Charlie swayed back and forth slightly, sighing from somewhere deep within his jacket. “You mentioned somethin’ about owls?” Hudson said with a sly grin.
Jackaby wore none of the same amusement. He continued to regard the jagged marks with intensity, and a somber foreboding had rolled in like storm clouds to hang heavily over his face. His expression sent an icy shiver down my spine.
Again, the clearing erupted in a burst of white light. “Got it!” Nellie sang happily. “That one’s the keeper!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nellie Fuller had brought with her a dozen spare photographic plates, and she was eager to capture as many photographs as possible for her article. Brisbee obligingly posed for a few when we returned to the farmhouse, but his enthusiasm had once again ebbed in the wake of the horrific slaughter.
Lewis Lamb was having none of it at first, sending Murphy after the reporter whenever she came too close to the barrier. Not to be daunted, she made a show of taking Owen Horner’s picture instead, posing him directly in front of the canvas while he held up a trowel and smiled charismatically. The decision worked like a charm. Before long, Lamb had completely changed face, demanding that at least one photograph of him and his crew be taken from within the site, lest the public mistakenly attribute the find to his reprehensible rival.
Charlie made a point of finding himself out of the frame whenever the tripod went up, just in case he might be recognized by any of the Chronicle’s readers in New Fiddleham. By noon, Nellie had already gone through most of her photo plates and taken statements from everyone who would give her an interview. In her energetic presence, Owen Horner became even more resolved to stay near the discovery, which left Lewis Lamb perpetually on edge. The whole affair was beginning to feel like a carnival.
No progress had been made toward finding justice for the bloodless bodies, the missing tooth remained missing, and the horror in the forest was proving to be equally perplexing. For another day and a half, I worked closely with Jackaby, jotting details in my notebook as he scoured the forest and hunted for anything we’d missed. After one especially long afternoon of pushing through underbrush and hopping over trickling creeks, he finally caught a trail.
The tracks in the soft dirt had three sharp toes, but they were twice the size of the ones we’d seen in the bloody clearing. I lost sight of them as I tried to keep up with my employer, but Jackaby followed a trail of a different sort. He felt the air gently with his fingers, as if strumming an imaginary harp. When he caught on to whatever invisible thread he seemed to be looking for, he was off like a shot.
The trail wound through the woods for half a mile, leading eventually to another farm. We emerged from the wilderness on the far side, but I recognized it as the drab beige building where we had met Mrs. Pendleton. I saw no clear footprints as we stepped out of the thick forest and into open land, but I noticed that the underbrush had been trampled and branches higher than my shoulder had been snapped back.
I knocked on the door while Jackaby hung back, scanning the property. I knocked again, but there were no signs of life within the house. Soon Jackaby grew impatient and gestured for me to follow. We slid around back to a field where half a dozen sheep were huddled close together near the barn. The creatures did not bleat or shuffle aimlessly about, but kept in a tight knot and trembled skittishly, even for sheep.
“What do you suppose . . . ?” I began, but Jackaby pointed to something out in the middle of the pasture. The space was flat, save for a lone elm tree in the center and a small heap of something in between. From where we were, it looked like a pile of laundry had fallen from the line—except there was no clothesline in the field. I swallowed. My veins turned to lead. “Is that Mrs. Pendleton?”
We stepped warily into the field. As we approached, Toby uncurled himself from the woman’s side and paced between us and his fallen mistress, whimpering desperately. “Is she—?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question. I already knew the answer.
“She’s been dead for some time now,” Jackaby confirmed with grim certainty. “Several hours, at least.” Toby circled the body miserably, his big brown eyes pleading up at us.
I stood over the body. Her hair was tied back in a practical braid, and her skin was unnaturally wan. She wore a simple white dress marred by three broad, wet ribbons of red cutting diagonally from her neck down across her chest like a macabre sash. She was still clutching the wide-barreled rifle. Jackaby leaned down and closed the woman’s eyes gently. Toby whined plaintively, and I knelt to comfort him.
“Someone should . . .” My voice failed me, and it took me a moment to find it again. “Someone should tell her husband.”
“He knows,” said Jackaby from behind me. He was walking toward the shade of the elm, where another figure lay in the shadows. “It appears Mr. Pendleton favored a pair of pistols. He met with the same end as his wife. They made their last stand together.”
“She told us they looked out for each other,” I said, although my words refused to rise above a whisper.
Jackaby straightened and continued toward the far end of the field. Blackbirds were circling overhead.
“Shouldn’t we cover the bodies or something?” I managed.
“That sounds like a fine sentiment, Miss Rook. Please join me when you’re through.”
“What are you . . . ?”
He didn’t turn back as he replied. “The Pendletons are not the reason we are here.”
I found two clean woolen horse blankets in the barn, though only after dodging the sheep, which nearly trampled me as they crowded into the shelter of the building. Returning to the field, I shrouded the couple as best I could. The doleful dog whimpered and lay down with his head on his paws a short way off, watching me. As I knelt to cover the woman’s face, something pressed sharply into my knee. It was mostly flat, a little larger than a half dollar, and blue green with a sheen of brilliant purple when it caught the light.
