But when I hit the third verse, it all fell apart. Something was still off. My ring finger missed the G, and the chord buzzed like a dying fluorescent light.
Damn.
It had still felt good to try. I’d made it all the way to London to write and play songs people might remember. That dream, that need, hadn’t gone away. Every time I touched a guitar or sang, I felt it again.
But I had to stay focused. The Iron Horse was in trouble, and Henry was still missing. I wouldn’t stop looking for him until I found him—the way he’d always been there for me.
Two years back, I’d pounded on his door at four a.m. After years of reworking the second verse of my song—the one about my brother Dan’s death—I finally got it. First thing I’d wanted to do was sing it for Henry. I rushed to his place with my guitar. When he opened his door, hair a stiff standing mop, his eyebrows went up in expectation.
“The second verse,” I said. “You get it?”
“Yeah, man.”
He yanked me inside, led me to his little home studio, and sat behind the drums. Without a word he counted us in. His eyes danced with anticipation as he drummed and watched me play the second verse for him.
His smile meant everything to me.
“Hot damn.” He’d clapped, stood up from his drum stool, and did his two-step shuffle. I’d joined him?—
Someone pounded on the pub door, startling me from my reverie.
I set the guitar on the bench, crossed to the door, unbolted the lock, and pulled it open, blinking away tears until Chuey’s face came clear.
He was downing one of his four-ounce energy drinks—he always carried a few in his backpack, which was slung over his shoulder. He swallowed loudly and said, “You look terrible.”
“So, the usual then,” I replied. “Hey, have you heard from Maria?” Chuey’s girlfriend hadn’t been willing to come to London, but they’d been doing the long-distance thing.
“Yeah, she had a ticket to come out to your Wembley show, but never mind that, man.” He pointed a finger at the door. In my haze, I’d missed it. Stuck to the middle of the Iron Horse door was an envelope, pinned there by a short knife. I tore the note down, pulled the knife, and waved Chuey inside. We sat back at our booth.
Chuey grabbed his Bluetooth speaker from his pack and fired up some Nightwish. He knew metal always helped me think. He’d tried to explain that it was the frequencies, but his tech prowess was beyond me. In any case, Nightwish was a favorite—I was actually friends with their keyboardist. Chuey and I had played their albums constantly all through high school. For another ten years after that, it was weekend gigs and nights spent reading—Chuey with light and sound texts, and me devouring history books, novels, and musical scores—we laughed all the time at the apparent contradiction. For our own reasons we’d each still lived at home, but we were inseparable otherwise.
I opened the envelope:
Dear Mr. Solomon,
There is credible suspicion that you have violated Precedent Law as it relates to violence against a thanatist and may havedone so by means of an outlawed weapon. Furthermore, there is considerable evidence that you are responsible for raising a wraith to the environs of London, which is yet another violation of Precedent Law.
The transition to thanaturgic life is fraught with challenges. If only due to my fondness for our mutual friend, Henry Wilkinson, please remember that I am at your service, should you ever have need of my assistance.
With Warm Regards, Muster Ree Brach
I handed the note to Chuey, who read it, then shook his head. “Straight up intimidation, man. Knifing it to the door, too. What’s this about?”
Chuey already knew about my new reality—some of it anyway. But fighting together in Westmont just wasn’t the same as the war coming from the Strata. Chuey hadn’t signed up for that. He could still be a friend, helping me here and there, without me dragging him into promises I’d made to Emaline.
“Spill it, man.” Chuey leaned forward. “I can see you thinking and it’s hurtingmyhead.”
So, I told him, layering in context from the books, explaining the risk, knowing things would never be the same for us.
He sat, listening. And when I was done, he was quiet for two long beats.
“I don’t really understand what you’re up against, man. But whatever it is, I got you.”
Some people you realize you probably don’t deserve to have in your life, but you’re awfully damned glad they choose to be there anyway.
He laid the letter on the table between us. “One day without me and look what happens. So, what’s all this stuff about breaking the law?”
“He’s letting me know he’ll bury me at a Convocation trial if I challenge his plans to take the Horse.” I tapped the note. “If he can make any of it stick, I won’t be around to help stop it.”
