The priest stopped just before the altar steps and turned to face us. In the murky lamplight, the deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes left him looking haggard. His shadow fell on the marble floor almost like a human’s.
“Long night.” The priest’s words reverberated in the vacant abbey like a dutiful, tired song. Then he fixed his gaze on my companion. “Cassius.”
“John,” the centurion replied.
They clasped forearms. The priest’s arm flexed, revealing more muscle than I’d expect from a man of the cloth. His broad shoulders pulled his shirt tight over his chest. His physique reminded me of bouncers at black-metal shows—guys who had to buy an XXXL to fit up top, making the shirt fall long, to pocket bottoms. He squared his massive shoulders on me and extended a hand. “I’m Father John Kincaid,” he said. “Came across the Asphodel Meadows, did we?”
I’d pretty much come to accept this impossibility. I could hardly deny it after struggling back from the plain of statues only to be attacked twice. But hearing a priest say it so matter-of-factly made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.
“Jack Solomon,” I replied, shaking his hand. “And how did you know?” “Are you familiar with the Enigma Covenant yet?” he asked.
I pulled out Henry’s field manual. “Yeah. From this and a handful of other books.”
He nodded. “Then you know the Enigma peels back if a human is too often exposed to thanaturgic death or even mortal threat by thanaturgic hands. I’ve had more than my share of both.”
“Well,” I said, “if itwasn’tthe Asphodel Meadows, it was one hell of a dream.” Kincaid grimaced slightly. “If you’re going to use the word ‘hell’ in my company, please be sure you mean it.” He paused. “And where you went is not hell, my friend. You may trust me on that.” I put my manual away. “Fair enough.”
“In fact,” he went on, “unlike hell, with the right concentration, a thanatist can see the Meadows virtuallyanytime. Is that why you’ve come? Seeking clarity about your new state?”
I needed to trust this guy before I shared my story. “So, how did you and Cassius meet?”
Kincaid smiled wanly at the centurion. “We fought together years ago—common enemy sort of thing. But I’ve put that part of my life behind me. I mostly counsel now, providing the direction and wisdom of the Church to keep this place safe.”
I surveyed the Abbey. “Are you telling me that Anglican Church leaders believe this thanaturgy stuff?”
“Those of us who act as its stewards do,” Kincaid said.
“There some kind of collusion going on between the Church and the thanaturgic world?”
“Quite the opposite,” Kincaid said. “Most thanatists don’t concern themselves with the well-being of semblances or souls.” He pointed at the stone mosaic on the floor. “Do you know what this is?”
I looked down at the broad, intricate stonework. “Some kind of map?” “It’s a Cosmati Pavement,” the priest said reverently. “Throughout the mosaic, there are symbols and inscriptions describing our world and its end.” “Laid by Roman masons,” Cassius added. “The Cosmati family.” “What does that have to do?—”
“Look around you,” Kincaid said, with a wave of his strong hand. “What do you know about the necromantic element of thanaturgy that would connect it with this place?”
“You need a physical form to bind a spirit.” The books made that much clear.
“And here we have the largest collection of physical matter—bones mostly—from this country’s greatest minds, artists, ecclesiastics, and royalty. I make it a point to know the past of each one.”
“So, you’re protecting them?” I asked. “I thought it was the semblance or soul that houses the personality.”
“That’s mostly true,” said Kincaid. “But a spirit’s original body possesses a trace amount of its soul—call it DNA—and some thanatists have found, hidden deep in the Strata, a way to reconstitute flesh from bone. Imagine restoring the body of Shakespeare. Then imagine if you had the Bard’s actual semblance to bind it with. The result would be more than a vestige.”
“Actualresurrection?” I asked.
Kincaid shook his head. “I wouldn’t call it that. The being still answers to its binder.”
“Okay,” I said, scanning the burial markers, “but I thought most of these were just memorials, not actual graves.”
Kincaid shared a look with Cassius, who said, “Jack can be trusted.” Seeming satisfied, Kincaid explained, “That’s what we tell the public, and the thanaturgic community, for obvious reasons. The wisdom, art, and moral authority that a thanatist could claim would, in the wrong hands, hasten the end-times foretold in the Cosmati Pavement. This is why we protect Westminster . . . though, just this evening, raiders did break into the abbey.”
The rubble we stepped over. “They get anything?” Kincaid shook his head. “We’re not sure.”
“Do you know who it was?” I asked. “We’re still assessing,” he said.
A short silence fell between us.
“Jack,” said Cassius, breaking the quiet, “like you, John can be trusted.
