"Seriously? You've been here, like… a couple thousand years?"
"That surprises you?"
"Well, yeah. I thought the point of being here is to become the person you're supposed to be and move on. What makes you think you can help me if you haven't figured out how to move on yourself?"
Damon lunged at me and grabbed my shirt. It was so sudden, I didn't have a chance to react. His eyes turned dark again. He was a few inches shorter than me and pulled me down so that our noses nearly touched. The guy was small, but strong.
"Use care," he said with a seething whisper. "Many graves hold the bones of those who have shown me disrespect."
I was so stunned by his sudden snap that I didn't pull away. But I didn't back down, either.
"Yeah, well, I'm already dead. What are you gonna do? Kill me again?"
His eyes flared. I'd seen that look before. We were about to fight. That was okay by me. Spirit or no, I'd kick his ass. But rather than attack, his lips twisted into a hideous smile. He laughed, sending out a spray of spittle.
My brain froze when I saw that his two front teeth came to sharp points. It was such a freakish look that it made me catch my breath.
"There are fates worse than death," he said with a giddy chuckle.
He shoved me and I stumbled to the ground, hitting my shoulder against the base of another statue. It hurt. I may have been a spirit, but I still felt pain.
"No matter," he declared cheerily as if it was all a big joke between friends. "You will learn."
His sudden mood swings had me totally off balance, in more ways than one.
He added, "We would all be best served if you understood the consequences you face."
"Consequences of what?" I asked.
"For underestimating me. I am not a typical spirit of the Black."
Damon gestured toward the big building. On cue, two other guys rushed out. They were big, dangerous-looking dudes with long, wild hair. Their raggedy clothes were covered with brown stains that could have been dirt . . . or dried blood. The two hurried up to Damon, keeping their heads bowed obediently. Whoever Damon of Epirus was, he was the boss.
One guy carried leather body armor that he helped Damon put on over his robe.
"That's how it's going to be?" I said, getting to my feet. "We're gonna fight?"
"Of course not," he said. "You and I are friends."
I didn't argue with him. What was the point?
The second grubby-looking guy held out a long, dark sword. It was solid black, from the thick blade all the way to the heavy handle. The surface was smooth, like it was carved from stone and polished to a brilliant luster. Damon took the weapon and held it out horizontally to admire it. The sun glinted off the glossy blade, making him laugh like a happy kid with a new toy.
The guy was insane.
I had to fight the urge to turn and run.
Damon looked at me over the blade. "You are afraid."
I shrugged.
"Good," he said. "You should be."
"That's it? You want to prove how bad you are? Fine. Nice job. Put the sword down."
He glared at me with his wild, buggy eyes and smiled. I wondered how much it would hurt to be impaled by a sword… or bitten by those sharp fangs. What had I done to deserve this? Where was Gramps?
Five more guys marched out of the large building. All but one looked like the guys who had brought the sword and the armor to Damon. The fifth guy had on leather armor like Damon's, but where Damon's gear was new and unscratched, the armor on this guy was beaten up as if he'd been through more than one fight. He too had a sword, only this one was traditional with a metal blade.
The guy in armor was surrounded by the others, who escorted him like a prisoner. He kept glancing around nervously as if he didn't want to be there any more than I did. They marched toward us and stopped a few yards away.
Damon let out a small, muffled chuckle. "Isn't this exciting?" he asked me softly.
I didn't know how to answer that, so I didn't.
Damon turned to face the group. When the prisoner saw him, he stiffened in surprise.
"Damon," the guy said with a gasp of horror.
"Philip, my old friend!" Damon called out gregariously. "Why the surprise? Surely you knew this moment would come."
"I—I was loyal to you in life, Damon," the guy stammered nervously.
"Indeed," Damon said. "You waited until journeying further along the road until betraying me."
"This must stop!" the guy named Philip begged. "You are challenging the very nature of life."
"I suppose I am," Damon declared casually. "Does that frighten you?"
