The Black

by D. J. MacHale

  "You have surprised me," came a voice from the other side of the room.

  I spun to see Damon standing next to the bed. I was so fired up that I went for him without thinking, ready to take him apart. As soon as I took a step, he reached to his belt and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the sword that dangled there.

  The black sword.

  I backed off. "You're a real brave guy when you've got that weapon."

  "I do not need a weapon to control you," he said dismissively.

  "Then, put it down and let's see how brave you really are."

  "So typical," Damon said. "You equate power with the ability to use physical force. So many others have made that mistake with me. I have a name for them . . . victims."

  "That's tough talk, but you're still not dropping the sword."

  He laughed. "Do you honestly believe a schoolboy challenge to my virility would compel me to give up an advantage? Are you that simple?"

  His smug confidence made me want to hit him even more, but not as long as he had that sword.

  I looked over my shoulder to see that Sydney had gotten to Marsh and the two of them were swimming for shore. There was no sign of Gravedigger. The two crawled onto the grass and collapsed. Sydney had saved him. She wasn't a total Agnes.

  "How did I surprise you?" I asked Damon, without looking at him.

  "You chose to protect your friend though you knew it was against the ways of the Black. I am impressed by your selfless loyalty, foolish as it may be."

  "You say that like I should care."

  Damon chuckled. "So brash, in spite of the impossible position you find yourself in."

  "Really? I don't see it that way. I think you need us. If you didn't, you'd either leave us alone or kill us. All this stuff with Gravedigger is just for show. I'm thinking you're the one in the impossible situation, scar-boy."

  Damon's eyes went wide and his hand went to his face. It was as if I had thrown the worst possible insult at him, and maybe I had. He was a ruthless, arrogant manipulator yet he was vain about the scars on his face. I had to remember that.

  "Perhaps you are right," he said. "You both may be more trouble than you are worth and I should simply snuff you out."

  "But you won't, will you?"

  "So sure of yourself," he said with a cocky sneer.

  I shrugged. "Yeah, pretty much."

  "You are correct," he said. "I do need your help and the help of your friend. Make no mistake, I will continue to haunt him until I get what I want."

  "Or you kill him," I spat.

  Damon chuckled. "Oh no, his death won't stop me. I have seen thousands die and will see thousands more. A single life means nothing. However, I know how precious life means to you, so perhaps we should take another route. I can offer you something in return for your cooperation."

  "There's nothing you can offer me. I'm dead."

  "Exactly," he said slyly.

  "Uh . . . what?"

  "I need the poleax to free me from this prison."

  "You told me. You want to move on to the final reward."

  "That isn't what I said," Damon countered.

  "Yes, it is. You told me you wanted to get out of the Black."

  "Indeed, but the Morpheus Road runs both ways. Tell me, as you stand here right now, what is your greatest desire?"

  "You mean besides getting rid of you?"

  He didn't react.

  I looked out the window to where Marsh and Sydney were sitting on the grass. Seeing them made me understand what Damon was getting at.

  "Of course it is," he said knowingly. "It is the same wish of every spirit who travels the road. The possibility of a greater reward is tempting, but the known, the familiar, is so much more . . . desirable."

  "You don't know what I'm thinking," I argued.

  "I know exactly what you're thinking," he countered. "For I wish the same thing. It is all I have ever wished. I want to rip open the veil between the Light and the Black to reclaim what was so ingloriously wrestled from me and live once again."

  "But that's impossible."

  "Don't be so sure."

  I turned to face the little guy. "You can't be serious," I said soberly.

  "But I am. I want to travel back along the road. Help me and I'll take you with me."

  "But . . . you can't."

  "Yes, I can!" he bellowed. "With the poleax, I can create a physical pathway back into the Light. I can live again, and so can you."

  I stood there, stunned, unable to form a coherent thought.

  Damon smiled and said, "Now, do you still wish to be rid of me?"

  12

  "You can't raise people from the dead," I exclaimed.

  "Maybe you cannot," Damon said with a superior sneer.

  I didn't want to be in that room anymore, especially not with Damon. It was a personal space that belonged to me, and my family. He was an unwelcome intruder. I glanced outside to see Marsh and Sydney on the grass talking. Safe. For the time being, anyway.

  "I'm going to the Black," I told Damon.

  Damon sat down on Sydney's bed as if he owned it, leaning back on her pillows. He gave me a knowing smile. Things had played out exactly as he'd expected them to. I felt like a fish caught on a hook.

  "Are you allowing me into your vision?" he asked. "No," I said quickly, and stepped out of the Light. Returning to my vision would have given me time to think about Damon's offer. Was he telling the truth? Could he actually give me my life back? It seemed too good to be true. But going along with him would be like making a deal with the devil. Was it worth the price? In the few seconds it took me to move to the Black, I decided that I needed to know more. So instead of returning to my vision of Stony Brook, I went directly to the courtyard in ancient Macedonia where I had first met Damon.

  He was standing next to the fountain, waiting for me. He knew I was coming, which pissed me off. I don't like being predictable.

