"And you won't see another, " Damon replied with pride.
"It's useless here," Sanger said flatly.
"Do not be so sure about that," Damon replied with arrogance. "It may not have had any power over those vile demons but—"
Sanger spun around, grabbed the blade end of the poleax, and before Damon could stop him, he drove it into his own stomach.
"No!" Damon screamed. He hated the crude spirit but he wasn't done with him.
Sanger gritted his teeth against the pain, but managed a smile.
Damon was speechless. It was true. His mighty weapon held no power in the Blood.
Sanger stared straight into Damon's eyes. It took all of Damon's willpower not to look away from the man who showed more than a touch of insanity.
"You haven't been here long, have you?" Sanger asked.
"I—I have only just arrived," stammered Damon.
"You've got that look. No spirit here's got that look for long."
"What look is that?"
"You still got hope."
Sanger stepped back, pulling himself off the poleax.
He spit, rubbed the wound, then turned and continued the journey.
Damon's confidence was shaken. For the first time in his life, or death, he felt as though he was not in complete control.
Soon after, Sanger held up his hand and the two stopped. They had arrived at an old farmhouse with broken, glassless windows that allowed wind to whistle through and billow the tattered curtains. Across from the house was a large, nondescript gray barn.
"I do not understand," Damon declared. "This could not be the vision of the spirit Brennus."
"It ain't," Sanger replied. "This is my vision."
The house had no soul . . . a fitting home for Sanger, thought Damon.
"Why have you brought me here?" Damon demanded.
Sanger ignored the question and continued toward the barn. Damon had no choice but to follow. Sanger loped past the large closed barn doors and rounded the structure to where a long, wooden canoe sat upturned against the wall.
"Fetch it," Sanger ordered. "We'll go the rest of the way on the river."
"We will carry it together," Damon countered.
Sanger bent down and picked up two wooden paddles. "I got these," he said, and held up the lantern. "And this. Course I could always leave the lantern but I can't guarantee them demons won't come back."
Damon bit his lip to keep from raging at the man and lifted one end of the canoe.
"It is too heavy to carry," he announced. "I will drag it."
"Suit yourself," Sanger said with disdain and started off. Damon quietly vowed to himself that he would destroy Sanger at the first opportunity. He dragged the canoe along the ground, following the light from the lantern as Sanger entered a narrow path that cut through thick woods. There was no telling what might be lurking to either side, waiting to pounce. Damon struggled to keep close to Sanger and, more important, the lantern.
The trail opened up to a stretch of rock and rubble. Ten yards beyond was a wide river with thick forest lining both banks. There was nothing treacherous about it, other than the fact that the water was glowing orange like molten lava.
Damon gasped and dropped the canoe. "We cannot navigate this waterway," he declared. "The wooden craft will surely burn."
Sanger ignored him, dropped the paddles and the lantern, and picked up the canoe, easily lifting it over his head. He walked to the edge and dropped the boat down into the glowing water.
It didn't burn.
"Paddles," Sanger commanded.
"I will go no farther," Damon announced petulantly.
Sanger pulled the canoe onto land to make sure it wouldn't be carried away in the current, then approached Damon. He stood facing the ancient warrior and without warning he lashed out and slapped him across the face.
Damon's head snapped to the side. He was more surprised than hurt. No one had ever dared to treat him like that. His hand immediately went to the poleax . . . and Sanger quickly slapped his other cheek.
"Who are you?" Sanger demanded. "You think you're strong enough to line yourself up with Brennus? All I've seen is a scared little fat man. Maybe that weapon makes people in the Black do what you say, but that holds no water here. Now either you pull yourself together and start showing some mettle or I'll leave you here and pick my teeth while watching those little banshees tear you apart."
Damon straightened his back and snarled, "Forgive me for causing you such inconvenience. There must be so many other things you'd prefer to be doing with your valuable time, you wretched little cretin."
