Ghostly Echoes (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

I held my breath. I dared not scream or call out for Jackaby.

“Jenny,” I squeaked as quietly as I could. “Jenny, can you hear me?”

More footsteps issued from behind the library door, and with them a scraping as of claws against the hardwood floor.

I gave a start as Jenny melted through the ceiling directly above me. “Abigail? Have you two finished interviewing that unpleasant man?” she asked. “I almost preferred the vampire. Why, what's the matter with you?”

“Shh!” I gestured frantically and mouthed the words
in there
.

Jenny nodded, suddenly alert, and swept to the library to investigate. As she neared the door she faded away until she was entirely invisible. I strained to hear anything, but even the skitter of claws had stopped. I leaned closer and nearly flipped backward as Jenny's face popped back out of the wood in front of me.

“On second thought,” she said with a playful smile, “this one is all yours.” In another moment she was gone and I was left alone in the hallway again, more bewildered than before.

I opened the door cautiously and found myself overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. A trim young man with dark, curly hair was seated on the floor by the open alcove window. He was out of his policeman's blues, and in his lap flopped a scrappy, black-and-white sheepdog. It was licking his face mercilessly as he attempted to keep the thing still. I put my hands over my mouth and almost cried.

“Charlie?”

Charlie Barker looked abashed and quickly stood, letting his furry companion hop onto the floor. The dog's paws clicked across the wood until he reached the carpet at my feet. He butted his head into my legs affectionately and wound around me, sniffing eagerly.

“Yes—hello, Toby. I missed you, too.” Toby had survived the incident in Gad's Valley when his owners had not, and Charlie had not the heart to leave him. “Charlie, what on earth are you doing here? You're a wanted man! There are posters! People talk about the Werewolf of the West End now like it's a real thing! You're a bona fide legend! If you had been seen . . .”

“People see what they want to see,” Charlie said, shuffling his feet. “And if they cannot see the difference between a wolf and a hound, I think perhaps they might not notice little old me. Marlowe sent a telegram. Jackaby has been keeping him abreast of new developments. He told me about the pale man—about you. There was no way I could sit in Gad's Valley waiting for the next post to arrive telling me you were dead.”

“Charlie!” I wanted to kick him for being so rash and to kiss him for being here. There was no one I wanted closer and no one I wanted less to join me in harm's way.

“It's good to see you, Miss Abigail.” He smiled shyly, his deep brown eyes full of real and unapologetic relief. I gave in.

I crossed the library and wrapped myself around him. His arms were warm and strong and he smelled of cedar. Our first kiss had been a parting kiss. This one, our second, was all the more satisfying. It was like honey in hot tea.

I pulled away, breathing him in. “You shouldn't have come,” I sighed.

“I know.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, his hand brushing my neck softly. “I was careful. I slipped in from the back streets. Apparently I am not the only legend lurking in the alleyways, though. Is it true? The pale man?”

“Yes. It's true. He's called Pavel. He's a vampire, and a despicable cad. I'm all right, really, although Pavel can't say the same. Wooden stakes and holy water might be preferable, but it turns out a sturdy brick to the face is not entirely ineffective against the dark scourge of the night. I'm a bit hazy on the details, though.”

Charlie pulled away, his eyebrows knit in concern. “What? Marlowe's message only said that he spoke to you—something about a slip of paper . . . A brick?”

“Oh,” I said. “Oh, yes—you're a bit behind.”

I recalled to him the details of the past few nights, and Charlie listened dutifully, nodding silently until I was done.

“. . . and that's all of it,” I finished. “Mr. Jackaby is speaking with Finstern now. They're in the other room. Would you like to say hello?”

He held my hand as we slid down the hallway. It was a small gesture, but it made me feel sweet and warm and not so alone.

Toby bounded through the door before us, and Jackaby stood up, surprised. “I need to seriously reexamine my perimeter defenses. Is there anyone else in my house that I'm not aware of?”

“My house,” came Jenny's voice softly, and Owen Finstern spun his eyes suspiciously around the room.