Toby growled quietly as I plucked it up. I composed myself, wiping my eyes as I crossed the pasture to find Jackaby near a broken gap in the fence. Broad planks of wood had been snapped in half, splinters spread out across the grass. I held my breath as I approached. The splinters, I realized, were not the only thing spread across the grass.
“Looks to have been a ram,” Jackaby said, nudging something squishy with his foot. “And this bit is from a different sheep entirely. I would wager the farmers were just in the way. Livestock seems to have been the intended target. How many do you think it finished off—two or three all together?”
My insides churned. The air was thick and cloying. I stepped back from the massacre for some fresh air and found it in short supply. “Mm-hmm.” I nodded. My eyes were welling up again, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the Pendletons, the smell, or both.
Jackaby picked something up out of the grass. “Buckshot,” he said. “Whatever it was, it appears Mrs. Pendleton got a shot in, at least.”
I looked at the gashes along the fallen fence post. They were twice as deep as the ones on the tree beside the goat, cleaving halfway through the thick board in a single stroke. “Does it look like dragon marks to you?”
“Wouldn’t that be a marvelous peculiarity—but of course it’s sadly impossible,” said Jackaby.
“You’re sure, sir?” I said. I tried to focus on the details of the case instead of on the horrors around me. “I’d be the first to say that dragons don’t exist, but if those fossils are really mythological and not Mesozoic, is it such a leap to imagine one attacking local sheep? Do you see any . . . I don’t know . . . magical aura or anything?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” My employer’s brow furrowed, and he traced a finger around the edges of one of the marks. “Now that you mention it, it is decidedly akin to the residual emanation from the fossils. Fascinating.” He shook his head. “The fact remains, however, that we cannot possibly be facing a dragon. Those breeds went extinct thousands of years ago. You would be just as
likely to see one of your lumbering dinosaurs roaming the plains today as you would a Western dragon. Besides, a dragon large enough to eat goats and sheep would leave a wake of fire wherever it went. There have been none reported, and Gad’s Valley has been unseasonably dry this . . .” His sentence died off, and he cocked his head as he looked at me curiously. “What do you have there?”
I had been worrying the iridescent disc absently while he spoke. I looked down and handed it to him. “It . . . It’s a scale, isn’t it?” I said.
“Hmm.” He nodded, turning the thing over in the light.
“That’s a dragon scale, isn’t it?”
“Miss Rook,” Jackaby said, his eyes glinting, “I do believe it is.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
It fell to Charlie to send word to the victims’ families, and his face was stoic when he returned to the cabin that evening. Jackaby laid the strip of bark he had taken from the site of the slaughtered goat next to the scale I had found in the field. “Rook and I have found what we can, Mr. Barker. I think it’s time.”
Charlie looked at me, and I nodded. “Please give me a moment,” he said.
Half of New Fiddleham had seen his accidental transformation during our first big case, but he was still deeply self-conscious about transforming in company. In truth, although I had been imploring him to avoid it, it was strangely heartening to see Charlie emerge from his room and pad across the cabin in canine form. His fur was patterned in caramel browns and dark blacks, and it looked softer than fleece. The last time I had seen Charlie as a hound, he had been pushed beyond exhaustion and badly injured. It was the hound who had saved my life when that first unruly caper reached its bloody end, and the sight of him in full health was a comfort.
He sidled up to the table to inspect the scales, sniffing each carefully before trotting back into the privacy of his chamber.
“They are definitely from the same beast,” said Charlie when he emerged from his room, fastening the last button on his shirt and straightening his cuffs.
“There can be no doubt?” Jackaby asked.
“They are the same scent,” Charlie confirmed, “or two beasts of the same family.”
“If that’s the case, then I hope the family is a small one,” I said.
“Tell me everything you remember,” said Charlie.
I told him about the farmhouse and the frightened sheep, the broad tracks and deep claw marks, the trampled brush and broken branches as high as my head. Jackaby, meanwhile, moved the scale from one hand to the other, holding it at odd angles and squinting at it through the little carved lens.
“The dragon from the grove . . . ,” Charlie began.
“If it was a dragon,” interjected Jackaby without looking up.
“The one from the grove was only a few feet tall, judging by the marks in the forest,” said Charlie. “Perhaps this latest is its mother?”
Jackaby shuddered. “Let’s hope not,” he said. “The most frightening monsters are monsters’ mothers. Just ask Beowulf. I need to see the bones again.” He held the scale in the lamplight and glared at it. “The evidence increasingly corroborates the improbable notion that dragons have returned, but there is something . . . off. It’s not clean. Even with a scrying glass, the reading of auras is imprecise. I need to compare the artifacts directly. We will revisit the bones in the morning.”
He retired to his guest room, still holding the scale and frowning in concentration. I found myself alone with Charlie in the warm front room of the cabin. He had shed the navy blue jacket of his uniform, but his clothes were as tidy and pressed as always. I wished I had not spent the day hiking through underbrush and traipsing through barns and pastures.
“I’m sorry that you had to see that,” he said.
“See what?” I asked.
“The hound in me. I understand if it bothers you.” He shrugged shyly, looking at the little tin stove.
