Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood (4 page)

Something had happened in that hut. Something violent.

Coop continued to turn slowly until his eyes set on something that appeared out of place. A long wooden table was set up along one wall, and was loaded with the makings of an incredible feast. There were wooden bowls brimming with fruit, loaves of freshly baked bread, bunches of succu
lent vegetables, crackling roasted meats, and pitchers filled with wine. A candle burned at either end, adding a touch of elegance. Running parallel to this table and pushed right against it was another. It might have been a bench for sit
ting except for the fact that it was on the same level as the
brimming table. This second table was empty except for a single pillow on one end, as if ready for a corpulent king to recline and partake of the incredible feast.

It was an incongruous display of abundance in the peasant-like hut.

"You having a party?" Coop asked.

The old man glanced to the table and snickered. He put the recorder down on the bench and walked to the fire.

"Forgive the rough treatment," he said politely with a thick Irish accent. "They be protecting me.
Me
name is Riagan, though I suppose you already be knowing that."

"What are they protecting you from?" Coop asked. "Hungry neighbors?"

Riagan glanced at the feast and frowned. "That feast be the last thing me neighbors be wanting. Those coming here seek something far different, but they be wasting their time, as be you."

He tossed a flat brick of black earth onto the fire, mak
ing sparks fly. Coop cringed. It was a chunk of that cow
flop-looking stuff he saw in piles outside that was burning and producing the foul smell that permeated the village.

"I'm searching too," Coop said. "Not for food, for a man."

Riagan gave Coop a sad smile. "Course you be," he said, sounding tired. "They all be. But I have to be telling ya the same as I told 'em all: He no longer be here."

Coop's heart sank. The glass shard had led him to the right place, but too late.

"Wait," Coop said. "Other people are looking for him?"

"Surprised are ya?" Riagan said. "People been coming here for generations, from every corner of the Black and every type of vision there be. Same as when we lived in the Light. They all be after the same thing . . . that no longer be here."

The man sat back down on his bench and picked up his
recorder. "So you might as well go back to where you came from and make way for the next poor soul I'll be having to disappoint."

He started to play again, but Coop ran in front of him. "Whoa, wait. What do you think I'm looking for?"

The old man shrugged. "Redemption? Salvation? Call it what you like. All be the same."

Coop's mind raced.

"No, it isn't," Coop said. "We're talking about two dif
ferent things."

"I think not," the old man said, irritated. "The only rea
son anyone be coming here is to seek me brother."

Coop took a surprised step back. "Damon's your brother?"

"Damon?" Riagan said, confused. "
Me
brother's name is Brennus. He goes by no other."

Cooper backed away from Riagan, scanning the hut, try
ing to understand what it was he had stumbled onto.

"I . . . I don't get it," Coop mumbled. He felt the sharp shard of glass from the crucible in his pocket. "Damon must have come here."

"Perhaps this Damon be seeking Brennus as well," Riagan replied. "Many pass this way. I never learn all the names. Turning them back be my fate now, and I suppose it be deserved. It be a penance I been paying for longer than I care to remember."

"That must be it," Coop declared. "Damon was here, maybe looking for your brother. He must have, or why else would the crucible have led me here?"

"I know of no crucible."

"Damon was a warrior," Coop explained, his excitement growing. "From ancient Macedonia. He's short and stocky. His face is covered with scars. And, oh yeah, major detail: His two front teeth are sharpened to points."

Riagan's eyes widened with understanding . . . and fear. He backed off the bench, knocking it over as if trying to get as far away from Cooper as possible.

"That devil be the one you seek?" he asked fearfully.

"So he
was
here!" Cooper exclaimed.

"Aye!" Riagan replied. "When he learned Brennus was here no longer, he turned into a wild man. Certain he was
that I be holding back the truth, but on whatever small scrap of honor I be keeping, I swore to him I know not where me brother has gone."

"Let me guess. Damon didn't like that."