“I'm very sorry to arrive unannounced,” Charlie said. “Under the circumstances—”

Jackaby waved him off. “No explanation needed. We can use any help we can get, to be honest. Miss Rook filled you in on the pertinent details?”

Charlie nodded.

“Then you know that our most immediate threat is Pavel's daylight accomplice, a female foe employed by the same base and brutal benefactors who bankrolled Pavel.”

“How do we find her?”

Jackaby sighed. “Unfortunately, anyone who knows anything about the mystery murderess or her shadowy council is either missing or dead.” Jackaby scowled at the inventor. “Which you would do well to remember before you go running off to meet them.”

“Then perhaps we should focus on the people who are dead,” came Jenny's voice from the air above the desk. “Professor Hoole was closer to this device than anyone.”

Finstern spun around on the bench. “Is everybody hearing that?” he asked.

Jackaby nodded. “Yes, and it's impolite to interrupt while others are communing with the departed, or didn't your research into the occult teach you that much?”

Finstern's face lit up. “You're the dead woman?” he said to the room. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you. I don't like you.” Jenny's voice was flat.

Finstern clapped like a toddler at a puppet show. “Brilliant! I told Edison it was possible! I told him communication with the other side could only be a matter of calibration and sensitivity. He scoffed at my designs for a spirit phone—of course he didn't let me keep them, either. This is marvelous, though. How are you speaking?”

“I don't know. How are you speaking?” Jenny did not sound amused.

“Practiced modulation of the vocal chords. Do you have a larynx? Is there a frequency you need to employ to become audible? Can you see frequencies? Tell me, how many spirits like yourself reside in a city of, say, a hundred thousand?”

“I don't know!” Jenny said. “I'm not an expert on ghosts, I just am one.”

“Of course,” Jackaby said.

“What's that?” I asked.

“If our answers lie with the dead—then perhaps we should speak with someone who is an expert on ghosts. You're brilliant, Miss Cavanaugh, and absolutely right. Nobody knows what Hoole was building better than Hoole. All we need is a means of communicating with him from beyond the grave.”

“Oh, is that all,” I said.

“There are a handful of mediums operating in New Fiddleham,” Jackaby continued. “Lieutenant Dupin used to see one every month to have his cards read.”

“Mediums lie,” Finstern said. “Misrepresentation of observable phenomena. It's not real.”

“It's called showmanship,” Jackaby said.

“It is invalid data.”

“Not everything needs validation to be real. Charlie may be onto something. It's worth a try, anyway.”

Jackaby set Charlie to watching Mr. Finstern and sent me to check on Mrs. Hoole while he darted into his laboratory to make the necessary preparations. I slipped outside and knocked on the door to the cellar.

The bolts click, click, clicked and the door swung open. The widow was in one piece, but she did not look as though she had slept a wink.

“You really shouldn't open the door straightaway,” I said. “I could have been anyone.”

Mrs. Hoole nodded. “Of course you could. That was stupid of me.”

“Are you all right?” I said. “We're going out to see if we can find some answers. It's probably best that you keep yourself sealed in. Do you need anything, though?”

She shook her head. “Why did you protect me?” she asked. “Last night when that monster attacked me, you jumped in front of him. You don't know me. As you say, I could have been anyone.”

“Oh. It was just the right thing to do, I suppose.”

“How do you know if you're doing the right thing?” she asked. “I keep trying, but sometimes I feel as though I've done nothing but the wrong thing all my life.”

“I'm sure that isn't true,” I said. “You keep trying—and in the end I think maybe that's the only right thing anybody can do.”

She nodded, although she did not seem bolstered by the advice. “Thank you, Miss Rook. You have been far too kind.”

Mrs. Hoole pulled the cellar door gently closed and I heard the locks click, click, click back in place.

I hastened back into the house, where I met Jackaby emerging from his laboratory with his satchel slung over his shoulder and a long brown cord in his hand. The bag on his arm looked even heavier than usual, but he didn't seem to be bothered. “Ready?” he asked.

“As ever, sir.”

We returned to the foyer, and Jackaby held out the cord to Charlie.

“A leash?” Charlie said. “Toby is really very well trained, sir. I don't know that that's necessary.”

