Ghostly Echoes

by William Ritter

  “Howard?” whispered Jenny.

  “Keep back,” he said. “I can’t stay. It’s already pulling me down. I can feel it. ”

  “Howard? Howard—I looked for you. I waited for so long.” Jenny’s voice shook.

  “Don’t wait any longer,” he said. “You’ve lost enough time waiting, and it’s all my fault. I should have listened to you from the start. I would give your whole life back to you if I could, and mine right along with it.” The mist grew thicker, moving, swirling, undulating all the time as it coiled around the inventor’s waist. “I can’t. What I can give you is a little more time. Use it well. Every second. Find Poplin. Mayor Poplin was the only one of us to meet the council face-to-face. Find Poplin and you’ll find your answers.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” Jenny breathed. “I’m not strong enough to lose you again.”

  “You’re stronger than you think. You always have been. Listen to me now—losing Finstern will only slow them down. It won’t stop them.” The shadowy tendrils had coiled around his chest. “Stop waiting,” he said. “You’ve always been strong for me. It’s time for you to be strong for you.”

  “Howard—”

  “Good-bye, Jennybean. Be amazing.”

  And then Owen Finstern fell backward across the threshold.

  His arms flailed once, as though he were waking from a nightmare, and his startled scream was cut short mid-breath as his body collapsed to the ground, just as mine had done when I crossed over. Above the man’s still corpse not one but two spectral figures appeared. The spirit of Howard Carson drifted serenely backward into the darkness of the yew tree. He reached into his pocket and flicked a single coin in the air and caught it. The obol I had given him. He had managed to keep it after all. He stared lovingly at Jenny until the mist had claimed him.

  The departure of Owen Finstern’s soul was not so peaceful. His mouth broke open in an anguished snarl, and it was clear he was fighting forces against which he could not win. Behind him, in the shadows of the great tree, a figure appeared, dressed in an impeccable black suit. The stranger watched as Finstern’s soul spasmed, watched as his head shot back. It was as though invisible chains were dragging the inventor’s ghost forward and backward at the same time. He twitched and bucked, then shuddered wretchedly, coming apart at the seams. By the time his broken soul finally tumbled backward into the hole, it did not look much like a man anymore. Something else—no more than a sliver of darkness—skittered away into the roots in the opposite direction like an angry black insect.

  Charon had warned us. The part of Finstern that was inhuman could not enter, and the part of him that was human could not escape. The crossing had completely torn Finstern apart.

  “What will become of them?” I called to the dark stranger in the shadows. “Will Mr. Carson get to go back to his afterlife?” The stranger did not answer right away. “Is Owen Finstern just gone, now? Does whatever is left of his humanity get its own special place in the underworld? Does he join the End Soul?”

  “Ask me those questions,” said the echoing voice, “when next we meet again, little mortal.” And then the shadows were empty. The stranger was gone.

  With a clatter of crumbling stones, Jackaby finally kicked his way free of the Alloch’s ruined hand. He brushed off his coat and crossed the clearing to stand beside Jenny Cavanaugh.

  “Jenny?” he said.

  “I told you there was no other woman,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the tree.

  “You were right,” Jackaby conceded. “It looks like the only thing that could tempt that man away from you was you. She’s a nixie. Nixies are shape-shifting water spirits.”

  “He was a good man,” said Jenny. “You would have liked him.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Jackaby. “He gave himself up to keep you safe.”

  “Twice,” said Jenny.

  I stepped forward hesitantly. “Are you all right?” I said.

  She took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “But I will be. It’s good to know the truth. I saw what Howard told you in the underworld,” she said. “I saw everything the moment you got back. I saw it in your head. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me.” She smiled at me and then cringed. “Oh, Abigail, your face!”

  I reached a hand up and felt the cut. It was long and tender, but it wasn’t deep. Morwen had struck a line straight across the middle of my existing scar. Each investigation I pursued with Jackaby seemed to leave me with larger and more visible injuries. At this rate, I would be escalating to decapitation by our sixth or seventh case if I wasn’t careful. “I’ll live,” I said. “I’m sure it looks worse than it is. Really.”

