiar weight. It made her remember that there was more going on than simple life and death. There was so much more at stake. She remembered that as lonely as she felt at that moment, she wasn't. If she had learned anything over the past few weeks, it was that she would never be alone.

  She knew the right thing to do.

  Sydney knelt down and slipped her arms under Marsh's body. It was an awkward struggle, but she managed to lift him enough so that she could slide him back through the Rift. Once she was certain that every part of him was beyond the threshold, she reached out and grabbed the lignum vitae sculpture that was resting against the coffin. She stood up, faced the Rift, and wiped her eyes.

  "I don't know how you died," she called into the Rift, her voice shaking. "It might have been Damon or it might have been your own choice. But I know that one way or another, I'll see you again. We're fighting to save the Morpheus Road and I'm the only one left in the Light who knows that. I'm here. I'm ready to do whatever it takes."

  She reached into her pocket . . .

  "I think you guys need this more than I do."

  . . . and took out the sixth crucible.

  The last crucible.

  "I love you guys," she said.

  She grasped the crucible, kissed it . . . and rolled it into the Rift.

  23

  Damon stood high on the altar of the cathedral, hands on hips, proudly observing the impressive influx of spirits. They flowed into the ruins by the hundreds, filling the grand space. Thousands more followed, unable to enter the already overcrowded structure. The number of damned spirits that had been drawn to the cathedral dwarfed any army Damon had commanded in life, or in death. By comparison the loyal minions who fought for him in the Black seemed pitifully inadequate. Though they had triumphed over the Guardians, those spirits had been sent to the Blood by the uncharacteristic interference of the Watchers.

  He had lost a battle but was confident he would soon win a war.

  The spirits would bow at his feet, he knew that. He would then galvanize the horrific force and march them to the Rift, where they would join the spirits in the Black that he had lured to the vision of the emperor Titus. Most important, unlike every other battle he had been involved with, he planned to be at the forefront of this combined army. Brandishing his poleax, he would fulfill his true destiny. He would lead his troops into a glorious battle, charging through the visions of those who once questioned his bravery. They would all be mercilessly destroyed but not before kissing his feet and declaring his superiority. When they begged for pity, he would drive the poleax into their bodies, relishing their momentary flash of pain while making sure they understood that their existence had ended . . . by his hand.

  Once victory was assured in the Black, he would turn his army on the true prize.

  The Light.

  The scenario he had played over in his mind for centuries was no longer a dream. Revenge was at hand. Glory was at hand. His patience had been rewarded.

  Brennus stood beneath Damon, also observing the arrival of the throng. It seemed impossible that he could even stand, given the unnatural angle of his misshapen spine. He leaned on a gnarled crutch, his knuckles white from gripping its handle.

  Damon wondered how best to use this twisted spirit. There was no doubt that the arriving spirits had come in response to his release from captivity. Brennus had done his job well. He had created a movement . . . a yearning for vengeance and freedom. But ultimately he had failed. He could not provide the leadership of a warrior. It made Damon's confidence swell even further. Whatever slights he had received in life had only prepared him for this moment. He was meant to be there and to offer these cursed souls what Brennus could not.

  He was going to lead them back to life.

  The cathedral was packed, though strangely silent. Damon scanned the thousands of faces and saw their resolution. They were ripe. They wanted direction. He chuckled to himself, remembering the reaction he elicited from the spirits in the Colosseum when he had told them exactly what they wanted to hear. He had fired their passions to the point where they wanted nothing more than to follow him into battle. It was time to do the same to the spirits of the Blood.

  He raised his arms as if to embrace the assemblage.

  "Welcome!" he bellowed. "One and all. Your torment is about to end. I have come to lead you from an existence you have been so unjustly forced to accept and bring you to a better place. The Blood will be no more. We will never again return to this hell. The opportunity is upon us. Follow me and fight for your life. Fight for your future. Fight for the Light!"

  He stretched his arms out, waiting for the crowd to erupt with wildly enthusiastic cheers. Instead he was answered with silence. Each and every spirit stared up at him silently, as if not understanding what he was saying.

  Brennus shuffled to the stairs leading up to the altar where Damon stood. He dragged one foot behind him and had to lean on his crutch for support. Damon did not make a move to help him as the old spirit made his way slowly and painfully up the steps toward him.

  Damon addressed the crowd again, saying, "My first goal has been achieved. I have freed Brennus. What he promised you, I am now prepared to deliver. He has brought you here and I will lead you on. Thank you, Brennus. Your dream of freedom is about to be realized."

  The crowd remained silent.

  Damon looked about, confused. They had come because of Brennus, but invoking his name brought no reaction. Were these spirits capable of understanding? Could they even hear?