Sanger's eyes flared.
"Now, that's more like it," he declared.
He turned his back on Damon and strode toward the canoe. Damon wanted to leap at the spirit and snap his neck, but he fought the urge and did what he was told.
Sanger went straight for the bow of the canoe and sat there holding the lantern, waiting for Damon to launch them. Damon struggled, but managed to push the craft out onto the glowing water and get aboard without tipping.
"It's a ways," Sanger said. "Start paddling."
Damon knew nothing about paddling a canoe but managed to get the small craft moving with awkward strokes.
Sanger quickly realized that Damon was incompetent, so he propped the lantern up in the bow and grabbed the other paddle and worked to right their course.
They moved downriver with the slow current, passing burned-out towns, ruins of shattered glass skyscrapers, and the caved-in dome of the United States Capitol building. Damon chose not to question Sanger. He had committed to trusting the surly spirit. He was more concerned about retracing his steps back to the Rift. Getting lost in the Blood would prove to be an inglorious end to his quest.
The river emptied into a large lake that glowed as brightly as the river that fed it. The stark contrast between the dark purple sky and the orange glow would have been strangely beautiful, if not for the ever-present moans of the damned.
"There," Sanger announced, pointing to a dark structure on the shore.
Damon's spirits rose and he paddled faster, eager to finally meet Brennus and to destroy the spirit who'd led him there. As they drew closer to shore, the outline of a structure took shape. A high, stone wall rose up from the water like the battlement of a medieval fortress. Beyond the retaining wall was a low castlelike structure with triangular towers and misshapen arches.
Damon had witnessed the evolution of architecture from his time until the present and had never seen a building quite like this one. Massive statues of snarling, winged beasts lined the edge of the roof. It looked designed to intimidate and dissuade the curious. There was nothing welcoming about it in the least.
It was the exact sort of dwelling that Damon expected to be the vision of the spirit called Brennus.
Sanger expertly steered the canoe to the stone steps that led up from the water, then deftly grabbed the lantern and jumped out. With one mighty pull he yanked the craft up and onto the steep stairs, with Damon still aboard.
Damon dropped the paddle into the canoe, swearing never to touch such a crude instrument again, and stumbled out onto the stairs.
Sanger stood on top with his hands on his waist, snickering at Damon's awkward performance.
"Any day now," he called.
Damon climbed the stairs until he reached Sanger. He stood tall to try and regain some measure of dignity, and commanded, "Lead me to Brennus."
Sanger shook his head in disgust, turned his back on Damon, and walked toward the building.
Damon looked past him to see that a wide courtyard stood between the retaining wall and the sprawling stone mansion. He followed Sanger, past several fountains that were scattered about, spewing glowing water from the lake in decorative patterns. It wasn't until he got close to one of the fountains that he realized the statues within were stone versions of the demons that had attacked him.
"How do you know Brennus?" Damon called to Sanger.
Sanger stopped and surveyed the imposing, dark compound.
"Never crossed paths with him," he replied with a shrug.
Damon was rocked. "What? Then, how did you know to lead me here and—"
"Relax," Sanger commanded. "I said I never met him. That don't mean I don't know nothing about him. I've heard the stories. They say he'd be a rival to Satan himself, if there was such a thing as Satan."
"Then, how can you be sure this is his vision?" Damon asked.
"'Cause that's how it works here," Sanger replied. "I set my mind to finding him and here we are. We got as many different visions going on here as spirits that brung 'em. It's all one big stinkin' soup. You not only have to deal with your own misery, but every other fool's as well."
Damon took a look at the surroundings with new understanding . . . and dread.
Sanger said, "I've heard of spirits who went looking for Brennus, but never met one who found him. Yet here we are.
Maybe there's something special about you that'll make us the first."
He broke into a crooked smile that offered no warmth. Damon stared him down and Sanger dropped the smile.
It was the first sign that Sanger wasn't completely comfortable with Damon.
