Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The province of the thanatist is the empire of the dead. So, it is rare to find a thanaturgic lamp-bearer capable of sending a spirit on to the peace all souls desire. This illuminates the different categories of thanaturgic practice.
—Gerbert of Aurillac, The Apocryphal Diaries
Then I stepped into the Iron Horse, it was quiet, subdued. No music. No Henry drying glasses behind the bar. Lakshmi was standing near the classic-metal booth, whispering with Lady and Church and Chuey. They jumped up and started toward Cassius and me.
I took them through it all—Mick, Brach, Owen—and showed them the catalysts we’d collected, including the Orcus. Chuey fetched us wet towels to wipe the mud off our faces and arms.
“Jack,” said Lakshmi, once we’d caught our breath, “have you heard of Chris Barber?”
“Dude was a legend,” I said. “Some say London’s most important jazz composer. Passed away a few years back.”
Lakshmi nodded. “His semblance was consumed.” “Wraith attack?”
She nodded again. “I’ve just come from the Modern Stratum. Jack, I think Brach’s accelerating his plans.”
“No doubt about that,” I said.
Chuey lightly slapped my chest with the back of his hand. “I let all our musician friends know to be on the lookout. For now, they all seem okay. But you, you look worse than normal. Something else happen down there?”
“Got bit by a bird.” I pointed to the back of my neck and was about to get into more detail when my cell phone buzzed with a text. Sixth Angel Entertainment, asking me to call them ASAP.
Damn it, not right now. I needed to just shut these guys down once and for all. I had much bigger problems . . . then I remembered what the Ward had said about getting my spirit right. “Can you guys give me a minute?”
“Of course, man.” Chuey stepped to the side. “I’ll get you a soda with lime.”
Lady checked the back of my neck, where the raven had pecked me. “I’ll bring my needle. You need a few stitches.”
I nodded thanks and headed back to the greenroom. I eased onto the couch and hit dial. The line connected and some guy answered.
“This is Jack Solomon,” I said.
“Mr. Solomon, Ken Macks, Sixth Angel Entertainment. I’ve left you a message or two in the last few days .
. .” The guy paused. “This is a bit awkward, but the vocalist we had lined up for the Hounds . . . well, he’s headed back to rehab.
” Macks paused again, longer this time. “Would you consider singing the festival with the band? One last gig? You’d be compensated, of course. ”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Macks added, “but we can’t bring anyone else up to speed fast enough, and we’ve got a couple of label reps coming to take a look.”
Part of me wanted to tell him to go to hell. But the Ward had said I needed to forgive those who’d left me behind. Maybe forgiving the
Hounds could put me on the right track. And despite everything that had happened, I didn’t want to be the reason these guys didn’t get their shot. Even though that meant going on without me.
I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I can do that.”
Macks blew such a huge sigh of relief that my phone crackled in my ear. “Very decent of you, Mr. Solomon. Thank you. There’s just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
Macks hesitated. “There’s a soundcheck the day after tomorrow. And I know the brass would love to hear you.”
I didn’t really care about “the brass,” but a soundcheck was legit. More than that, it would give me the opportunity to see the guys, try to put it behind me that much sooner. And with everything going on, time was not, as the Stones famously said, on my side.
“Yeah, man. Okay.”
Still hurt to agree to it. The band had been my everything for five years.
Macks gave me the details and we hung up.
I sat back on the old grimy couch and stared up at the picture of Robert Plant.
Losing the camaraderie of the band had emptied me out the first time.
Playing a show like Wembley, then walking away . . .
I picked up the old dreadnought, held it close. The cool wood felt good on my skin. I brushed the strings and let them softly ring open, kind of like a prayer.
Then, without planning to, I started playing my song.
I sang just above a whisper. It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for the guys in the band. Or the fans. This time it was for me. It just came out. Like a story I didn’t know I remembered.
I sang about Dan and wondered if my brothers were still alive.
I sang about Dad and wondered if I would have a family of my own someday.
I’d never given it much thought. All I’d ever cared about was my music, and that seemed to be getting away from me now—a fact I might not be able to take.
Because I’d never thought about myself as anything other than a musician.
Then I hit the third verse . . . and pulled away.
“Damn it.” I slammed my fist against the guitar. How many years had I been at this song? I flipped the guitar around, held it by the neck like a bat, and slammed it on the floor. It shattered to pieces, strings buzzing a discordant twang.
I couldn’t find my third verse, but now I understood why: I’d have to say things about Mama I didn’t want to say.
Because even though she’d left, and I wanted to hate her—maybe did hate her—I still loved her.
And I didn’t know how to reconcile those two things.
I’d need to figure it out somehow if I meant to do as the Ward had asked.
Cassius knocked on the door and entered the room. “If this is your metal music, Jack, it commends you well. Though I do not understand why you destroy your instrument after such compelling music.”
I turned to see my friends standing in the hallway behind him—Chuey, Church, Lady, and the raptorial, Lakshmi.
“We didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Lady said, her voice soft. “But Chuey explained to us about Sixth Angel, and we thought maybe you could use some company.”
I waved them all in in. Chuey placed the club soda and lime on the end table near me and swept the broken guitar out of the way.
Lady sat beside me and set to cleaning and stitching my wound.
The others sat around on the couch or old folding chairs, except Lakshmi, who closed the door and stood with her back against it.
They deserved to know why descending the Strata was so hard for me, and why I’d failed the ward-bond. So, I finally told them the story of the boy in the window.