The hound screamed again—less a roar than the sound of human agony—but went silent when it saw my shadow, thrown by my lantern lying a few feet away. It charged. And before I could snatch my knife, it sank its massive fangs into the largest occlusion in my gleaming pattern.
I collapsed to the ground. Intense heat shot through me as I began to shudder, my scar glowing bright amber. The wraith had somehow pinned me in place with its teeth in my shadow. My spirit began to bleed memory . . .
. . . my brother Dan’s funeral . . .
. . . Dad’s silence around me . . .
. . . my priest trying to explain God’s timing . . .
In my blurred vision, I saw Cassius and Church beating and stabbing the wraith, trying to drive it away from me. But it wouldn’t let go. My chest burned, and the pain was spreading into the rest of my body.
The old pressure surged like it never had. My head was pounding so hard I thought my skull might crack.
I’d all but given up when the wraith began to quake. A bluish haze rose around it—its semblance was cankered, riddled with scars, and now torn completely free of its flesh.
The creature grew still and stared into my eyes, like it didn’t know who or where it was. Then it simply fell over on its side.
A sudden wind blew out from the mausoleums and up over the Circle of Lebanon, swirling into a funnel and narrowing in on the wraith’s body. From inside the gale, a voice cried out.
Then the whirlwind exploded. Wind and light ripped through the leaves of the cedar and knocked everyone to the ground. Rocks and twigs lashed my face and arms as I watched the light disappear into the sky.
When the storm of light and sound had passed, the wraith’s torn and blistered flesh lay splattered on the grass and headstones all around us.
I tried to move but couldn’t. Lady crawled over the wet grass and knelt next me. I tried to tell her what I was feeling, but I couldn’t speak. I thought maybe this was it.
All I wanted was to be able to tell them how much they all meant to me. How I loved the way Church made people feel important. How Lady made everyone feel loved. How Cassius made people feel safe. And Chuey . . . I wish I knew enough words for Chuey. He’d have a killer comeback that’d make everyone laugh. He’d saved me with dumb jokes my whole life.
“His soul’s been torn,” Lady said.
“Let’s get him back to the Horse,” said Church.
Lady dug into her satchel. “He doesn’t have that much time.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The wounds received from a wraith are felt keenest in one’s deepest places, where one’s own wounds live.
That’s always the way with madness.
—John Locke,Concerning Spiritual Understanding(posthumously authored)
I layon the wet grass of Highgate Cemetery, staring up into the starry sky. My friends huddled around me as I began to thrash from the burning in my flesh and the tear inside my shadow. Cassius and Chuey grabbed my arms and legs to hold me down. Lady pulled a long, hooked needle from her satchel.
“I can’t suture this with material thread,” she said. “I need Essiene thread.” “Which is what?” asked Cassius.
“It’s drawn from a spirit at the time of need,” she explained, “because it can’t be stored. One of you must volunteer. And whoever does will be diminished.”
Their voices echoed toward me as if down a long well. I could see them above me, but the pain was carrying my mind awaytoward the open wound in my shadow, toward whatever lay beneath it.
“Use me,” Cassius said.
Lady had Church fetch my lantern and hold it over me. Then she pulled Cassius around so that our shadows partially overlapped.
In my mind, other shadows were being drawn back from an aching memory—the beginning of an occlusion.
“Church,” Lady said, her voice trembling, “you and Chuey hold Jack down. This is going to hurt like hell. Cassius, you’re going to feel it, too.” Lady gently hooked her needle into Cassius’s shadow. The tip disappeared inside the shade of him. The centurion grimaced but did not move, as Lady worked the needle through and drew out a shimmering gossamer thread the color of quicksilver.
I step through the open wound in my shadow. It’s a sunny day in West Los Angeles. Chuey is next to me. We’re thirteen. We’re riding bikes down South Western Avenue . . .
