Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(30)

“Stop looking at me like I’m about to crumble into dust,” I said. “I feel fine.” It was true. The tingling was fading away and, if anything, I felt curiously invigorated.

“You lost a lot of energy.”

“I’m fine.”

“A lot of energy.” He had his head cocked to the side, regarding me with the same intensity with which he had examined the machine a few minutes ago.

“What do you mean? How much is a lot?”

He pursed his lips. “Hard to articulate. I’ve never seen this happen before. It shouldn’t happen. I’ve seen death, Miss Rook. I’ve seen what happens when vitality leaves a body. It is difficult to quantify, but human life is finite. Did you know that the average human body can lose about half a gallon of blood and still survive?” said Jackaby.

“I’m not bleeding.”

“No, but this may provide some context. Half a gallon of blood is roughly one third of one’s liquid life force, and that is enough to throw the most virile subject into shock and eventually death.”

“How much of my energy went into Finstern?”

“If your life force were liquid, I would say you hemorrhaged at least three gallons before you overloaded the mechanism. It went rushing back to you when the machine gave out.”

“Mathematics was never my favorite subject, sir, but that sounds like you’re saying I lost more of my . . . my whatever than I had to begin with.”

“Yes,” he said. “It does sound like that.”

“Well, I can’t explain it, but I’m fine!” I insisted. “Really. What are we going to do about him?”

Jackaby reluctantly let it drop and turned back to the inventor. “We can’t leave him here. After that naughty little display, I’m less concerned about leaving him at the mercy of our vampire friend and more concerned about why Pavel and his benefactors want Finstern in the first place. A mind like his in the wrong hands could be disastrous.”

With care, we collapsed Finstern’s device. It had been designed with a quick getaway in mind, which was not surprising, given the tasteless nature of the inventor’s field of study. The sides of the device folded up neatly, and the whole thing latched tight with a few simple brass fixtures. The capacitors were even affixed to a rotating hinge, so they angled themselves upright as the box tilted.

With some difficulty I hefted the device and slung it over my back. It was relatively compact, but heavier than it looked. Jackaby threw the inventor over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and we made our way through the forest back toward town.

“There is definitely something unnatural about that contraption,” Jackaby said when we had almost reached the edge of the city. “The spirit of the forest is reacting to it. Can you feel it?”

I paused and listened. The woods had become eerily calm. We emerged from the forest a little north of where we had entered it, and I veered toward the footbridge just ahead. My bulky burden would definitely be easier to haul over a flat path than through the rugged wilderness.

I glanced back. “Aren’t you worried someone might notice you carrying a body through town in the middle of the night?” I called.

“Not generally,” Jackaby replied. “Surprisingly, it’s never been a problem in the past.”

Before I could reach the end of the bridge, a greenish shape whipped up from beneath it and hit the boards with a squelching slap. I stared down at the mauled carcass of a half-eaten carp. I blinked.

“You’re welcome, Hammett!” Jackaby called cheerfully over the side. He nodded to the mutilated fish. “See that you record a new payment rendered in the ledger, Miss Rook. Clients of all sorts appreciate careful and accurate accounts.”

We reached Augur Lane without further incident, but as we approached the bright red front door of number 926, the uneasy sensation of being watched crept over me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I glanced down the lane behind us, but only empty cobblestones and dark windows met my gaze. I had just managed to swallow my apprehension when a woman stepped suddenly out of the shadows and in our path to the doorway.

I started backward and nearly dropped the machine. My heart was hammering against my ribs. With willful control, I found my nerve and managed to keep my feet beneath me. The woman wore a checkered dress and a dark bonnet pulled low over her eyes.

“Hello, detectives. My name is Cordelia Hoole,” she said. “I got your message.”

“Hello, Mrs. Hoole. My name is Jackaby,” said Jackaby. “I’ve got the unconscious body of an unpleasant stranger. Would you mind holding the door?”





Chapter Seventeen


A few minutes later Cordelia Hoole was sipping her tea with trembling hands. She and Jackaby sat on either side of the front desk, with Owen Finstern lying motionless on the bench beside them. I had deposited Finstern’s bulky machine in the laboratory and brewed a quick pot of tea before rejoining them. Jenny Cavanaugh did not reveal herself, and I wondered if she was just keeping out of sight because of our visitor, or if my ghostly friend still had not rematerialized since the incident in the street.

“You know that you’re in danger?” Jackaby asked the widow Hoole as I took up a position beside him at the desk.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” she replied. “That’s why I’ve been in hiding.” Her cup rattled against the saucer. “After what happened to Alice . . . I—I knew her.”