“Oh no—not at all. I actually rather liked seeing . . . I mean, I wasn’t gawking at you like some spectacle or . . . You . . . You make quite a handsome hound.”
He looked up skeptically. “You are being very generous to say so.”
“No, really. I think you have a very fine figure. Goodness, I meant as a hound . . . You look fine as a hound. Not that you don’t have an excellent figure as a man. Oh Lord. I mean . . .” My cheeks were growing warm from ear to ear. “I mean that I don’t mind at all, Mr. Barker.”
We sat in silence while the little stove crackled quietly for what might have been only a few seconds and might have been an awkward eternity. “That is,” he said at last, “very kind.” He smiled and chuckled softly, regarding me with his deep brown eyes.
“What?” I said. “What is it?”
“Sometimes you remind me of someone I have not seen in a very long time,” he said.
“Someone nice, I hope?”
He nodded. “You would like her. I love her—very much,” said Charlie. “My sister, Alina. She and I were always very close. I miss her terribly sometimes, but she is still with the family.”
“Oh,” I said, struggling to concentrate as my mind weighed the information that I was like a sister to Charlie. “May I ask . . . why did you leave? If it’s not too forward.”
Charlie looked around his humble cabin while he considered. “The Om-Caini have no home,” he said. “My people are nomads, always moving. We must, or we risk exposure. My grandfather has stories about . . .” His eyes caught mine in the firelight. “About dark times. With our family, though—away from outsiders—we can be safe. We can be ourselves.”
He took a deep breath. “But then there was Bucharest. I liked Bucharest. In the middle of town, they used to have a busy market—they probably still do. I saw a crook cut a man’s purse strings once and slip away between the stalls, and so on instinct I gave chase and I caught him. There could not have been much in the pouch, a handful of coins, but the stranger was so grateful when I returned it. His wife invited me to dine with them, but I declined. Already I had made a spectacle, drawn attention to myself. I knew I had to go . . . but something had changed. It felt right to run toward something for once, instead of always running away.”
“And so you came to America?”
“The land of opportunity.” He nodded. “Where I could be just another immigrant, starting over. I was not even twenty, and it was very hard, but it was right. My old life—the family life—gave me the freedom to be myself, but not on my own terms.”
I nodded. “Which isn’t really freedom at all.” My family could not have been more different from Charlie’s, but I knew that feeling very well. I wanted to remind Charlie that he could always be himself around me, in any form—but it felt like hypocrisy after days of reminding him that he should not. I reached my hand toward his, instead, while he sat gazing into the crackling fire—but I hesitated, and the moment slipped away.
“It’s getting late. I shouldn’t keep you up all night,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m sure you need your rest after a day like today.”
I bade Charlie good night and sank into my bed. In my mind I could see Jenny Cavanaugh shaking her head in disappointment at my shoddy display, and then Nellie Fuller rolling her eyes at my having tried at all. I buried my head in the soft pillow and willed the images away. I might be better prepared to slay dragons, I decided, than to flirt with boys.
We wasted no time the following morning. Jackaby took the lead, and Charlie and I kept close behind as we hastened up the road. The sun was just climbing over the wooded hills and we had nearly reached the Brisbee farm, when Lamb’s carriage barreled down the road toward us, headed toward town. It teetered ominously on two wheels for just a moment as it rounded a bend, and then clattered down onto the packed earth, where it picked up still more speed. Mr. Murphy sat at the reins, his face so pale that even his freckles seemed to have been washed away. Mr. Bradley clung to the back, attempting to tether down a clumsy pile of tools as they hurtled away. He caught sight of us as hi
s companion urged the horses on down the dusty path, and he shouted something that sounded very much like “Good luck!”
Lewis Lamb stood at the foot of the drive, hollering after his associates. “You half-witted hayseeds! Can’t you tell a hoax when you see one? Get back here this instant! Get back here!”
As the carriage whipped out of sight, he noticed us and made a beeline for Charlie. “You! You incompetent, incapable clod of a copper! I told you to have that delinquent locked up! Just look at what he’s done! Look at it! He couldn’t stand to let my team manage the excavation, and now he’s ravaged the whole site with his underhanded skulduggery. This has gone too far!”
The complaints continued as we made our way back up the foothills. The closest wall of the canvas barrier hung loose and drooping, and as we neared, I could see why. The whole right side of the structure had been torn down roughly, shreds of fabric ground into the dirt. Lamb did not bother with the entrance flap. It still stood more or less intact, but it was superfluous now. He stepped over the battered canvas and fell silent, his rage overwhelming him beyond words. He just mutely waved both hands at the landscape before us and then threw his Panama hat into the dirt.
The dig site was a mess. In the past few days, Lamb’s crew had dug a deep trench all the way around the figure and freed the skeleton almost completely from the earth. From what I had seen, their work had been conducted meticulously, but the bones before us were no longer laid out in neat, careful arrangements. Enormous fossils were scattered across the site, and the broad keel bone had been cracked in half. Atop a pile of battered ribs lay the tremendous femur I had lifted on my first visit, its surface raked with . . .
“Are those tooth marks?” I asked.