  Unlike the last time I was there, the place was busy with people. They were mostly men who looked to be peasant laborers doing grunt work like sweeping up the stone walkways and lugging around baskets of fruit and nuts. A handful of Damon's ragged warrior dudes were scattered around, keeping watch over the workers.

  "I knew my offer would interest you," he said with a cocky smirk.

  "Well, yeah. You said you can raise the dead. I'd say that's interesting."

  "Please understand, I do not have that ability as yet. For that, I need the poleax."

  "I don't get that," I said. "A weapon is about killing, not raising the dead."

  "Correct. A weapon extinguishes life, but not spirit. Certainly you are able to grasp that concept, now that you have journeyed this far along the road."

  "I guess. A person's spirit moves on after death. You can't kill a spirit."

  Damon chuckled and pulled his black sword from its scabbard. I thought back to how it had vaporized the soldier named Philip, and I backed off a step.

  Damon giggled like a child.

  "A most remarkable weapon," he said. "So many have fallen to its bite."

  Damon returned the black sword it its scabbard and then strolled over to one of his scruffy warrior buddies and took his sword. It had a thick silver blade and leather handle.

  Damon held it up and said, "The simple weapon of a soldier, like so many others that belong to warriors who pass through the Black."

  He walked to one of the peasants who was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the stone walkway.

  He looked to me and said, "As you say, you cannot kill a spirit."

  He drew the sword back . . .

  "Whoa, no!" I screamed.

  . . . and stabbed the defenseless worker in the side.

  The guy screamed in pain and doubled over. Damon pulled the sword back and held it out to me. There was no blood. The poor guy rolled back to his knees, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and went back to work scrubbing the stone walkway, unhurt.

  Damon tossed the silver sword down at t
he feet of his warrior buddy as if it were a worthless prop.

  "You cannot kill a spirit," he said, and pulled his black sword out again. "But I can."

  He raised the sword high, and with one quick move he slashed it down across the peasant's back. This time the poor guy raised his arm to protect himself. He knew what was coming. The blade hit his arm and traveled right through his body, creating a gash of black ash. The look of fear was frozen on the worker's face, but only for a second, for as soon as the sword's arc was complete, the peasant turned into a cloud of cinder that drifted away and disappeared.

  I stood there in shock, realizing that I had just seen a person's spirit snuffed out.

  "His journey along the Morpheus Road has ended," Damon announced casually while sliding his sword back into its scabbard.

  A million thoughts flew through my head, not the least of which was the horror of seeing the end come to somebody's life. For good.

  "How?" was all I managed to get out.

  "This sword is imbued with the spirit of all those who have fallen to its blade. Its strength does not come from steel but from the lives of its victims, and believe me there were many."

  "And that gives it the power to kill a spirit?" I asked, numb.

  "And in so doing, adding to its strength," he explained. "So you destroyed a guy's spirit, forever, just to show me you can?"

  "You need to understand that I am not making idle boasts. The stakes are too high."

  "You're a murderer!" I shouted.

  He shrugged. "War has casualties."

  "There's no war going on!"

  Damon gave me a sly smile and said, "Not yet."

  I walked away from the scene, sick to my stomach.

  Damon followed. "Understand, Foley, this weapon is a trifle compared to the power of the poleax. Countless thousands have fallen to that blade, at my hand."

  "So you're a mass murderer," I muttered.

  "I am a soldier!" he bellowed.

  "I don't get this. Why aren't you in the Blood? How come you're still here?"

  Damon looked around to see two Watchers standing on the opposite side of the fountain. They didn't seem bothered by the execution that had happened right under their noses. Damon faced them and yelled, "He wishes to know why I have not been sent to the Blood!"

  The Watchers didn't react.

  I walked around Damon, headed toward the two. "What is your deal?" I yelled to the dark figures. "How come this guy gets a free pass?"

  They watched me without expression. It was making me nuts. What good were these guys if they weren't doing their job?

  "Here is your answer, Foley."

  Damon pulled his black sword and pushed past me, headed for the Watchers . . .

  And the Watchers disappeared.

  Damon turned back to me with a satisfied smile on his scarred face.

  "Fear is a powerful weapon," he boasted. "No spirit is safe from me."

  "They're not afraid of you. It's that sword. You can't go anywhere without it."

  Damon returned the black blade to his scabbard and said, "A small price to pay."

  "And the poleax is even more powerful?" I asked.

  "It is."

  "So, what does that have to do with raising the dead?"

  "You have seen a small demonstration of what I can do in the Light. Over the centuries I have learned to manipulate the energy that courses around us, on all levels of existence. But it is illusion. Shadow play. With the spiritual energy contained in the poleax, I will be able to make those illusions real . . . to not only take shape, but substance. And yes, to create life."

  "Like Frankenstein."

  "Are you referring to the cinematic depiction, or the work of literature?"

  "You know Frankenstein?" I asked with surprise.

  "Of course. I much preferred the original tome. The Shelley girl and I have had many discussions concerning the nature of life versus death."

  "Who?"

  "Mary Shelley. The author of the story you refer to. She moved on quite some time ago. Lovely girl. But I suppose you would not know about her. You strike me as someone who would prefer watching a motion picture over reading a book."

