Perhaps it is time to confide in him?”
My centurion friend hadn’t sung a false note yet, but he didn’t know what he was asking. I’d tried talking through private things with the priest at St. Frances Cabrini when I was a kid.Stuff about Mama leaving. Probably wasn’t fair, but I’d kind of held him responsible for the heavens going silent on me about it all. I’d trusted him and felt let down. And while this was a world apart from that, it brought up memories I didn’t want to revisit. The kid inside me said I could figure it out on my own, the way I’d done back then.
Seeming to sense my reluctance, Cassius added, “John is not only a priest, Jack. He knows the tensions between the world above and the world below. Perhaps more than that, he is honorable. You may trust me on that.”
I didn’t have a lot of options—not with the clock ticking on Henry, anyway. More than that, I strangely did already trust Cassius. So, I gave Kincaid a rundown on what had happened to me and Henry and everything since, holding back only Henry’s journal—I didn’t feel right sharing that just yet.
“Henry Wilkinson,” Kincaid said, rubbing his chin. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”
“You know Henry?” I asked.
Kincaid rolled back his left sleeve and tapped a Stryper tattoo. “Met him in ’87 when Stryper put on a midnight show at the Horse after playing the Hammersmith.”
“To Hell with the Devil Tour.” Guess this priest was all right. Kincaid nodded. “Henry and I were close until the events at St. Paul’s.
Even still, I pray he returns safely to you. If he does, it won’t have been easy.”
Henry had mentioned St. Paul’s in his journal, but I left it alone for now. I just wanted him back. “You mean crossing the Meadows?”
“After each death, the journey back is much more difficult,” said Kincaid. “But if the thanatistdoesmake it back, they return with much more power. That’s the practical reason for Precedent Law against killing a thanatist—avoidance of creating powerfulenemies. Which means that any thanatist willing to violate Precedent to kill Henry must have wanted him dead very badly.”
Staring down at the Cosmati Pavement, I asked, “You think what happened here tonight could be connected to what happened to Henry?” “Maybe,” Kincaid said. “Though this is hardly the first attack on the
Church in my time here.”
I was more desperate than ever to find Henry. We needed him back at the Iron Horse before all hell broke loose. I dug the stone from my pocket and held it toward the priest. “Do you know what this is? I haven’t been able to find anything about it in my books.”
Kincaid took the stone and held it up to the light. “That’s because its use is banned. You’d only find mention of it in apocryphal writings. It’s called a dowsing stone. Think of it like a location marker. Thanatists once used them to communicate location between our world and the Strata. When lit by living flame, the stone will guide you to a specific place. And once the stone is lit, its creator will know you have accepted their invitation and are en route.”
I took the stone back. “Living flame. Real fire, you mean.” “Yes.” Kincaid eyed me close. “Who gave this?—”
I held up a hand, stopping him. His breath had started to cloud in the air between us. A deep, sonorant growl rumbled through the vaulted chamber.
Kincaid stepped past me, toward the nave. “Either our raiders have returned . . . or you’ve led something here.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A thanatist may impart a small measure of his soul to mend and bind vestiges in his care. Exercise caution, however, as spiritual debt results from repeated impartings.
—Thomas of London, “Spiritual Affordance”
Out of theWestminster shadows skulked the creature that had twice chased me from my home. I had no word for it. Beast? Monster? Nightmare? I settled on “hellhound.”
The hellhound opened its massive jaws. Drool oozed from its mouth over three rows of long, razor-like teeth. Corded muscles flexed beneath its bloodied fur, which was even more torn and ragged than before. Its flesh and bones seemed to be outgrowing its skin.
The hound hunched and looked us over. It growled, the sound vibrating in the stone of the abbey. The foot lamps flickered and dimmed. And I began to feel an overpowering urge to rush this damned thing.
“Come on, you son of a bitch!” I pulled my knife, surging with rage, imagining how I’d gut this thing, and started toward it without help or a plan. Cassius grabbed my shoulder and shook me, jolting me from my trance. “Jack, you must steel your mind against it. Concentrate on how to defeat the enemy and be ready to cut its bindings.”
It had gotten inside my head again. I should have known better this time. Me and my knife alone against this thing was crazy.
“And me without my rods,” Kincaid muttered, edging toward the High Altar.
“Spread out,” I told Cassius, stepping to the right—we needed to divide its attention.
A brutal roar tore from the hellhound’s throat, echoing up into the vaulted ceiling. Plaster rained down from the dome. Cassius shouted “Bratros,” which seemed only to anger the beast, and it leapt at him, jaws snapping.
The centurion danced to the left and stabbed the hound in its side. The beast’s flesh tore open with a wet ripping sound. The creature shrieked and whipped its back end around, throwing Cassius against a marble pillar. His head slammed against the stone, but he kept his feet.
