Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(32)

“Could it be the fact that he tried to suck the life out of your steadfast and lovely assistant?” I suggested.

Jackaby glanced in my direction. “The question is: why didn’t he succeed?”

“Your concern is overwhelming,” I said.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Jackaby groused. “Your vital energies should have been completely—” He stopped, staring straight ahead.

“This is madness!” Mrs. Hoole’s eyes were pink and puffy. “I should never have come.”

“Please, Mrs. Hoole,” I soothed, “you’re safe here.”

“No,” said Jackaby, his gray eyes locked on the front door. “She’s not.” A moment later the horseshoe knocker rapped out three loud clacks from the other side. “It’s him.” Jackaby’s voice was grave. “I know that aura. A foul, anathematic shade with a faint halo of lavender. It’s him. It’s Pavel. The wretch is on our doorstep.”

My eyes shot between the widow Hoole and the dormant Finstern. Of course Pavel was here. We could not have painted the house with two larger targets. “What do we do?”

“The polite thing”—Pavel’s voice came muffled through the wood—“would be to stop acting as though I can’t hear you and invite me in. Maybe put the kettle on?”





Chapter Eighteen


“Don’t open it!” I said.

Jackaby crossed the room. “It’s all right. There are rules about this sort of thing and safeguards in place. Stay back, ladies. I think it is high time I met Mr. Pavel face to face.”

The pale man looked exactly as before. He smiled his crooked, arrogant smile up at Jackaby as the door swung open, and I could see the dark gap of his missing fang. I heard a gasp from Mrs. Hoole.

“Detective Jackaby. An honor to meet you at last. I am a big fan of your work,” the vampire said. “I must admit, I was not expecting such quick results. And what’s this?” He waggled a finger at Mrs. Hoole. “You caught the slippery little fish that got away from us, as well! You truly have a gift, my friend. We’re all very impressed.”

“I take it you’ve come to make good on your agreement with my assistant?” Jackaby said. I swallowed.

“That’s right. Be a chum and invite me in, would you? I’ll take the wandering woman and sleeping beauty off your hands before you can say boo, and then you two can get back to your relaxing evening.”

“That was not the deal you struck.” Jackaby stood up a little straighter. “It is my understanding—and Miss Rook is very good about conveying all the pertinent details—that your arrangement was that Miss Rook would receive information from you regarding certain persons of interest in exchange for our finding Mr. Finstern, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, we found Mr. Finstern. Our end of the bargain is complete. Delivery of the gentleman into your custody was never stipulated. Now then, I believe you have something to share?”

Pavel’s eyes narrowed and his expression turned icy. “You don’t know me very well,” he said softly, “and you really don’t know my superiors, if you think I’ll be leaving this house empty-handed.” He cracked his neck and composed himself. “I’ll tell you what, Detective. In the interest of keeping our relationship professional, why don’t you just turn them both over to me, and I will consider not murdering your pretty little assistant in her sleep.”

“You’re right, I don’t know you,” said Jackaby. “But I do know stories, and that’s not how yours works. That thing at your feet? That’s a threshold. You are a vampire. Huff and puff all you like, you may not come in.”

Pavel stared daggers at Jackaby through narrow, powder-white eyelids. “Hold on,” he said at length. “I’ve seen your face somewhere before, haven’t I?”

Jackaby stood his ground, glaring back at the pale man. “I expect you’ve seen quite a lot of me. You seem to be doing more than your fair share of lurking.”

Pavel shook his head. “No. Not the famous R. F. Jackaby. You’re right, I have been watching. I know a great deal about R. F. Jackaby. I know, for instance, that R. F. Jackaby did not exist twenty years ago. You look older than twenty, detective. Twenty-seven? Thirty? Forty-two? Years are difficult to judge when you start counting in centuries.”

Jackaby said nothing.

“No. Wait a moment. Now that I see you closer, I do remember. Yes, I have seen that face, long before this ridiculous character that you invented. Helpless scrap of a thing, weren’t you? What did they call you back then? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Jackaby’s fists were clenched tight. His knuckles were turning white.

Pavel smiled. “Oh, that’s an interesting thought, now, isn’t it? Clever little boy hides his true name from the world because words have power, is that right? They do, of course. You were right to hide your name. The thing is, sometimes you need that power.”

He slid closer until the scuffed leather tips of his shoes were right on the edge of the threshold. “I wonder, Detective, whose name is on the deed to this old place?” His milky white hands felt the air in front of him as if he were brushing an invisible curtain. “R. F. Jackaby owns this place, doesn’t he? Only—and here’s where it gets interesting—we both know that R. F. Jackaby does not exist.” He planted one foot and then the other inside the door, and Jackaby staggered backward a step.