  Brennus shuffled up to Damon and stood uncomfortably close to him. His breathing was raspy. Climbing the few stairs had taken an immense amount of effort.

  "I give you Brennus!" Damon shouted. "He has been your heart; now I will be your soul."

  Brennus looked up to Damon through his tangle of gr
ay hair. The old spirit was frail, but the intensity of his gaze froze Damon.

  "There be a way into the Black?" Brennus asked, barely above a whisper.

  "Yes!" Damon answered, but to the crowd. "I have created the means for us all to leave this nightmare and return to the—"

  Brennus flashed his crutch toward Damon, hooking him behind the neck and pulling him down so their eyes met. Damon was so shocked by the audacity and the strength of the move that he didn't resist.

  "Where?" Brennus asked.

  Damon finally pulled away from the old spirit, his anger rising.

  "You dare!" Damon bellowed. "I have freed you. I offer to lead you to glory in the great battle and you lash out?"

  Brennus moved quickly, no longer shuffling like a twisted old man. He was on Damon before Damon could defend himself. He grabbed the warrior by the hair and yanked his head down so once again they were on the same level.

  The multitude of spirits didn't react.

  Damon reached for the poleax but Brennus grabbed his wrist with such strength that Damon feared he would snap bones.

  "Hear me words," Brennus hissed. "This not be a battle for glory. There be no noble victory to be won. No wrong to be righted. There be only one thing."

  "What is that?" Damon asked, through clenched teeth.

  "Escape."

  Damon couldn't move. He looked hopefully to the figments who had helped him get there, but the little devils stood impassively. The realization finally dawned on him: He was alone. He had no army and no allies. The glorious battle he had anticipated for centuries was slipping away.

  "We have the same goal," Damon argued. "I too wish to escape this horror and lead these spirits to freedom."

  Brennus jerked Damon's hair, making him scream.

  "Where be the way?" Brennus demanded.

  "No," Damon snarled through the pain. "The Rift was of my making. If these spirits are to pass through, I will lead them."

  Brennus let go and Damon fell to his knees. Brennus then motioned to the figments, who swarmed in quickly, grabbed Damon, and dragged him away. He struggled to free himself but there were too many hands on him.

  "Do not be a fool!" Damon shouted. "Only I can lead you to the Rift to join my army in the Black."

  The figments dragged Damon down off the altar. Damon dug in his heels but he was no match for the little demons. Brennus watched impassively.

  "I freed you!" he shouted to Brennus, his desperation growing.

  Brennus looked down on him from above and said, "What is it you want, then? Gratitude? Reward? Justice? You be in hell now. Those words be having no meaning."

  "Then you will rot here, for I will not reveal the location of the Rift!" Damon shouted back defiantly.

  Damon looked around desperately for anyone who might help him and caught sight of Sanger, who stood on the edge of the crowd with his arms folded.

  "Where have you been?" Damon demanded. "Do you see what's been happening to me?"

  "I do," Sanger said with a sly smile. "Ain't nothing compared to what's about to happen to ya."

  Sanger motioned down to the floor.

  Damon followed his gaze and saw that the demons were dragging him toward the open tomb that had been Brennus's prison. Several more banshees appeared with a perfectly milled slab of stone . . . just the right size to seal the opening of the tomb.

  "No!" Damon screamed to Brennus. "You dare not imprison me!"

  The figments held Damon on the edge of the tomb. He struggled desperately but it was no use.

  Sanger stepped up to him and pulled the poleax from its sheath.

  Damon's eyes blazed with anger as he was relieved of his precious weapon, but he was helpless to stop it.

  Sanger held the point of the weapon to Damon's neck.

  "Don't be a fool," Sanger whispered. "You may have been the nastiest fella to walk the face of the earth, but you're just one man." Sanger motioned to Brennus and added, "With him, you're dealing with the sins of thousands. Don't fight it. Just go along. Like I did. Like they all did. Ain't no shame in following somebody stronger than you."

  "No!" Damon screamed. "Damon of Epirus will not bow."

  Sanger shrugged and said, "Just as well. You ain't gonna have much room for any bowing in there anyhow."

  He nodded to the figments and they roughly tossed Damon into the tomb. Damon fell the few feet down and landed hard. He took one quick look around at the solid walls that would soon be his universe and felt the panic rise. He quickly jumped to his feet and reached up, wrapping his fingers on the edge to try and pull himself out.

  "Bad idea," Sanger said as he slashed at Damon's fingers with the poleax.

  Damon quickly pulled back and fell to the bottom of the tomb.

  "Don't want to go losing fingers," Sanger teased. "It'll be tough enough spending eternity in the dark. Can't imagine not being able to scratch an itch when you get one."

