Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The maturation of a wraith results from its consumption of other wraiths and semblances, usually to satisfy its one particularly maddening need.
—Anonymous Cython author, The Maturation of Wraiths
Cassius and I steered wide of two Shiguan thanatists and a half dozen of their vestiges prowling the Iron Horse barrier, which we passed through just as we turned onto Manette Street. It had receded more than a hundred feet on this end since the night I was attacked. Time was running out fast.
At the Iron Horse door, I looked back at the Shiguan. “Hey, Cassius, would you mind standing guard here? Just in case.”
“Prudent thought.” Cassius turned his back to the wall like a sentry. “If you need me, call out.”
“Thanks,” I said, and stepped inside.
From habit, I looked over at the spot where Henry would normally have been standing. I would miss seeing him there with his easy smile, drying glasses.
Lady was sitting in the far corner near Delain and Sherzer, both of whom sat on her cots against the wall.
I made my way toward them, offering hellos as I passed Westy, Ella, the Parley twins, and a bunch of new faces almost certainly here due to the shrinking ward.
Lady was wrapping Delain’s arm as I approached. Both vestiges tried to stand.
“Nah, don’t get up,” I said. “How are you guys feeling?” “Fine,” they replied in near unison.
Lady kept at her work. “I’d hug you, dear, but I’m somewhat preoccupied.” “A hug? For what?”
“Well, after the war,” she began, “I took a position at the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. That was 1741, it was. Such beautiful children.” Lady attached a three-tined prosthetic to Delain’s stubbed arm and began wrapping it with a compression bandage.
“When I died, I found myself on my era’s stratum.
For nearly a century I watched semblance children arrive again and again, heartbroken to see them come into the Strata alone.
Then one day a thanatist showed up with a proposition: he offered me resources to serve topside foundlings in exchange for my services tending his battered vestiges.
” She tapped Delain’s fork hand and released it.
“Eventually, I’ll get you a hand of flesh and bone. ”
I didn’t want to imagine where Lady might procure a human hand. “How’d you wind up at the Horse?”
“After years in his service, I told my binder I would no longer be a party to his endless crusade, and fast as you can eat a pudding he stopped renewing my bindings. I’d have slipped away into nothingness had Henry not rescued me. Much as you’ve done for these two here.”
Lady stood and gave me that hug. Over her shoulder, in her candle-cast shadow, I noticed a particularly long scar that looked to have been sutured somehow; a silvery thread had stitched the wound closed.
Something told me this was her primal moment, but because it had been torn and mended, I chose not to look any deeper.
Delain held up the three-tined arm extension. It looked like a huge, sharp fork. “This ought to come in handy,” she said with a grin. “Though this was my good pint hand.”
Sherzer chuckled, even as he swept his gaze across everyone like a scout.
I stole a glimpse of Delain’s and Scherzer’s shadows on the edges of their cots. They had patterns and occlusions like everyone else, including the darker scars of primal moments.
In Delain’s shadow, I saw the image of a man I guessed was her father. He was wearing a Scottish kilt, facing down a handful of bandits while she clutched a toy doll. I sensed in her a deep pride for him.
In Sherzer’s shadow lurked the embarrassment of being ostracized by the smart kids, because he liked contact sports. That, and countless fights with street thugs along someplace called “Murder Mile” before he was recruited into Britain’s Special Air Service.
The images weren’t entirely clear—that would require a lantern and ghost stone—but the candles showed me sketches of these moments.
When I looked up, I saw Church at his customary table, and Chuey coming through the door, a short bat protruding from his backpack.
“Lady, Chuey, you got a minute?” I asked.
We crossed the pub and slid into Church’s booth—classic metal, with band patches of Manowar, Dio, and all the rest sewn into the old red vinyl upholstery. On the table, the candle burned bright inside Henry’s Peruvian wind glass—just one of his growing collection from different countries.
Church leaned forward. “How are you faring, lad?” “Not so well.”
“Come on then,” said Church. “Out with it.”
No good way to say it. “Henry is dead . . . Jimmy, too.” Lady’s hand curled over mine.
Chuey got really still. “Damn, Jimmy, too.”
I didn’t say anything else just then. I’d had a little time to grieve. They needed theirs. Still, sharing it brought back all the feelings in a painful rush, and I wished like hell there’d been a band blaring from the venue stage.
After a while, Church cleared his throat. “Tell us what happened.”
I’d been dreading this part. “After they shot Henry, they put him in an iron safe and dumped him in the Thames. Jimmy seems to have been killed by the wraith that I probably called up when I was reborn.”
Another short silence fell between us.
“We all loved Jimmy”—Lady squeezed my fingers—“but don’t you dare hold yourself responsible for his death.”
“Quite right,” said Church. “Jimmy would have been the first to disabuse you of such a notion.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t change anything, does it? Jimmy’s dead, and I’m at least partly to blame.”
Church rested his forearms on the table and knitted his fingers together. “My boy, by such logic we are all of us crucifiers. There’s an ocean of difference between culpability and causality, and that difference has everything to do with intent.”
Chuey knocked the table. “Damn straight.”
After that no one said anything for a few minutes, and in the silence, I noticed Lady’s bindings were dim. She and Church had lost not only their friend but their binder, too.
