This was my life now. And after reading three full—if short—books and healthy bits of the others, I was less grounded than when I began. Henry had always helped me find balance, and anything I was going to learn that might help me find Henry was probably in his diary.
Knowing I couldn’t unread whatever I found inside, I leafed the journal open to where a violet had been pressed between the pages:
I told Jack about you tonight, Martha. Told him how you suffered my music habit with dignity and moved on sooner than was your lot because of it. Bless the lad’s heart, he sang the Who back to me to ease my guilt. He knows my weakness for the Who. He has some pain ofhis own, having to do with his mother—I hear it when he sings—but I think he’ ll find his way out of it. You’ d like him, Martha. I wish you could meet him. I do so like having him around.
The lines blurred. I wiped my eyes and fought a rising headache and nausea by humming a few notes from Jimmy’s song a few hours ago. A calm replaced the turmoil I was feeling and helped me focus.
If Henry’s out there, I’m going to find him.
Then, I kept at it, flipping back several pages to a hand-drawn map of London. It showed a shaded area that read IRON HORSE ENVIRONS.
The ward didn’t extend in a perfect circle, more of a triangle that ran up Charing Cross Road. A note said it adhered to ley lines and sacred geometry for its “extensible influence.” But the shaded area had grown successively smaller, looking like growth rings on a tree stump, but in reverse.
Then I turned to the last entry, and my fingers began to tremble, as if I was about to hear my friend’s final words:
The Iron Horse ward is dying.
If only it were runic or mechanistic, refreshing it would be a simple matter. But the ward is spiritual. Its nature belongs to what the ancient Children of Ashes called “an old soul”—“old” in this case being a measure of plurality, many souls belonging to the same being. So, if I’m to renew the ward, I must find such a being.
Unfortunately, while finding an old soul would be hard enough, finding one that is alsowillingrequires special knowledge. I’ve no access to relevant arcanum, nor have I found the courage to seek assistance from those who make spiritual matters their study . . . not after my involvement in that bloody mess at St. Paul’s these many years ago.
I did approach Muster about it. He wasn’t optimistic, but he promised to check Shiguan schism archives for arcana on the topic. Despite our disagreements, he’s a good friend, and has a gift with arcanum. He might be my last hope. Because I fear time is running out. I’ve never felt such tension from the Strata.
I’ve done my best to bridge the gap. The world above must be allowed to change, just as no harm should be brought to those who exist below. But despite my efforts, the ward is weakening under the strain. I wonder if the tension is what started the ward’s decay in the first place.
Regardless, should the ward fail, and those who would abuse the Steps gain access, there is no calculus for how the worlds above and below might change. Whatiscalculable is that I am growing old . . .
I read the entry again. And again. I kept wishing Henry had gotten help before the ward had contracted so far that someone could just waltz up and shoot him.
Damn, Henry.
I felt the world crashing down. But instead of thinking, as I had been, that this couldn’t be real, I thought it now seemed more real than the life I’d been living in London for the past five years. The pieces, like Henry’s journal, were slowly starting to fit together.
My cell rang. “Yes, Church, I’ve been reading nonstop?—”
“Jack, there’s someone here at the Horse. I think you better come.” “Who is it?”
There was a short pause. “An old friend of Henry’s, Muster Brach.”
I looked down at Henry’s journal and found the name “Muster” in the last entry. “I’ll be right there.”
I set the journal on the orange crate, snatched upThe New Thanatist’s Quick Reference Field Manual—seemed a good one to keep handy—grabbed my earbuds, and set out for the IronHorse. When I got out to the street, Cassius wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He was probably still walking patrol, but I couldn’t go looking for him. I needed to meet this friend of Henry’s and see if he had any answers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thanatists are forbidden from interfering with souls once they have reached the Asphodel Meadows.
—Precedent Law, Rule Four
I wovethrough a crowd in front of the Iron Horse, catching more than a few furtive glances from regulars. I took a deep breath at the door and pushed in to a wash of candlelight. The venue side was quiet, aside from Steppenwolf ’s “Renegade” playing softly from the house sound system. Steppenwolf was Church’s comfort music. He was sitting in the pub at his classic-metal table with Lady, who was fidgeting with her needle, and Chuey, who was holding aHistory of Sound Designtext—the Woodcrest Library at-risk-youth program had made readers of us both. Jimmy was leaning against the bar nearby, his mop handle cradled against his shoulder. Standing over them at the head of the table was a very tall man with narrow shoulders. I assumed this was Henry’s friend
Muster Brach.
He wore a long, black, tight-fitting coat with long, wide sleeves. A double column of gold buttons ran up the front to a round filigreed collar. Over his shoulder hung a matching black leather bag with gold stitching, and from his hip hung a violin bow. His wiry white hair swept back from a deeply receding hairline. And he had a full, grey, scratchy-looking beard, though his mustache was oddly black.
I squeezed the field manual in my left hand and started toward them. “Church, why’s everyone standing out front?”
“I thought this conversation best taken with a bit of discretion,” said Church.
