Ghostly Echoes

  “I should have moved on to the other side by now.” Jenny nodded. “I wasn’t certain about that, either. I might have crossed over straightaway if I had found those answers years ago. I guess I wasn’t satisfied with just being that girl who died. She’s a part of me, but I do believe I’m more than an echo now. Maybe I’m not supposed to be more, but I am. I have new thoughts and feelings.” She bit her lip and looked away from Jackaby. “They’re maddening sometimes—but they’re mine, and not hers. They’re emotions the woman I used to be never knew, and that means I must be somebody right now. Whatever else I am, I’m my own somebody—and I’m not done figuring out who that is just yet.”

  I have seen Jackaby look through people and over people. I have seen him regard people like science experiments and like puzzle pieces. While Jenny spoke, he looked into her eyes like I have never seen him look at anyone before. It was unexpectedly tender.

  “Perhaps I should excuse myself,” I said.

  “No, Miss Rook.” Jackaby turned away, pulling the little red pouch out of his coat and setting it on the desk. Inside was the strange stone that Pavel had given me. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m afraid that may have to wait,” said Charlie from the doorway. We turned.

  “Was there a problem?” Jackaby stiffened. “Morwen?”

  “Is secured in your cellar. She was very compliant. We could use chains like that one on the police department. The thing is, the cellar was already occupied. Do you know this woman?”

  He stepped aside, and the widow Cordelia Hoole came forward. In her arms was a little girl in a yellow dress. “Mrs. Hoole,” I managed. “We weren’t expecting—Is that Mrs. Wick’s child?”

  “No,” said Jackaby. He stepped up and tickled the chubby little toddler on her chin. “She’s not.”

  “You’re right,” Mrs. Hoole confirmed. “I know that you don’t like secrets, Mr. Jackaby. Forgive me. This is Hope. She is my secret.”

  “Why ever should a child be secret?” asked Jackaby. “Children make terrible secrets. They are much too conspicuous. Loud, stinking, prone to fits.”

  “Sir,” I said. “Mrs. Hoole and the professor were only wed for a year.”

  “Yes? So?” said Jackaby.

  “That girl is at least two years old. She isn’t Professor Hoole’s daughter, is she?” I asked. “That was your big secret.”

  Mrs. Hoole shook her head. “I wasn’t born into Lawrence’s world,” she said. “I’ve lived through things—things I never want my child to see.” She took a deep breath. “It was for the best she never knew her real father. I wanted a better life for her than the one I had known. I looked to marry someone with money, someone on the way up. After Hope was born I began hanging about the college, looking to court a naive, wealthy student. Someone with prospects.

  “A bit by mistake, I caught the eye of a kind but rather lonely professor instead. I kept my old life hidden from Lawrence, kept Hope hidden. Mrs. Wick looked after her while we courted. After he proposed—I’m so embarrassed—I was just in too deep. I was never disloyal. The fact is, I had accidentally fallen in love right back. I loved Lawrence, but I loved Hope too much to risk his leaving me should I ever tell him the truth. As soon as we were married, I begged Lawrence to hire a live-in housemaid. I told him I knew a woman who had been good to my family, and that she had a little girl to look after. Mrs. Wick came to live with us, and with her came my little Hope.

  “That’s why I didn’t bring her with me when I came to meet you. I didn’t know if I could trust you. But then you stopped that terrible man from killing me and you gave me shelter from the creatures. I heard them up above me after you had gone. It was a terrible noise. They came to the cellar door, crashing and thudding—but they couldn’t get in. Your protection may be the only reason I’m alive, Detective. I left to bring Hope back, to keep her under that same protection, if you’ll permit it.”

  Jackaby looked dour. “I cannot.”

  “Please, Detective. My little Hope didn’t choose to be who she was. She didn’t choose to have a woman like me for a mother. She didn’t ask for any of it. I’m not perfect, Mr. Jackaby, but I would give everything for my daughter.”

