“Right. Brilliant. It never swallowed the flint for ignition.” Jackaby nodded. “And apparently it never learned to vent its reserves, either. Quick thinking, Miss Rook.” He stood, running a hand through his dark, tangled mess of hair as he took in the sight. “Damn,” he cursed. “I mean, I’m glad we’re alive and all that—to be honest I wasn’t sure how it might go for a bit, there. But still, it was one of a kind.”
I swallowed, pushing myself up to standing as well. “With all due respect, sir, I am perfectly all right with the notion of dragons remaining extinct.”
“I’m not talking about that brute. That is a shame as well, I suppose—not his fault, really, but that’s the nature of the beast. Chameleomorphs are rare, but they’re hardly one of a kind. My hat, on the other hand, was made from the wool of one of the sole surviving yeti of the Swiss Alps, dyed in ink mixed by Baba Yaga herself, and painstakingly knit by a wood nymph named Agatha, expressly for me.”
“You’re bothered about your hat?”
“It was a birthday present. It had sentimental value.”
I pulled myself out of the trench to survey the damage. At first I was not certain I had climbed up the correct side of the soot-blackened ditch, and when the reality of the scene washed over me, I blanched. The explosion had decimated the landscape. There was nothing left of the colossal dragon save a smoldering fire pit carved into the hilltop and the occasional scraps of ash that drifted to the earth like snowflakes. My eyes stung as I scanned the hill. I could find no trace of the indomitable Nellie Fuller.
Even the fossils she had fallen on had been obliterated. Only a few splinters of bone littered the hilltop. The most spectacular scientific discovery in modern history had been reduced to charred scraps no larger than my pinkie. Not even Horner and Lamb could be bothered to argue over these leftovers.
All across the blackened hilltop, pools of greasy fire danced, and the destruction reached well beyond the dig site. A ring of charred earth half a mile wide bespoke the range of the explosion, and all around its perimeter trees and grass were crackling with orange flames. I cast my gaze down the hill. The field was ablaze. The already damaged barn had been leveled completely, and the Brisbee farmhouse had been ravaged by the blast. A broad section of the nearest wall had caved in, and what little had not been destroyed was now being eagerly consumed by a healthy fire. The farm was gone. The fossils were gone. Nellie Fuller was dead. I sat down on the edge of the trench and watched the ashes spin for a moment while I caught my breath.
Jackaby came over quietly and sat beside me. “There is a solemn dignity in a funeral by fire,” he said softly. “It is an honorable tradition in many cultures.”
I wiped a tear from my cheek with a soot-streaked hand and nodded. Nellie would certainly have preferred to leave this world in a glorious blaze than to remain left on the edges of it like a discarded rag. My throat felt tight.
Jackaby reached down and plucked from the ash a pale sliver. It might have been dragon bone, but it was no larger than a pine needle. He tucked it into his jacket anyway. “I must admit,” he said. “I did not give paleontology enough credit. This pursuit of yours turned out to be of monumental importance after all—and your performance in it admirable.”
“That is . . . generous, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, “but we are literally sitting in the ashes of a disaster we completely failed to prevent. What this pursuit of mine really turned out to be is an especially spectacular failure.”
Jackaby shook his head. “Miss Rook,” he said, “the greatest figures in history are never the ones who avoid failure, but those who march chin-up through countless failures, one after the next, until they come upon the occasional victory.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Failure is not the opposite of success—it’s a part of it. And as failures go,” he added with a lopsided grin, “this one was really spectacular, wasn’t it?”
The firelight bobbed merrily in my employer’s eyes, and behind him the roof of the farmhouse collapsed into a smoldering heap. I sighed, and in spite of myself I managed a weak smile. “It really was, sir.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was not especially difficult to find spare lumber to construct a crude litter on which to carry Hank Hudson. Finding lumber that had not caught fire was slightly more difficult, but not impossible, and after some careful salvaging, we managed the task. Between the two of us, we hauled the burly, unconscious figure to his carriage at the bottom of the hill. The thick pine trees we had parked beside for shade had served the far nobler purpose of shielding the stalwart horses from the brunt of the firestorm. The heavy burlap of the cart’s cover had been scorched in thick swatches where the flames had shot between the trees, but the animals were miraculously unhurt. The mighty steeds stamped their hooves as we came toward them in the semidarkness, but they did not bolt. We had just set Hudson down at the rear of the cart, when Charlie came racing up the road. He was not the Charlie I would have expected.
