I remembered the night of the attack outside Henry’s flat. “Just after I crawled back from the Meadows, there was a flash of light and a smell of ozone. Maybe five seconds later, the wraith showed up.”
“If such a summoning occurs,” the priest continued, “whatever emerges does so precisely because it shares something in common with the thanatist. It can then use that connection to track you. It has your scent, you might say.”
“Wonderful.” I stared off in the direction the hound had fled. “But who bound it?”
“In such cases,” Kincaid explained, “the wraith is spontaneously bound to the closest living animal or human. Its bands are more etheric than those created by a thanatist, but they’re just as real, and can only be cut with the proper blade.”
“It is not bound to you, Jack,” Cassius added, “but you and this wraith share something in common. So, if it ever finds you again, it will know how to really hurt you.” He tapped his chest. “Inside.”
“Perfect. Anygoodnews for me while you guys are at it?”
“Your instincts were right with the candles,” Kincaid offered. “Living f lame can show much to a thanatist’s eyes. You’ll want to cultivate that skill.”
With the candles burning around us, I looked down at the priest’s shadow again. Around the distinct human darkness, I now noticed a thin gold rim—different in hue and depth from thanatist gold. Interestingly, there was just one occlusion—the shape of a steer’s horn held by supplicating hands.
“You’re not a thanatist, but you’re more than human,” I said. “And your shadow doesn’t have many occlusions?”
“I’m a holy man,” Kincaid said, smiling. “I do my share of repenting and forgiving.”
“Good advice for us all,” added Cassius.
Kincaid handed me his Zippo. “This may help until you’ve secured proper catalysts.”
“Thanks.” I pocketed the lighter. “If this wraith has consumed other souls, would it be considered an old soul?”
Kincaid’s brows jumped. “That’s not something a holy man can see.
Why do you ask?”
I finally told him about Henry’s journal entry and his search for an old soul to renew the ward.
“What you’re describing, Jack, is an ancient sacrament,” said Kincaid. “A parcel of land is made inviolate when it’s imbued with a collection of souls that has persisted over time. In scripture and historical texts, it’s why they’re often referred to with the pronounwe. In thanaturgic terms, it would be referred to as amaturewraith.”
“Then you can help us?” I asked.
“An immature wraith—a single soul—is formidable, but mindless in its obsession. A mature wraith, on the other hand, is self-aware, possessed of its own will.” Kincaid sighed again. “Beyond finding and subduing such a powerful entity, you’ll need to understand how to bind it to the area in question. Our archives here are extensive, but won’t be of any help. The arcana you seek is both apocryphal and forbidden.”
I half smiled. “You have any idea how many times I’ve had a priest tell me he has no answer for my question?”
Kincaid laughed out loud. Cassius and I joined in, our voices echoing loudly around the abbey for a few moments before fading. The adrenaline of the fight faded with them, and a wave of reality washed over me. I’d just fought a wraith and barely escaped with my life. Now I was talking about performing an ancient sacrament with a wraith of many souls.
It felt like a death sentence. But I couldn’t walk away from the people who were counting on me, and that included Henry. Still, I was armed with little more than a lot of reading, an old Zippo, and a useless knife. We needed help.
On instinct, I pulled out the Zippo, thumbed it to life, and held it up to the dowsing stone. The rune in the stonebrightened; it looked like a small infinity symbol, but incomplete at the apex of each loop. From it a pinprick of light flared down to the floor.
“You wish to gonow?” Kincaid asked. “I need answers,” I replied.
Kincaid took a candle from the High Altar and led us past the Great Cloister to a door. He keyed the lock and took us into a cold chamber with a low, vaulted stone ceiling. The room had few furnishings: a small stone altar set with rows of votive candles, a bench, a high table laden with a few books, and a wooden chest against the right wall with an unlit lantern on it.
“The oldest part of the abbey,” he explained. “The Pyx Chamber, sacristy of Edward the Confessor, built in 1066, the year that changed all of England. TheDoomsday Bookused to sit right there.” He pointed at the altar with his candle. The dim light illuminated guards sitting perfectly still in the corners of the room. Each man held a long, thin, dark blade in his lap. With their dark leathers and hoods, and black wraps around the lower halves of their faces, they looked like executioners.
“Guardians of our steps into the Strata,” said Kincaid. “And our steps areonlyavailable to friends of the Abbey.”
Kincaid led us to a corner of the chamber just past the wooden chest, where an unremarkable stone staircase led down into the dark. “Have you been into the Strata?” he asked me.
I shook my head.
“It can take time to acclimate to the descent, so tonight I’ll lead you down.” “Priests can travel the Strata?” I asked.
