The stairs were old concrete,cracked and slumping like so many backstreet cellar steps. Lath and plaster walls had crumbled and cracked, grown through with roots, filling the stairwell with the scent of dry rot and old nails. As we hurried down the Abyssal Steps, the pressure began to grow in my head and the old anxiety boiled up . . .
. . . I stood outside the Hounds’ rehearsal room reading an email that explained why my key no longer worked. They’ d fired me, leaving me behind as they prepared for Wembley. I could hear them rehearsing as I walked away . . .In my shadow thrown by the Zippo, snaking away from the long, narrow, lake-like scar, was a small, raw wound, like a tributary river, that burned amber.
I stumbled down the last few steps to a grey metal door with a steel kickboard. I traced the Who quote and pushed it open. We emerged inside the Horse, just left of the stage. Down here, there was no division between the venue and pub—it was all just one large room with a wide stage. The wooden floor had been polished, and the upholstery in the booths looked like actual leather—no patches sewn on anywhere. Half those booths were full of . . . hippies, I guess you’d have to call them. And the band that was playing—I’ll be damned if it wasn’t Humble Pie, the first band to ever be called heavy metal. They were jamming their tune “As Safe as Yesterday Is.”
I sighed with relief as the music washed over me, relieving the headache and nausea; the amber scar in my shadow faded with it, turning black.
But the music didn’t seem to help Chuey, who quickly dug his rosary from his pocket and began to work its beads.
I circled back to him. “You don’t have to come.”
He caught his breath. “Seriously, bro? When did your slow ass ever win a fight without me?”
I pointed to his rosary. “You got enough beads for your evil ways, then?” “It’s a lot to take in, man. This whole Strata thing.” He looked up. “You remember that kid from Compton I tangled with? Guy who called
my mom a crack whore?”
“Yeah, his friends carried him away unconscious.”
“I went too far, Jack. I kept hurting him after he was beat. It’s been hard to let that one go.” He put his beads away. “Gonna send him a gift basket when we get topside.”
I smiled and turned to see the crowd gaping at us—we were all carrying weapons. We apologized for the intrusion, then scrambled through the front door and out onto Manette Street.
On Charing Cross Road, we took the next right onto Denmark Street—Tin Pan Alley: an entire street lined with guitar shops, recording studios, sheet music retailers, and vintage vinyl and CD sellers. For a hundred and fifty years, it had been a music mecca.
But right now, semblances were tearing past us, fleeing the alley, wide-eyed and panicking. Others stood screaming at the far end of the street, where bursts of amber light exploded one after another. Following each flash, tremors shook the road, glass rained down from shattered windows, and fire licked up the storefronts.
I dashed ahead past Wunjo Guitars, Rose Morris pianos, and other music businesses. Their proprietors stood in their doorways, gasping at the
explosions. Above the French-terraced shops, semblances leaned out second-and third-story apartment windows, pointing toward the disturbance.
“Get ready,” I called to my friends. “This might go hard.”
Another intense burst of light rippled out over an invisible wall several yards ahead—the ward barrier hadn’t retreated as far on this stratum. When the light cleared, maybe ten paces on the other side of the ward stood a thanatist wearing a neatly tailored three-piece suit with a pocket kerchief. He sported a white mane and beard, looking a good deal like Kris Kringle. The man’s deep-set eyes sparkled in the flames raging through Hank’s Acoustic Guitars and Regent Sounds Studio.
In one hand the thanatist held a brass lantern with a cylinder at its center, in the other a bow. A gang of Shiguan vestiges stood behind him, clutching several semblances who trembled in fear. One of the semblances was James Baring, who’d owned Regents, where the Stones and Sabbath and the Who had all recorded albums. Next to him was Marc Bolan, who’d written one of my favorite songs, “Bang a Gong (Get It On).” And next to him stoodMarianne Faithfull, forever a part of the Stones legacy, featured on Pink Floyd’sThe Walland the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” She was a legend, and Mama’s favorite.
The thanatist smiled and motioned to his team. Two Shiguan dragged Bolan forward. With the same grace as a master violinist positioning his instrument and striking the first note, the thanatist took hold of his lantern at the center of one thick frame rod, raised it, spun the cylinder, and raked his bow across it as it whirled.
An earthy tone sang out, his lantern brightened. Bolan’s semblance began to dissolve into particles of light that flared with the pull of the thanatist’s bow.
“No.” I started forward, but Cassius dragged me back.
The thanatist then struck his lantern viciously in several long, shrill notes, and the light that was Bolan rushed into the lantern and out again, an intense beam now firing at the ward.
Bolan’s light exploded against the barrier. It shot up and out, ripping stone from the buildings on both sides of the alley, cracking the street, beneath us, and undulating over the surface of the ward until the barrier had collapsed back another three feet.
A moment later the notes ceased, and only remnant embers of Bolan drifted on the air like fireflies winking out.
“Dear me,” whispered Church. “All the lad’s musical memories . . . gone now forever.”
There’d been nothing in the books suggesting a thanatist could use a semblance as fuel for a lantern attack. It certainly wasn’t in Henry’s little field manual. Cython apocrypha then maybe. Whatever it was, I didn’t like my odds. Still, this son of a bitch had just killed a wonderful musician. I glared at him, clutching my khopesh.
“Jack”—it was Chuey—“this guy just repurposed light . . . with a lantern. That’s like CERN-level energy manipulation, Ese, and all you got is a knife. Go easy.”
The white-bearded thanatist with the three-piece suit smiled impassively and held up a hand. “Now that I have your attention, may we speak?” He came straight for me, crossing the ward as easy as you please. As he neared, I spotted a Shiguan pendant hanging from an elegant vest chain. Cassius, Church, Lady, and Chuey formed a protective line to stop him.
“It’s okay,” I told them.