Having abandoned discretion, he was bounding hard and fast on all fours in full canine form. He held nothing back, raw strength pulsing just beneath his fur with the rhythm of each stride. He slowed as he caught sight of us, padding to a stop and panting heavily beside the cart. His deep brown eyes looked hastily from me to Jackaby. His eyes were the one part of Charlie that seemed constant, however the rest of him transformed.
“If you intend to make yourself useful,” Jackaby said, “you would fare better with a pair of hands.”
Charlie’s furry head dipped down to glance at his own shaggy body. He looked up at me and then back to my employer sheepishly.
“Oh, of course,” said Jackaby. He pulled off his bulky coat and laid it over the hound’s back. Charlie trotted behind the carriage and emerged a moment later, buttoning the coat over his human body. The garment was long on him, but it did not hang as loosely over Charlie’s broad shoulders as it did on Jackaby.
“Thank you, Detective. I apologize. I’m generally more careful to prepare. I just saw the fire, and I did not dare delay . . .” He caught my eye and stammered a little. “I—I am very relieved to find you in one piece.”
“Not all of us, I’m afraid.” Jackaby indicated Hudson.
“Oh no. He looks half-dead.” Charlie’s face paled as he eyed the trapper’s wrist and the blood-soaked bandages.
“Indeed.” Jackaby nodded. “And if we don’t get him some proper attention soon, he’ll be all dead.”
The two of them maneuvered the litter into the back of the trapper’s cart, while I moved aside the most violent instruments cluttering up the carriage. We draped the warm hide over the trapper, and Jackaby climbed back into the driver’s box to take the reins. I agreed to remain in the rear to attend to the trapper, though I felt about as qualified playing nurse as I had felt playing knight.
Charlie opted to run ahead to fetch a change of attire from his cabin while we started the cart down the packed dirt road. He met us at the crossing a few minutes later, clad in a spare set of his policeman’s blues. He climbed into the cart with me, taking a seat on the other side of Hudson. I filled him in on the details of the story he had missed, including Nellie Fuller’s final moments, and he nodded somberly.
“I should have been there to help,” he said when I had finished.
“I’m thankful you were not. The last monster we faced was nearly the end of you, if you recall. You may not remember it as well as I do, but it was you we had to carry through the night last time. I like it better when you’re around at the end of my catastrophes.”
The cart jostled as we crossed through the twin bluffs and out of the valley, and the soft hide began to slide off the trapper. Charlie and I both grabbed for it, and in the darkness of the carriage my fingers caught hold of his, just for a moment. He smiled shyly and pulled back his hand, turning his attention to the trapper, but I saw his cheeks flush ever so slightly as we rattled onward.
We scarcely spoke again until the cart had rolled into Gadston, and then he hopped out and be
came a part of the busy rush to help Hudson into the small-town hospital. It was a meager facility, sharing a building with the barbershop, but it was better than the dirty trench or bumping carriage. The town physician was summoned, and lights began to glow up and down the street as curious neighbors awoke to the commotion. Once the trapper had been delivered into more capable hands, Charlie bid a hasty good-bye and rushed off to coordinate teams to combat the fires before they did too much damage in the valley.
When the commotion died down, I found myself standing beside my employer on the sidewalk. “Well,” he said, “he has a strong heartbeat. That’s a good sign.”
“You think Mr. Hudson will be all right, then?” I asked.
“Oh, he’ll survive. His aura is getting stronger already. You know, I think a good hook will suit him quite well, actually. He’ll look a bit like Tyr, the old Norse god who lost his hand to a monstrous wolf—which, I think, will make Hudson happy in the end. He is a remarkable man . . . but it wasn’t his heart I was talking about.”
“No?”
