The men cowered against the bare bricks as Jackaby raised his hand for a final throw. “No! Don’t!” The ringleader’s voice cracked.
“Leave them be.” The voice at my side startled me. It was soft and low.
Jackaby turned. His arm dropped slowly until it hung at his side. He was breathing heavily.
Behind him, the magma was already cooling, ruby red pools hardening to charred black rock. The three men scrambled, jumping over the patch on the far side and scampering off into the night.
“They would not have been merciful to you,” said Jackaby.
“No,” she agreed. “They wouldn’t.”
Jackaby’s lips turned up ever so slightly. “Ah, I see. That’s precisely the point, isn’t it? Yes. I suppose you’re right.”
“I’d rather be the maiden than the monster any day,” the woman said. “But you’re wrong about me.”
Jackaby raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I’m generally a very good judge of character.”
“Weak and harmless?”
Jackaby paused. “I did not mean to imply . . . but fair enough. My apologies. Please allow me to introduce myself—”
“Detective Jackaby,” she said. “I read the papers, too, mister. You had a hat in the picture.”
Jackaby nodded with a pout. “I certainly did. A good hat, too. This is my associate, Miss Abigail Rook.”
“My heroes,” she said. “You can call me Lydia. Lydia Lee.”
“Charmed, Miss Lee,” I said. “I would rather our meeting had come under better circumstances.”
She laughed weakly. It was a deep, husky laugh. “That’s sweet, miss, but I don’t see folks like you ever meeting someone like me under better circumstances.”
I swallowed, not knowing how to respond. “We’ll get you to a hospital straightaway,” I said.
“Don’t bother with any of that,” she said, making an effort to straighten up. “I’ve been through worse. I’ll be through worse again.”
Jackaby stepped forward to take her other arm. “And still true to yourself. You are anything but weak, Miss Lee, I’ll grant you that. If you won’t accept our help, then please allow us the pleasure of your company as far as your front door?”
Miss Lee accepted Jackaby’s arm and we escorted her a few blocks to the east, where she informed us that she shared a cramped apartment on the second floor. Lamps lit up in the windows as we approached, and a crowd of women soon came pouring out of the nearby doorways to help. An old woman with thick gray curls tied back in a tight bun pushed to the front. She rounded on Jackaby before we had even reached the stairs. “Is this your doing?” She menaced Jackaby with a prod from a hefty rolling pin.
Lydia waved her off. “It’s okay, Mama Tilly. They’re only helping.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” I asked as one of Miss Lee’s neighbors took my place at her side, nudging me out of the way.
“I’ll be fine, miss,” she said, wincing as she tested her weight on the first step. Jackaby spoke quietly with the woman called Mama Tilly, and then as quickly as we had gotten ourselves into the whole mess, we were out of it. Jackaby trod back up the road as if nothing had happened.
“What were you talking to Mama Tilly about?” I asked, keeping pace.
“Hm? Just making some arrangements. Miss Lee was not entirely truthful about her state of affairs. She is in tremendous pain. She has at least one fractured rib and serious bruising on her legs and arms, possibly more serious injuries beneath—she needs medical attention. We happen to know a capable nurse. This should be a perfectly simple house call for Mona O’Connor—at least compared to the last one she performed for us.” Miss O’Connor’s last patient had been only mostly human. “I gave Mama Tilly Mona’s information and advised her to charge the services to me.”
I nodded. “That was kind of you.” We walked on for a few more paces. “Was Miss Lee really . . .” I hesitated.
“What?” Jackaby looked back at me.
“Miss Lee was really a boy, wasn’t she? Underneath?”
He slowed and then came to a stop and looked me square in the eyes. “That’s up to her to decide, I suppose, but it’s not what I saw. Underneath, she was herself—as are we all. Lydia Lee is as much a lady as you or Jenny or anyone. I imagine the midwife or attending doctor probably had another opinion on the matter, but it only goes to show what doctors really know.”
“Shouldn’t a doctor be able to tell at least that much?”