  Jackaby nodded. “Thank you for your honesty, Mrs. Hoole,” he said. “I like honest. Alas, I’m afraid I cannot keep my promise to you or to your daughter. The situation had changed. We have made targets of ourselves and by extension this house. Your own assassin has taken your place in the cellar. My home is no longer safe.”

  Mrs. Hoole sank. “Where will I go?”

  Jackaby pursed his lips and closed his tired eyes. After several long seconds he opened them again. “I want you to memorize an address. Memorize it—never write it down—and reveal your destination to no one.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Got it? There are good people who live there. They will help you.”

  “Sh-Should I tell them Mr. Jackaby sent me?” Mrs. Hoole asked.

  “No. Tell them—” Jackaby took a deep breath. “Tell them their son sent you. Tell them that he misses them.” A tingle rippled up my spine as I realized what he was saying. “Most of all, tell them to get ready. I left a box with them a very long time ago. A cigar box tied with twine. Tell them to use it. All of it. They will need everything they can muster.”

  My employer—a man who never spoke of his past, who hung no portraits over his mantle, who did not even share his name—had parents. He had a mother and a father who were real people and lived in a real house somewhere in the real world. I found the notion almost mystifying. What could they possibly be like?

  Jackaby attended to Mrs. Hoole, outfitting her with a satchel full of charms and wards, a roll of spending money, and some fresh fruit and a few slightly stale biscuits. He offered to fetch some pickles and jam from the cellar, but the widow declined politely. She thanked the detective profusely before departing with little Hope on her hip.

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to travel with them?” I asked when the door closed. “Just to be sure they reach their destination?”

  “They would be no safer in our company,” said Jackaby. “They are better off alone.”

  “That isn’t really why you didn’t offer, though, is it?” Jenny’s voice preceded her appearance. She came into view beside Jackaby. “When was the last time you saw them?”

  Jackaby stared out the broken front window, watching the widow walk away. “I have not seen my family in roughly two decades, Miss Cavanaugh. We do not correspond. The sight does not discriminate when it takes a host, and it does not make accommodations for family. I found my own way after it took me.”

  “But you were so young then,” I said.

  “I was ten years old.”

  “They didn’t believe you, did they?” Jenny said. “You were just a boy who had lost his friend. You were confused and afraid, and your parents didn’t believe you. So you ran away?”

  Tears welled in Jackaby’s gray eyes. “No, Miss Cavanaugh,” he said. “They did believe me. They believed every word. They never doubted me for a moment, my parents, even when I was sure I was mad myself. My parents are not perfect, but they were prepared to give up everything for me. And they would have had to, if I had stayed. So I left.”

  He watched Mrs. Hoole turn the corner with her daughter and vanish into the lamp-lit streets of New Fiddleham.

  “I don’t like secrets, but I understand why she kept hers,” he said. “My parents are my secret. I didn’t hide my name for my own protection—I hid it for theirs. They are about to need more protection than my absence has afforded them. Some locks cannot be unbroken, and what we’ve unleashed is going to be big.”

  “Where do we start?” I asked.

  “Poplin,” said Jenny. “Howard told me to look for Mayor Poplin.”

  “That’s a good lead, but Poplin has been ten years on the run. I’m interested in something a bit closer to home before we go chasing the past again.” He pulled the little red pouch from his coat pocket. Within it rested the sto
ne Pavel had slipped me. “The Dire Council is planning something massive, something melding magic and machinery, and they are employing the sharpest scientific minds they can lay their hands on, and for all we know they could be ready to unleash it tomorrow. We need more than ever to know who’s behind it.”

  “And you think that stone is the key?”

  “I think it’s a channel,” he said. “I think it’s the reason for your blackouts, your unexplained behavior, even your attack on Pavel . . .”

  “You said all that was the aftereffect of a possession,” I said. “That I was feeling Jenny’s emotions and acting on them.”

  “I said that before I saw Jenny and you together. Layering one’s consciousness is like layering colors, but instead of blending blue and yellow to make green, you blend two auras to create a third. With Miss Cavanaugh in your mind, you were brighter. The two of you melded easily, and I could see both of your energies, distinct yet intertwined. You make a lovely and indomitable pair. What I saw the day you knocked Pavel out the window was something else entirely. You were overshadowed and something else entirely was there. I have never seen a possession firsthand. I didn’t realize what I was seeing then. Now that we know all the details, the truth seems painfully obvious. The Dire Council has been in your head, Miss Rook.”

