“I’m also a wayfinder,” Kincaid replied, “able to lead others into the Strata, much like a thanatist. Where the soul is concerned, though, my call is to comfort and replenish.”
“At which,” Cassius added, “John is expert.”
Kincaid thanked him. “Listen, Jack, it’s one thing to have been reborn a thanatist, and even study to understand what thatmeans. But it’s another thing entirely to enter the Strata. It can change you. Just the descent will force you to remember things you’ve likely put away.”
“Like childhood trauma?” I forced a laugh.
Kincaid didn’t join me. “I understand wanting to find the owner of the dowsing stone, figure out what happened to Henry, but you need to understand that going into the Strata is . . . Well, it can be difficult, especially in the beginning. Don’t push yourself.”
“Got it.” I didn’t though. Not really. And I kept going back over all my hum-reading in my head, searching for some tidbit that might suggest another way to the answers we needed. Because the changes were coming so fast, and I didn’t need to be revisiting parts of my own past.
But when he offered me his hand, I took it. Then with Cassius at my back, and feeling a bit like Dante must have felt, I began my descent down the stairs into the Strata.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Only a mature wraith can walk between strata, as they are possessed of more thanaturgic abilities than less mature wraiths.
—Sir Robert Moray,Clavis Necronomica,
Cython Archives
The stairwellfrom the Pyx Chamber descended into utter darkness. Only Kincaid’s candle gave us any light. The priest’s firm hand led me down, while Cassius’s heavy steps echoed behind. The scent of musty stone was thick, as if the cellar were sweating under the sheer weight of Westminster Abbey.
The dark folded around me like a silk sheet, caressing my skin with a light touch. It had a cool feeling, too, like bedsheets in winter when you first climb beneath the covers. More than that, though, it felt like it knew my past. Still, my gut churned with the same excitement I got walking onstage for a gig.
Soon, the darkness below us began to soften—charcoal grey, then silver grey, then hazy white. The deeper we went, the moremy head and stomach clenched with the old pressure. Pain throbbed behind my eyes, my vision blurred, memories erupted in my head . . .
. . . I light my candle and kneel before a statue of Mary at St. Frances Cabrini—right where I used to kneel with Mama every Sunday. “Dear God,
I been here every week since Mama left, praying to be with her again. Why don’t you hear me . . .”
At last, Kincaid led us onto a stonework floor. It was the Pyx Chamber again, but different. Candles burned atop small altar tables around the perimeter of the room. Guards still sat in the corners but were thinner and unshaven, and armed with short spears. They nodded to us as we arrived. I quickly let go of Kincaid’s hand and snapped my elastics. The sting didn’t help. I placed my trembling fingers against the wall to steady myself and hummed a short line from Deep Purple’s “Perfect Strangers.” That helped about as much as aspirin for a migraine. I jammed my earbuds in and booted up “Hang Tough” by Tesla. No help, which didn’t surprise me. Live music had always worked best to settle my stomach and nerves when thoughts of abandonment made my head feel like it was caught in a vise.
In my shadow I saw again the long dark scar with all its small tributaries, only just now one of those tributaries glowed a hot amber, as if it flowed with lava.
I tapped Cassius’s arm. “You don’t feel it?”
“Vestiges and semblances are mostly unaffected by the Strata,” he said. “Humans and thanatists have the worst of it because they still possess their own souls.”
“And the descent affects each of us differently,” Kincaid added, “though at first, the history of the Strata has a way of pressing at ourownhistory, revealing more the deeper we go. You’ll need to find your own means to balance the effect.”
“I think I might know a way,” I told him.
“Before I head back up,” Kincaid said, “check your dowsing stone.”
I lit the Zippo behind the stone, and the beam of light shot left, parallel with the floor.
“Good.” Kincaid nodded. “Your appointment is here on the Modern Stratum. You won’t need lingual thread.” I’d read in Henry’s field manual that lingual thread made conversation possible between people who otherwise wouldn’t understand one another.
Just then, a short man wearing a black cassock and biretta bustled in and greeted Kincaid. “Topsiders this time? I should have liked some forewarning.”
Kincaid smiled and shook the man’s hand. “An unplanned visit, Mikael.
These are friends of mine. Please extend them your famous courtesy.”
Mikael made a show of shaking his head, before the barest of smiles caught the corner of his mouth.
Kincaid turned back to me. “You should be in no danger if you don’t try to interact too much too soon. I’d simply find whoever gave you the dowsing stone, have your meeting, and get topside again. You may use the Abbey steps for your return. Mikael can lead you up if needed.” He paused for a second and then added, “Just one last thing. Henry and I didn’t part ways on the best of terms, but hewasa friend. I regret how things ended. Take this.” He handed me a small medallion of St. Jude.
