Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The illusory effects of binding thread, indeed the Enigma Covenant itself, can be dispelled to human eyes by repeated exposure to necromantic death.
—Henry Poole,
Careful Observance of the Necromantic Arts
I keyed open the door to my flat and gestured for the raptorial to enter first. She shook her head, so I ducked inside, sat down on my sofa bed, and flicked on my Lemmy boot lamp.
Lakshmi’s shadow fell in crisp lines, with a mortal dark-grey shimmer, like mine and Chuey’s.
Except hers was rimmed in a thin scarlet line.
She quietly closed the door and turned to survey my flat with a hawkish eye.
Her clothes were black and athletically form-fitting.
She wore thin black dojo shoes and had pulled her hair back in a tail, with multiple ties down its length.
Besides her dual swords, she carried a black knife on each hip.
Around her wrists she wore black wrist guards that shone with red threading the color of her shadow’s edge.
And from her neck hung a simple rose-gold crucifix.
Raptorials, I’d read, weren’t bonded servants, but used threads to similarly conceal themselves to human eyes.
They were mortal, but imbued through ritual and training with thanaturgic aptitudes—to fight, hunt, and discern.
“Is there a reason, Mr. Solomon, that you haven’t returned my call?”
“I slept most of the day,” I said truthfully. “Then I had a lesson to give.” Also true. “And I haven’t checked my messages.” Nobody’s perfect.
“I see,” she said, pulling over a folding chair I had leaning near the door. When she did, I noticed a second pair of black knives strapped to her outer calves.
She unfolded her chair with its back toward me. “You were out late last night, were you?”
“Let me save you some time,” I said. “I was with Henry when that whack job shot him with a Smith & Wesson 500—”
“Good with guns, too, it would seem.”
I sighed. “Before you jump to conclusions, I basically grew up in a combat zone—”
“In the heart of gang territory in West Los Angeles. Father was a senior leader of the Rollin’ 100s.”
“You’ve done your homework. Well, then, maybe you also know that Dad took me to the gun range every Saturday that he wasn’t settling ‘disputes.’ ”
She scanned the room. “So, now you’re a struggling heavy metal singer who busses tables at the Iron Horse from time to time.”
“I do more than bus tables.”
“You must if you’re able to afford a flat in the middle of Soho.”
I knew she was fishing, but didn’t care. “It’s not technically a flat. It’s two of the Phoenix’s unused wardrobe rooms. Henry knows the theater owner. Got me a deal.”
Lakshmi sniffed, then sat, straddling the rickety chair. “You’re friends with Henry Wilkinson then?”
“Good friends.” I wanted her to know I really cared about Henry.
Maybe she could help.
She leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath her. “Do you understand my job is to enforce Precedent Law? That the shooting of a thanatist violates that law? And that I must ask you some questions to rule you out as a suspect?”
“I get it.” Raptorials, I’d read, served the Convocation of schisms as an independent faction—highly trained fighters and educated operatives
that investigated thanaturgic crime and often punished those who broke Precedent law.
“Were you shot as well, Mr. Solomon?” “Yeah, I was.”
“But you were reborn.”
“I guess so, yeah.” It still felt surreal to acknowledge, but a woman carrying swords tended to help a guy’s perspective.
She nodded as if she knew. “Can you tell me why someone would want to kill Mr. Wilkinson and you?”
“No idea why someone would want to take me out,” I said.
“As for Henry . . . Look, I know there’s something special about the Iron Horse, but I don’t know why anybody would want to kill Henry.
He was a good man.” Surprisingly, her nod to that seemed genuine.
But she got serious again fast. “Mr. Solomon, you’ve worked at the Iron Horse for nearly five years now, correct?
” It wasn’t really a question. “Quite enough time to consider who might run the place should anything happen to Mr. Wilkinson—”
I held up my hands. “Let me stop you right there, Ms. Go—” I had already forgotten how to say her name. “I love the Iron Horse. I do. But I love Henry more. All I want is to find him and get him back where he belongs.”
