“I’ll stand that wager,” said Church. “And I,” said Lady.
“For a third option,” said Cassius.
Chuey flashed a grin. “I been keeping you out of trouble since before you had hair in your pits, man. I’m betting the house.”
Felt awfully damned good to have them with me on this thing. “Apparently, the Ward will require something called Orcus thread to bind a mature wraith to the Horse. It’s illegal. So, just trying to get some is going to be tricky. I need to get to the rookery at St. Giles to look for some.” “That would be on the Greater Victorian Stratum,” said Cassius. “I have a friend or two there.”
“Youhave friends in a rookery?”
Cassius chuckled. “You are not the only reprobate with whom I choose to spend my time.”
We all laughed, which also felt damned good.
“But, Jack,” said Cassius, “my friend will become evasive if we call upon him as a group.”
I thought about that for a minute. I needed Cassius for his connection and muscle. “Church, Lady, I’d like to get you back topside. Everyone’s going to be on edge after feeling Swan’s attack, not to mention they’ve just lost Henry and Jimmy. Can you try to reassure them?” They nodded and I turned to Chuey. “I need a favor, man.”
“Name it.”
“Would you get hold of every songwriter we know? Tell them Angela and Jimmy have been murdered. That whatever is happening seems to be targeted at songwriters. Tell them to be careful. And tell them to let us know if they see anything unusual.”
“You got it,” he said.
I turned to Church. “We’re going to need something to dicker with.”
From his breast pocket, Church drew a small pouch that jangled as he handed it over. It was filled with silver coins.
“What’s this worth in the Strata?” I asked.
“One silver is roughly a hundred topside dollars,” he said. “So, be watchful. Light fingers all around in a rookery.”
I led them up to the world above. Then, I took a deep breath and started back down with Cassius, hoping the Victorian Stratum wasn’t as much of a nightmare as the Modern had been. But then, Iwasheaded into a den of thieves, and looking to get my hands on illegal thread.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thousands of peasants stormed Paris’s Tuileries Palace, singing “La Carmagnole” as they forced Louis XVIand his consorts to flee the palace.
—Muster Brach, from his speech “Historical Precedent”
Cassiusand I slowly descended the Abyssal Steps. Against the silky darkness, I held up my Zippo, which gave us just enough light to watch our footing. We continued down past the doorway into the Modern Stratum, where the stairway changed from concrete to thick tongue-and-groove hardwood. The steps smelled of dusty oak and creaked beneath our feet as we followed their winding descent around a space roughly the size of a coffin.
Memory started to press my head like a bench clamp . . .
. . . Dad takes down every picture of Mama, puts them in his closet, then looks me in the eye. “She’s gone, Jack. And Ican’t baby you like she did. You have to choose, too.” Then he leaves . . .
My father rarely spoke to me after that, and even when he did it wasn’t the same. I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. The deeper I went into the Strata the deeper the memories that resurfaced.
In my shadow cast by the flickering Zippo, I saw a bright amber vein snaking away from the large black scar inside me. I didn’t bother with my elastics or humming this time and pushed ahead.
It wasn’t long before the dark began to recede, and I could see a red arch-topped four-panel door ahead. It had a brass lion-faced knocker and center handle. I traced the Who quote and pushed it open into a storage room filled with racks of costumes, piles of old playbills, and crudely painted stage scenery—trees, wagons, horses. We moved toward a door on the far side and pulled it open on an empty music hall, the kind of place Gilbert and Sullivan might have played.
Light from high windows shone down in broad stripes, illuminating a faint grey haze. Across the wooden floor were maybe a dozen empty tables, a piano near the stage, and a bar against the far wall. The other walls were mostly bare—I missed the pictures Henry dressed the place with topside. An upper balcony ran along the back and down both sides. The scent of stale beer and spent cigarettes hung in the air.
The clacking of typewriters echoed toward us from an open door near the front. I shared a look with Cassius and we started toward it. Only two steps, and I staggered into one of the tables. My head was throbbing. I bent over, thinking I might be sick.
“Do we need to find you some of your music?” Cassius asked. “Let’s hope there’s something on the way.”
We passed through the door and found ourselves in an office. People sat at desks typing or stood at chalkboards making notes.A man in the back of the room was printing broadsides on a large wood press with a crank and piling them on a table.
