We have felt its power.
“I think we can find it, turn it.”
This is good.Her words in my mind were rich with distant unified voices.
“If we do turn it, what comes next?”
She extended her arms to her sides, dust trailing down.Bring it to this same place on the Ancient Stratum, where we began, then call us forth. When we rise, invite the soul to join us. Once it has inhabited the soil, seal
us together with threads of Orcus. But be vigilant, Jack, for the thread will require something of you if it allows itself to be used.
I didn’t want to think about what that could mean. “How long do I have before you . . .”
The Ward lowered her arms.A day. Perhaps less. For centuries we’ve been strengthened by the spirits of those who live within our protection. But in these last few days, many have left us or been destroyed by those who would put an end to us. The attacks continue and we grow weak.
“Then we better get moving.”
Godspeed, Jack.The soil of her fell down, and a plume of dust rose up around me.
Church called from the grotto exit. “Well?” “We’re bonded,” I said.
Church breathed a long sigh. “Good. You are hereby authorized by the very soil of the Iron Horse to provide it with the spiritual investment necessary to renew its ward.Cuius est solum eius est usque ad coelum et ad inferos, as they say.”
“Which means what?”
Cassius came over and extended a hand to help me up. “It means: ‘For whoever owns the soil, it is theirs up to Heaven and down to Hell.’ ”
“Also, a legal defense,” Church added.
I laughed, then rushed across the grotto and led my friends down into the darkness of the Abyssal Steps.
CHAPTER FIFTY
To call a semblance, soul, or wraith, the thanatist must bow his lantern and focus on the one he means to reach or summon.
—The Art of Lamp and Bow: A Catalyst Reader
Somewhere between theModern and Victorian Strata, the old pain started to swell in my head, every heartbeat throbbing behind my eyes. The smell of the dusty oak stairs filled my nose, and my stomach gurgled. Just as the red paneled door came into view, the pressure of the past began pulling hard at the sutures in my shadow . . .
. . . I get down the eucalyptus plant, just like Mama used to do every Monday, and it hits me. Mama loves tradition, so she’ ll be at Ardells again Saturday. I’ ll go and talk to her. But I need to be ready. I rush to Dad’s room and dig in the closet for a photo of Mama and me on my first day of kindergarten . . .
Then I remembered something good, too, for a change . . .
. . . playing my first show ever, at the Viper Room on the Sunset Strip. I’ d asked my dad and brothers to come. Theydidn’t. But there at the back, shouting “your voice sucks,” was Chuey . . .
Until he started running sound for me, Chuey had never missed a show, no matter how small or dirty the venue. How had I forgotten that? I finally traced the Who lock and pushed through onto the Victorian Stratum. We emerged inside some kind of prop and wardrobe room. The smell of old paint, wood scenery cutouts, and racks of dusty costumes reminded me of shuttered community theaters. Tired sunlight fell from small square windows, lighting dust motes eddying up off the floor.
I staggered to the other side and through a door into the Victorian Stratum music hall. It teemed with patrons—women with their hair pinned up in tiaras, men with some of the funkiest beards I’d ever seen. Cigar and pipe smoke swirled over waitresses bringing fresh mugs of beer and carrying away empties.
Fortunately for me, in the gilded light of gas lamps, a small chorus of showgirls was on the stage, and the entire room was singing with them: “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.”
I’d heard the tune once in an old marionette show calledHowdy Doody. The semblances were singing the refrain over and over at full voice, like festival crowds do at power-metal shows. I soaked up every riotous note, and the pain in my head and shadow faded back.
With my legs under me, I checked Chuey. He was putting his rosary back in his pocket. He nodded, and we all rushed from the Iron Horse music hall, trying not to step on the women’s thick skirts or knock off the men’s bowlers and boaters. Out on Manette Street, it was early evening, the sky filled with smog, the air ripe and bitter with the stink of horse dung and industrial soot. A dozen thanatists and maybe fifty vestiges were prowling at the edge of the ward, just a few yards from the Iron Horsedoor. Most of them wore the Shiguan mark above their tight collars. As soon as they saw us, they started shouting.
“Why would they be circling the Horse down here?” I asked.
Cassius pulled his sword. “It appears they are staging their forces. We will have to push through.”