  “You can’t fool me. I was in there when you got it,” said Jenny. “I’m so sorry.”

  “That scar is nothing to apologize for,” said Jackaby. “It may very well be the only reason Miss Rook is still alive. Look. Just like the devil going after old Will o’ the Wisps, Morwen managed to inscribe the mark of a cross without meaning to. Unseelie Fae don’t handle religious iconography well. It’s in their nature to reject contradicting powers. Come on. We’ll get you patched up back at the house.”

  “No,” I said. “Carson was right about that, too—we can’t wait. Finstern’s machine in those monsters’ hands is bad enough, but the Dire Council is already constructing something else—something capable of enslaving entire cities at a time.”

  “Did you say the Dire Council?” Jackaby asked. His tone told me he had heard the name before, and his eyes told me he had hoped he wouldn’t hear it again.

  “Yes. The Dire Council. That’s what Mr. Carson called them. As the Seer, you’re the best chance we have of hunting down the council before it’s too late—and their favorite slippery assassin just stole the only machine in the world capable of taking you out of commission. We need to act fast. We can’t let her get back to her father.”

  “I’m all for putting a stop to that nefarious nixie,” said Jackaby, “but she’s long gone by now. It would be easier to pick up a trail back in our world, but the Annwyn is saturated with Unseelie energies. Tracking her in here would be like finding a drop of water in an ocean.”

  “Then we don’t track her at all,” I said.

  “You have something in mind?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We need to stop watching the marionette and start following the strings.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The sky was already beginning to darken by the time we reached the veil-gate. Charlie stood like a palace guard as we stepped through, but his face betrayed the relief he felt at our return. His expression faltered as he caught sight of the line of red running down my face.

  “It’s fine, really.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek and he smiled, a confused medley of contentment and concern, as he followed me across the threshold. He paused, taking notice of Jenny, and then glanced back through the portal.

  “Hello, Miss Cavanaugh. What about Mr. Finstern?”

  “He isn’t coming,” answered Jackaby. “He made choices.”

  “I’ll explain everything along the way,” I said.

  The portal closed silently as soon as Charlie climbed down from the mound. We put Rosemary’s Green behind us and wound our way back into the city proper. Along the way I told Charlie about the tree, about the underworld, and about what I had learned from Howard Carson. “Mr. Carson called them the Dire Council,” I said. “Jackaby, you know something about a Dire Council, don’t you?”

  Jackaby scowled darkly. “Yes,” he said. “I do. I know that there are monsters grown men only dare whisper about, and those monsters only dare whisper about the Dire Fae. They are chaos incarnate. The Dire Council is worse—they are insidiously clever chaos. Organized chaos. Redcaps and dragons and vampires are nothing compared to what will come if the Dire Council achieves their goal.”

  “What goal?”

  “According to tradition, Dire Fae have a passion for havoc. The Dire Council gives that passion scop
e. They have sought in the past to tear down the barriers between realms. To bring the Anwynn crashing into the earth. The Seelie Fae served nobly the last time—and suffered terrible losses to ensure the Dire Fae did not succeed. Think of your own Guy Fawkes, only instead of blowing up some stuffy parliament building, the council set their sights on the human race. Not even the Old Testament boasts any plague to compare with the onslaught of every species in the Unseelie Court unleashed on the world all at once.”

  “It’s the fate of all mankind, then, sir?” I said. “Grand. That’s grand. Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen, shall we?”

  “I still don’t understand,” said Charlie. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re visiting an old friend,” said Jackaby.

  “An old enemy,” added Jenny. She had vanished from sight as we wound our way through the streets, but her voice remained clear and close at hand.

