Church rested his forearms on the table and knitted his fingers together. “My boy, by such logic we are all of us crucifiers. There’s an ocean of difference between culpability and causality, and that difference has everything to do with intent.”
Chuey knocked the table. “Damn straight.”
After that no one said anything for a few minutes, and in the silence, I noticed Lady’s bindings were dim. She and Church had lost not only their friend but their binder, too.
I reached out and gently touched their wrist threads. Memories of band rehearsal and early gigs filled my mind. The sigils brightened, and Henry’s mark of supplicating handsrewove into a fermata—the mark that seemed to belong to me. I hated watching the change. It felt like an insult to Henry. But I finished, the effort leaving more hollows inside me where the memories had been. I only knew that I’d lost some small good things, and yearned to know what, because somehow I just felt less like myself.
The field manual said that sometimes the memories could be restored. Usually by a priest. Kincaid may be a Stryper fan, but I wasn’t ready to become a church regular. The point was that I couldn’t do it on my own, which was why most thanatists used the energy of a third soul to revitalize a vestige, if they did at all. I finally sat back to catch my breath and let my heart steady out.
Church and Lady smiled at me when I was done.
Looking around the Horse, I realized how many of its patrons had bindings. “Church, do all these bindings belong to Henry?”
He nodded. “They do, my boy.”
“How did Henry take care of so many vestiges?” I asked.
“Simple, really,” said Lady, “he loved them, same as he loved you.”
How had Henry loved so many people when I’d only managed to carve out room for a few? I let that go and caught my friends up on everything else, including the raptorial’s promise to hunt the wraith.
“She called on us, too,” Lady shared. “She’s a bit measured for my taste, but I’ll judge a good one to make a friend of.”
Next, I filled them in on what I’d seen and heard in the Strata—my fight with Bazalgette, the corpses in the water, and everything I knew about Brach’s revolution—keeping my promise to Emaline not to mention her.
“Dear Heaven,” said Church, taking his cigar out of his mouth, “then the past’s resentments have truly escalated . . . warwith the topside world.” “For real?” Chuey ran a hand over his buzz cut. “Hells, that makes an
LA turf war sound like a game of red rover.” I forced a smile.
“Well,” said Lady, “I won’t ever kneel to Brach. I doubt any of Henry’s other people will, either. Which means that, should Brach win, he’ll have to dismiss us all. And that being the likelihood, I’m in for a pound.” “Hear, hear,” said Church. “I’m of Thomas Jefferson’s persuasion on the matter: I shall engage in eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.”
Chuey placed a hand on the handle of his bat. “I’d fight this dude just for wanting to control our music. Butmi abuelowas lined up and shot for disagreeing with a dictator. So, this clown better just stay in his hole.”
That wasn’t going to happen. “Well, I won’t let Henry go unavenged.
Not without a fight, anyway. So, I’ve got to prove Brach did this.” Church put his cigar back in one corner of his mouth. “Stiff upper lip, then, lad. What’s to be done?”
“Everyone is probably on edge, wondering about Henry.” I looked around the pub again. I didn’t want to make a broad announcement—that seemed too blunt. “I’ll work through the tables to let everyone know about Henry and Jimmy, and rebind anyone who needs it. Church, when
I’m done, can we meet on the venue side? Quieter, and we can get some privacy to finish our phone conversation.”
“Very good,” said Church. “Henry made some arrangements. I just need to gather some things from the back office first. I’ll see you shortly.”
Just then, three guys dressed in white delivery aprons and hats stepped into the Horse, carrying several food bags.
“Ah, good,” Chuey said. “I ordered lasagna for everybody. In my family, we eat when we grieve. We’ll now eat for Jimmy,too.” He dashed off to get plates from the kitchen for the house. Chuey and I had eaten lasagna together more times than I cared to count.
I went first to the thrash table, where Westy, Ella, and the Parley twins were embroiled in their old debate—talent versus training. “Hey, can I talk to you guys a minute?” Quietly, I told them the news. Westy buried his face in his hands. The others stared, as if hoping I’d take it back.
In the candlelight, I looked into the shadows of my thrash friends. Westy had been an orphan. Ella had played professional football and hoped someday to do so again. And the Parley twins had been kicked out of their home for taking a religion.
Peering into their primal moments was like opening a friend’s diary. Not simply because I might see moments that were sad or tragic—many were filled with hope and passion—but more because I wasn’t sure I should be looking at all. These were secrets even friends didn’t always share. But if it was a sin to peer into the hearts of my friends in order to ease their pain, then I’d gladly take the hit when penance came due. I couldn’t look all the way down, but enough to guide me a little in sharing a few words of comfort.
When I was done, Westy lifted his head. “Thanks, Jack.” The others said the same.
“No worries, guys.” I glanced at their bindings. “Any of you need me to freshen your threads? No strings attached.”
They chuckled at my bad joke. Only Ella needed any thread care. Another memory was lost, another hollow inside me. Ella started to jabber about returning to the football field. She looked so happy.