"Tell me," Damon said. "What stories have you heard?"
Sanger shrugged. "Nothing specific. Just rumors and such."
"Are you aware that Brennus was a sin eater?"
"A what?"
"A sin eater. He would enter the home of the recently deceased where the body would be laid out next to a sumptuous feast. The food was his to enjoy. All he needed do was to reach over the dead body . . . and eat."
"That's a heck of a thing. Why?" Sanger asked, intrigued.
"With each bite of food, he would also be taking in the sins of the deceased. The dead man's soul would be cleansed, avoiding any possibility of being sent directly to the Blood."
"And that worked?" Sanger asked.
"I do not know, but I understand it came with a great cost to Brennus. He was a poor laborer with only one brother. He was driven to eat sins so as not to starve. His body may have been nourished, but his soul took on the weight of the sins from multiple lives. He continued the practice after death brought him to the Black. That is when I first heard of him. He ate the sins of those in the Black who were desperate to avoid being banished to the Blood. Imagine a single soul that contained that much evil? It staggers the imagination."
"Maybe I wasn't so far off in thinking he's kin to Satan," Sanger said in awe.
"Ultimately he knew he was doomed for eternity and chose to take control of his destiny. His goal was to destroy the Morpheus Road. When he was finally banished to the Blood, he came willingly. His plan was to gather an army of the damned and break down the barrier between dimensions. That is the last I heard of him, which tells me that he failed in his quest. But knowing he was here, and knowing what he intended to do, I have decided to allow him to join me in my own quest."
"And what is it you're after?"
"The very same thing."
"I may have misjudged you, friend," Sanger said nervously.
"Indeed," Damon replied. "My army stands ready in the Black to take control of our own destiny. Do you wish to wander aimlessly for all time through this dark hell? Or return to the Light and the life of your choosing?"
"That's possible?" Sanger asked, genuinely surprised.
"It is, but to ensure that victory I need more than the spirits from the Black. I need those who stand the most to win. I need the damned, and to get them I need Brennus. That is why I entered the Blood."
"Wait, you came here of your own choosin'?" Sanger asked.
"Does that demonstrate my, what did you call it? Mettle?"
"It demonstrates that you're a crazy fool," Sanger said with awe, then smiled. "I like that."
An unholy chorus of howls broke out as the statues inside the fountains sprang to life. The hollow-eyed demons transformed from stone into the fur-clad shadow banshees. Before Damon could react, a dozen monsters descended on them, knocking out their legs and pinning them to the ground.
Damon didn't bother reaching for the poleax. He knew it would do no good.
While four banshees held his arms, a fifth sat on his chest leering down at him, staring with empty eyes.
"What is your purpose?" the demon shrieked in a horrific squeal that sounded like shattering glass while strings of thick drool dripped from its mouth into Damon's eyes.
Damon blinked it away as he forced himself to stay focused . . . and sane.
"I seek the spirit named Brennus," he answered.
The demon looked to the others, and they all began chattering like angry monkeys.
"Bring me to him," Damon demanded.
The demons fell silent.
"There is no reaching Brennus," the figment on Damon's chest hissed.
"Why? How can that be?"
"He has been imprisoned."
Damon deflated. It was a wrinkle he hadn't expected. How could a spirit be imprisoned if he were already in the Blood?
"You will not see him, unless you are able," the banshee asked.
"Able to do what?" Damon shouted, grasping.
"To free him."
17
Marsh and Cooper landed together in a tangle of arms, legs, and netting.
No sooner had they stopped tumbling than they quickly fought to free themselves and jump to their feet, ready to take on any of the Roman soldiers who were brave or foolish enough to follow them into the Blood.
None appeared. Their allegiance to Damon had its limits.
