Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thanatists must be discreet in the world above and avoid interfering with the politics, religion, or the daily lives of the veiled—humans who have no knowledge of thanaturgic realities.
—The Enigma Covenant, Precedent Law, Rule Six
Westminster Abbey looked majestic in the glow of floodlights under the midnight sky.
Its gothic spires and immense vaulted windows pointed heavenward while its great marble stones anchored it stoutly to the earth.
If God had a house, this might well be it.
Cassius led us to an inconspicuous after-hours entrance on the southwest corner, near the Dean’s Yard, and peered up into a security camera.
Two minutes later, a priest in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and broad shoulders, wearing a simple black shirt, opened the door and waved us inside. The door shut behind us with an echoing boom. Without a word, he motioned us to follow.
It was hard to take that first step, and I froze. The priest circled back. “Been a while?” “Yeah,” I said. “It’s complicated.”
He nodded. “Well, given that Cassius has brought you here, let me suggest that for tonight you just think of Westminster as a place to honor the dead. Nothing more, nothing less.”
I could do that. And after we got moving, an unexpected reverence came over me. We were inside London’s most famed burial ground, of course. But it was more than that. I felt like I belonged in a way I hadn’t before. Maybe because I’d died and come back.
On our left, we passed a cloister lit by starlight; the grass had been newly cut around a softly gurgling fountain.
We turned left down a vaulted concourse and left again into the south aisle.
The ceilings here rose a hundred fifty feet in the central nave above two rows of white-and-brown marble pillars and a stone patchwork flooring.
We passed Poets’ Corner. Dim lights shone on memorials—reliefs, statues, filigreed stone tiling—to Lewis, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens, and above them the relief of Handel reposed in thought. Alone in Westminster, our hushed steps brushed up against their monuments like deference.
A neatly swept pile of rubble lay on the ground in front of them.
I hummed a melody from Messiah as I stepped over it toward the broad, intricately tiled floor before the High Altar, behind which gold figures of saints and Salviati’s Last Supper gleamed in the dim light of a few foot lamps.
Tall, thick, unlit candles stood all around.
The priest stopped just before the altar steps and turned to face us. In the murky lamplight, the deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes left him looking haggard. His shadow fell on the marble floor almost like a human’s.
“Long night.” The priest’s words reverberated in the vacant abbey like a dutiful, tired song. Then he fixed his gaze on my companion. “Cassius.”
“John,” the centurion replied.
They clasped forearms. The priest’s arm flexed, revealing more muscle than I’d expect from a man of the cloth.
His broad shoulders pulled his shirt tight over his chest. His physique reminded me of bouncers at black-metal shows—guys who had to buy an XXXL to fit up top, making the shirt fall long, to pocket bottoms. He squared his massive shoulders on me and extended a hand.
“I’m Father John Kincaid,” he said. “Came across the Asphodel Meadows, did we?”
I’d pretty much come to accept this impossibility. I could hardly deny it after struggling back from the plain of statues only to be attacked twice. But hearing a priest say it so matter-of-factly made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.
“Jack Solomon,” I replied, shaking his hand. “And how did you know?” “Are you familiar with the Enigma Covenant yet?” he asked.
I pulled out Henry’s field manual. “Yeah. From this and a handful of other books.”
He nodded. “Then you know the Enigma peels back if a human is too often exposed to thanaturgic death or even mortal threat by thanaturgic hands. I’ve had more than my share of both.”
“Well,” I said, “if it wasn’t the Asphodel Meadows, it was one hell of a dream.
” Kincaid grimaced slightly. “If you’re going to use the word ‘hell’ in my company, please be sure you mean it.
” He paused. “And where you went is not hell, my friend. You may trust me on that.” I put my manual away. “Fair enough.”
“In fact,” he went on, “unlike hell, with the right concentration, a thanatist can see the Meadows virtually anytime. Is that why you’ve come? Seeking clarity about your new state?”
I needed to trust this guy before I shared my story. “So, how did you and Cassius meet?”
Kincaid smiled wanly at the centurion. “We fought together years ago—common enemy sort of thing. But I’ve put that part of my life behind me. I mostly counsel now, providing the direction and wisdom of the Church to keep this place safe.”
I surveyed the Abbey. “Are you telling me that Anglican Church leaders believe this thanaturgy stuff?”
“Those of us who act as its stewards do,” Kincaid said.
“There some kind of collusion going on between the Church and the thanaturgic world?”
“Quite the opposite,” Kincaid said. “Most thanatists don’t concern themselves with the well-being of semblances or souls.” He pointed at the stone mosaic on the floor. “Do you know what this is?”
I looked down at the broad, intricate stonework.
“Some kind of map?” “It’s a Cosmati Pavement,” the priest said reverently.
“Throughout the mosaic, there are symbols and inscriptions describing our world and its end.” “Laid by Roman masons,” Cassius added.