She leaned back in her chair. “The shooting of Mr. Wilkinson has clear motive. He held an asset someone might want.” She stopped for a moment and stared at me. “But why kill you?”
“Back home,” I said, “hits come in two varieties: territorial or vengeful, and both usually produce collateral damage.”
“You think it was a hit?”
“Street thugs don’t pack 500s.” I held up my thumb and finger in the shape of a gun. “That’s a weapon you use to make a statement. It’s meant to be seen and heard as much as felt.”
“An astute observation, Mr. Solomon, especially in light of London’s strict gun laws.”
“That’s my point,” I said. “Whoever did this wanted to be damn sure all the details of the hit were easy to relate.”
“What other details?” Lakshmi pressed.
“The shooter. Maybe thirty years old. A little shorter than me. Stockier, though. White makeup all over his face and scalp. Black X’s on his eyes and stitching over his lips.”
“Such a close description,” she said. “Almost as if you knew the man.” She was prodding me.
“I suppose it’s just a habit to guess at music preferences.
Take you,” I said. “Long hair. Simple black clothes. Swords and knives for hunting thanaturgic criminals. No visible tattoos. And you wear a crucifix.”
Lakshmi cocked her head to one side. “Interesting.”
“All of which suggests,” I continued, “that if you listen to metal, you’re probably into bands like Underoath or Skillet.”
“Actually, love them both,” she said. “But I met my husband at the Buck ’N’ Bull.”
“Wouldn’t have pegged you a country fan,” I said. “Your point is that someone wanted Henry out of the way to make the Iron Horse easier to take.”
She said nothing for a few seconds, then leaned forward again. “How would you know that?”
I stared back at her. “I don’t, for sure. But something is happening to this barrier . . . this ward around the Iron Horse. It’s shrinking or something. And if it is, then maybe someone knew about that. And if so, couldn’t they have planned when and where to jump Henry?”
“If that’s true, and if taking the Iron Horse is the motive, why not just wait for the ward to exhaust itself?”
“You’re the detective. But Henry didn’t deserve this.”
“So say all the rest. Still, any man so universally loved has secrets. Some worth killing over.” She held up a hand. “I concede my cynicism. But you’ll grant me that much, given what I do for a living.”
The British were so bloody polite.
“Henry’s body was gone when I came back,” I told her. “He’s got to be out there somewhere. Hiding. Maybe hurt.”
She pursed her lips a moment, then said, “Well, even attempting to kill him is a violation of Precedent. To say nothing of the use of a firearm, which is strictly forbidden.”
“That why you carry blades?” I asked.
“In part,” she said. “Any thread-bound Strata-being can absorb a bullet and walk away. But a proper blade can sever their bindings and strike at their shadows to put them down.”
“Well, I wish I could have done something for Henry,” I said. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find the bastard who hurt him and return the favor.”
“Raptorials aren’t a revenge agency, Mr. Solomon.” Her voice got quiet. “But nothing would make me happier.”
The way she said it reminded me of the oath my father swore against the Latin Kings who’d killed my brother Dan.
And I’d seen him keep it. Dad had made me watch when he cut a couple of them down with one of their own machetes at Westwood Park.
I remembered thinking about how those boys had dads, but also about how they’d killed my brother.
“You’ll keep close, I trust,” she said. “I may have more questions for you.” “Of course.”
She pulled a small handbook from a rear pocket and laid it on top of my books.
“What’s this?” I asked, turning back the cover to the title page: The Maturation and Menace of Wraiths.
“Might be useful later. There’s some evidence of a wraith in the area where Mr. Wilkinson was shot. Be watchful.”
Maybe it was the creature that had chased me down the alley.
Seemed wraithlike enough. But I didn’t want to extend her visit, so I didn’t bring it up.
