“Jack.” It was Lakshmi. “Where are you?” “I’ll explain later, what’s up?”
“I need you to listen carefully.” She paused. “When you dismissed the wraith at Highgate Cemetery, did you see it dispossess its spirit?”
I remembered the funnel of wind and light. “I think so—like a whirlwind over the body, right?”
“Right. Now, take a moment and answer carefully: how many distinct lights did you see leave the corpse?”
I could see it as vividly as the moment it happened. “One.”
There was another long pause. “That’s what I thought. Jack, you need to get back to the Iron Horse now. There’s a second wraith.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Music flows gently beneath the surface into the dispositions and practices, and from there it emerges bigger in men’s contracts with one another; and it’s from these contracts it attacks laws and regimes with much insolence until it finally subverts everything private and public.
—Adeimantus to Socrates
(needlepoint sampler from the office of Muster Brach)
I pushedOld Lada’s engine hard down Charing Cross Road. Cassius clung to the dashboard as I slashed in and out of traffic. Turning onto Manette Street, I slammed on the brakes. Lurking just ten yards from the Iron Horse door had to be nearly thirty Shiguan.
“I’m getting sick of this.” I revved the engine. “What are they doing here?”
“Scouts, most likely,” said Cassius. “Though some may be here to rebind vestiges should the ward fail.”
I floored it, daring them to jump in front of me. The prowlers scattered back, and I skidded up to the curb in front of the Horse. We jumped out and rushed inside.
I waved Church, Lady, and the rest of the team into the venue, where we quickly formed a circle.
Lakshmi spoke first. “I examined the body of the wraith from the cemetery. It confirms what you saw, Jack. Its f lesh only housed one spirit?—”
“Meaning it was an immature wraith,” I said. The whole thing had been a waste of energy, and some of my friends had nearly been killed. “And only amaturewraith can travel between Strata or come topside.”
Lakshmi nodded. “There’s another wraith, which explains how Angela DuFresne was killed twelve miles away at nearly the same time you were chased by one outside your flat.”
It made sense. But we’d barely escaped animmaturewraith. I didn’t see how we’d ever capture something more powerful. My friends’ silence seemed to be saying the same.
“The wraith you killed was only ever after you, Jack,” Lakshmi added. “But all these musician deaths . . . something is hunting them for a reason.” The implications started to take shape for me. “Brach’s the only thanatist
I know who has the Cython knowledge to summon and bind a mature wraith. I think he’s using that wraith to eliminate songwriters as part of his larger plan to bring his revolution topside and install his own music.” Church removed his cigar. “How would he accomplish such a thing,
Jack?”
I ran down what I could make of it all so far—the thousands of bodies Brach was collecting, so many of them tied to music in one way or another; the elimination of dissenting musical voices in the Strata, like Bolan and Faithfull in Tin Pan Alley; the mummers like Leinad Ke of Banner Streaming and MorrisWilliams, minister of creative industries, media, and arts; and the network of music venues he was preparing to disseminate his new music and propaganda.
Church’s face slackened. “Dear me. This morning’sTelegraphreported that Minister Williams was preparing his annual address of Parliament. There was speculation of sweeping changes.”
“Brach’s already moving on his plan,” I said.
“I hate to tell you, bro,” said Chuey, “but Andrew Lloyd Webber and James MacMillan were found dead this morning. Word is it looked a lot like what happened to Angela and Jimmy.”
“Then this wraith’s obsession must align somehow with Brach’s goal”—Church spoke around his cigar—“and is yet another weapon in his war.”
“Yes, but to what end?” Lady asked. “Brach wouldn’t need a wraith just to kill musicians.”
I couldn’t answer that. Not yet, anyway. But there was something more important I needed to tell my friends. “Henry’s not dead.”
“Jack”—Chuey shook my arm—“man, don’t go chasing ghosts. I know what it’s like to lose a friend. Plays with your mind.”