“Toby's staying here,” Jackaby said. “Don't worry, Douglas is a reliable custodian.”

“Douglas is a duck.”

“Yes, well, he wasn't always!” Jackaby was still a little sensitive on the subject of Douglas's transformation. He blamed himself for allowing his former assistant to blunder into harm's way in the first place. To his credit, Jackaby had long since found the means to reverse the curse. It was Douglas who chose to remain in fowl form, which frustrated my employer to no end. “The bullheaded bird is more than capable of looking after your mutt for a few hours. The leash is for you.”

Charlie glanced at Finstern, who was pacing the room. The inventor didn't seem to be listening. He leaned down to look into Ogden's terrarium, about to tap the glass with his finger.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Jenny's voice chided. Finstern looked up and all around him.

“You can't mean to suggest that I wear . . .” Charlie whispered to Jackaby.

“You can't very well go walking down the street in broad daylight, can you? And as much fun as it sounds to travel through New Fiddleham exclusively through back gardens and over hedges, we are a bit short on time. We can go without you, if you prefer?”

Charlie took the leash without enthusiasm. “I'll be right back.”

“No,” said Jackaby loudly, so that the inventor could hear. “You won't. Do release the hound, though. We'll be taking our guard dog with us.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Charlie was an impressive hound. His ancestors, the Om Caini, had roamed as nomads for generations, always on the move due to the unique nature of their bloodline. Like werewolves, the House of Caine were half men and half beasts, but unlike their monstrous cousins, the Om Caini were not ruled by their animal instincts or by the lunar cycle. They could transform at will, although the phases of the moon still pulled at their deepest sensibilities. They were mighty hounds in their animal form; less powerful than the wolves, but still proud and noble and more fiercely loyal. Also—although I had not told Charlie this—they were impossibly adorable.

His coat was full and soft as he padded out, patterned in light caramels and chocolate browns blending to rich, silky blacks. His paws were wide and fluffy, and his ears were like thick velvet. I knelt to fasten the leash loosely around his neck. He watched me, embarrassment playing across his dark eyes. “It's just for show,” I reminded him. He pressed his forehead against mine and I leaned in to hug him around the neck. “Goodness, but you're soft. When this is over, we are curling up in the library to read a quiet book together,” I told him. “I could cuddle up against you for hours.” I realized what I had just said and felt my ears go all hot. I could never have said something like that to Charlie as a human. Charlie just wagged his tail.

“Ready?” Jackaby called.

We received the occasional stare as we took to the streets of New Fiddleham. Charlie was a big dog. He had a wide muzzle, and his back came up nearly to my waist. Even padding peacefully down the lane in his role as the harmless house pet, he inspired more than a few passersby to favor the opposite sidewalk.

Finstern had agreed to come along. Jackaby did not feel comfortable letting him out of our sight for too long, and the inventor seemed to be interested in seeing what our investigation might uncover anyway. He also regarded the hound with a level of interest I did not like.

“Powerful beast,” he said. “Charlie? Wasn't that also the name of the young man—?”

“The one is named for the other,” Jackaby answered curtly.

“Which is named for which?”

“That,” Jackaby replied, “is an excellent question. Oh, look—here's the first place, just ahead.”

The medium had a sign hung from her window, an outstretched hand with an eye in the center. The sign read:

MME VOILE—CLAIRVOYANT

PALMS. LEAVES. SÉANCES.

Jackaby strode inside first, and the rest of us followed. A bell chimed, and from somewhere inside the building a chair squeaked against the floor. The cramped lobby was thick with the aromas of rosewater and sage. A curtain behind the counter whipped aside and a woman emerged dressed in flowing purple robes, a silk head scarf, and a lace shawl. She wore heavy makeup, her eyelids smoky blue and her eyes framed by thick black lashes. As she surveyed us, she adjusted a bronze tiara just above her hairline. It was strung with delicate, dangling chains that swayed hypnotically across her forehead.

“Greetings, weary travelers,” she said. “I sense that you—”

“Nope,” Jackaby said and pushed past us back out of the shop.

Back on the street Finstern caught up with him.

“What was that?”

