Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(21)
“Not so big and bad, Miss Rook.” Pavel chuckled. “But I understand you have a special fondness for dogs, don’t you?”
My hands clenched into fists and I gritted my teeth.
“Oh yes,” he went on, reading me easily. “I know all about your little beau on the police force. Charlie Cane and I aren’t so different, really. Oh, it’s Charlie Howler or some such nonesense now, isn’t it?”
My blood was pumping again. Charlie was sweet and noble and good. This cretin had no business knowing his deepest secret. “It’s Barker. And you’re nothing alike.”
“Barker, right. A dog by any other name would bite as deep. I’m rather fond him, actually. A fellow monster from the old country. You know, I camped with a pack of Om Caini for a while in Bulgaria. Do you think one of them might have been your little pup’s grandfather? We’re practically family!”
I glared. “Why are you here?”
“I’m not hunting tonight, if that’s what you’re afraid of—at least not the way you think.”
“Then what do you want? Why are you doing this? Who are you working for?”
“My, my—you’re looking for a lot of answers, young lady. Information is expensive in my line of work, but I would be happy to arrange a trade.”
“Jenny Cavanaugh and Howard Carson. Ten years ago. I want to know what happened.”
Pavel cocked his head ever so slightly. “I can tell you everything you want to know about Carson and his girl—but it won’t come free.”
“What do you want from us?”
“I understand Mr. Jackaby has a talent for finding things. We’re looking for a man. An inventor.” He reached into his waistcoat with his good hand and withdrew a folded slip of paper. “He’s called Owen Finstern. My superiors believe he’s a genius, and I’m inclined to believe whatever my superiors tell me to believe. Genius or not, he is, shall we say, less than stable. He needs a nourishing environment for his special talents to thrive, and regrettably he’s gone astray.”
“One of the scientists you kidnapped has escaped, and you think Jackaby and I are going to just round him up for you?”
“Kidnapped? Miss Rook, I’m offended. We have only the man’s best interest at heart. And our own interests, of course. There’s that honesty again. Here.” He held out the paper and, against my better judgment, I took it. “Keep the sketch. Think about our offer.”
I felt something cold in my hand and looked down to see that, along with the paper, he had passed me a small, round stone. “What is this?” I asked, but I was speaking only to the empty shadows of the alleyway. The pale man was gone.
Chapter Ten
I found my way back to the house on Augur Lane, chills crawling up and down my back with every step. Jackaby was not in the library when I arrived, nor in his laboratory or office. Even Jenny was conspicuously absent. By the state of her bedchamber, I could see she had had another echo. They were coming more and more often.
I climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor. This was, perhaps, my favorite space in all of Jackaby’s property—a magical oasis that defied logic and geometric reality. A quiet pond stretched across most of the floor, both deeper and wider than the house logically should have been able to accommodate. Beside it stretched a mossy indoor hillside speckled with wildflowers and sweet grasses. Usually this was the perfect place to calm my nerves, but in the silent darkness I found little comfort. I called out until my words bounced back at me over the midnight black waters of the pond. My own voice was my sole companion.
At length, I trudged back down the stairs alone to my employer’s office. My fingers were shaking as I lit the lamp at Jackaby’s desk and took the stone and paper out of my pocket to inspect them properly.
The stone was smooth on one side, but the other was etched with a series of concentric ovals, like a crude carving of an eye. A warning, perhaps? Pavel’s calling card? I unfolded the paper to find a man with wild hair staring back at me. His eyes were unsettling. The left was set a bit wider and a fraction higher than the right, and together they gave him a frantic, manic expression. He did not look like any of the men on Mayor Spade’s mantle, nor like any from the photograph with Howard Carson.
I refolded the paper and slid both artifacts back into my pocket. The sketch would have to wait until morning. Jackaby was still not home, and my brief history in his service had taught me that when he latched on to something of interest, I might not see him until a late tea the following day. I stood up from the desk and stepped toward the door when the blood all rushed from my head. I shook the sensation away, blinking. My head was suddenly aching.
The day must have taken more out of me than I realized. I leaned against the heavy office safe until the dizziness subsided. As I shifted my weight, the thick iron door squeaked open a crack.
Of all the doors, cabinets, and cupboards in the entire house, I had only ever found one that Jackaby kept locked at all times. He stored a fat old jar plainly labeled “Bail Money” with hundreds of dollars on the shelf right across from me. Every spare nook and cranny in the building housed lavish payments and mementos from past adventures, opulent heirlooms and eldritch artifacts so unique they made the London Museum’s Cabinet of Curiosities look like a collection of knickknacks. I had often wondered what a man such as Jackaby—a man who regarded gold candelabras and strangely luminescent gemstones with as little care as I might afford an incomplete deck of playing cards—saw fit to keep under lock and key behind a solid inch of iron. Blinking back my disbelief, I gave the safe another nudge and the door swung open.