Jackaby’s expression clouded darkly. “I have great respect for the medical profession, Miss Rook,” he said soberly, “but it is not for doctors to tell us who we are.”
Chapter Eight
The sun slipped down to meet the horizon as we pressed on through New Fiddleham, the sky darkening like a dying ember. A lamplighter was making his way from streetlight to streetlight as we passed. My feet were beginning to ache and I had a stitch in my side, but Jackaby’s inner fires seemed only to have been stoked by our encounter with the thugs. He marched forward briskly and I began to lag behind.
A hansom cab rolled past with rubber wheels that glided smoothly along the cobblestones behind its horse. The couple seated within looked impossibly, almost arrogantly comfortable. “Have you ever considered hiring a driver, sir?” I called ahead breathlessly. “It’s just that we do seem to do quite a bit of traveling.”
“There is a great deal to be experienced in this city,” he answered, not looking back. “No reason to limit the scope of our vision.”
“The scope of my vision,” I said, panting, “is not quite the same as the scope of yours, Mr. Jackaby. And I have experienced blisters before.”
He paused at the end of the street and waited for me to catch up. I half expected him to be cross with me, but he looked sympathetic. “There is quite a lot to miss,” he said. “Do you know that long before it was ever called New Fiddleham, this area was already inhabited?”
“You mean by Indians?” I said.
He leaned against a wrought iron hitching post and nodded. “Do you see that?” He pointed at the empty road. At midday, this stretch of Mason Street would be a blur of carriages and pedestrians clamoring to and fro, but in the dwindling light of dusk it was abandoned. “Just there,” Jackaby prompted, “in the middle of the lane.”
Between the worn path of countless carriage wheels, a single weed had pushed up through the paving stones. “I see a little green plant, if that’s what you mean” I said.
“And I see the spirit watching over it,” he said. “The Algonquian peoples would call it a manitou. It is older than any of these buildings, older than the city, older even than the tribes who named it. I would wager it will be here long after all of these bricks have crumbled to dust.”
He began to walk again, but slowly. “There is something humbling about knowing that an entity capable of moving mountains and reshaping continents still takes the time to tend to the smallest patch of dirt. Little things matter. Footsteps matter.” He stepped a little farther down the block and I followed. “There,” he said. “The flower shop. Do you see the little alcove in the wall?”
“Yes,” I answered. It was an inconspicuous break in the masonry, an indentation only a foot deep, topped by a simple awning of red stone. I might have taken it for a bricked-up window.
“This whole block had become home to predominantly Chinese immigrant families until about the 1880s, when the ungentle gentry saw potential in the neighborhood and bought the property out from under its denizens. Most of the Chinese inhabitants who stayed in New Fiddleham relocated to the burgeoning tenement district a few blocks south. But not everyone left.”
He put his hands together and bowed respectfully to the hollow. “Tu Di Gong is a modest figure, but a noble one. He’s there now, still looking over his village like a kindly grandfather. That was where they kept his shrine. He serves his little corner of New Fiddleham in whatever ways he can these days, though his influence is overlooked and misunderstood. I find it all too easy
to sympathize.”
We came to the end of the block, where the city opened to accommodate a broad park bordered by streetlights. The sun was setting on us—it was no time to be wandering in the darkest quarters of the city, but the shadows were not so intimidating here. The lamps shone brighter around the park than they did in the rest of the city, and the whole park hummed with pleasant energy.
“This is Seeley’s Square,” said Jackaby. “Mayor Spade’s only successful foray into his grand electrical city. Do you know for whom the park is named?”
“Erm, Mr. Seeley, I presume?”
Jackaby shook his head. “Not for a Mr. Seeley, nor for any man. The Seelies are kindly fae. They arrived with the city’s founders, long ago, and I do believe they like it here. They and the native manitous might be more kindred spirits than the humans who tell their tales. This park is a haven for benevolent beings of all kinds.”
