Chapter 55
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The current world is, as Rome was, just another collection of expansionist zealots.
But now, they come into the Strata to defile our stories and occupy our souls.
Were it mine to set right, I would do as I did before and lead our Britons against the defilers.
By gibbet, fire, or cross they would perish, and all of London would burn.
—Chancellor Boudica, Roman Stratum, a Strata Chancery disclosure
I hit the ground with my shoulder and rolled, my lantern throwing wheels of light against the darkness.
I finally skidded to a stop on the stony ground, my knees and elbows throbbing with pain.
Around me, a fine ash clouded the air. Trying to catch my breath, I sucked down a lungful and wound up in a coughing fit.
When I got past it, I took a quick count—Lakshmi, Chuey, Lady, and Church were still with me.
They were looking up at something in the pitch-black sky.
I followed their gaze. A crack in the darkness was throwing golden light down on the rocky plain from Henry’s cell.
Shadowy figures were moving hurriedly toward the gap—no sign of Cassius.
Then the gap suddenly closed, leaving us in almost complete darkness.
Lakshmi, like all raptorials, could see in the dark.
For the rest of us my lamp shone a dull luminance.
In my shadow, there was a new tributary scar to the dark lake. It was raw and glowed bright. I knew it belonged to Cassius. I stood, stepped away from the ash cloud, and took a breath, trying to leave it behind—for now, at least. A few moments later, I was finally able to look around.
“Endless Dark,” I whispered. “There was no other choice.” “How’d you know, Jack?” asked Church.
“I’ll explain later. Right now we need to get back to the Iron Horse fast.” Chuey raised his hands. “Which way, man?”
Lakshmi jogged twenty feet ahead of us and dropped to one knee. “Semblance trail. Most of the footsteps go that way.” She pointed.
Remembering the compass sigil in vestige bindings, I bowed my lantern to be sure. The compasses in Church’s and Lady’s threads lit up, pointing in the same direction as Lakshmi.
“Yeah, that’s the way,” I said, and started to move. “And until we’re clear of the Dark, keep your minds busy, away from all this business with Brach and the wraith.” Other than Chuey, who shrugged, the others nodded, as if they’d been in the Dark before.
A few minutes later the blackness turned charcoal grey, then silver, then we were jogging through into the Victorian Stratum. Even with Dream Theater’s “Pull Me Under” spinning in my head, it was hard not to think about Cassius’s lie.
Beyond the Dark, we gathered our breath, then shuffled fast toward London, only to find a large mob of Shiguan at the Iron Horse.
They were blocking Manette Street all the way across and fifty feet to either side of the Horse doors, which they’d clogged full.
There was no telling how many were already inside.
Not wanting to fight our way through, we hurried past them to the corner building, helped each other up the wall of Baxter’s Phonographs on the Castle Street side, and crossed the shop roofs to the Iron Horse rear stair.
We dropped into the stage-prop and costume room and raced into the music hall.
I drew up short with a sick feeling in my gut.
Shiguan thanatists and vestiges had crowded right up to the edge of the ward, which cut across the back third of the music hall.
I supposed they could have crossed the barrier if they were to remain civil, but either civility was beyond them or they knew clustering at the barrier would unsettle the Iron Horse folks.
And that it did.
The stage had been emptied, its scenery piled with chairs and tables to build a barrier across the center of the floor.
Patrons huddled behind it, staring anxiously out at the Shiguan.
The chorus singers held what looked like stage-prop swords.
Spilled beer had pooled across the floor.
Several of the patrons and performers turned expectant eyes on me.
I had no rousing speech for them and might not have had it in me to share even if I did. “The barricade is good thinking,” I managed. “Stay alert. We’ll think of something.” Then I retreated back into the prop and wardrobe room.
My friends gathered in a semicircle around me, sunlight from the windows falling in long stripes across their feet.
In the midst of dusty costumes and wood scenery, I tried to think.
But the hollows inside me from all the imparting in Henry’s cell had sapped my strength and will.
And maybe as much as the hollows, it was Cassius.
How fast he’d become a friend. And how deep his betrayal hurt.
“Damn it, Cassius,” I muttered.
“People can disappoint you,” said Church. “People can also change,” Lady added.
I hooked my finger under the elastics on my wrist, the old pressure mounting. The way Henry had left felt right, though it also felt like I’d lost him twice. But the centurion was now just another abandoner. I didn’t know how much more I could take. I lowered my head and stared at the dusty floor.
Then Chuey stepped close, kicking up dust with his boots. He began tapping the rhythm to Queen’s “We Are the Champions” on the floor with his macuahuitl.
I looked up. Chuey smiled and sang, “No time for losers.”
Chuey knew that sometimes you’ve got to leave the pain for later and deal with what’s right in front of you. I knew it, too. Life growing up around gangs will teach you that. But my good luck was I had Chuey to remind me.
“No time for losers,” I repeated.
“And we can certainly fight to the end,” Lady said—she was the Queen expert—“but these people here aren’t trained to fight. They’ll never last against the Shiguan.”
Church nodded. “At this point, it’s also improbable we’ll have evidence at the trial that Brach ordered the hits. You’ll be boxed, Jack. So, we’ve only a few hours to restore the ward before Brach seizes her song for his revolution.”
“I don’t know,” Chuey chimed in. “This Brach cat had some pretty heavy hitters with him already. Jack, man, did you see? Plant, Sting, McCartney . . . I mean, come on, bro, if he’s replacing those guys with copycats to peddle his own ideas?”
And that was just rock and metal. With policymakers like Morris in his pocket . . .