  The sun was easing toward the horizon and the sky was warming to a rich burgundy as we made our way into the heart of the city. While we walked I finished the story, telling Charlie about what had happened after I emerged from the underworld, about Finstern and his treacherous sister, Morwen, and about her underhanded escape.

  “It’s Morwen we’re after now,” Jenny added darkly. “We will finish this tonight.”

  “Don’t leave off the clever bit,” Jackaby piped in. “Miss Rook put all the pieces together. I’ll have to give you a raise if you’ve got it right.”

  “You always just tell me to pay myself whatever sounds reasonable from the accounts,” I said.

  “Well, I will instruct you to pay yourself slightly more.”

  “I didn’t do anything all that impressive, anyway,” I said. “I simply took what we already know about Morwen and connected a few strings. We know that she was raised by her father—a secretive, manipulative magic man. It’s a fair wager he’s our puppet master, or one of them, at least. We also know that she was already here in New Fiddleham over a decade ago, doing his dirty work. In those days Morwen worked for Mayor Poplin in the guise of his secretary. Poplin had a history of corruption, and my guess is he was an easy mark for their plans. His Technology Center was nothing but a cover story for their sinister science project.”

  “Which is why Mr. Carson destroyed it,” said Charlie.

  “Right, but that wasn’t the end of it. Poplin had bled the city dry to fund the project, so when it went up in flames he went up in smoke. He lost favor fast and an idealistic candidate named Philip Spade was elected in a landslide to take his place.”

  “You think Mayor Spade is connected to all of this?” Charlie asked.

  “I think the clandestine Dire Council had lost more than a building and a half-finished machine,” I said. “They had lost their political hold on New Fiddleham. They had to regroup. They needed a firmer grip on the city, and I don’t believe for an instant that they just cut their losses and moved on.”

  We had arrived at the mayor’s estate. Jackaby took the lead as we marched past the immaculately trimmed gardens and up the walk until we came to a white door framed by broad marble pilasters. “The thing about idealists,” he said, knocking on the door, “is that they have a habit of being hopeless romantics, as well.”

  “Which is why we believe that the nixie, an experienced temptress and a shapeshifter, was ideally suited to infiltrate Mayor Spade’s personal life and become the real power behind the throne.”

  “Wait—Mary?” Charlie said. “Mary Spade?”

  “Two simple words, yet as much a command from her superiors as a new identity,” said Jackaby. “Mary Spade.”

  Spade’s butler opened the door and sighed audibly.

  “Bertram, my good man,” said Jackaby, “Do show us in.”

  “No,” Bertram said. “Mr. Spade is not seeing guests at this hour, Mr. Jackaby, and certainly not you. If you wish to conduct business, you will need to make an appointment with the mayor’s office in the morning, not harass him in his personal residence.”

  “Ah, but you see, we’re not here for the mayor this time. We’re here for his wife—only I imagine we’ve just missed her, haven’t we?”

  Bertram raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Spade is not available.”

  “Getting awfully late in the evening for the lady to be out, isn’t it? I imagine she has a perfectly reasonable explanation for—”

  “Mrs. Spade is indisposed, Mr. Jackaby,” Bertram interrupted. “That does not mean she is not on the premises. Oh, good heavens. What has happened to your face, young lady?”

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  “Indisposed?” said Jackaby. “She’s called for a bath, hasn’t she?”

  “Not that it is any of your business what my lady is—”

  “No! She can’t!” Jackaby shoved through the door. “Quick, we need to stop her before she gets into the water!”

  “How dare you!” Bertram exploded. “Stop right there!”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Philip Spade stood at the top of the broad, curving staircase, his bald head and bushy beard jutting over the banister as he adjusted his glasses. He had already changed into a pair of navy blue pajamas for the evening.

  “Hello, mayor!” Jackaby leapt up the stairs three at a time. “Delightful to see you again.”

  “Why on earth are you here?”

  “You’ve been a great ally in the past and helped me out of more than a few tight spots. Now we’re here to help you out of one of your own. You can thank us after.”

  “What are you talking about? Hold still, would you!”