"Yes," the guy shot back. "This is a war that cannot be won."
"Perhaps not by you," Damon replied. "But I will give you the chance to prove me wrong. I see you have not given up your weapon."
Philip raised his silver sword. "My sword has served you well."
"Then, let us see if it will do the same for you," Damon declared, lifting his black sword.
When Philip saw the black blade, his knees went weak and he swayed as if about to pass out.
"I cannot hope to compete," Philip said, barely above a whisper.
"Then, perhaps you can take it from me," Damon declared.
The guys who were guarding Philip backed off. I took a few steps back too. I didn't want to get caught in the middle. It didn't seem like a fair fight. The prisoner named Philip was obviously an experienced soldier, where Damon was more of a pretender with a scary-looking sword. The real question was, what happened when you lost a sword fight in the Black?
"I do not want to battle you, Damon," Philip said.
"I know," Damon replied, and attacked without warning.
Philip quickly raised his sword to defend himself, and the fight was on. Damon took it right to Philip. He hammered away at the larger guy, driving him back across the courtyard. Philip was good. He blocked every one of Damon's violent attacks. The sound of clashing metal echoed off the buildings, along with the grunts from Damon that proved he was giving it his all.
There was nothing skillful about the way Damon fought. Philip, on the other hand, was quick and agile. He deftly swung his sword back and forth as if he knew exactly where the next blow would come from. Damon soon built up a sweat. Philip was barely challenged by the smaller man. He conserved his energy, letting Damon wear himself out. Philip's confidence grew. He anticipated Damon's attacks and was ready to block them before Damon even swung. Where Philip was barely out of breath, Damon was grunting and breathing hard. There was no way he would last much longer.
I couldn't take my eyes off the two warriors, though I was afraid to see what would happen when one of those swords finally hit skin and bone. Did spirits bleed?
Damon grew exhausted and his attack slowed. The black sword seemed to grow heavier each time he swung it.
Philip saw this and went on the offense, attacking Damon with short, quick swings. There was no wasted effort. Philip had fought the perfect fight. He let Damon burn himself out and would soon find an opening to strike back and end it.
It took everything I had not to yell out, "Kick his ass, Phil!"
Damon didn't seem nervous at all about how the fight was going. He taunted Philip as if he were in complete command.
"Pity," Damon said, breathless. "Such a skilled fighter." Each time Philip swung, Damon laughed. Or squealed with delight. It was eerie. What kind of tactic was he using? Philip didn't talk back. He was too busy wearing Damon down.
I looked to Damon's pals. They didn't seem concerned at all that their boss was being taken to school.
Damon lunged at Philip, but the more skilled fighter easily knocked away the blow. The force of the block threw Damon off balance. He stumbled forward, turning his back on Philip, and the superior fighter took advantage of his mistake. Philip expertly reached around Damon and grabbed his throat in a choke hold. At the same time he jammed Damon against a wall, pinning his sword arm.
"Release the weapon, Damon," Philip commanded. Damon's answer was to open his mouth and viciously bite down on Philip's forearm with his vampire-like fangs. Philip let out a scream of agony and released his grip to try and push Damon away, but Damon kept his mouth clamped on Philip's bare arm like an attack dog. The whole time, he was laughing. The guy was enjoying himself. It was disgusting.
Philip finally yanked his arm free and kicked Damon away. Damon stumbled, tripped, and fell. With a deft flick of his silver sword, Philip knocked Damon's black sword out of his hand, leaving him wide open for an attack. Damon lay flat on his back, breathing hard. Philip stood over him, holding the tip of his sword to Damon's chest.
I expected to see blood on Damon's lips, but there was none. Philip held his own sword with his damaged arm… that wasn't damaged. There was no wound. Philip may have felt pain from the bite, but there was no lasting injury.
Damon's pals didn't move to help their boss, which made no sense. Maybe they wanted him to lose as much as I did.