“That Barker fellow,” he said. “You mentioned botching things romantically earlier. I assume you meant with him. Your own heart nearly goes into palpitations in close proximity. Yes, I take it from your flushed complexion I’ve got it correctly. Good, I’m not always so keen when it comes to matters of affection.”
“Mr. Jackaby, I hardly think . . .”
“I’ve no intention of discussing your amorous preoccupations at any length—believe me, it’s no more pleasant for me than it is for you. I merely wish to remind you of what I said about failure. Chin up. March right through it. The only paths you can’t travel are the ones you block yourself—so don’t let the fear of failure stop you from trying in the first place. That boy has a good heart, and it was beating rather quickly back there, too.”
“Mr. Jackaby, if I’m not mistaken, you’re trying to be sweet.”
“I’m being factual. I might also add that canine heart rates are nearly double the average human’s, so my assessment may be moot. All the same”—he gave me a firm pat on the shoulder—“buck up. You’re dreadful company when you’re melancholy.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Gadston locals did a commendable job suppressing the forest fire. The unruly blaze had already begun to spread, but the villagers formed a brigade. They rushed the valley with wide water barrels and carts laden with rakes, pitchforks, and tarpaulins. I don’t know how they managed the feat, but somehow they kept the flames at bay during the night, and by morning the inferno had burned itself out. The sky was dark with heavy gray rain clouds that promised to open up at any moment and finish off the few errant embers.
I felt a little trepidation as I stepped out of my room at the inn. I had scarcely slept, and I was wearing a torn dress that smelled of smoke and earth—but I needn’t have worried. The little restaurant next door was full of tired, happy men slapping one another on the backs with soot-black hands. The whole town seemed to be talking about the fire. The general belief, as I gleaned from the snippets I overheard, was that one of the big metal tent poles up at Brisbee’s had probably attracted a lightning bolt. I could not bring myself to set the story straight. I had seen what really happened, and the lightning explanation sounded infinitely more plausible.
Jackaby came strolling across the street just as I emerged. He handed me a ticket. “We’re on the morning train to New Fiddleham,” he said. “Seven o’clock.”
“So soon?” I glanced at the big clock above the town hall. It was a quarter past six already. “Can’t we wait until this afternoon at least? All of my things are back at Charlie’s cabin.”
“Mr. Barker has very kindly seen to that already. He brought my satchel and your valise to the inn this morning.”
“Wait, this morning? Isn’t this this morning? When did you get up?”
“I never sleep more than a few hours at a time. Not since I inherited my particular gifts. One of the troubles that comes of seeing beyond the pale is that one also sees beyond the eyelids.”
“You can see—I mean see see—even when you’re sleeping?”
“I can never not see.”
“Do you ever dream?”
“Vividly,” said Jackaby. “Which makes discerning the reality I am perceiving from the fiction of my imagination all the more troubling. It took me many years as a young man to become accustomed to the unnerving sensation. The nightmares were . . .” He stopped, his eyes as gray as the storm clouds above us. He seemed caught in a memory.
“Yes?”
“Nightmarish. We should be going. I’ll fetch the bags and we can leave.”
In a few minutes we were making our way down Gadston’s quiet main street. The little hospital where we had deposited Hank Hudson was en route to the station house, and Jackaby and I stopped in to pay our respects. The big trapper looked pale and tired, but he lifted his head as we entered.
“Howdy, little lady,” he managed in a hoarse whisper. “Hiya, Jackaby. Yer little police friend filled me in on what happened after I blacked out.”
“You’ve spoken to Charlie already?” I said. “It’s scarcely past dawn! Does anyone in America actually sleep?”
“Hah!” The trapper chuckled and then coughed, breathing heavily and letting his eyes close for a moment. “I owe you folks more’n I can ever—”
Jackaby cut in. “Yes, you do. That was stupid.”
Hank nodded soberly.
“And reckless.”
He nodded again.
“And also extraordinary. Did you notice the imbrication of the scales?”
“Layered like a boa’s but tougher’n nails.” Hank’s eyes twinkled. “Real purdy, too.”
Jackaby smiled and reached into his coat, and then he paused. “It will never happen again, yes?”
