Not wanting to fight our way through, we hurried past them to the corner building, helped each other up the wall of Baxter’s Phonographs on the Castle Street side, and crossed the shop roofs to the Iron Horse rear stair. We dropped into the stage-prop and costume room and raced into the music hall. I drew up short with a sick feeling in my gut.
Shiguan thanatists and vestiges had crowded right up to the edge of the ward, which cut across the back third of the music hall. I supposed they could have crossed the barrier if they were to remain civil, but either civility was beyond them or they knew clustering at the barrier would unsettle the Iron Horse folks.
And that it did.
The stage had been emptied, its scenery piled with chairs and tables to build a barrier across the center of the floor. Patrons huddled behind it, staring anxiously out at the Shiguan. The chorus singers held what looked like stage-prop swords. Spilled beer had pooled across the floor. Several of the patrons and performers turned expectant eyes on me.
I had no rousing speech for them and might not have had it in me to share even if I did. “The barricade is good thinking,” I managed. “Stay alert. We’ll think of something.” Then I retreated back into the prop and wardrobe room.
My friends gathered in a semicircle around me, sunlight from the windows falling in long stripes across their feet. In the midst of dusty costumes and wood scenery, I tried to think. But the hollows inside me from all the imparting in Henry’s cell had sapped my strength and will. And maybe as much as the hollows, it was Cassius. How fast he’d become a friend. And how deep his betrayal hurt.
“Damn it, Cassius,” I muttered.
“People can disappoint you,” said Church. “People can also change,” Lady added.
I hooked my finger under the elastics on my wrist, the old pressure mounting. The way Henry had left felt right, though it also felt like I’d lost him twice. But the centurion was now just another abandoner. I didn’t know how much more I could take. I lowered my head and stared at the dusty floor.
Then Chuey stepped close, kicking up dust with his boots. He began tapping the rhythm to Queen’s “We Are the Champions” on the floor with his macuahuitl.
I looked up. Chuey smiled and sang, “No time for losers.”
Chuey knew that sometimes you’ve got to leave the pain for later and deal with what’s right in front of you. I knew it, too. Life growing up around gangs will teach you that. But my good luck was I had Chuey to remind me.
“No time for losers,” I repeated.
“And we can certainly fight to the end,” Lady said—she was the Queen expert—“but these people here aren’t trained to fight. They’ll never last against the Shiguan.”
Church nodded. “At this point, it’s also improbable we’ll have evidence at the trial that Brach ordered the hits. You’ll be boxed, Jack. So, we’ve only a few hours to restore the ward before Brach seizes her song for his revolution.”
“I don’t know,” Chuey chimed in. “This Brach cat had some pretty heavy hitters with him already. Jack, man, did you see? Plant, Sting, McCartney . . . I mean, come on, bro, if he’s replacing those guys with copycats to peddle his own ideas?”
And that was just rock and metal. With policymakers like Morris in his pocket . . .
The prop-room door opened, and Emaline entered wearing a colorful flowing robe with broad shoulder sleeves and the same Bian Lian mask she’d worn the night of the attack on Tin Pan Alley.
“Can you all give me a minute?” I asked my friends.
“I’ll be just outside the door,” Lakshmi said, giving Emaline a wary look.
Once they’d filed out, Emaline removed her mask. “That was quite the exit you made at the Guildhall.”
“Brach didn’t leave us much choice,” I said. “Plus, he sent his wraith after Henry’s soul, which was probably our last best evidence that Brach had Henry killed.”
“I’m aware.”
“You knew he was holding Henry?” I asked.
“No, Jack.” Emaline pulled a cigarillo out, then put it away. “Brach has involved only the people necessary to each part of his plan.”
Made sense to me. “So, you didn’t know he was after the Ward’s song, either.”
“No, but as we’d hoped, you rattled him.” Finally some good news.
“I followed Brach to his apartment on a pretext”—Emaline gave a wry smile—“and overheard him ranting about losing both Henry and his bond to the wraith—a bond you must have severed when you fought it at Newgate.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We cut its bindings but lost the wraith itself.”
For the first time, Emaline hesitated. “Unfortunately, you’ve made the situation worse. The wraith knows how Brach intended to use it to launch his war, and now it’s no longer under his control. The destruction it could sow . . .”