"No! Please!" Damon screamed, suddenly in a panic.
In seconds he had gone from supremely confident to begging for mercy.
"I will spare you," Philip said. "If you give up your quest."
"Truly?" Damon cried. "You will release me?"
"You have my word," Philip said.
Damon's pathetic cry turned to a laugh. He actually laughed.
I didn't see the joke, but then again, I'm not crazy. Damon laughed so hard that his face turned red and tears rolled down his cheeks.
Philip looked pained.
"I beg you, Damon," he said, his voice cracking with tension. "In the name of all those who fought and died for you, end this."
I didn't understand what was happening. Philip had won the fight. All he had to do was lean forward and drive his sword into Damon's chest and that would be it. End of story. Philip was acting as if Damon was still in control.
"Oh, Philip," Damon said, catching his breath. "Did you seriously believe this was an actual battle?"
Before Philip could answer, Damon lurched forward, driving the tip of Philip's sword straight into his own chest. He let out a howl of agony as the blade tore through him, his mouth opening wide in an anguished grimace to reveal his hideous pointed teeth.
"Oh man!" I screamed, and turned away.
Damon continued to wail with pain. I'd never seen anybody stabbed; I kept my eyes on the ground. Damon had committed suicide. Could a spirit commit suicide? I looked back to see Philip release the sword and take a few steps back from the skewered Damon. The sword had passed straight through Damon's upper chest and poked out his back. It was horrifying. Damon was breathing hard, his buggy eyes wild and darting every which way.
I thought he was finished… until he reached up to the sword, grasped the handle, and pulled it out.
I cringed. The sound of steel going through flesh was something I'd never heard before and didn't care to hear ever again. Damon held the sword out in front of him, still breathing hard. He examined the weapon, and laughed.
Nobody seemed all that surprised, except for me. There was no blood on the sword. Damon felt the pain, but there was no injury.
If I had any doubts before, they were now completely gone. We really were spirits.
My eye caught movement by the large building at the end of the square. Standing on the steps was another one of those people wearing dark clothing. It was a guy with gray hair and a mustache who didn't belong in ancient Macedonia any more than I did. He stood stock-still on the top step of the ancient structure, silently watching.
Damon stood and casually brushed dirt off his leather armor as if getting dirty was the worst thing that had happened to him. He then scooped up his black sword and stalked toward Philip.
Philip fell to his knees, whimpering.
"You knew it would end this way," Damon said, looming over him.
"Please, Damon," Philip whimpered. "You must end this." Damon smiled, revealing his sharp teeth. "Why, Philip, that is precisely what I intend to do."
With a move so sudden it made me jump back, Damon lifted his black sword and drove it into Philip's chest. Philip cried out in agony, but his pain didn't last long because the warrior instantly exploded in a small black cloud.
"Whoa!" I screamed, and dropped to one knee.
Dark vapor that was once a spirit named Philip rose up and blew away with the wind, leaving nothing but a memory. Damon raised his black sword into the air, a sign of victory.
His men cheered.
I looked to see the reaction of the gray-haired guy who was watching from the temple, but he was gone.
Damon turned to me with a look that I can best describe as crazed. He bared his sharp teeth and pointed the black sword toward me.
I didn't want any part of him, or that weapon, and backed off. With three quick steps Damon was on me. My back hit a building. I was trapped with the point of the sword digging into my neck.
"And there is your answer, Cooper Foley," he said with a casual calm that gave no hint of the violence that had just taken place. "If I choose to, I will kill you again."
6
Damon stared me down, daring me to make a move.
All he had to do was shove that black sword another inch and I'd be…what? Dust? Vapor? The only sound was Damon's heavy breathing and the steady drip…drip…drip from the fountain.
"I…I don't understand any of this," I managed to say.
Damon snickered. He pulled the sword away and backed off but I still didn't move. I had to be careful. The guy was a psycho.
"What happened to him?" I asked.