He looked out across the open space, and I followed his gaze. I could almost convince myself that I could see what he was seeing. Flickers of light seemed to dance through the greenery—although it might have been nothing more than the bright streetlamps reflecting on the leaves. “People often feel more alone than ever when they first arrive in a new place,” Jackaby continued, “but we are never alone. We bring with us the spirits of our ancestors. We are haunted by their demons and protected by their deities.”
He took a deep breath and turned to me. “I prefer to walk, Miss Rook, because I appreciate this city—and all the more when it’s being threatened. I like to see the lights all around me and feel the ground beneath my feet. This city is alive. It has a soul, and that soul is a glorious mess of beliefs and cultures all swirling together into something precious and strange and new.”
“Like Monet,” I said.
“Nothing like Monet,” said Jackaby. “What’s a Monet?”
“A painter. He’s French. My mother met him once at a gala in Paris. They had a few of his works in the museum back home. He uses a hundred little daubs of color, and then from a distance they all melt into one big lovely picture. When you’re right up close, though, it’s just beautiful madness.”
“Oh. Yes.” Jackaby smiled. “Just like Monet. Exactly like that. I prefer to walk because I like to be right up close to the beautiful madness.”
The museum back home also had cushioned chairs you could take a rest in whenever your feet were sore, I remembered, but I kept that thought to myself. A figure was marching across the park now, making a beeline right for us. “I do believe one of your more colorful daubs is coming to see you, sir.”
“Hm?” Jackaby locked on to her and smiled. “Oh, Hatun! Auspicious timing.”
Hatun could have been the queen of her own kingdom in some far-off land, had the streets of New Fiddleham not needed her more. She was an elderly woman, poor, but with a naturally regal air about her and a domineering presence. As much as she stood out, she seemed equally able to do the opposite, melting instantly into the scenery in that subtle way that made it hard to remember if she had ever been there at all. She wore several layers of faded petticoats, and her pale gray hair was tied up in a handkerchief.
“Good evening, Hatun,” I said.
“Hammett’s cat,” she replied.
“Come again?” I said. “Hammett the troll?”
She nodded. “Yes, yes, of course the troll. He has an orange tabby, only it’s gone missing, and now Hammett’s in a terrible state.”
“Not to put too fine a point on the matter,” Jackaby said, “but isn’t being in a terrible state Hammett’s natural state? He may be diminutive, but he’s still a bridge troll. How many times has he threatened to eat your toes?”
“Pardon me, Detective Knows-So-Much, but which one of us spent all season looking after him? I know my troll, Mr. Jackaby, and he’s off.”
“Fair enough. Still, he can’t have expected the thing to stick around forever,” Jackaby said. “You’ve seen the way he abuses the poor creature. Cats were not bred for riding.”
Hatun squinted her eyes at my employer. “Those two were nigh inseparable, thank you very much. Should’ve seen them hunting voles together at night. Two halves of a whole. It was like watching music by moonlight. Music played on a miniature saddle made from gopher leather.”
“I’m sure we can help find Hammett’s friend,” I said. “Only right now we’re already on a rather pressing case, Hatun. People have gone missing and lives are once more at stake in New Fiddleham.”
Hatun looked at me for several long seconds, until I began to feel a little uncomfortable under her gaze. Her eyes swam out of focus, and I could tell that she was leaving lucidity and falling into something else. Hatun, like my employer, saw visions the rest of us could not perceive. Unlike my employer, whose sight was constant, invading even his dreams, Hatun’s visions were unreliable. She oscillated from normalcy to profound insight to absolute gibberish. Her inscrutable predictions included the coming insurrection of the city’s united weathercocks, a strong chance of a mild rain on Thursday, and the approach of my imminent and inescapable death—a fate which thus far I had escaped. Twice. “What is it, Hatun?”
“This is the one,” she whispered. She was squinting at me as though gazing into the sun. “Oh my. Oh dear. You’re already so far down the path, aren’t you? I told you not to follow him. I told you.”
“Yes, you did, Hatun. Thank you for the warnings, truly. I do promise to be watchful.”
“I see a hound,” Hatun continued. She had screwed her eyes shut while she spoke. “And a man with red eyes at the end of a long, dark hallway . . .”