"Flew into a rage, he did," Riagan said, pointing to the damaged furniture. "Threatened to end me if I did not speak
the truth, but I told him I'd be welcoming the end rather than having to spend another second in this cursed vision. I begged him to lead me that way."

"So he left you alone, right?"

Riagan nodded, his lips quivering. "The life I led was not a good one. Ashamed I am for me part in Brennus's crimes. If
I could take back what I done, I would. But since that can
not be, I deserve whatever punishment is fair. That I accept. But trapped here in such a nightmare for all eternity is a fate beyond cruel."

Riagan dropped to his knees in front of Cooper, grab
bing at Coop's black T-shirt.

"Help me, lad," he cried. "Can you
end
me? I be too weak for the Blood, but even that would be a far sight better than this limbo. I beg ya. Destroy me if you can."

Cooper pushed Riagan away, and the old man fell to his elbows on the dirt floor, sobbing.

"Who is your brother?" Coop asked. "What's so special about him that he can offer salvation?"

Riagan sobbed, "You truly do not know?"

"No!"

"Then I will not be the one to reveal such dark truths."

"Oh no, you can't do that," Coop yelled with frustra
tion. He grabbed Riagan by the back of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. "Why was Damon looking for him? There's no way he cared about redemption. There has to be another reason."

Riagan looked deep into Cooper's eyes. Cooper saw how tortured the old spirit was.

"Damon is truly who you seek?" he asked. "Not Brennus?"

"Yes," Coop said, and pushed him away.

The tortured spirit shuffled to a table, where he picked up a worn brown leather glove.

"He pulled this from his hand before he started on me," Riagan explained with disdain. "Said he wanted to feel me bones break when he struck me."

"That's about his speed."

Riagan tossed the glove to Cooper as if he didn't want to touch it any longer. Coop caught it awkwardly.

That should help you find the devil," Riagan said. "But do not be telling him ya got it from me."

"Don't worry."

"Now go," Riagan demanded. "It makes me fearful
havin
' a spirit here that be party to that beast."

"Not until you tell me what your brother does here," Coop said.

"Maedoc!" Riagan suddenly shouted.

The door flew open, and the two bearded guards tum
bled in.

"Help me!" Riagan called out.

The two peasants charged for Cooper, but Coop was too fast. He clutched the leather glove and took a quick step backward out of the vision. He wasn't even thinking of where he might go. It was more about not being there any
more. He backed out of Riagan's dark vision . . .

. . . into bright, warm sunlight. Replacing the quiet of the pine forest was a rush of sound that swept over him like a massive, charging wave. Coop covered his head and fell to the ground to protect himself from whatever was headed his way.

The sound grew to a quick crescendo, then died back down to a steady roar. Without looking, Coop knew exactly what the sound was. He'd heard it many times before.

It was cheering. Big crowd cheering.

He cautiously peeked out from under his arms to see that he was next to a massive structure. A stadium. The
roaring sound was the w
hite noise of excited fans, com
ing from inside. Another cheer went up. Coop figured that somebody must have scored a touchdown or hit a home run.

He stood slowly and heard another sound. Something was headed toward him, fast. He turned quickly to see a man on horseback charging his way. Coop had to dive away or he would have been trampled.

"Dude!" he called to the oblivious rider. "What the heck!" The rider didn't react. Cooper saw that he was wearing armor of some sort, with a golden helmet.

His first thought:
Mascot.
What team had a Roman centurion-looking mascot? Michigan State? USC? Coop had
no idea what Damon would be doing in somebody's vision
of a college football game. He looked out at the parking lot for answers and saw . . . it wasn't a parking lot. Rather than
pavement, the stadium was surrounded by acres of grass and lush, flowering gardens. Far beyond the stadium he saw an immense arch, behind which were more massive struc
tures held up by soaring columns. Next to the arch was a tremendous bronze statue that rivaled the Statue of Liberty in size, only this was a naked guy with a wreath of laurel wrapped around his head.

