I leaned against a pillar to catch my breath. Whatever the hell that thing was, it had almost taken my head off. I’d be dead without Cassius and Kincaid. Took a few minutes to get my hands to stop shaking.
Fighting another guy was one thing, even if it was a knife fight. But this . . . it was like something out of a deathcore song.
“End of the world, huh?” I gestured at the blood-splattered mosaic.
Two priests rushed in from behind the altar, swords in hand. They shared a look with Kincaid, turned back behind the altar, and returned with a pair of mops and some wet towels. The priests handed us a couple of the towels to clean ourselves off, then set to mopping the Cosmati Pavement.
“Is this a regular occurrence for you?” I asked the priest. “No,” Kincaid answered.
I held up my knife and snapped it shut. “I couldn’t cut its bindings.”
Kincaid looked around at the candles. “I assumed you had a khopesh . . . uh, a thanatist’s blade.”
“I figured a knife’s a knife.”
Cassius wiped his sword clean. “You need proper gear, Jack.”
Kincaid shook his head. “Even then, I’m afraid that creature was no simple vestige.”
“No?”
“No, Jack,” said Kincaid. “That, God save us, was a wraith.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When a thanatist perishes, his vestiges’ bindings will lose potency in due course unless renewed by another thanatist.
—William Payne,
“Authority and Demise: Relational Bonds”
Wraith. . .
Even the word fired something inside me, something I hadn’t felt before. Part of it was reverence, like the feeling of Westminster around us with all its graves and history. But part of it was a dread I couldn’t explain.
“Did you know it was a wraith?” I asked Cassius.
Cassius finally sheathed his blade. “Unlike you and John, I do not possess the gift to peer into the shadow of a thing to divine its nature. But Ihavefought my share of Strata creatures, so that would have been my guess.”
I’d have to dig into the book the raptorial Lakshmi had given me about wraiths when I got the chance. “And you’ve fought these things before?”
“Four of the many binders I have served since old London have been darkthreaders—thanatists who hunt and bind wraiths and other Strataforms conceived in the Endless Dark.”
I’d read about the Dark and pulled out Henry’s field manual.
“The Endless Dark is a kind of primordial substance from which the Strata are formed, right?”
“Not exactly.” Kincaid mopped his face with a towel and turned toward me. “When a person dies, if their soul doesn’t move on it arrives in the Endless Dark as a semblance. Most semblances leave the Dark, seeking to add their light to other semblances, which builds and sustains the Strata. But some semblances remain inside the Dark. Their need isn’t for community, but to satisfy an obsession. And they feed that obsession by hunting and consuming other semblances. With each kill they become more dangerous, and usually more insane.”
That bothered me. “When I looked into its shadow . . . I thought I saw something familiar.”
Kincaid crossed the Cosmati Pavement and hunkered down in front of me. “What did you see, Jack?”
“Part of its shadow had a pattern”—I paused, seeing it in my mind—“that shimmered like my own.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re sure?” “I read it like notes on a piece of music,” I said.
“Thanatists see shadows differently,” Kincaid said with a sigh. “But regardless, their rebirth creates a surge of power that opens a brief door into our world. It’s not uncommon for a thanatist’s return to call a wraith to the surface.”