“A charlatan,” Jackaby replied frankly. “To be expected. We'll hope for better luck at our next stop.”

“How will you know?”

“I will know,” said Jackaby. “This way. There's a whole shop dedicated to the occult about two blocks down on Prospect Lane. Mostly artificial relics and harmless trinkets, but several Lwa of the Vodou pantheon used to manifest there on Saturdays.”

Finstern narrowed his eyes at Jackaby. There was skepticism in his gaze, but also something else—something far more unsettling—like a deep and insatiable hunger.

“Come along,” called Jackaby. “It's just ahead and to the right.”

Charlie made a small growling noise.

“Hm? Oh—to the left, I mean. Ahead and to the left.”

We wound our way around the city for an hour or two, stopping in at various esoteric little parlors. Some were little more than kitchen nooks hung with spare bedsheets, and others were richly decorated rooms with warm lighting and cloying incense.

Most of these Jackaby passed over with little more than a casual glance, although a few had apparently incorporated some legitimately supernatural set dressing or authentically arcane accoutrements. One of the frauds, Jackaby was amused to report, was not remotely gifted in extramortal communication, but was a budding telekinetic. The trembling table and rattling windows bespoke a genuine and admirable talent, although not one that would help us find the answers we sought.

Finstern caught sight of a posting on a public board as we moved on up the street. “Does that look like your Charlie boy to you?” he asked. I looked.

Sure enough, he had spotted one of the wanted posters featuring Charlie's human likeness. Charlie's ears flattened. “No,” I said. “No, not so much. I mean, similar features, to be sure—but they have very different, erm, noses. And the eyebrows are all wrong.”

Jackaby glanced back to see why we had stalled. He followed our gaze and grunted in annoyance. He had already given Marlowe an earful when the posters first appeared, but the commissioner could not seem to stop his district chiefs from papering the town with the confounded things. Beneath Charlie's face it read:

WANTED

FOR MURDER, DEVILRY, LYCANTHROPY

$1,000 REWARD

CHARLIE CANE

“Hrm,” said Jackaby. “I'm almost impressed one of those simpletons bothered to look up the term lycanthropy, although they've got it wrong on all three accounts, of course.” He tore down the paper and stuffed it in the bin a half a block down the road. “Different Charlie,” he added over his shoulder for good measure, and then continued on his way without further explanation.

Jackaby knew of just one more medium operating out of New Fiddleham, and I held out hope that our last stop might make the whole trip worthwhile. A row of brick buildings with tattered awnings stretched before us, and at the end of the block I could see a banner with suns and moons circling a crystal ball. As we neared my hope dried up. The Glorious Galvani had long since closed up shop. His door was boarded up, and mischievous scoundrels had broken several windowpanes. I peered inside and sighed. It was very empty.

“You looking to see the future?” a voice called out weakly from across the street.

“We're actually more interested in the past,” Jackaby replied. “Specifically we're interested in
those
passed. Hello, Miss Lee—shouldn't you be resting?”

Lydia Lee, the same Lydia Lee Jackaby had rescued in the alleyway, stood in the darkened doorway of a building across the street. I had gotten a bit mixed up with all of the twists and turns, but we couldn't have been more than a few blocks from the neighborhood where we had dropped her off. Her tight black curls were tied up with a red ribbon, and she wore a sleeveless white chemise with lace fringe and a corset of black and red. She had a black mantle draped over her broad shoulders, but it provided little in the way of concealment.

“It wasn't as bad as it looked,” she said. Her auburn lips were still marred with a dark cut, around which a ring of purple had blossomed.

“It was exactly as bad as it looked,” Jackaby said. “You have a cracked rib, Miss Lee, and if you're not careful with that corset you'll make it worse.”

“The corset makes it feel better.”

“The corset restricts air flow. You're going to give yourself pneumonia. I went to the trouble of saving your life; the least you could do is keep it saved.”

“Mr. Jackaby.” Miss Lee spoke softly but firmly. “I appreciate your help, and that O'Connor lady you sent to check up on me was sweet—but don't confuse saving a life with owning it. No one owns my life but me. I'm not staying cooped up forever.”