Jackaby went ashen. “What did you say?”
“Death. Death is waiting for you on the other side of Rosemary’s Green. This is the one, Miss Rook. This is the path.”
“Of course there’s death on the other side of Rosemary’s Green,” Jackaby said. “There’s a cemetery on the other side of Rosemary’s Green. What about the man—the hallway? What do you see? Hatun!” His sudden intensity seemed to rattle the woman. She opened her eyes. Dilated pupils contracted and she blinked up at him.
“What? Yes, rosemary’s always green. It’s an herb, isn’t it? What’s got you so bothered?”
Jackaby deflated. “Nothing. We will look into the matter of Hammett’s cat at our earliest convenience, Hatun. Come along, Miss Rook.”
“Take care of yourself,” I said.
Hatun smiled weakly back at me, her eyes hung with quiet sadness. She patted my arm gently. “Good-bye, Miss Rook.” She spoke the words heavily.
Jackaby was already halfway up the block when I turned to hurry after him. He said nothing. His shoulders were stiff and his face was clouded with dark thoughts as he rounded the corner ahead of me.
My feet still ached and, beautiful or not, New Fiddleham’s labyrinthine streets were a shade of madness I would be hard pressed to appreciate even in full daylight. I froze as I reached the turn. The street was empty. I silently cursed Jackaby and hurried toward the next crossing. The alleyways to the left and right were dark. There was no sign of my employer in either direction. Children giggled somewhere nearby, and I could hear footfalls and the distant clop of hooves. A leaden feeling hit my stomach as I realized I was alone in the middle of the night with a murderer on the loose.
“Sir?” I called, trying not to sound too timid. “Mr. Jackaby?”
“This way, Miss Rook.”
The voice crept in a whisper out of the shadows to my left. “Oh, my word!” I jumped and then collected myself, stepping out of the glow of the gaslights and into the gloom of the alleyway. “I lost you for a moment, sir. You nearly startled me out of my—”
My voice caught in my throat.
The face in the darkness was not Jackaby’s. “Your skin?” The face was round and deathly pale, tinted with a bluish shadow along the chin. The pale man smiled and tipped his hat, and the grin etched wrinkles from his brow up into his jet-black hair. “Hello, Miss Rook. I’m so glad we could meet face-to-
face at last. Please, call me Pavel.”
Chapter Nine
My breath was coming in shallow gasps. I tried to steady my nerves. How far could I run before he caught me? Would I even reach the light? Would he kill me more quickly if I screamed? “You—”
“Me,” the pale man confirmed with a wink. “Do calm down. I can hear your blood pumping from here. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead, Miss Rook.”
“You’re . . .” I panted. “You’re . . .”
He nodded. “Monstrously underdressed for our first business meeting, I know. I’m rather fond of this coat, though. It’s older than you are—you’d never guess to look at it, but that’s craftsmanship for you. Tailors today just aren’t what they used to be. The scarf is new, at least. I do like a nice scarf.”
I blinked.
Pavel shrugged. “I know. You were going to say a vampire, yes? This is also true.”
“Y-You admit it?”
“Honesty is essential if we are to forge a functional working relationship, my dear girl.”
“What are you talking about? We’re not working together. You—You murdered all those people!”
“Yes, I did. More than you know. Lots more. That’s honesty, right there. We’ve already discussed how I’m not killing you. So, let’s call that compassion. See? I’m full of good qualities.” He flashed a winning smile and I saw that he was missing a canine on one side. He caught my gaze and closed his lips self-consciously. “Never mind about that,” he said. His tongue brushed over the gap. “I ate something that disagreed with me.”
“Eating something that disagreed with you dislodged a tooth?” I asked.
“Well, he disagreed with my decision to eat him,” Pavel said, “and he disagreed rather firmly. Bitter blood, that one.”
I swallowed. “What have you done with Mr. Jackaby?”
“I haven’t done anything with him, Miss Rook. As it happens, my benefactors have use for your master’s unique services. That is why we’re talking.”
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