  Jackaby had ascended to the landing and was already sweeping past Spade and down the high-ceilinged hallway. “You gave me my current home and place of business when I was still operating out of a shabby two-room apartment. Tell me—why did you offer me that splendid building on Augur Lane?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed like a good fit,” said Spade. “It was going to waste due to its rather sordid history, but you didn’t seem the sort to be scared off by ghost stories.”

  “No, indeed. It was your idea then?”

  “Well, no,” he admitted. “Mary suggested it, now that you mention it. Why?”

  “Awfully benevolent of the lady to suggest you just give away a valuable piece of real estate to little old me, especially given how upset she was about those rosebushes. I imagine she was probably more upset about my torching the nest of brownies residing within them, actually. They’re practically cousins, after all. Still, it did provide her with a handy excuse to dislike me and a convenient reason to avoid meeting face-to-face.”

  “What? That’s ludicrous. You’ve met Mary. Haven’t you?”

  “Strangely, no—I haven’t. I’ve never thought much of it—but she has always been conspicuously absent when I came calling. She’s always been taken ill or been visiting an aunt or, most often and most telling of all”—Jackaby threw open the door at the end of the hall with a flourish—“taking a bath!”

  We peered inside. “Sir,” I said, “I think this is a sitting room.” From within the room, a startled maid had ceased dusting the coffee table and straightened up.

  “Whoops!” Jackaby spun, counting doors on his fingers.

  “What is he raving about?” Spade said. “Why would it be suspect that Mary offer you the house?” Spade spun around as Jackaby whipped off between Charlie and me, stalking back up the hallway.

  “The sordid history of that place,” I informed the mayor, “isn’t just history. The people who killed Jenny Cavanaugh are still here in New Fiddleham. They had been through her house already, so they knew the ins-and-outs of the property. Their wickedness didn’t end with the murder on Augur Lane ten years ago—it had barely begun. When Jackaby showed up in New Fiddleham, he posed an immediate threat to their operation, but they couldn’t simply kill him. They needed him alive, so they did the most logical thing. They kept tabs on him and kept him busy.”

  “That’s right,” Jackaby agreed. “Meanwhile they were bi
ding their time and rebuilding, waiting until the whole mess seemed to have washed away. But—as those Mudlark boys could tell you—everything that washes away has to wash up somewhere. And speaking of washing . . . here we are!” He wrenched open another door triumphantly. A simple white bathtub with brass feet stood empty before us. “She’s not here!”

  “Of course not,” said Bertram. “Mrs. Spade never takes her bath in the east wing.”

  “Mr. Spade,” said Jackaby, “you have an impractically large abode.”

  “Will you just tell me what on earth is going on!” Mayor Spade was turning red around the collar.

  “Certainly,” said Jackaby. “Last year you appointed Mr. Swift, a bloodthirsty monster, as the commissioner of the entire New Fiddleham Police Department. Remember that? Yes, of course you do. The question is: why? Why Swift? I doubt the job was his idea. Redcaps are notoriously solitary creatures. So whose idea was it?”

  “What? Swift had papers. We contacted references. He came highly recommended,” Spade hedged. “He deceived us all. You can’t blame me for—”

  “I agree entirely,” Jackaby said. “So, whose idea was it?”

  Spade swallowed. “Well, Mary did introduce us. She said he had served in the war with her father. At least, the real Mr. Swift had served in the war with her father. But it’s not—”

  “Not a total lie,” said Jackaby. “He was serving in a war they’re trying to start.”

  “No!” Spade shook his head.

  Jackaby started off down the stairs again, making rapidly for the west end of the mansion.

  “No, Mary wouldn’t do that. Not on purpose. She was duped as much as any of us. She’s nothing but sweet and friendly.”

  “I’m sure she is,” I said, hurrying to keep up with Spade and my employer. “In fact, I imagine your wife is often social on your behalf, yes? Throwing parties and having tea with important families?”