“You don’t have ta tell me twice. I’d tie a lil’ ribbon ’round my finger to remind myself, but”—the trapper held up his wrist, shrouded in fresh white bandages—“I think I learned me a lesson I ain’t prone ta forget any time soon.”
Jackaby nodded. He pulled out a blue-green scale and passed it to Hudson. “It was a catastrophic mistake, old friend, but as you say, it was a very pretty one.”
Hudson took the scale in his good hand and flipped it over between his fingers, smiling weakly. He palmed it and turned to me. “How ’bout you, little lady?” he said. “I won’t blame you if you hate me. I can’t undo the damage I done.”
Nellie Fuller’s face hung in my mind, and I swallowed hard. Hudson looked no less tortured. It had been in his effort to keep her safe that he had nearly succumbed to the same fate. “I’m furious,” I said, gently, “but I might have a soft spot for spectacular failures right now. Just try to get some rest.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“I’ll ask Charlie to look in on you while you rest up,” Jackaby said. “He’s a good man.”
Hudson nodded. “Wasn’t sure about him at first, but he’s more’n earned my respect. Wish I could say I’d done the same. Gonna take a while ’fore he has good reason to trust me.” Apparently my expression revealed more than I had realized, because he looked at my face and chuckled. “You don’t have to worry about me, though. I ain’t gonna do no harm to a guy just ’cause he’s a shape-shifter. Hell—I’ve known a few dogs I liked better’n folk.”
I faltered. “You know?”
“Gimme some more credit than that, little lady. A set of footprints changes step-by-step from a big old hound into a man—it ain’t exactly hard for an open-minded man of the woods ta put two an’ two together. I can respect a fella’s right to his own secrets, though—and I didn’t wanna go makin’ things uncomfortable for the poor guy—so I kept my yap shut. I sure wouldn’t mind if he decided to let me in on it, though. I’d love ta go huntin’ with a tracker like him someday. Ain’t many bloodhounds you can take out for a brew with ya after the hunt. Hah!”
We bade the trapper good-bye, and I left the hospital with at least that weight
lifted from my shoulders. “I’m glad he seems to be on the mend,” I said. “I wasn’t sure . . .”
“Hudson never ceases to surprise me,” Jackaby said.
“You never did tell me. How did you come to be friends with a man like Hudson?” I asked.
“I’m a likable man,” said Jackaby. “Lots of people are friends with me.”
“Tell me,” I said. “Please? Where did you two meet?”
“Where else?” he said. “On the hunt.” The dusty road passed beneath us for a few steps while he reflected. “That may have been one of my own more spectacular failures, to tell the truth. A peculiar case had brought me up into the Appalachian Mountains in pursuit of a party of paranormal hunters. The Wild Hunt has a long tradition all across Scandinavia and England, down to Germany and France. European settlers brought the hunt here, and the hunt brought me to a snow-swept mountainside. Rather than trying in vain to keep up with the hunters, I had the foresight to position myself in the presence of their prey. As I predicted, the hunt came to me. I was admittedly less prepared for what that would entail.”
“So, Hudson was part of the Wild Hunt?” I asked.
“No. Like me, he had tracked the quarry on his own. It was a beautiful animal. The white stag. I’ve never seen its equal. I was enamored with the beast. It was powerful and graceful, and faster than any living thing has any right to be. By the time the first arrows had landed, it was gone. I was not so quick. If it weren’t for the trapper, I would not have survived the encounter. I thought he was a great bear at first—cloaked in a heavy hide and bounding out in front of me. He planted himself in front of the oncoming stampede like a living barricade and took the worst of the onslaught. By the time it was over, he had collapsed, exhausted. The hide looked like the world’s largest porcupine, and more than a few barbed arrowheads had found their way through to his arm and side. He woke while I was treating him, and what do you think he said?”
“Ouch?” I guessed.
“He said, ‘They didn’t kill the stag, did they?’ He didn’t want the beautiful creature to die. Of course they hadn’t killed it. The whole point of the white stag is to be pursued. It can never really be caught. It is the spirit of the hunt, the thrill of the chase. I think deep down Hudson respects that more than anyone.”
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