The Blood Page 3

  Rather than pick a random direction that might have taken him the wrong way, he folded his arms and listened. Within seconds his patience was rewarded when he heard the faint sound of music. It was a single flute playing a soft, sad solo.

  "Gotcha," Coop said, and headed toward the sound.

  Moving through the trees was no problem. The moon offered plenty of light. With each step he grew closer to the source of the mysterious, haunting tune while his mind raced ahead to what he might find when he reached it. He didn't know where he was, or when he was. Whose vision was this? Most important, why was Damon there? For all Coop knew, Damon had armies hidden throughout the Black. The vision could have been a staging area for a massive counterattack and he could have been walking into a situation that he had no hope of handling without one of the black spirit-killing swords. If he'd had any other option, he would have taken it.

  Within minutes he came to the edge of a clearing and a small village that was surrounded by a low stone wall. The collection of huts within the circle were constructed with stone and earth. They were circular and had thatched roofs that came to a tall point. Wherever he was, it didn't look like a vision from the twenty-first century. Or the twentieth. The structures were ancient-looking. Unlike the previous visions he had searched, this vision was very much alive, that much he could tell from the smoke that curled up and out of holes in the points of the roofs that acted as crude chimneys. Rather than the welcoming smell of burning wood, Coop was hit with an odor that was more like scorched earth.

  Man, what are they burning? he thought. Old shoes?

  The haunting flute song continued, luring him deeper into the ancient village. He scrambled over the stone wall, passed one hut, and entered a loose circle of similar huts that were clustered around a stone well. A wooden two-wheeled cart stood nearby with an empty yoke for a horse or ox. Wooden buckets were scattered about, along with piles of black chunks that looked like dried cow pies. There were no people, though most of the huts had a warm glow coming from within, which meant that the town was populated but had closed up for the night.

  The music was coming from a hut on the far side of the circle. Coop followed it like a moth drawn to a candle. He thought of walking up to the wooden door and knocking but wanted to know what he was getting himself into first, so he moved cautiously around to the side of the hut to try and get a peek inside. He circled the round structure, looking for a window that would allow him to peer inside, but there were none.

  He had come all the way around to the front and was about to reach the door when—

  "Stop there!" came a threatening shout.

  Coop froze, and before he could react, strong hands grabbed him from behind, trapping him in a bear hug.

  Coop struggled to get free but it was no use. The powerful attacker was in charge. He whipped Cooper around and brought him face-to-face with a massive, bearded man in peasant clothing.

  "Who be ya?" the man in front of Coop bellowed through green-stained teeth.

  Cooper was too stunned to think of a clever answer. "I . . . I'm just passing through" was all he managed to say.

  "Passin' through?" the man repeated mockingly. "And ya just so happened to come right to the home of Riagan?"

  "Uh . . . yeah. I mean, I followed the music."

  Cooper couldn't move, which meant he couldn't step away and leave the vision. He was totally at the mercy of these men. While one held Cooper tight, the other strode to the door and pounded it with his fist. Instantly the flute music stopped.

  "Come," a voice commanded from inside.

  The huge man pushed open the door, and Coop was wrestled inside by the other. Fighting back would have been futile so he didn't even try.

  "We found another," the man in front announced.

  Sitting on a tall bench on the far side of the hut was the musician. He was an old man with long gray hair and roughhewn brown clothes. In his hand was a wooden recorder. He too had a beard but looked cleaner and more put together than the two beasts who had jumped Coop. He gave Cooper an appraising look, then nodded to the others.

  "Be still, Maedoc," he said calmly. "I will be honoring his visit."

  The taller man, Maedoc, gave Cooper an angry glance, then nodded to the guy who was holding him, and Coop was roughly shoved across the room.

  Coop managed to stay on his feet and whip around, ready to fight, but the sight of the two hulking men wearing ratty clothes and looking like they had the kind of strength that came from a lifetime of heavy work made him think twice about doing anything stupid.

  "We stand ready," Maedoc said.

  "Thank you," the musician replied.

  The two men left, reluctantly, throwing angry glares back at Cooper.

  Cooper smiled and waved back. He then took a quick scan of the hut.

  A fire burned in the center, directly under the ventilation hole in the roof. Crude wooden furniture was scattered about. There was a table and a chair that looked as if a heavy weight had landed and destroyed them. The legs were splayed and the wood was freshly splintered.

  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 succulent 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 sitting 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, making sparks fly. Coop cringed. It was a chunk of that cowflop-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 different things."

  "I think not," the old man said, irritated. "The only reason 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, trying 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 cannot 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, grabbing 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 frustration. 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 tumbled 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 anymore. 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 white noise of excited fans, coming 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 structures 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 colored 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 different 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 imagine 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.

  4

  "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 annoying 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 eventually pick up. Or clear out his mailbox. He didn't bother texting 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 do
wn 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 frustration 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.