Her smile faded. “I don’t know, Jack. But Mr. Wilkinson was the primary target, so they would have had extra measures in place for him.”
“Who isthey?”
“The Shiguan, a schism and growing society of Strata-folk who share a mutual anger toward the world above.” She shifted her weight. “They are presided over by a Muster Brach, who personally oversaw Mr. Wilkinson’s assassination.”
I put a hand on the glass case to steady myself. “Are you okay, Jack?”
“Brach came to the Iron Horse last night asking after Henry. Bastard stood right in front of me talking about their friendship. Wanted me to join the Shiguan, to help find Henry.”
She looked surprised that I’d met him. “Clever bit of reconnaissance on his part.”
“Why would Brach kill his friend?”
“The Abyssal Steps, Jack. They can come between people, even friends.”
“What’syourplay, then?” I pointed at her necklace. “Seems you’re part of the group that killed Henry.”
“I’m Mr. Brach’s urn-bearer. His right hand, if you will. I’m required, as are most Shiguan, to wear the emblem.” She pulled a cigarillo from inside her jacket and fit it to a filter.
I produced my Zippo. “Allow me.”
When I lit it, I glanced into the shadow of her chin thrown by the flame across her neck and shoulders. Crisp lines. Storm-grey shimmer. Several occlusions. And a thin aural band, not quite thanatist gold, more like amber. But deep inside her shadow, I also glimpsed something else—it was almost like seeing two shadows at once.
Before I got a clear look, she reached up and snapped the Zippo cap shut. “I’ll forgive your intrusiveness this once.”
“Sorry—”
“What you nearly saw was my primal moment,” she said. “Every soul has one, a turn that shapes who they are and what they will become.”
I’d read about primal moments in the Shadowmancy text—for some, it was a hope or passion; for others, a belief or struggle; for a wraith, it was an anger or obsession. “I didn’t mean?—”
“Perhaps we’ll talk more about my shadow another time.” She took a long draw on her cigarillo.
I put away my lighter and grabbed the dowsing stone. “So, your relationship to Brach, does that explain this?” I held up the stone. “And your question about what I’d do to escape a life of slavery?”
“We all wish to be master of our own fate, Jack, wouldn’t you agree?” “Brach doesn’t see it that way, though, does he?”
“His obsession with the Iron Horse has made him intolerable.” “What’s the obsession?” I asked.
Emaline stared at me for a long moment. “Revolution.”
I’ve never felt such tension from the Strata, Henry had written. “What kind of revolution are we talking about?”
“Though some of the Strata’s inhabitants are content,” she explained, “bitterness grows in a great many of them. They’re angry at the way historians and politicians and creatives have changed and weaponized history to their own advantage. Others are angry at the pillaging of the Strata by topside thanatists—the summoning of semblances, the stealing of Strata wisdom.”
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that the dead of London’s past are going to war with its present?”
“It is far more nuanced than that, Jack. And far more dangerous.”
I could have used a good, loud Slayer tune just then. “How do you mean?” She looked around us, then back at me. “If I read you in on this, Jack, you’ll either accept my offer or you’ll become my competitor. Sharing the information could get me killed, and you along with me.”
I knew secrets had a price. It was part of why I’d left LA. But this was about Henry. “Let’s hear the offer.”
She took a long breath. “Brach doesn’t intend to just fight back against the exploitation of the past . . . he intends to rewrite London’s future.”
It took me a minute to process that. “How would he even begin to attempt such a thing?”
“The way all revolutions begin, Jack—the music of the people.”