  He gave me a superior smile and added, "Did you not believe me when I said I was a student of humanity?"

  I was stunned. Damon may have been an ancient warrior, but he'd witnessed much of the history of man. Millions of spirits had come through the Black since he had first arrived. This guy had access to the knowledge that had been accumulated by hundreds of generations. It made him even more dangerous than I first thought, and made me wonder if he just might have the ability to do the things he said he could.

  "Frankenstein was fiction," I said. "This is real. You want the power to create life. You want to be god."

  "'God' is only a word. People have worshipped hundreds of deities throughout time. I have no desire to be worshipped."

  "So if you have so much knowledge and power, what do you need Marsh and me for?"

  "Because I have enemies."

  "Gee, really? Never would have guessed."

  He ignored the sarcasm. "My ability to function is limited because of restrictions placed on me before my death. Six crucibles were created, golden orbs filled with the blood of an enemy. Their existence prevents me from finding the poleax."

  "You mean, like a curse?"

  "Call it what you will."

  "Marsh broke a golden ball," I said, remembering back to when I first peered into the Light. "Is that what you're talking about?"

  "That was the first crucible," Damon answered. "There are others."

  "So, these things are like, what? Kryptonite?"

  Damon chuckled. "Must you see everything through the prism of a cultural reference?"

  "Just tell me, are they dangerous?"

  "To you, no. To me they are blockades. At least one of these crucibles is protecting the poleax in the Light. It prevents me from seeing it, which is why I cannot locate it."

  "How does that work? They have some kind of power?"

  "More than you can imagine. Your efforts have been crude but you have seen what is possible when the connection between spirits is strong. With Marshall Seaver your connection is friendship. Imagine how strong a connection can be when it is based on hatred and fear."

  "So there's so much hatred between you and this enemy that his blood holds power over you? Nice. Who is this guy?"

  Damon glanced at the imposing warrior statue in the fountain.

  "Him?" I asked. "He must have been important, having a statue and all."

  Damon looked up at the statue with disdain. "It is his blood that prevents me from retrieving what is mine. Your friend broke one crucible. Another is here in the Black. I need you to find it and destroy it."

  "Why can't you find it yourself?"

  "Because I cannot see it!" Damon answered, frustrated. "Have you not been listening?"

  "Well, if you can't find it, how do you expect me to?"

  Damon pulled his black sword and lunged at me so quickly, I didn't have time to defend myself. He grabbed my arm and held the tip of the blade against my throat. I froze. All it would have taken was a slight push and I'd be smoke.

  "I do not often bargain, Foley. If you continue to challenge me with questions, I will move on and find someone else to help me. I have been patient this long. I can continue to wait."

  I held eye contact with him. I didn't want to show weakness, or fear.

  "Just trying to understand," I said.

  The madness left his eyes and he pushed me away. I didn't know if he had jumped me for effect or I had dodged a bullet to oblivion. Either way, this guy's emotions were all over the place.

  "You have the freedom to move anywhere in the Black. I do not. There is a small group of spirits, traitors, who possess one of the crucibles. They were once trusted soldiers, until they chose to betray me. The only thing that prevents me from destroying them is the crucible they hold. It has kept them safe for centuries
."

  "You don't know where they are?" I asked.

  "The crucible keeps me blinded," he said. "Until it is broken and the blood spilled, I cannot find the traitors."

  "And what happens when that crucible is broken?" I asked.

  "Another obstacle will be removed and I will be one step closer to the poleax. The traitors know of my weapon's location in the Light. I am sure of it. Once I find them, rest assured, they will guide your friend to its resting place. It will be a pleasure to see that they do."

  "But why Marsh? Just because he broke a crucible?"

  Damon gave that question some thought. I couldn't tell if it was because he didn't know the answer or didn't want to tell me the truth.

  "He was marked by the blood," he finally said, choosing his words carefully. "He alone can break the other crucibles that protect the poleax."

  I couldn't comprehend all the ancient curse stuff, but at least I understood what he wanted me to do.

  "It comes down to this," Damon said. "I can send you back to your family and friends and the life you so cherished. But to do that, I need the poleax. Find the crucible, destroy it, and when the poleax is mine, life will be yours once again."

  "I'll think about it," I said, and then I closed my eyes and got out of there.

  Seconds later I arrived at my home. Or my vision of my home. There was no way I would make any decisions under pressure. I needed time to let it all sink in.

  The last time I was at my home in the Black, I was alone. Not this time. Sitting on the steps leading up to my porch was an old man with straggly gray hair. He was totally out of place, but somehow familiar.

  "Something I can do for you, chief?" I called out.

  The guy looked at the ground and kicked some leaves around.

  "Tried to do the right thing," he mumbled. "Look where it got me. I'm dead, ain't I? Dead . . . dead . . . dead."

  "Yeah, sorry. Welcome to the club."

  "You too?"

  "As a doornail, whatever that means."

  The guy lifted his chin and looked at me. Tears ran from his eyes and down the gray beard stubble on his cheeks. He was a mess. You'd think that after you die you'd get cleaned up a little in the afterlife.

  "You Cooper Foley? The guy who got killed in the boat?"