  He chuckled at his own cruel joke.

  "Do not do this!" Damon shouted to the spirits who stood surrounding the tomb. "I am your only hope. Brennus could not lead you out of the Blood, but I can. Seal me away, and you'll never find your way out."

  "Don't be so sure about that," Sanger said. "Might take a while, but we'll find it. That is, if it really exists."

  "It does! My followers are on the far side, waiting to form an army for the ages."

  The figments laid the stone slab down and began sliding it over the opening, slowly cutting Damon off.

  "Sounds promising," Sanger said. "Too bad you won't be around to see it."

  The figments slid the stone over the marble floor, scraping it into position.

  "It isn't just about the Black!" Damon shouted in desperation. "I can bring you back to the Light. To life! Brennus cannot say that."

  "Good night," Sanger said.

  "Wait!" Damon shouted in tears.

  Sanger held up his hand. He looked down at Damon without pity and said, "If you got something to say that means something, better say it now."

  Damon was breathing hard, his eyes wild. He looked up to Sanger but the old spirit showed no hint of compassion. "All right," Damon said through tortured gasps. "All right. I will bring you there."

  Brennus made his way down off the altar and dragged himself to the edge of the tomb, where he glared down at Damon.

  "Now," Brennus wheezed.

  24

  "You gotta do something," Cooper railed. "Talk to the guy in charge. Make the case. The Watchers shut down one Rift already. If they did it again, this would be over."

  "It doesn't work that way," Press replied. "There's nobody in charge. No governing council. No king. No president. I know that's hard to understand but it's the way it is."

  "You're talking all normal, like a regular spirit," Foley said to Press. "You sure you're a Watcher?"

  "Yeah, pretty sure," Press replied.

  "Who are the Watchers?" Maggie asked.

  "I told you before, we're you. We exist because mankind exists."

  "Well, that's all nice and cosmic," Coop snarled. "But if you don't step in, then mankind might not exist much longer, so you're in just as much trouble as the rest of us."

  "I understand that," Press said softly. "And I'm here to help, but do not expect any more than that."

  They had gathered in Zoe's vision in the small house in Greece where she had lived as a girl. Also there were Ree Seaver, Maggie Salinger, Eugene Foley, and of course Zoe.

  "So where did you come from?" Foley asked. "Where do any of you Watchers come from?"

  "The place you're all trying to reach," Press replied. "The end of the Morpheus Road."

  "I've been there," Coop spat. "It ain't pretty."

  "The other end," Press said with a chuckle.

  "Is it heaven?" Maggie asked.

  "It's been called that, but it's not really a reward. It's a place that's just . . . right. I don't know how else to describe it. I don't doubt that you'll all see it eventually."

  "If
we're lucky," Marsh said.

  "If we stop Damon," Coop added.

  The ominous reality caused everyone to fall silent.

  "All right," Coop said, jumping to his feet. "We're on our own. I get it. The only thing we can do is keep Damon from coming back through the Rift. If he doesn't get through, the poleax doesn't get through and he can't tear open any more highways, but there are a whole lot of bogeymen ganging up back there, so it's anybody's guess as to how long we can keep him back."

  Marsh said, "The Rift is being guarded on this side by Damon's spirits from the Black. We might not even get to it before Damon starts sending them through."

  All eyes went to Ree.

  "So?" Coop asked. "That brings us to our last hope. The Guardians. Did you find any of them?"

  Ree glanced to Zoe. Zoe gave her a nod and Ree stood up. "I'd like you all to come with me," she said.

  The colorful fog appeared behind her. Ree stepped into it and disappeared. The others followed without question.

  Seconds later they found themselves standing in the garage in lower Manhattan where Cooper and Maggie had first encountered the Guardians. The place was empty.

  Ree waited until they had all arrived before speaking.

  "We lost many of the Guardians during the battle for the Rift," she declared. "It was devastating. Once Damon's soldiers were sent to the Blood, the surviving Guardians scattered and went back to their own visions."

  "Their mission was complete," Zoe added. "My father's mission was complete. Though we lost many good spirits, the Rift was no more."

  "But things changed," Cooper said.

  "Yes," Zoe agreed. "Things changed. I have been through many visions, searching for the remaining Guardians, trying to bring them back together. It was not an easy task."

  Coop glanced around the empty garage. "Looks like it was impossible."

  "Not impossible," Ree said.

  The large garage door leading to the street began to rise, revealing several people standing outside. They stepped into the garage and stood together as a group. Maggie and Cooper recognized a few . . . veterans from the battle for the Rift. There were men and women from many different eras and walks of life, and though they represented widely diverse races and times, they all shared one trait . . . a grim look of determination.