  I didn’t want to believe it. I felt sick and angry. More than angry, I was furious. Coming into our home had been violation enough, but the thought that some evil wretch had been creeping around inside my head was too much. It made my skin crawl.

  “They were the ones who opened my safe, I’d wager,” Jackaby continued. “Mortal locks are paltry things to a mage of even middling caliber, and they were the ones who attacked Pavel, not you. He must have said too much, or else his benefactors were afraid he might. It explains why Finstern’s device overloaded, as well. His machine wasn’t pulling energy out of you, it was pulling it through you. Without even knowing it, Finstern stuck his tap clean through the barrel and started emptying the reservoir on the other side of it. Whoever’s on the other side is powerful, too. Beyond powerful.” He gritted his teeth. “We need to know who’s over there.”

  “How?”

  “The stone appears to function in the same way possession does. It opens a window. When Miss Cavanaugh possessed you, you said you saw her memories. What did you see when you were under the Dire Council’s control?”

  “I—I don’t . . . nothing. I just felt woozy and everything went dark.”

  “There has to be something! You can look both ways through a window. Think, Miss Rook!”

  “Let her be,” Jenny said, floating down beside me. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  Jackaby shook his head. “The council has been ahead of us every step of the way. This may be our only chance to close the gap.” He loosened the cords on the little purse. “I’m going to look through myself. You two watch me closely. If I so much as lift a finger, you knock the stone out of my hands.”

  “What? No! Are you mad?” Jenny said.

  “Time is running out.”

  “No. Not you,” I said. Jackaby and Jenny both looked at me. “It can’t be you. You’re the one they’re after. They need your eyes, and if you’re right, you’d be giving them exactly what they want. No, it has to be me.”

  “Abigail . . .” said Jenny.

  “Besides,” I said. “I can’t see if anything comes through from the other side, but Jackaby can. He can watch for the aura and remove the stone the second anyone tries to take over.”

  “Abigail, no . . .” Jenny pleaded.

  “I can’t ask this of you,” said Jackaby.

  “You don’t have to. They used me. I want to return the favor.”

  I sat down at the ransacked desk and Jackaby picked up the pouch. I held out my hand. Very carefully, he dropped the stone into my outstretched palm. I could see Jenny drifting back and forth behind him, worrying the translucent lace on her dress. At first nothing happened. I stared at the carved circles and imagined opening a window. I pushed with all my mental muscles against the stone. Still nothing for several seconds.

  The sensation came abruptly. The scar on my temple felt hot, but I ignored the pain and focused on the little stone, concentrating hard. The room spun and the edges of my vision dimmed. A tunnel of darkness closed in until all that remained were the stone’s rough circles. The lines were suddenly more than carvings. They curved high above me and described the outline of a long tunnel through the darkness. The walls to either side were made of shadows and gloom. I moved through the passage—falling or flying, I could not say—drifting through a series of uneven rings. Something shimmered ahead of me, a single star in the sea of black. I drew closer.

  Pure white light punctured the darkness, and in the center of it stood a man. The figure was almost lost in the blinding brightness. His features were inscrutable—a charcoal silhouette against the halo of light. I suddenly wanted to be anywhere else, but I willed myself to inch closer, trying to discern any details.

  THE AGE OF MEN HAS ENDED. The thought had no voice, no accent. The words simply sprang from inside my head, echoing like cannon fire. I AM THE KING OF THE EARTH AND THE ANNWYN. I AM DONE WITH YOUR KIND AND I AM DONE WITH YOUR WALLS AND I AM DONE WITH WAITING. The figure lunged forward and I saw his eyes in the darkness, blood red and full of malice.

  The stone clacked against the desk. The dark tunnel fell away and I was back in the house on Augur Lane. I blinked. My cheek was on fire. Jackaby slipped the channel back into the red pouch and pulled the cords tight.