"I ended his existence," Damon replied casually. He pointed the black sword at me threateningly and added, "Do not tempt me to end yours."
"It's that sword," I said. "How could it do that? We're spirits. You bit him—which was disturbing, by the way—but there was no blood."
Damon licked his lips, which turned my stomach. "That sword is different," I added.
"Do you wish to continue stating the obvious, or shall we move on?" he asked.
I was beginning to hate this guy.
He motioned to one of his goons and the guy came running up. Damon handed him the black sword and the guy backed away while bowing his head. Another guy ran up and helped Damon take off his armor. They were terrified of him. I wondered why one of them didn't just grab the black sword and take a whack at Damon themselves.
"Why the armor if he had no chance of hurting you?" I asked.
"I am a warrior," he answered proudly. "A soldier. In life I commanded an army of thousands. I am most comfortable when dressed appropriately for battle."
The guy didn't look anything like a warrior, or fight like one, but I wasn't going to point that out. He must have been the guy who gave orders and stayed back where it was safe. Though he wasn't a physical threat, he was smart, which made him even more dangerous. Once the armor was off, all six guys hurried away and disappeared back into the stone building, leaving Damon and me alone.
He said, "You observed, correctly, that I have existed in the Black for quite some time. There is a reason."
"Can't imagine what that might be," I said. "You seem like such a great guy."
Damon gave me a nasty look. I decided not to jab him anymore.
"Unlike most other souls who simply pass through, I am trapped. A victim of those I once trusted."
He glanced up to the fountain and the giant statue of the stone warrior.
"Friend of yours?" I asked.
"No," he said coldly. "This is the vision of where I was betrayed in the Light, along with several of my loyal soldiers who chose to die rather than abandon me. We are all trapped here in the Black, unable to move further along the road."
"Okay. Why?"
"Our path is blocked. But now, finally, I have found the means to remove the obstruction."
"Good for you," I said. "How are you going to do that?"
"I'm not," Damon said with a smirk. "You are."
> "Uh… what?" I muttered.
Damon stepped aside to reveal a swirling cloud of color like the one Gramps brought me through when we were on the Ave. Or my vision of the Ave. Or whatever it was. He gestured for me to enter.
"No, thanks," I said. "I'll hang here with the statue."
"To understand you must observe."
"Observe what?"
His answer was to gesture to the cloud again.
It didn't seem like I had a choice. Not if I wanted to understand what was happening. So like I did with Gramps, I took a breath and stepped into the swirl.
It wasn't the same experience as before. No sooner did I lean into the cloud than the world changed. I was no longer standing on the sandy soil of the ancient square but had been transported to another place. Another time. It was totally disorienting because the surroundings were so different from where I'd been… yet at the same time it was all very familiar.
I was standing in the living room of my best friend, Marshall Seaver.
Damon stood next to me. Seeing this ancient character in Marshall's living room was like a surreal dream. I glanced around to see nothing but a lot of normal—right down to a TV show about sharks on Marsh's wide-screen.
"It's my vision of the Black," I declared. "So what?"
"It is not your vision," he replied. "We have entered the Light."
"We're here?" I asked, astonished, looking around. "We're really here? I mean, this is all… real?"
Damon yawned.
It didn't seem right. According to Gramps we could only observe the Light, not hang out there. I took a few tentative steps and saw something that proved Damon was telling the truth.
Lying on the couch, asleep, was Marsh.
"Hey, Ralph!" I leaned on the back of the couch but my hands passed right through as if it was a projection.
"Whoa!" I declared, and jumped back.
I looked to Damon, who shrugged, bored.
I swept my hand through the couch, testing to see if it was really there. It wasn't. Or I wasn't. It took a few seconds for me to understand: The couch was solid… I wasn't. I was a spirit in the Light. It wasn't the same as when I watched Marsh break that golden ball. This time I was actually in Marsh's living room. His real living room.
Morpheus Road 02 - The Black Page 5