Cassius and Chuey walked me to my apartment. Chuey promised to check in the following day. Cassius said he’d patrol the nearby streets. Just before dawn, I stumbled into my apartment and dropped onto my couch, fully dressed, bone-weary, and praying Henry’s soul had made it back from the fields of stone.
CHAPTER SIX
Most semblances who arrive in the Endless Dark choose to join their stratum, but some remain inside the Dark, where they will either feed or be fed upon.
—Chris Marlowe,The Bearing of Choice upon Lost Souls
Henry was falling,a deep bloody wound in his chest. Candles bounced on the cobblestones . . .
I sat straight up, heaving, my skin slick with sweat, my head pounding. It took me several minutes to stop shaking and get my bearings—bare lath-and-plaster walls, unvarnished wood floor, couch-bed, orange-crate coffee table littered with books, including the ones Church had given me last night, a dead eucalyptus plant in the window, and my guitar in the corner. I was home. Sunlight fell in squares across my ankles—I’d slept most of the day away.
But I didn’t give a damn about the time. The narrow shadow falling on my old faux Oriental rug next to my ankles wasshimmering with a pattern—something I hadn’t thought to look at last night when I’d peered into the shadows of my friends.
I might have expected my own gleam notes to look like something heavy from Nightwish or Dream Theater. But when I hummed them, they reminded me of a theme from the soundtrack ofThe Shawshank Redemption—two notes descending, then two ascending. They repeated
and evolved, a languid line of syncopated notes weaving a melody in major seconds above them. Several dark spots interrupted the pattern, the largest of which looked like a narrow lake with a dozen black tributaries seen from thousands of feet above. And that line of gold still rimmed my shadow.
My head killed, and I couldn’t make any sense of what I was seeing—not that a clear head would have helped.
I fished a couple of Panadol from the bottle on my orange-crate table and chewed them into a paste before swallowing them down. I was still wearing the same jeans, boots, and bloody T-shirt from the night before. I pulled on a fresh T-shirt and a Dream Theater hoodie and put on some Zeppelin—always good for my aching head. Then I dug out my phone and, hands trembling, quickly dialed Henry. Eight rings. No answer. I left a message on his voicemail.
When I finished, I found my own message light blinking. So I set my phone down on the orange crate and dialed my voicemail, bracing for the worst. Chuey, Lady, and Church had all left messages to call back. I tugged on the elastic ties on my wrist. Sixth Angel Entertainment had called, too. Hounds’ management. Something about their new singer. Delete. Then a message from a Detective Bryant with the Metropolitan Police. He said he’d be in touch, which sounded more like a threat than anything else. It had to be about the shooting. The last call was from someone identifying herself as Raptorial Lakshmi Gopalkrishnan. She asked me to call her back but also promisedto be in touch, said she was investigating “possible violations of thanaturgic law.”
I hung up and left my phone where it lay on my orange-crate coffee table. The crate had been a housewarming gift from Henry—something from the Iron Horse storeroom. We’d laughed to tears over how small and ridiculous it looked as my only piece of furniture. I’d needed that laugh after casting about London looking for a future, and I think Henry knew it.
Now Henry was missing. I just hoped he’d made it back across the Meadows.
I still wanted that place to be a dream. But just thinking about it made me see it more clearly, almost feel it. I had died out there. I felt sure of it now. And I’d returned as a thanatist or necromancer, or whatever. At least that’s what they were telling me. Yesterday, I hadn’t believed in necromancers or any of that crap. Now Iwasone. It made no sense. But the hot energy I’d felt swirling in my chest and pulsing through my veins . . . I’d never experienced anything like it. That had been real as hell—like fire ripping through me. It was gone now, but I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t been there. Still, something had to give. There had to be a reason for all this. And that reason, as far as I could tell, was Henry.
That old pressure of being left behind sent stabbing pains into my temples. I began to pant, feel like I might vomit.
I tugged again at the elastics on my wrist, snapping them hard once against my cutter scars. But I could do better than that here. I had just stood to fetch my guitar when someone knocked on the door.Damn. Not right now.
Then again, louder.
I caved and went to answer it. On the floor just inside the door was a folded piece of paper. I picked it up. On the outside, in a neat small script:The quick and the dead. I unfolded it and read:
Dear Mr. Solomon,
Congratulations on your return. Do you still have the item? I encourage you to use it.
Regards,
An Interested Party
I dug into my pocket. The stone was still there.
Another knock.
After reading the note, I wasn’t about to answer it, but then thought it might be the woman who had given me the stone. I cautiously turned the bolt and opened the door. Jimmy stood there holding his guitar case in one hand. His iron-grey hair was a mess, and he wore his usual faded-blue flannel shirt, work jeans, and scuffed brown boots. His eyes were red and ringed with dark circles.
“You hear about Henry?” I asked. “Yeah,” he said.
“Anybody heard from him?” I still believed he would come back.
Jimmy shook his head. “Listen, Jack, if you’d rather not d-do this today, I’ll understand. I don’t even remember b-bringing this along.” He glanced at his guitar case. “I mean, a music lesson seems a bit impertinent today, d-doesn’t it?” Henry had been Jimmy’s friend, too. Webothneeded music right now.
Playing some songs together to fight back our worry was maybe the best thing we could do.