  “Well?” he said. “What did you see?”

  I held on to the desk with both hands to keep from spinning off the chair. “He’s there. He called himself a king. It was like he was waiting for me at the end of a long—” I caught my breath. “Red eyes and the end of a long, dark hallway. That’s what Eleanor was seeing all those years ago! The hallway wasn’t a place at all. It was a channel, straight to him.”

  “He was in her head?” said Jackaby. “For months, he was in Eleanor’s head.” His hands balled into fists. “But she resisted. She died resisting. They needed her. The Dire Council needed her sight and she died rather than let them take it.”

  “And now they need you,” said Jenny, quietly.

  “He spoke to me,” I said. “The king of the earth and the Annwyn. He said he was done with walls and he was done waiting.”

  “Good,” said Jackaby.

  “Good?” said Jenny.

  “Good. All this time we’ve been chasing shadows while he was building war machines and murdering innocent bystanders. Not anymore. We took his teeth when we bested Pavel and we bound his hands when we bested Morwen. If this king wants my eyes he’ll need to come out of the shadows to get them himself. We’re finally forcing his hand instead of the other way around. He’s tired of waiting? Good. So am I.”

  “Sir,” I said. “You know we’re with you, but we’re not ready to fight a war. They want to tear down a wall we can’t even see and unleash an army we can’t begin to imagine. We’re not ready for any of this.”

  “They killed Eleanor because she stood against them. They killed Howard Carson. Lawrence Hoole. Nellie Fuller.” He looked up at Jenny. “Jenny Cavanaugh. How many countless others? Good people have lost their lives every time they’ve risen up against the Dire Council’s villainy. I will not let those losses be in vain, nor will I stand idly by while countless others meet the same fate. We don’t know how long our window will last, and we cannot give him time to rally. He could be at our doorstep before we know it.”

  “Well then,” I said, summoning the strength to stand up without wobbling. “Let’s go save the world.”

  SUPPLEMENTAL MATERIAL

  It was well after midnight when Jackaby passed by my room. He paused in the hallway before doubling back to poke his head through my open door.

  “You haven’t slept,” he said.

  “No, sir. Not yet.” I sat up, hugging the blankets around myself. My stomach was
a tightening knot. “I—I’m—” I sighed.

  “You’re what?” Jackaby stepped inside.

  “I’m—” I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to say it out loud. Saying it out loud somehow made it true. I dropped my head, letting the words fall in sheepish whispers on the blanket. “I’m afraid.”

  “Of course you are,” said Jackaby flatly. “You’re intelligent and you’re aware. Why shouldn’t you be afraid?”

  “That’s very reassuring, sir. Thank you,” I said. “Are you afraid?”

  “Constantly,” he said. “It’s the reason I’m still alive. Fear keeps us sharp. Listen to your fear.”

  “And what if my fear tells me—what if it tells me I should run away?” I asked.

  Jackaby leaned against the battered old dresser and regarded me with a bemused smile. “Then you should probably run away. I told you as much when I hired you. This line of work comes with heavy risks.”

  “Why haven’t you run?” I asked.

  His smile faltered and he swallowed. “I ran once,” he said. “In a way, I haven’t stopped.” He crossed the room in silence before dropping into a threadbare armchair in the corner.

  “What did you run from?” I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow at me but did not reply.

  “It’s hard to imagine,” I said. “What could scare a man who fights monsters?”

  His expression hardened. “Being a man who doesn’t.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the chair-back. “Being a man who lets the monsters win. I’ve been running from that for a very long time.”

  I nodded, not knowing what else to say. The clock in the hallway ticked out a stoic rhythm that echoed through the house for several beats. Jackaby broke the silence at last.

  “Have I told you the story of the two pennies?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Another folktale?”

  “A memory,” he said. “I met a man that day.”

  “Which day?” I asked.

  “The day I ran. The sight was still so new to me then, and I had so much to learn. I was a rudderless boy with the weight of the world on my unready shoulders. I didn’t know where I was going, just that I needed to be gone.