Philonecron was patient. He spent years building up his supply, storing bottles in thick containers under piles in the refuse dumps. He knew they would keep; the Underworld was a natural refrigerator. The only problem would be keeping the Shades from sensing the blood too early-hence the use of the rubbish yard filled with the fetid flotsam of Administration life.
He lured customers gradually, peddling his product on his garbage rounds. "They'll be more where this came from," he would say. "Just you wait."
The Shades began to follow him on his rounds, lurking in the shadows to see if he might have something for them. He always did. More came, and still more.
"Come to the Vale of Mourning on the King's Anniversary," he would whisper. "I'll have something for you. Tell everyone."
The King and Queen's wedding anniversary was a Kingdom-wide holiday in Death. All Administration offices were closed. So you would think someone would have found it odd to see an extra-large garbage wagon making its way from the central refuse dump to the Vale of Mourning, but no one did. Nor did any of the Administrators think anything of the swarms of Shades that seemed to be following it. The Dead were an odd sort, prone to strange gatherings, and the Administrators didn't think much of it. Really, they didn't think about the Dead at all.
Even the Underworld Security Agency would be closed. The ten-foot-tall Sons of Argus, with their burly bodies and giant clubs, would be so full of wine and roasted Calydonian boar they wouldn't be able to see out of any of their one hundred eyes.
It was evening and a holiday. Time for fun. Time to frequent the ambrosia clubs and Anniversary galas. Time to drop by Tartarus (for Tartarus was always open for business) and watch the action, maybe buy a few souvenirs. Time to bathe in barrels of wine and darn the consequences. It's a holiday!
So there were thousands of Shades on the Vale that night, like a giant spectral army, all buzzing in expectation. And there, on top of his great wagon, was Philonecron, eight feet tall, swathed in a giant black robe, with a magnanimous smile stretched oddly across his pale, shadowy face.
"Drink up!" he shouted. "There's plenty for everyone!" He threw small jars one by one into the masses, and ghostly arms reached up and plucked them from the sky. "Don't be shy!"
More Shades came and still more; in front of Philonecron legions of Dead clamored and thronged. "I am Philonecron!" he shouted, hurling bottles everywhere. "Friend of the Dead!"
"Philonecron!" a few voices shouted, and then more. In front of his eyes the Shades were thickening, gaining definition, character, even speech. One by one the Dead had life again-they were laughing, hollering, shouting his name. And with definition, character, laughter, came something else. He saw it in their eyes. They had will. He had them.
"Would you like some more?"
"Yes!" they screamed, and he picked up the tremendous hose he had made from Minotaur intestine and began to drench the crowd.
And then he waited. He waited until every last Shade he could see had been touched by the blood. Hundreds, thousands of useless shadows becoming whole before his very eyes. And they had him to thank for it.
"Does King Hades give you blood?" he shouted.
"No!" they cried.
"No! He denies you the one thing you want most. Is that fair?"
"No!"
"Ladies! Gentlemen! What kind of a king denies his subjects what they most desire? What kind of a king deliberately keeps his people in shadow? Death need not be a phantom existence. With me, you could Live again!" He had been practicing this speech for decades.
He had it all thought through. "The Underworld is not for the gods, but for the Dead! For you! It's time to take it back!" He raised his arms up in the air, so excited by the speech that he did not notice the cheers of the audience were slowly weakening.
"Rise up!" he shouted. "Rise up against tyranny! Rise up! Follow me! We will have a new rule in the Underworld!"
That's when he noticed the immense shapes approaching him. He turned to look. Six Underworld Security Agents were lumbering toward him, clubs poised, apparently not glutted on Caledonian boar. Six hundred eyes blinked menacingly at him. Ten Griffins swooped down from the sky, howling and cackling, their enormous claws poised to rip into his skin. Three Erinyes appeared behind him, the snakes in their hair hissing wildly. And with them was the black, willowy form of Thanatos, riding in on a black winged horse, staring at him with an eerie composure that was marred only by a slight twitch in his left eyebrow.
The Erinyes grabbed him, pulled snakes from their hair, and tied his hands with them. Before they could gag him, he shouted to the throng in front of him, "See what they do? See? Knock down the Palace! Free yourselves!"
But it was too late. The effects of the blood were wearing off. They were becoming Dead again, Shades, phantoms, useless. They milled around aimlessly. Their will was gone.
Philonecron was pulled away. Thanatos appeared and raised his hands to the crowd. The Vale was silent.
"Go your ways, everyone," Thanatos said, his voice carrying as if through eternity. "There is nothing for you here."
Philonecron had expected to be sent to Tartarus -where there was a special chamber for disloyal Immortals. He wasn't afraid. Pain only made him stronger. He would come out eventually, he would begin his collection again, he would have enough blood to sustain the Shades through revolution, and then he could sit on Hades' ebony throne and lock all the Shades up in Tartarus for good. It would take time, but he would begin again. He would collect blood for years, decades, centuries if he had to. He would not fail next time.
But he was not sent to Tartarus. The Erinyes dragged him into Hades' Palace. Hades stood before him, a mountain of cold rage.
"Philonecron," he said, his black eyes burning. "You are banished. You have betrayed me, and my world is forbidden to you now. You may never set foot in the Kingdom of the Dead again. You will spend all of eternity wandering through the empty plains of Exile." He turned to go. Philonecron squirmed. Hades stopped, turned, and added, "Oh, and have a nice life."
For one year Philonecron wandered around the outskirts of Death, forbidden by Hades' very words to cross the threshold into the Kingdom. He slept in a cave and spent his days wandering the outer banks of the Styx with the Unburied- the lost souls who, for one reason or another, Charon would not ferry into Death.
He practiced his spell casting (there was a great advantage to having a demon father) and performed experiments on the Unburied. He followed the Messenger into the Upperworld nearly every day to collect blood, but as the days went by, he could not help but despair. He would never have enough, he could never keep the Shades alive long enough to overthrow Hades. He was a general with no army.
Then one day something happened. He was out on a blood-gathering round; the scent of Death had taken him to the body of an old woman somewhere in England. She had died peacefully, bloodlessly, and Philonecron would have to look elsewhere. But something struck him about the tableau in front of him. It was a typical deathbed scene: a family-a man, a woman, and a boy- tears rolling down their cheeks, heads bowed, whispers hanging in the still air. But there was something unusual about it. Something off. Something that caught his eye. The light in the room – no, no; the position of the body-no, no. It was the boy. There was something strange about the boy.
Philonecron could not believe what he was seeing. But it was true. There was no denying it.
The boy's shadow was loose.
CHAPTER 10
GATHER SOME CLAY FROM THE BANKS OF THE STYX. You may have to bribe Charon to look the other way, but that's easily done. It would be better to use clay from the other bank, the one in the Underworld, but you cannot go there. So you make do.