The prop-room door opened, and Emaline entered wearing a colorful flowing robe with broad shoulder sleeves and the same Bian Lian mask she’d worn the night of the attack on Tin Pan Alley.
“Can you all give me a minute?” I asked my friends.
“I’ll be just outside the door,” Lakshmi said, giving Emaline a wary look.
Once they’d filed out, Emaline removed her mask. “That was quite the exit you made at the Guildhall.”
“Brach didn’t leave us much choice,” I said. “Plus, he sent his wraith after Henry’s soul, which was probably our last best evidence that Brach had Henry killed.”
“I’m aware.”
“You knew he was holding Henry?” I asked.
“No, Jack.” Emaline pulled a cigarillo out, then put it away. “Brach has involved only the people necessary to each part of his plan.”
Made sense to me. “So, you didn’t know he was after the Ward’s song, either.”
“No, but as we’d hoped, you rattled him.” Finally some good news.
“I followed Brach to his apartment on a pretext”—Emaline gave a wry smile—“and overheard him ranting about losing both Henry and his bond to the wraith—a bond you must have severed when you fought it at Newgate.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We cut its bindings but lost the wraith itself.”
For the first time, Emaline hesitated. “Unfortunately, you’ve made the situation worse. The wraith knows how Brach intended to use it to launch his war, and now it’s no longer under his control. The destruction it could sow . . .”
I sighed. “None of this helps.”
“No, but this may: Brach is preparing to send his best darkthreaders after the wraith. They specialize in Strataform arcana and thanaturgic combat.”
“He wants to rebind it,” I said. “So, if I can get to it before them . . .” Emaline nodded. “That was my thought, as well. They’ll start tracking tomorrow. I’ll make a point of trying to assist, and get you the location.
You’ll need to be ready to move fast.”
I was glad to hear I’d get the evening to rest. I was running on fumes. “Sounds good.”
“Remember, Jack, a wraith’s Rupture is usually a painful memory or bitter regret. It’s the very thing that makes their lingering after death a misery and turns them hateful.”
I recalled the pain I’d sensed in the wraith. “Once I find it, how do I shine its Rupture back in a new way, to turn it?”
Emaline put a hand on my arm. “When you see that dusky flicker of its madness, the way to douse it will manifest itself.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, the way to deal with a mature wraith is unique to each one. You won’t know how to subdue it until you’ve peered into its darkest heart.”
I took her free hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’d better get going.”
“Jack.” She got a little closer, that lilac scent again. “With the wraith unbound and the ward nearly gone, Brach will start gathering his army up and down the Strata. So, by all means, be quick . . . but please also be careful.”
It had been a long time since a woman had cared about me like this.
Whether I was here in the safety of the Iron Horse, or out facing the dangers of the Strata, Emaline always seemed to be there to help.
It was different than with my friends. She and I didn’t share any history, and she was fighting to take down her own father, whose cause—despite his crazed plan—had tenable arguments.
She stood to lose everything, and yet she’d helped me as much as anyone, even Cassius. Maybe more.
Looking into her eyes, I slipped my arms around her.
She yielded to my touch and leaned against me, her thigh tucking in against mine.
Then I leaned in and kissed her, pressing my lips against her soft, warm mouth and pulling her tight against my chest. She made a soft noise that hummed against my lips and put her hands in my hair, gently balling it in her fists.
We kissed for several moments, sighing and breathing hard, wrapping ourselves as tightly together as we could.
Then slowly we stopped, our eyes still locked as we held hands between us.
“I’m so very glad I met you, Jack Solomon.” She smiled, then replaced her mask and slipped from the wardrobe room, leaving me there with a racing heart and flush with desire.
In the silence and eddying dust motes, something occurred to me. I was about to chase down a wraith to renew the ward, but wasn’t sure—after healing Chuey and losing my third verse—whether the ward would still receive it from me.
I looked around—no loam to shove my hands in—and whispered, “Are you there?”
A half beat later, the costumes began to rustle, stirring more dust into the tired stripes of sunlight.
Robes and dresses whipped up from their hangers, twirling and twisting together until a cloth and fabric version of the Ward stood hovering before me.
A couple of red satin scarves wove themselves into layered folds to become the Ward’s face and mouth.
I stared a moment. “Something happened when I confronted Brach.”
We have felt it.
“I just . . . it’s gone. I know what my song is for now. But I can’t remember the song itself. Not the important part.”
You no longer feel forgiveness.
It was true. The hollow inside me where the Wembley memory might have been had returned to that old ache. “I should be better than needing a song to take care of this.”
Don’t be a fool. Songs have always been the way. But until you understand yours, until you find a way out of your past and back onto the path of forgiveness, you will be unable to renew us.
“So, the ward-bond is broken.” You are broken, Jack.
I nodded. “Fair enough. But right now, Brach is after your song. He wants it for his war. And since we’re not liking my chances at trial, our best shot is still binding this wraith. I’ll just have to try and figure out my past along the way. But Brach’s army is literally at your doorstep.”
I’ ll protect the Steps for as long as I can. She paused several moments. As for you, Jack, know that your song is not so very far away. Regardless of what happens to us, or the Strata, or your world, don’t ever cease its pursuit.
It sounded like something Henry would say.
The scarves unfolded, the robes and dresses dropped to the floor. Dust motes billowed up again into the weary sunlight falling down in shafts from the old prop-room windows.
I gathered my friends, and we tromped up to the Horse topside and each found a place to crash.
I took the old couch, per usual. I didn’t shower or hum-read, though.
Instead, I just sat staring at all the photos on the wall of Henry mugging with countless bands through the years and quietly singing “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”—Dylan’s original version, which was pretty metal, if you asked me.