Realizing they were alone, Marsh and Cooper gave each other a quick nod to acknowledge that all was well and turned to get their first look at the Blood. They were faced with the same image Damon had seen . . . the wreckage of the Roman Colosseum. As impossible as that vision appeared, it wasn't as impactful as the oppressive feeling of dread that overwhelmed them both, compounded by the constant chorus of agonized moans.
Coop tugged on Marsh's arm. He wanted to get moving.
Marsh nodded in agreement and the two walked quickly away, weaving their way around the piles of shattered limestone that had fallen from the Colosseum walls. Shadows darted everywhere, just beyond the edge of sight. Marsh sensed a presence on top of one of the rubble piles and spun quickly, but saw nothing. Without a word he picked up the pace. Neither said it, but they both wanted to be out of the confines of the Colosseum as fast as possible.
When they finally passed the outer wall, they stopped and stood together, scanning the horizon, getting their first view of the limitless decay of so many lives that was the Blood.
"It's just . . . tragic," Marsh said in a small voice.
"Are these visions?" Coop asked. "Is this what the poor bastards remember from their lives?"
"It makes me feel, I don't know, empty," Marsh said.
"Seriously. No wonder they're all moaning. Where is everybody, anyway?"
"I think they're everywhere," Marsh replied.
Once their eyes adjusted to the dark, they clearly saw spirits wandering about. There were untold numbers, all lost, aimless . . . and hopeless.
"That's who Damon came for," Coop said. "If he got those spirits in the Black all fired up about taking control of their lives, convincing these losers should be a no-brainer."
Marsh pulled the crucible out of the pocket of his hoodie and held it for security. "And what if he finds this Brennus character?"
"Go back, Ralph," Coop said firmly. "No harm, no foul."
Marsh stiffened. "I didn't say that because I was scared."
"You should be," Coop replied. "I sure as hell am. And this place is about as sure as hell as it gets."
"Let's find the Watcher," Marsh declared.
"I don't even know where to start."
Marsh surveyed the horizon. "The Watcher said that we'll find our way."
"That's a little cosmic for me. I'd rather have a map. Or a GPS."
Mar
sh stayed focused on the dark distance, looking for a clue that might help guide them.
"Nothing," Coop said dismissively. "No arrows. No beacons. No signs saying 'This Way to the Watcher.' How are we supposed to know where to go?"
"Follow me," Marsh ordered, and began walking.
"To where? We can't just start wandering around."
"This feels right," Marsh replied, and walked on with confidence.
Coop followed, but wasn't as certain and kept glancing back toward the remains of the Colosseum. "I wish we could, like, leave a trail of bread crumbs or something."
The two passed through timeless remains of shattered lives. They walked across a footbridge that spanned a foul-smelling canal in what looked to be the remains of Venice, Italy. On the far side they passed through a doorway and stepped into a classroom that was packed with adults, all sitting in children's chairs, staring vacantly ahead . . . at nothing.
Coop shuddered. "I thought this place was supposed to be all fire and pitchforks. It's more like we're walking through the nightmares of these poor bastards."
Leaving the classroom, they stepped into a wide-open desert where the bone-white sand glowed bright in contrast to the deep purple sky. Huge piles of rusted, damaged musical instruments were buried in the soft sand. Pianos were upended, a harp with broken strings lay grotesquely twisted, countless rusted horns poked up from below, never to be played.
The two stood on the edge of the expanse, staring in wonder.
"There's no end to it," Marsh said, awestruck. "These souls have to live with the horrible memories of what their lives had become."
"I think I'd rather deal with fire and pitchforks," Coop said.
They soon found themselves walking down the street of a small town, passing broken and burned storefronts, inside of which were the dark souls who'd frequented them in life.
"My god," Marsh said with a gasp. "It's Stony Brook."
Coop looked around with renewed interest, trying to find some sign that Marsh could be wrong.
"Why are we seeing home?" Marsh asked.
"Why not?" Coop shot back. "I'm sure plenty of people from Stony Brook end up here. I can think of a few who deserve to."