I fell on the hard cobblestone alley, clutching my chest. Blood was pouring from a hole in my Nightwish T-shirt. For a second, I wondered why this guy had been waiting for us. Then I started to pass out.
CHAPTER TWO
Upon death, the soul has three paths: It can move on into the light of friends and family; if plagued by unfinished affairs, it becomes a semblance and descends into the Endless Dark; but some few souls find the third, most difficult path.
—William Crookes,“Soul States:
A Guide to Transience”
A scouring windcoursed over me, so cold it seemed hard. I took a quick breath, opened my eyes, and clawed at the chest of my shirt.
No blood. No pain. The sky stretched above me, a deep unending black. Beneath it swept a broad, broken plain of rock and rubble. I wasn’t outside Henry’s door anymore, that was for damn sure.
A coil of air came down in a hard gust, whipping me up off the jagged stones and blowing me back. I tumbled across an uneven stretch of rock, jouncing along until I was able to hook my arm around a jutting stone and jerk to a stop. Still, the windseemed to tear through me. I looked back in the direction it was blowing and saw in the distance an enormous mountain of fire. It had to be miles away, but I could still feel its heat. Not a burning heat. More the way a warm fire feels after long hours in the cold.
I crawled into a small hollow below the jutting stone and peered out at the rocky plain. What I’d mistaken for rubble were statues of people.
Thousands of them, tens of thousands, stretching out as far as I could see. They curled and folded into one another across the vast field of stone, save occasional heads and limbs that twisted up at odd angles.
As I stared out from my windbreak, flashes of light erupted here and there out on the plain. A moment later, one flashed beside me. When it had gone, a new statue lay twisted into the gruesome soil—a woman, mouth gaping, eyes wide with fear or pain. A likeness of her quickly rose from her stone statue, the wind whipping at her dress and hair. She smiled at me just before that wind swept her toward the mountain of fire.
“Fight back,” I cried.
She didn’t hear me—or maybe she ignored me—and continued onward.
Then the wind rushed in at me again, tearing through my little hollow.
It seemed to be pushing me toward the flames. I began to lose my grip.
Part of me wanted to let go, leave the old pressure behind—memories of Mama, my brother Dan’s funeral, the Hounds, everything. More than that, the fire’s distant heat and low-throated call promised peace, rest. Things I hadn’t had in an awfully long time.
I started to let go when a clear picture came to my mind . . .
. . . I’m standing in my bathroom holding a razor blade.
I’ve been casting about London for months, trying to form a band. But it’s not working, and I’m tired. I gave up everything to come here and try. Maybe the dream is finally over.
I haven’t cut in years. Not since I found metal, which somehow fills the same gaps inside me. But it’s not working today. Not even Ozzy can drive back the pressure. So the elastics that I use when there’s no music handy are certainly not going to help.
I stare at the razor.
Then Henry is suddenly there. He doesn’t scold me or look surprised. He just comes up beside me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “Take heart, Jack. You’ve got more to do.”
I put the razor down . . .
I turned back into the face of the wind and began pulling myself away
from the fire. I crawled instinctively toward the sculpture of myself, which I found lying face up, a big hole in its chest. The artistry was exquisite. It called to me. I reached out, touched it. Warmth shot up my fingers and arm. As I looked into my own ash-colored face, some new knowledge awoke inside me.
I rolled onto the rocky image of myself and fell inside it.
My eyes flashed open, and I was lying again in the alley in front of Henry’s flat. Hot energy, like a heavy dose of adrenaline, rushed through me. I struggled to breathe. My ears were ringing. Henry was gone, his candles scattered across the cobblestones. Corpse-paint guy was gone, too.
I knew I’d been shot. The logo on my Nightwish T-shirt had been obliterated, the fabric around it soaked in blood. But the pain wasn’t much more than the itch of tissue doing its last bit of healing, and I wasn’t sure about the rest of it. So I lay for a minute, catching my breath, trying to remember—the field ofstatues, the mountain of fire—but when I tried to put the pieces together, it made no sense.
When I thought I could move, I propped myself up on my elbows and felt something pressing against my leg near my groin—the stone that woman had given me. It was still in my pocket.If you wake up, come find me.I scrambled to my feet, the ringing in my ears threatening to drop me back down, and stumbled to the door of Henry’s flat. I used the key he’d given me a while back to open the lock, then pushed inside. “Henry?”
No answer.
