“Patron saint of lost causes.”
Kincaid chuckled. “Just a token that you can present for sanctuary if you need it. Any of my brothers will accept it and notify me. Of course, in my experience, praying to a saint never hurt, either.”
I tucked the medallion into my pocket, then looked up at Mikael, who motioned us toward the chamber door. But as soonas I took a step, I stumbled, the memory of my votive swirling in my mind.
“Do you need some assistance?” Mikael asked.
Cassius put an arm around me, and we followed Mikael through the Modern Stratum’s Westminster. I dragged one hand along the stone wall to steady myself. It had solidity to it, cold and hard beneath my fingers, but it was not like rock in the world above; it was more like theideaof rock. Likewise, the reverence of graves came a bit less . . . reverent. It made me wonder if the bodies were even here anymore, if maybe mortal remains stayed in the mortal world. When we exited the Abbey, Mikael shut the door behind us without so much as a proper British “good riddance.”
I turned and looked up. Holy crap. I’d climbed down into the past, but I was looking up at the London sky. It wasn’tmyLondon sky, but there were stars above the city lights, a crescent moon, and high, drifting clouds. The air, though, had a more acrid sting than London’s above.
Sanctuary Street was ablaze with lights—streetlamps, theater marquees, windows lit brightly from within. Cars raced along the cobbled road—a new Aston Martin, a 1950s VW bug, something bearing the name Crossley that reminded me of an old Model A, even horse-drawn buggies with loud rumbling wooden wheels, carrying men in tweed suits. All up and down the walks and plaza, people bustled or strolled or stood in groups, talking and laughing. The air was rife with the scent of food and exhaust and perfume. The whole place buzzed like a carnival, and every bit of it looked real.
I shook my head, trying to clear my sight to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.
“Take a moment to get your bearings,” Cassius said. I leaned against a lamppost for support.
“These are all artifacts of the Endless Dark,” he explained while I rested. “The Strata and its trappings are formed of it, but they are, after all, imitations.”
The nausea and dizziness rushed through me again. I doubled over on the sidewalk; the shadows of passersby bobbed along past me. They were lighter grey than even a vestige’s, and their edges were more diffuse. I didn’t see any shimmer patterns, but that would require real light.
I waved my hand toward the people around us. “Semblances?”
Cassius nodded. “Their lingering is known as theunquiet grave, which has many origins: a sense of guilt or grief, an unfulfilled dream, or even failings in life that continue to haunt them. The light of their souls forms a stratum—a picture of the past fashioned from the thoughts and memories of those who persist here.”
“A sort of collective subconscious.”
The centurion nodded again. “And as such, it is based on perception.
So, things may not always match reality.”
After a few deep breaths, I was able to at least stand up straight, though the old pressure was still moshing my head. “How far back does history on this stratum go? And how many strata are there?”
“The Modern Stratum, where we are now, stretches from the current day back to the turn of the twentieth century.” Cassius looked at me with a furrowed brow. “I recommend we speak of the other strata another time. Are you sure you’re well enough to attend this meeting with the woman who gave you the dowsing stone?”
“No, but I know how I can be,” I said. “We just need to make a quick stop on the way. My books say a semblance can see us forwhat we are—topsider and centurion. Should we take the back roads?”
“Strata-folk are used to seeing all manner of beings,” he replied. “Good, let’s go.”
With Cassius’s help, I crossed the street between a pair of horse-pulled carts and scooted toward a gloriously lit Methodist church. A couple was standing on the steps posing for their wedding photos.
“People get married here?” I asked. “Do they know they’re dead?” “Depends on the semblance. Like all things in the Strata, their bodies have substance. And though they are not flesh and blood, they still fight and make love and engage in recreation. But for most of them, as time winds on, their only real purpose is to try and progress beyond whatever concern or need brought them here to being with.”
“And then what?”
Cassius looked over at the newlyweds. “If they are fortunate, they will earn the chance to move on, the way souls usually do.”
“The mountain of fire.”
He nodded, and we made our way up to Piccadilly Circus. The faces of the buildings were covered with a mix of old-time broadsides, huge paper signboards, neon lights, and a few electronic billboards. Semblances, vestiges, and vehicles crammed the streets. At the corner of Regent Street St. James’s, my foot caught in a concrete gutter, and I stumbled forward. I could have sworn the gutter hadn’t been there a moment before.
Cassius caught me by the arm and stopped me from tumbling into traffic. “Be mindful where you place your feet. The geography of the Modern Stratum is unsettled.”
We headed under a bunch of neon signs—ads forThe Mousetrap,The Beggar’s Opera, andA Clockwork Orange—and past a row of restaurants, the doors of which had been leftopen to entice passersby with savory scents of curry, basil, and garlic.
Cassius stopped in front of a beautiful building with an Egyptian-style facing—hieroglyphics around tall trapezoidal windows, etchings of pyramids and the sphinx.
“What is it?”
