Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The sixteen-year-old boy set fire to houses at the height of the Blitz to guide the Luftwaffe to their targets. He was the first of hundreds of British Fifth Columnists—Berlin sympathizers—whom Nancy Wake, Chancellor of the Raptorial faction, hunted down and killed.
—Excerpt from the pending challenge to
Ms. Wake’s fitness for a seat upon the Strata Chancery
I opened my eyes, realizing immediately where I was.
Last time I’d been in the greenroom, I’d talked Angela DuFresne up for her gig.
That was just two days ago. Now she was dead.
The thought brought on an avalanche—dying and being reborn, the wraith that had my scent, my agreement with Emaline to avert a revolution . . . Henry.
Tension pushed against the backs of my eyes. I turned down the volume on my phone and checked my voice messages.
The first was from my landlord. The Phoenix had been sold.
New ownership intended to “revert the theater back to its music hall origins.” I had a week to clear out my things.
The second was from Sixth Angel Entertainment—the Hounds’ new management.
Again, something about their new singer.
Apparently, it was now urgent I get in touch.
Losing my home. Losing the band. The skin at my wrist began to itch. I needed music. Now.
I grabbed the old dreadnought we left here in the greenroom and headed out into the pub.
I liked sitting near a window when I wrote.
I cranked up the shutter and sat down at my booth.
The morning sun fell on my back, casting my shadow across the table—storm-grey shimmering against charcoal, like a lake under winter sun.
I recognized the gleam-note pattern from before—the Shawshank sound with two notes down, and two up—lighting in quick succession.
This time, though, in a corner of my shadow, I noticed another pattern, a small circle with a cross through it, the music symbol for coda—like I’d seen in Jimmy’s shadow the day before.
None of the books mentioned the coda symbol, so for now, I put it out of my mind.
Then, I fingered the first chord of “They Always Go Away,” brushed the strings, and sang the first line. Like a mild wind blowing over embers, the largest occlusion in my shadow brightened with a soft amber light—just the central scar, not the many smaller scars that snaked away from it.
And it ached the way this song always did when I worked on it—like a wound that hurt to touch. Somehow, though, the music made the pain bearable.
So, inside the quiet of the Iron Horse, I played and told the story: standing in the front-room window, watching Mama back down the driveway, a suitcase in the front seat next to her.
As I approached the third verse, my fingers started trembling and my voice quavered. Maybe if I kept my eye on my shadow, maybe if I stared at that one occlusion, I might get it right this time.
But when I hit the third verse, it all fell apart. Something was still off. My ring finger missed the G, and the chord buzzed like a dying fluorescent light.
Damn.
It had still felt good to try. I’d made it all the way to London to write and play songs people might remember. That dream, that need, hadn’t gone away. Every time I touched a guitar or sang, I felt it again.
But I had to stay focused. The Iron Horse was in trouble, and Henry was still missing. I wouldn’t stop looking for him until I found him—the way he’d always been there for me.
Two years back, I’d pounded on his door at four a.m. After years of reworking the second verse of my song—the one about my brother Dan’s death—I finally got it.
First thing I’d wanted to do was sing it for Henry.
I rushed to his place with my guitar. When he opened his door, hair a stiff standing mop, his eyebrows went up in expectation.
“The second verse,” I said. “You get it?”
“Yeah, man.”
He yanked me inside, led me to his little home studio, and sat behind the drums. Without a word he counted us in. His eyes danced with anticipation as he drummed and watched me play the second verse for him.
His smile meant everything to me.
“Hot damn.” He’d clapped, stood up from his drum stool, and did his two-step shuffle. I’d joined him—
Someone pounded on the pub door, startling me from my reverie.
I set the guitar on the bench, crossed to the door, unbolted the lock, and pulled it open, blinking away tears until Chuey’s face came clear.
He was downing one of his four-ounce energy drinks—he always carried a few in his backpack, which was slung over his shoulder. He swallowed loudly and said, “You look terrible.”
“So, the usual then,” I replied. “Hey, have you heard from Maria?” Chuey’s girlfriend hadn’t been willing to come to London, but they’d been doing the long-distance thing.
“Yeah, she had a ticket to come out to your Wembley show, but never mind that, man.” He pointed a finger at the door.
In my haze, I’d missed it. Stuck to the middle of the Iron Horse door was an envelope, pinned there by a short knife.
I tore the note down, pulled the knife, and waved Chuey inside. We sat back at our booth.
Chuey grabbed his Bluetooth speaker from his pack and fired up some Nightwish.
He knew metal always helped me think. He’d tried to explain that it was the frequencies, but his tech prowess was beyond me.
In any case, Nightwish was a favorite—I was actually friends with their keyboardist. Chuey and I had played their albums constantly all through high school.
For another ten years after that, it was weekend gigs and nights spent reading—Chuey with light and sound texts, and me devouring history books, novels, and musical scores—we laughed all the time at the apparent contradiction.
For our own reasons we’d each still lived at home, but we were inseparable otherwise.
I opened the envelope:
Dear Mr. Solomon,
There is credible suspicion that you have violated Precedent Law as it relates to violence against a thanatist and may have done so by means of an outlawed weapon.
Furthermore, there is considerable evidence that you are responsible for raising a wraith to the environs of London, which is yet another violation of Precedent Law.
The transition to thanaturgic life is fraught with challenges. If only due to my fondness for our mutual friend, Henry Wilkinson, please remember that I am at your service, should you ever have need of my assistance.
With Warm Regards, Muster Ree Brach
I handed the note to Chuey, who read it, then shook his head. “Straight up intimidation, man. Knifing it to the door, too. What’s this about?”
Chuey already knew about my new reality—some of it anyway. But fighting together in Westmont just wasn’t the same as the war coming from the Strata. Chuey hadn’t signed up for that. He could still be a friend, helping me here and there, without me dragging him into promises I’d made to Emaline.