Not USC,
he thought.
Not even close.
People from many different eras milled about. He saw
modern soldiers and ancient warriors. There were men wearing everything from business suits, to togas, to shorts
and sneakers. Some women were dressed as if they were
going to the opera, while others wore matching brightly col
ored warm-up suits. As confusing as the sight was, it made
sense. This was the Black. If there was a big game going on in somebody's vision, why wouldn't people from differ
ent visions and times come to watch? It was all so strangely explainable. The real question was: Whose vision was it and where exactly was he?

And where was Damon?

The answer came in the form of a platoon of soldiers. They marched in formation leading a horse-drawn cart that
was carrying people. Prisoners. The men being transported wore dirty white tunics and shackles around their ankles. The soldiers had spears and wore gleaming ceremonial armor. They led the wagon through the archway and into the stadium, disappearing into the dark depths.

Cooper realized where he was.

Not a stadium,
he said to himself.
At least not like any stadium I've been to.

It made perfect sense. It was just the kind of place that Damon would appreciate. Seeing innocent people being fed
to lions was right up his alley. Without stopping to imag
ine the carnage he might encounter inside, Cooper jogged toward the huge structure that up until that moment he had only seen in pictures, in movies, and in ruins.

It was the Colosseum in ancient Rome.

"I cannot come to the phone at this time," announced the familiar male voice with the unmistakable lilting Jamaican accent. "Please leave a message after you hear the tone."

The tone sounded, followed immediately by an annoy
ing computer voice that declared, "Message box full."

Marsh had made at least a dozen calls and hit the same dead end each time. He kept hoping that Ennis would eventu
ally pick up. Or clear out his mailbox. He didn't bother text
ing because Ennis's phone was a relic and didn't have that capability. With no way to make contact, Marsh had no choice but to hunt him down in person.

He and Sydney rode the commuter train into New York City from Stony Brook with the plan of going to Ennis's apartment in the East Village in Lower Manhattan.

"How can you be sure he's even in town?" Sydney asked.

"I can't," was Marsh's curt answer.

"So this could be a total waste of time."

Marsh stared out the window. "It could, but I don't know what else to do,
Syd
."

He said this with such a strong sense of pain and frus
tration that it made Sydney's heart ache. She could see how much pressure he was under, so she went against her normal instincts and didn't press him. She knew that for the most part this was his show, and though she was usually one to take command, she decided to take a backseat for once and follow his lead. That's how much she cared about him.

Sydney tried to remember him as the nerdy little guy who used to hang around the house with her little brother playing Nintendo and futilely trying to impress her by showing off his knowledge of all things Batman. She barely gave him a second thought back then. Now that she had feelings for him, she wished she could see through to that young, immature guy once more just to remember the way he used to get so excited over something so silly.

But too much had happened since then. Marsh had become a different guy.

Sydney chuckled to herself.

"What's funny?" he asked.

She held his hand and said, "I was just thinking about when we were kids and how you used to get all twitchy-nervous when I was around."

Marsh smiled. "I didn't think you knew I existed."

"I knew. I just thought you were annoying, so I avoided you."

"Gee, thanks."

"But I don't make you nervous anymore."

Marsh nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, you do. It's just . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Just what?" she asked.

Marsh shrugged. "There are other things I'm a lot more nervous about."

Reality had returned, quickly. Sydney nodded sadly and put her head on his shoulder. They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Marsh wasn't used to getting around in the city, so when they arrived at Grand Central Terminal (the real one, not Ree's vision in the Black), Sydney took charge and found them a cab. It wasn't difficult. Sydney was hard to miss in her jean shorts, and a cab nearly caused a huge accident by careening across three lanes of traffic on Lexington Avenue to get to her. Sydney and Marsh hopped in with a cabbie who didn't try to hide his disappointment when he realized that Sydney was with a guy.

"Where to?" he asked dourly.

"You know McSorley's?" Marsh asked.

"Doesn't everybody?" was the cabbie's sharp reply.