I walked her to the door, and she handed me a card with her name and number on one side and a raptor drawn in a few elegant lines on the other.
“If you think of anything, please call. Because I get the feeling, Mr.
Solomon, that you’re holding something back.”
Yeah, the creature. Brach, too. “I know better than that.”
“I hope you do, since doing so could put you and the people around you in danger.” She paused.
“This isn’t like when the LAPD questioned you about your brother Dan’s death.
This new world you’ve been reborn into is something altogether different, and a Convocation trial isn’t something you want to suffer.
Given that, is there anything you want to tell me before I go? ”
Knowing as little as I did about my new reality, I probably should have told her. “Honestly, no.”
She nodded and disappeared down the alley.
When I got back to my couch, my phone beeped. It was a text from Church: A Detective Bryant from Scotland Yard is here at the Horse, warrant in hand, searching through Henry’s office. I suspect he’ll be here for a while and will probably call on you in the morning.
“Thanks for the warning,” I said to my empty flat. I wasn’t looking forward to another grilling.
I tried Henry’s number one more time—nothing—then surrendered to a hot shower. Always gave me a fresh outlook. Afterward, I scarfed down some leftover teriyaki from the fridge, plopped back down on my couch, and started again on my hum-reading.
First, I rooted through Henry’s books until I found one on Convocation. It felt like something I should understand better, if there was even an outside chance they might put me on trial.
Like Lady had said, Convocation was composed of five current schisms that studied and practiced thanaturgy throughout London and the Strata.
Depending on the number of thanatists belonging to a schism, it earned certain oversight inside the Convocation.
This was why they fought and recruited—for influence.
I’d already heard about the Shiguan. Beyond them, there was the Brotherhood of Heka, the Dusk Parade, the Children of the Ashes, and the S.L.A.M.—apparently, S.L.A.M. was an acronym, but what its letters stood for was a matter of debate.
Each had ancient roots tied to different areas of the world—the Children were of the British Isles.
And each had a presiding head that sat on Convocation trials, where raptorials brought Precedent law breakers to be questioned.
The raptorials had a presiding head, too, but had a non-voting seat, since their faction needed to remain impartial.
There was also a list of destroyed schisms, but I skipped that for now, deciding it was all something I definitely wanted to steer clear of. Besides, I needed to get on to other things.
Next, I went deeper on binding and imparting. The field guide said a thanatist could impart without need of binding thread if he wanted to restore something that was sick or dying.
I spied the dead eucalyptus plant in my window.
Mama could never afford antibacterial cream and told us eucalyptus was better anyway.
Every Monday she’d put on Marianne Faithfull’s “As Tears Go By,” cut a eucalyptus leaf, and gather the family in the kitchen.
She’d dab it on any scrapes or bruises we had—usually from street fights—as she hummed the song under her breath.
It was a family tradition for as long as I could remember. And Mama loved traditions.
Leaving the book open on the orange crate, I retrieved the plant and sat back on my sofa bed. I read and reread the passage about finding memories that were salient to the object of the impartation, then put my hands on the desiccated leaves.
I called to mind the time I’d watched Mama put eucalyptus on a knife cut in Dad’s cheek—a rare moment of tenderness. The plant fibers began to green and swell in my fingers, the curved blades plumping up. The sensation was crazy. “No way.”
I smiled at the revived eucalyptus, but the memory of Mom and Dad was gone, and inside I felt a little emptier.
My life wasn’t going to be the same. Part of that I was okay with, part of it scared the hell out of me, and the rest felt like I was leaving some good stuff behind.
I sighed, moved past imparting to other topics, and hum-read for several more hours, devouring a couple more of the shorter books before dozing off.
A shout from the street jolted me from a dead sleep.
The air in my apartment had lost that soft warmth of being inside the ward.
It was nearly midnight. In just a few hours, it had receded most of the way up Flitcroft.
Another shout outside my door. Closer. Something was going down.