“Spill it, man.” Chuey leaned forward. “I can see you thinking and it’s hurting my head.”
So, I told him, layering in context from the books, explaining the risk, knowing things would never be the same for us.
He sat, listening. And when I was done, he was quiet for two long beats.
“I don’t really understand what you’re up against, man. But whatever it is, I got you.”
Some people you realize you probably don’t deserve to have in your life, but you’re awfully damned glad they choose to be there anyway.
He laid the letter on the table between us. “One day without me and look what happens. So, what’s all this stuff about breaking the law?”
“He’s letting me know he’ll bury me at a Convocation trial if I challenge his plans to take the Horse.” I tapped the note. “If he can make any of it stick, I won’t be around to help stop it.”
“Like jail?”
“More like an iron box.”
“Well, bro, we ain’t letting that happen again.”
A few years before Chuey and I came to London, I got a showcase audition for Interscope Records.
The day before the audition Chuey got picked up by the police—a battery charge for fighting off some gangbangers.
But Chuey had two felonies already. The DA would have seen a pattern, tagged him with a felony, and given him his third strike.
That could have meant real prison time. So, I went in and told them it was me.
My clean record earned me a simple misdemeanor, but I was in lockup for three days and missed the audition.
When I got out, Interscope had no time for a guy who’d been tangling with the law.
It had been quiet for too long—shadows of the past, shadows in the present.
I think Chuey saw we were getting too deep in our heads about it all, because he turned the conversation to live shows—talking about concerts always pulled us from our funk.
He fished a Barge House takeaway sack from his bag and handed me a sourdough egg and pepper biscuit, munching one himself.
And while we ate, we spoke of Meshuggah and Testament and Vanden Plas and a dozen other concerts.
But the ones I liked best were the ones with Chuey behind the sound or light console.
He’d actually been the stadium lead for rock and metal at the Hollywood Bowl for several years.
In fact, the killer new wraparound venue in Vegas—the Sphere—had contracted Chuey to consult on the audio and video design before we moved to London.
He could make any show look and sound big.
In the middle of laughter over a Steel Panther show we’d seen, the Iron Horse door opened, and Cassius strode in through a wash of morning sunlight.
He’d been walking patrol all night. He crossed to our table, said, “Good morning, gentlemen,” and gave each of us a forearm clasp before sitting beside me.
I pointed to Brach’s note. The centurion picked it up and inspected it front and back. “Intimidation.”
“This guy’s smart.” Chuey smiled.
“But that does not mean,” Cassius continued, “that Brach will not make good on the threat. And it is still a fight with unfavorable odds. We need a strategy.”
Chuey hunched his shoulders. “This dirtbag’s declaring war on you, Jack.
And it’s lopsided because you don’t know as much about all this stuff.
” He tapped the note in Cassius’s hands.
“We’re going to need more than an undead Roman and our little knives.
We need to recruit and gear up fast.” Both Chuey and Cassius had valid points.
And I did need to find some catalysts soon, regardless.
But I wasn’t feeling as lost as I had a day ago.
I’d read quite a lot, learned to use living flame a little bit, and I could see into shadows more deeply each time I tried.
Plus, I had Cassius, whom I’d already come to trust. And maybe most importantly, I now also had Emaline on my side.
Or at least I thought I did. I’d know soon enough if she was playing me.
“Okay, look,” I said, “the body of the shooter is going to turn up today, with its bindings from Brach intact. Bindings carry a pattern from the thanatist who created them. The body’s shadow will carry unique markings, too. ”
Chuey and Cassius both nodded.
“So, when we’re contacted”—I took the note from Cassius—“we’ll collect the body, which will give us the evidence we need to prove Brach ordered the hit.
That will clear me of any charges and stop this revolution cold.
Meantime, I’ve found some help in trying to restore the Iron Horse ward against Brach—or anyone else, for that matter. ”
Chuey’s eyes lit up. “Well, hot damn.”
Chuey had chosen to throw in with me on all this craziness. Now I turned to Cassius. “There’s always a third option,” I reminded him. “And you’ve now got another chance to stop an expansionist zealot. Help me fight.”
“Help you,” he said.
“And not because of your bindings.”
“He is asking?” Cassius said mostly to himself. I nodded, waiting.
His broad, angular face slid into a grin. “I very much like the sound of that.” We spent the next hour discussing what we should do with the body until we could produce it as evidence; then the door opened again. A man in a blue suit and tie, white shirt, and black shoes sauntered in.
I’d have guessed he was with the Metropolitan Police even if he hadn’t strolled up, holding out his badge.
“You must be Detective Bryant,” I said.
“That’s me, all right,” he replied with a Cockney accent. He gave Chuey and Cassius long looks before turning back to me. “You’re an ’ard man to find, Mr. Solomon. That’s a curious thing after you’ve been shot at and your best friend’s gone missing.”
“Where’s your partner?” I asked. “Don’t you guys usually work in pairs?” “Usually,” he said.“I’ve got a few questions, Mr. Solomon, if you don’t mind.”
I wasn’t looking forward to another grilling. The raptorial had tired me out.
“Of course,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not ’ere. I need you to ID a body.”
I nodded quickly to Cassius and Chuey. “All right.” I got up. Cassius and Chuey fell in behind me.
Bryant half turned. “You can bring one friend. The Metropolitan Police is not in the business of ’osting social gaverings.”
“I’ve got some light-rigging prep to do for the festival, anyway,” Chuey said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Cassius and I followed the detective out. We picked up my car over on Greek Street where I kept it parked. It was an old Lada Riva, mostly grey Bondo at this point. I called her Old Lada.
Then, we headed to the morgue to identify the man who killed me.