"Then let's go," Marsh commanded.

Marsh wasn't sure of Ennis's exact address. He'd been there several times with his mother but she had always led the way. He only knew it was near a place that was con
sidered the oldest saloon in New York City. McSorley's Old Ale House.

Sydney watched Marsh as he stared out the window. Though she felt he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, she also wanted to help.

"What do you think he'll say?" she finally asked, unable to contain herself any longer.

Marsh didn't answer right away. Sydney wasn't sure if he was ignoring her or thinking about his answer.

"Marsh?"

"I don't know," he finally said, keeping his gaze out the window. "Hopefully he's got another piece of the puzzle."

"But you've already talked to him about the crucibles. What makes you think he'll tell you any more now than he did before?"

Marsh snapped a look to Sydney. His steely gaze sur
prised her.

"I don't know," he said curtly. "If I could think of some
thing better to do, I would do it."

Marsh's harsh answer surprised Sydney. She didn't take attitude from anybody, and her first instinct was to fire back at him. Instead she took a breath and let it go, telling herself that it was the stress talking.

They didn't speak again until the cab stopped in front of the old tavern. Marsh paid the cabbie and got out. He
knew exactly where he was going. Sydney followed, walk
ing east. The tension in his body seemed to grow with each step. Sydney saw that he was clenching his fists. She chose not to ask him about it.

They finally came to a ten-story brick apartment build
ing. Marsh stopped in front and looked up to the highest floors.

"This is it," he said to nobody in particular.

He climbed the few steps of the stoop to the front door and entered the vestibul
e. Sydney followed without ques
tion and watched as Marsh scanned the rows of buttons on the ancient security panel. Each had a name penciled in next to the number of the apartment. Marsh scanned the list until he found the name Mobley.

"10H," Sydney said, reading. "Top floor, of course. The elevator better work."

Marsh pressed the button on the call panel. They waited. No answer. Marsh pressed it again, harder.

"He could be off on an assignment," Sydney offered. Marsh was about to press the button a third time when an elderly woman came out of the door that led to the lobby.

Sydney grabbed the door before it swung closed and gave
the old lady a disarming smile.

"Forgot our keys again," she said sweetly.

"Welcome to my life,"
the old woman growled, and con
tinued on out to the street.

Sydney winked at Marsh and the two went inside. T
o
Sydney's relief the elevator worked.

"You okay?" she asked as they slowly rose in the creaky
old lift.

He nodded.

Sydney didn't believe him.

They got out on the tenth floor, where Marsh led them
down the narrow corridor to the door marked 10H.

"Smells like boiled cabbage," Sydney said, wrinkling
her nose.

Marsh pressed the doorbell and waited.
"Ennis?" he called.
No response.

"He's probably not here," Sydney offered.

Marsh dug out his
cell phone. He punched in a num
ber, and a moment later they heard the electronic chime of a
ringing phone coming from inside Ennis's apartment.

Marsh looked to Sydney and smiled with satisfaction.

"If his cell's here, he's here."

For a brief moment Sydney saw the old Marsh, who was
tickled at his ability to be an ingenious sleuth. He knocked
on the door again.

"Ennis? It's Marsh. I've been trying to get hold of you
for days."

Still no answer.

"Suppose something's happened to him," Sydney said
soberly. "I mean, what if he's in there but . . ."

She didn't finish the thought as Marsh pounded on the
door in frustration.
"C'mon, Ennis! It's me!"

He was about to try and force the door open, when he
stopped suddenly and put his ear to it.

"What?" Sydney asked, confused.

"I heard something. Somebody's in there," he replied,
then shouted, "Ennis?"

They heard a whisper that was barely loud enough to
reach through the door.

"Marshmallow?"

The voice was faint, but unmistakable.

"Yes! It's me. Open the door."

The door didn't open.

"C'mon, Ennis," Marsh implored. "We gotta talk."

