Yeah, the creature. Brach, too. “I know better than that.”
“I hope you do, since doing so could put you and the people around you in danger.” She paused. “This isn’t like when the LAPD questioned you about your brother Dan’s death. This new world you’ve been reborn into is something altogether different, and a Convocation trial isn’t something you want to suffer. Given that, is there anything you want to tell me before I go?”
Knowing as little as I did about my new reality, I probably should have told her. “Honestly, no.”
She nodded and disappeared down the alley.
When I got back to my couch, my phone beeped. It was a text from Church:A Detective Bryant from Scotland Yard is here at the Horse, warrant in hand, searching through Henry’s office. I suspect he’ll be here for a while and will probably call on you in the morning.
“Thanks for the warning,” I said to my empty flat. I wasn’t looking forward to another grilling.
I tried Henry’s number one more time—nothing—then surrendered to a hot shower. Always gave me a fresh outlook. Afterward, I scarfed down some leftover teriyaki from the fridge, plopped back down on my couch, and started again on my hum-reading.
First, I rooted through Henry’s books until I found one on Convocation. It felt like something I should understand better, if there was even an outside chance they might put me on trial.
Like Lady had said, Convocation was composed of five current schisms that studied and practiced thanaturgy throughout London and the Strata. Depending on the number of thanatists belonging to a schism, it earned certain oversight inside the Convocation. This was why they fought and recruited—for influence.
I’d already heard about the Shiguan. Beyond them, there was the Brotherhood of Heka, the Dusk Parade, the Children of the Ashes, and the S.L.A.M.—apparently, S.L.A.M. was an acronym, but what its letters stood for was a matter of debate. Each had ancient roots tied to different areas of the world—the Children were of the British Isles. And each had a presiding head that sat on Convocation trials, where raptorials brought Precedent law breakers to be questioned.
The raptorials had a presiding head, too, but had a non-voting seat, since their faction needed to remain impartial.
There was also a list of destroyed schisms, but I skipped that for now, deciding it was all something I definitely wanted to steer clear of. Besides, I needed to get on to other things.
Next, I went deeper on binding and imparting. The field guide said a thanatist could impart without need of binding thread if he wanted to restore something that was sick or dying.
I spied the dead eucalyptus plant in my window. Mama could never afford antibacterial cream and told us eucalyptus was better anyway. Every Monday she’d put on Marianne Faithfull’s“As Tears Go By,” cut a eucalyptus leaf, and gather the family in the kitchen. She’d dab it on any scrapes or bruises we had—usually from street fights—as she hummed the song under her breath. It was a family tradition for as long as I could remember. And Mama loved traditions.
Leaving the book open on the orange crate, I retrieved the plant and sat back on my sofa bed. I read and reread the passage about finding memories that were salient to the object of the impartation, then put my hands on the desiccated leaves.
I called to mind the time I’d watched Mama put eucalyptus on a knife cut in Dad’s cheek—a rare moment of tenderness. The plant fibers began to green and swell in my fingers, the curved blades plumping up. The sensation was crazy. “No way.”
I smiled at the revived eucalyptus, but the memory of Mom and Dad was gone, and inside I felt a little emptier.
My life wasn’t going to be the same. Part of that I was okay with, part of it scared the hell out of me, and the rest felt like I was leaving some good stuff behind.
I sighed, moved past imparting to other topics, and hum-read for several more hours, devouring a couple more of the shorter books before dozing off. A shout from the street jolted me from a dead sleep. The air in my apartment had lost that soft warmth of being inside the ward. It was nearly midnight. In just a few hours, it had receded most of the way up Flitcroft.
Another shout outside my door. Closer. Something was going down.
CHAPTER TEN
There is a fate worse than servitude, worse even than death. It is the fate of a semblance who, upon losing its binding to mortal flesh, is divested of thought and identity.
—Children of the Ashes, “Necromantic Ethics”
I racedthrough my apartment to the door and yanked it open. Cassius was in the alley, roaring what sounded like a war cry. Several shadowy figures were coming at him.
I ran back to my clothes box and fetched my knife—a five-inch spring-assist model. For better or worse—maybe better, all things considered—growing up in Westmont with brothers in the Rollin’ 100s had taught me how to use a blade. I rushed back out into the narrow alley. Brick and stone walls rose four stories on both sides—not a lot of maneuvering room for a fight. The only light shone from the bulb above my door, but that was enough.
Four men advanced in a line just beyond Cassius. Their shadows fell diagonally on the street behind them, watery andpale. Around their wrists and necks gold threads shone dim but clear. The two in the middle carried long wood hammers. The two on the ends held heavy nets. Behind the line towered a tall, muscular man wearing a loincloth and carrying an eight-foot spear—he had bindings, too. Next to him stood the woman in the corset and tricornered hat—the woman I’d seen the night before. She was holding her bow in one hand and her lantern in the other—gripping it by its pistol grip at the center of one frame rod.
The centurion waved his sword in front of him and didn’t yield an inch as the men approached him.
He caught sight of me and shouted, “Go back inside.”
“The hell I will.” I didn’t want to die . . . again, but I wouldn’t leave him standing there alone. He’d saved my life. Certain things are important, no matter how impossible they seem. I dashed into the alley and stood next to him.
The thanatist spoke the word “burn” and her lantern came to life. She pulled a fast stroke against one of its frame rods and a beam shot my way, lighting me up like a spotlight. Her vestiges turned their heads to look at me. “Mr. Solomon,” said the woman, “this needn’t go badly. Be a dear and surrender. Save both you and your vestige any bumps and bruises that might otherwise result from our disagreements.”