I reached out and gently touched their wrist threads.
Memories of band rehearsal and early gigs filled my mind.
The sigils brightened, and Henry’s mark of supplicating hands rewove into a fermata—the mark that seemed to belong to me.
I hated watching the change. It felt like an insult to Henry.
But I finished, the effort leaving more hollows inside me where the memories had been.
I only knew that I’d lost some small good things, and yearned to know what, because somehow I just felt less like myself.
The field manual said that sometimes the memories could be restored.
Usually by a priest. Kincaid may be a Stryper fan, but I wasn’t ready to become a church regular.
The point was that I couldn’t do it on my own, which was why most thanatists used the energy of a third soul to revitalize a vestige, if they did at all.
I finally sat back to catch my breath and let my heart steady out.
Church and Lady smiled at me when I was done.
Looking around the Horse, I realized how many of its patrons had bindings. “Church, do all these bindings belong to Henry?”
He nodded. “They do, my boy.”
“How did Henry take care of so many vestiges?” I asked.
“Simple, really,” said Lady, “he loved them, same as he loved you.”
How had Henry loved so many people when I’d only managed to carve out room for a few? I let that go and caught my friends up on everything else, including the raptorial’s promise to hunt the wraith.
“She called on us, too,” Lady shared. “She’s a bit measured for my taste, but I’ll judge a good one to make a friend of.”
Next, I filled them in on what I’d seen and heard in the Strata—my fight with Bazalgette, the corpses in the water, and everything I knew about Brach’s revolution—keeping my promise to Emaline not to mention her.
“Dear Heaven,” said Church, taking his cigar out of his mouth, “then the past’s resentments have truly escalated . . . war with the topside world.” “For real?” Chuey ran a hand over his buzz cut. “Hells, that makes an
LA turf war sound like a game of red rover.” I forced a smile.
“Well,” said Lady, “I won’t ever kneel to Brach.
I doubt any of Henry’s other people will, either.
Which means that, should Brach win, he’ll have to dismiss us all.
And that being the likelihood, I’m in for a pound.
” “Hear, hear,” said Church. “I’m of Thomas Jefferson’s persuasion on the matter: I shall engage in eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man. ”
Chuey placed a hand on the handle of his bat. “I’d fight this dude just for wanting to control our music. But mi abuelo was lined up and shot for disagreeing with a dictator. So, this clown better just stay in his hole.”
That wasn’t going to happen. “Well, I won’t let Henry go unavenged.
Not without a fight, anyway. So, I’ve got to prove Brach did this.” Church put his cigar back in one corner of his mouth. “Stiff upper lip, then, lad. What’s to be done?”
“Everyone is probably on edge, wondering about Henry.” I looked around the pub again. I didn’t want to make a broad announcement—that seemed too blunt. “I’ll work through the tables to let everyone know about Henry and Jimmy, and rebind anyone who needs it. Church, when
I’m done, can we meet on the venue side? Quieter, and we can get some privacy to finish our phone conversation.”
“Very good,” said Church. “Henry made some arrangements. I just need to gather some things from the back office first. I’ll see you shortly.”
Just then, three guys dressed in white delivery aprons and hats stepped into the Horse, carrying several food bags.
“Ah, good,” Chuey said. “I ordered lasagna for everybody. In my family, we eat when we grieve. We’ll now eat for Jimmy, too.” He dashed off to get plates from the kitchen for the house. Chuey and I had eaten lasagna together more times than I cared to count.
I went first to the thrash table, where Westy, Ella, and the Parley twins were embroiled in their old debate—talent versus training. “Hey, can I talk to you guys a minute?” Quietly, I told them the news. Westy buried his face in his hands. The others stared, as if hoping I’d take it back.
In the candlelight, I looked into the shadows of my thrash friends. Westy had been an orphan. Ella had played professional football and hoped someday to do so again. And the Parley twins had been kicked out of their home for taking a religion.
Peering into their primal moments was like opening a friend’s diary.
Not simply because I might see moments that were sad or tragic—many were filled with hope and passion—but more because I wasn’t sure I should be looking at all.
These were secrets even friends didn’t always share.
But if it was a sin to peer into the hearts of my friends in order to ease their pain, then I’d gladly take the hit when penance came due.
I couldn’t look all the way down, but enough to guide me a little in sharing a few words of comfort.
When I was done, Westy lifted his head. “Thanks, Jack.” The others said the same.
“No worries, guys.” I glanced at their bindings. “Any of you need me to freshen your threads? No strings attached.”
They chuckled at my bad joke. Only Ella needed any thread care. Another memory was lost, another hollow inside me. Ella started to jabber about returning to the football field. She looked so happy.
The other tables proved just as hard—imparting little bits of myself, learning the secret hopes and fears of people I called friends.
How had Henry borne such incredible responsibility and kept that easy smile on his face all the time?
I was no Henry. And I was a wreck when I got finished.
Felt like I’d run a mile. But I lingered in the pub an extra minute, not to catch my breath, but because I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear what Church was so eager to tell me about Henry’s arrangements.
I finally ducked through the velvet curtain into the venue side.