In a voice so small it sounded as if it could be that of
a frightened child rather than a forty-year-old man, Ennis
said, "How do I know it is really you?"

"Who else would it be?" Marsh argued impatiently.
He gave Sydney a "What is his problem?" look.

"What do you expect?" she said in reply. "He's been
dealing with this longer than you."

Marsh thought for a moment, then softened.

"It's me, Ennis," he said. "I promise."

"Who is that with you?" Ennis asked.

"My friend Sydney. You know her. She's Cooper's sister."

"Hi, Ennis," she said.

Marsh added, "If it wasn't us—I mean, if it was Damon—
we wouldn't need for you to open the door. We'd just come
in. Right?"

"That proves nothing," Ennis replied. "I have seen too
many tricks."

Marsh and Sydney exchanged worried looks.

"Something happened to him," she said.

"C'mon, Ennis!" Marsh shouted with frustration.

Sydney put her hand on Marsh's shoulder to calm him, and said, "Ennis? If it was Damon out here, would we have the crucible you gave us in the cemetery?"

There was a long pause, then Ennis asked, "You have the crucible?"

"Yes," Marsh said, giving Sydney a big smile and a thumbs-up.

Sydney beamed.

"Show me," he said while tapping the door near the peephole.

Sydney dug into her shoulder bag, pulled out the golden orb, and held it up to the lens in the door. Seconds later the door was unlocked and yanked open.

"Quickly," Ennis commanded.

They both hurried inside, and as soon as they crossed the threshold, Ennis slammed the door shut and locked it tight. "What's going on?" Marsh asked.

Ennis threw his arms around Marsh.

"I am so sorry for that. I no longer know what to think and who to trust."

Marsh patted Ennis soothingly on the back. "It's cool," he said. "I get it. I
really
get it."

Ennis was crying. Sydney kept her distance, not want
ing to intrude on the emotional moment. She glanced around
the apartment to see that it was empty.
There was no furni
ture, lamps, rugs, or anything else that would normally be found in a home. The only sign that a person actually lived
there was a dirty blanket lying in the corner surrounded by empty Doritos bags. It looked more like the temporary shelter of a squatter than someone's home.

"You moving out?" Sydney asked.

Ennis pulled away from Marsh and tried to compose himself by wiping away his tears.

Marsh was shocked to see that Ennis was a mess. His
mother's friend and associate was normally an impeccably neat guy who ironed his clothes and kept his hair trimmed short. Ennis hardly looked like the same person. His clothes looked as though he had been sleeping in them for weeks, with grease stains on the front of his normally arctic-white shirt. His hollow cheeks were unshaven. Worse still, his eyes were bloodshot and tired, his dark skin gray. Flecks of gray had appeared in his black hair.

"I am not moving," he replied. "I have gotten rid of everything other than what I need to get by."

"Why?" Sydney asked.

"To give him less ammunition to use against me," was his grim answer.

Sydney and Marsh exchanged dark looks.

"You look bad, Ennis," Marsh said. "What's been going on?"

Ennis collected himself and cleared his throat, trying to regain whatever dignity he had left.

"I gave up the crucible," he said, pointing to the golden ball that Sydney clutched. "That left me, how should I describe it? Exposed."

"Damon's been haunting you?" Marsh asked.

Ennis managed an ironic smile. "'Haunting' is a gentle way of putting it."

He led them into the bedroom, where there was a single mattress on the floor, along with more empty bags of chips. He quickly closed the door behind them, which shut out most of the light since the window blinds were closed tight.

Sydney stayed close to Marsh. She didn't fear Ennis as much as what he was about to tell them.

"This has become my world," Ennis explained. "I do not leave the apartment unless it is absolutely necessary. Mostly it is to buy food."

"Why all the chips?" Sydney asked.

"Soft bags cannot harm me," he explained. "I cannot say the same for glass jars or metal cans or sharp utensils. I was
afraid of what I might be tricked into doing with them, so I got rid of it all. I know, that sounds like the ramblings of a madman."