Jackaby shook his head but relented.

“I
am
in your debt, though,” Miss Lee said. “And I hate that. You're looking for a real psychic? I tell you what, how about I take you to Little Miss?”

“Little Miss?”

“All Mama Tilly's girls know Little Miss. She's a special one.”

We wound our way back up through the streets slowly. Miss Lee moved stiffly and took shallow breaths. Every time Jackaby cautioned that she not push herself or suggested she take a rest, she only pressed on harder, as if to spite him. Eventually he stopped trying to help.

Finstern turned to me as Miss Lee led the way. “Why are we following a man in a dress?”

“She's not . . .” I began, feeling defensive, but out of my depth to explain. “She's just different from other girls. She's really quite lovely.”

Charlie slid over to stand between the inventor and me, eyeing the man from under a furry brow as we plodded forward.

“She has an Adam's apple.”

“You're awfully judgmental for someone who's been keeping company with dead rodents,” I said. “Look, I don't know that I fully understand her, either, but that doesn't matter. I don't need to understand someone to respect them. I think she's very brave.”

“How is she brave?”

“How?” I considered. “There are lots of people out there who are terribly hateful. She could avoid a whole lot of trouble and dress and act as they want her to, but she chooses to be herself. That's brave. Also—the last time we met she stopped Jackaby from hurting the men who hurt her. They might have killed her. Kindness is an act of bravery, I think, just as hatred is an act of fear. I'm sure you can appreciate that not all strength is muscle, Mr. Finstern. She has a strong spirit, and I believe she is very brave about the way she chooses to use it.”

Finstern seemed to accept my explanation without further argument, or else he had simply stopped paying attention. It was hard to tell with a man whose eyes never sat for two seconds on the same thing. “Your employer,” he said. “Why is he so certain of which mediums have powers and which do not?”

“Don't you know?” I said. “Jackaby is a Seer. He calls it looking past the veil. He sees the truth of things.”

Finstern's cheek twitched. “What sort of things?”

“Anything, really. He sees magical creatures when they're trying to hide. He can see traces of people after they have gone like he's looking at footprints in the air, especially if there is something supernatural about them. He sees auras, which I think are sort of like people's characters—their past, present, and potential—manifested as colors all around them. It's not always clear how it works, but he says he sees the true nature of things.”

Finstern nodded thoughtfully and fell silent. The hungry look had crept back into his eyes, and he watched Jackaby like a dog might watch the edge of his master's plate.

Soon we came to a familiar wooden sign—an outstretched hand with a simple eye in the center.

Jackaby pinched the bridge of his nose and shifted the heavy satchel on his shoulder. “Miss Lee, thank you ever so much for your assistance, but we have already met Madame Voile. I'm afraid she is not quite the clairvoyant her advertisement indicates. I appreciate your help all the same. Please, now—do get some rest. Repay your debt to us by spending just a little time on the mend.”

“You don't want to meet Madame,” Miss Lee said. “I told you. You want to meet Little Miss.”

Jackaby cocked his head to one side, and Miss Lee gave him a wry smile.

“Tell her Mama Tilly's girls say hi. We all look out for Little Miss. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Jackaby.” She gave a little wave and Jackaby tipped his head courteously before stepping back into the shop with a little chime. Finstern followed close on his heels.

I hesitated. “Miss Lee,” I said. “Do be careful.”

Miss Lee gave me a smile. “Careful, Miss Abigail?”

“Yes, of course. Those men might have . . . you could have . . . just be careful.”

“Don't go down the wrong streets, you mean?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“You're a sweet girl,” she said in a kind tone that made me feel less
sweet
and more
woefully naive
. “But open up those pretty eyes. For me, they're
all
the wrong streets.” Her voice broke just a little and she swallowed and straightened, pushing past the moment by force of will. “I don't want to be careful, Miss Abigail. I want to be Lydia Lee.”

And then she was off again, marching down the sidewalk with her chin up and her shoulders back. Charlie nudged my hand with his head, and I realized I had been staring after her. “I'm coming,” I said. “Let's go meet Little Miss, shall we?”