“The Cosmati family.” “What does that have to do—”
“Look around you,” Kincaid said, with a wave of his strong hand. “What do you know about the necromantic element of thanaturgy that would connect it with this place?”
“You need a physical form to bind a spirit.” The books made that much clear.
“And here we have the largest collection of physical matter—bones mostly—from this country’s greatest minds, artists, ecclesiastics, and royalty. I make it a point to know the past of each one.”
“So, you’re protecting them?” I asked. “I thought it was the semblance or soul that houses the personality.”
“That’s mostly true,” said Kincaid. “But a spirit’s original body possesses a trace amount of its soul—call it DNA—and some thanatists have found, hidden deep in the Strata, a way to reconstitute flesh from bone.
Imagine restoring the body of Shakespeare.
Then imagine if you had the Bard’s actual semblance to bind it with.
The result would be more than a vestige. ”
“Actual resurrection?” I asked.
Kincaid shook his head. “I wouldn’t call it that. The being still answers to its binder.”
“Okay,” I said, scanning the burial markers, “but I thought most of these were just memorials, not actual graves.”
Kincaid shared a look with Cassius, who said, “Jack can be trusted.” Seeming satisfied, Kincaid explained, “That’s what we tell the public, and the thanaturgic community, for obvious reasons.
The wisdom, art, and moral authority that a thanatist could claim would, in the wrong hands, hasten the end-times foretold in the Cosmati Pavement.
This is why we protect Westminster . . .
though, just this evening, raiders did break into the abbey. ”
The rubble we stepped over. “They get anything?” Kincaid shook his head. “We’re not sure.”
“Do you know who it was?” I asked. “We’re still assessing,” he said.
A short silence fell between us.
“Jack,” said Cassius, breaking the quiet, “like you, John can be trusted.
Perhaps it is time to confide in him?”
My centurion friend hadn’t sung a false note yet, but he didn’t know what he was asking.
I’d tried talking through private things with the priest at St. Frances Cabrini when I was a kid.
Stuff about Mama leaving. Probably wasn’t fair, but I’d kind of held him responsible for the heavens going silent on me about it all.
I’d trusted him and felt let down. And while this was a world apart from that, it brought up memories I didn’t want to revisit.
The kid inside me said I could figure it out on my own, the way I’d done back then.
Seeming to sense my reluctance, Cassius added, “John is not only a priest, Jack. He knows the tensions between the world above and the world below. Perhaps more than that, he is honorable. You may trust me on that.”
I didn’t have a lot of options—not with the clock ticking on Henry, anyway. More than that, I strangely did already trust Cassius. So, I gave Kincaid a rundown on what had happened to me and Henry and everything since, holding back only Henry’s journal—I didn’t feel right sharing that just yet.
“Henry Wilkinson,” Kincaid said, rubbing his chin. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”
“You know Henry?” I asked.
Kincaid rolled back his left sleeve and tapped a Stryper tattoo. “Met him in ’87 when Stryper put on a midnight show at the Horse after playing the Hammersmith.”
“To Hell with the Devil Tour.” Guess this priest was all right. Kincaid nodded. “Henry and I were close until the events at St. Paul’s.
Even still, I pray he returns safely to you. If he does, it won’t have been easy.”
Henry had mentioned St. Paul’s in his journal, but I left it alone for now. I just wanted him back. “You mean crossing the Meadows?”
“After each death, the journey back is much more difficult,” said Kincaid.
“But if the thanatist does make it back, they return with much more power. That’s the practical reason for Precedent Law against killing a thanatist—avoidance of creating powerful enemies.
Which means that any thanatist willing to violate Precedent to kill Henry must have wanted him dead very badly. ”
Staring down at the Cosmati Pavement, I asked, “You think what happened here tonight could be connected to what happened to Henry?” “Maybe,” Kincaid said. “Though this is hardly the first attack on the
Church in my time here.”
I was more desperate than ever to find Henry. We needed him back at the Iron Horse before all hell broke loose. I dug the stone from my pocket and held it toward the priest. “Do you know what this is? I haven’t been able to find anything about it in my books.”
Kincaid took the stone and held it up to the light.
“That’s because its use is banned. You’d only find mention of it in apocryphal writings.
It’s called a dowsing stone. Think of it like a location marker.
Thanatists once used them to communicate location between our world and the Strata.
When lit by living flame, the stone will guide you to a specific place.
And once the stone is lit, its creator will know you have accepted their invitation and are en route. ”
I took the stone back. “Living flame. Real fire, you mean.” “Yes.” Kincaid eyed me close. “Who gave this—”
I held up a hand, stopping him. His breath had started to cloud in the air between us. A deep, sonorant growl rumbled through the vaulted chamber.
Kincaid stepped past me, toward the nave. “Either our raiders have returned . . . or you’ve led something here.”