EPILOGUE
No. Nothing comes from nothing.And so, what is ancient is not the beginning of things.
—Duns Scotus, “A Haecceity Corollary”
Three daysafter my Strata trial I once again stood on the stage at Wembley Stadium. This time, a hundred thousand metal fans were holding up lighters and cell phones in the dusk as we played our last tune—“They Always Go Away.” The scents of stage smoke and cigarette smoke passing on the breeze were like old friends. My shirt clung to my back—slick with sweat—as I pushed everything I had into this last performance with the Hounds.
I held the last note even after the guys’ instruments had rung out. I wasn’t trying to upstage them, or pull any extra love from the audience. I just wanted to leave it all on the stage one last time. And the longer I held that note, the louder the crowd got, singing with me. I doubled over, squeezing every last breath Ihad, until I let it all go. The final word echoed with deep delay, and the stadium roared.
I won’t lie. Getting to play that song, in its final version, for a crowd like that, felt awfully damned good. As we came offstage, hyped from the show, we shared hugs and congratulations.
“That was insane,” Lynn said. “Holy hell, how cool!”
I wiped sweat from my face. “I won’t ever forget that.”
The guys, to their credit, didn’t try to talk me back into the band again. And we didn’t even need to say goodbye. We were still friends, and they followed me over to the Iron Horse. The after-party for the show just so happened to be part of the grand reopening of the Horse.
We walked in and the Hounds headed up to the bar for drinks. I cut left to my table. The all-welcome feeling of the Iron Horse had returned. And though Henry had moved on, his love and passion were so deep in the place, it almost felt like he was still behind the bar, drying glasses.
Nightwish was on the stage getting ready to play. Yesterday, they’d headlined the first night of the festival, and were holding over to do some recording with the London Symphony. Their keyboard player, Tuomas Holopainen, was a buddy of mine, so they agreed to play the Horse for the reopening even though it was like a closet compared to their usual venues. I sat in my booth in the corner, alone for the first time in days. It was where I’d always run to when it all went to hell. And hell had certainly come. Shadows flickered from the light of a dozen handmade candles, reminding me of Henry and the stories he’d always told about the Iron
Horse when we dipped them together.
I thought about Cassius, too. And Jimmy. And all the others.
I even thought about Mama. Forgiving her would be something I’d work on every time a memory of her returned. It would take time. Lady had offered to stitch my wound back up,but I told her no. For now, I wanted to live with it open, the past always close and raw. I’d figured out how to live with the pain a bit better, and somehow I thought it might heal faster if I remembered it all. Plus, there was some good stuff in there that came out from time to time. Not to mention Henry had had some open wounds. Made me wonder if being a good steward meant living with a few.
But none of it made the skin at my wrists itch. Not tonight, anyway. And I still had to forgive myself for quite a lot. Hopefully, that’d come with time, too.
Therewassomething in my shadow that had changed, though. While my gleam notes still pulsed like a passage from theShawshankscore composed by Thomas Newman, they now reminded me of that part of the movie under the old oak tree. The notes ascended in a long, slow melody, then descended with a resolution that felt like hope. The pattern didn’t give me any sense of certainty, but it did help me see my song could change.
Across the pub, Chuey and Kincaid sat talking with Church and Lady. Chuey had them all laughing, as he recounted memories of all our fallen friends—tonight was also a celebration of their lives. He told story after story as he dished out lasagna.
Even though the ward was back in place, I still flinched now and then when the door to the Horse opened. This time, it was Margaretha, Emaline’s attaché. She motioned me outside.
I followed her out into the shadows of the alley. Standing there, beneath the old Iron Horse light, was Emaline in Doc Martens, black jeans, and a leather coat. Her face flared in the light of her cigarillo as I approached.
“Quite a night for you,” she said. “Congratulations on your reopening.” “Thanks. I trust things are good on your end?”
“Indeed, Jack.”
“What can I do for you?”
She took a deep drag. “I came to express my gratitude. I hadn’t anticipated your revelation at the trial. That was advanced shadow theory.”
“I got lucky,” I said. “And it almost didn’t matter, anyway, did it?”
She turned her head to exhale away from my face, her jawline catching the light. “I hadn’t anticipated Brach using a gudgeon, either. That oversight nearly earned me a stay at Newgate.”
“I guess it all worked out,” I said. “We restored the ward, too.”
“I felt as much.” She pointed her cigarillo at the Iron Horse behind me. “It’s as comfortable here as I remember.”
“How do you mean?”
Emaline tapped off her ashes. “It may interest you to know that I came to the Iron Horse some months ago, seeking refuge.”
I knew she had more to say, and sensed it wouldn’t be good, so just waited for the rest.
