Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(36)
I shook my head. “What? Me? I pushed him out?”
“I don’t think push fully expresses it. You were”—Jackaby paused to choose his words carefully—“forceful.”
I wracked my brain to recall my own actions, but all I came up with was a headache. I stood slowly and crossed to the window. The morning light stung my eyes as I brushed aside the drapes. The sun was beating down and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Glass and scraps of wood from the window frame littered the front lawn. A rough patch of grass had been singed in the middle of the debris, and in the dead center lay a broken red brick.
“Is he dead?” I asked. It felt like the brick was in the pit of my stomach.
“If he isn’t dead, he is in exceedingly poor shape,” Jackaby replied. “He’s not the one we need to worry about right now.”
“I’ll worry just a little bit, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I don’t make a habit of making enemies out of creatures inclined to murder me horribly in my sleep.”
“Pavel mentioned a council,” said Jackaby. “His benefactors. Now, there are countless factions within the otherworldly courts, but the Unseelie have never been well organized. Dangerous, yes, but historically unruly and wild as lightning. The collective races have never coexisted, which may be the only reason the human race has survived this long. Now they’re organizing. And what’s worse, they’re good at it.”
I didn’t know what to say. A splinter of glass freed itself from the ruined frame and tinkled to the ground. The tiny clink resonated in the silence of the room.
“I don’t know who this council is,” Jackaby said, “but they’re organized, they’re effective, and they’re powerful enough to make a self-serving monster like Pavel risk death before disloyalty. If you’re going to worry, Miss Rook, worry about them. They are architects of chaos, and now they have the creative genius of some of the most powerful scientific minds of our age engineering their evil. Whatever they’re building, it isn’t good.”
“The future,” Jenny breathed.
Jackaby turned to the broken window. “Not if we can help it.”
Chapter Twenty
“They’re going to kill me.” Cordelia Hoole’s voice broke the tense silence. Her eyes were glassy.
“They’re going to try,” confirmed Jackaby without emotion. “But if you—”
“They killed you,” the widow said. She was staring at Jenny.
Jenny nodded. “Yes, they did. A long time ago. And we’re going to find out who did it, and we’re going to stop her from ever doing it again.”
Mrs. Hoole just stared blankly. “They’re going to kill me.”
“That isn’t going to happen, Mrs. Hoole,” I said. “We’re here to protect you.”
“Yes,” Jackaby confirmed. “You’re safe here. Well, not right here, obviously.” Glass crunched beneath his feet. “The cellar is the most secure chamber on the property, and given the circumstances, probably the best place to put you up for the evening. Or down for the morning, I suppose.”
“We have a cellar?” I said.
Jenny nodded. “It’s just a little root cellar. There’s a trapdoor in the back garden.”
“You’re going to make me sleep in a cellar?” Mrs. Hoole asked shakily.
“It is ideally suited to your needs,” said Jackaby. “My home is warded, but I would prefer to exercise special caution for you, given the circumstances. The forces pursuing you are not common criminals, as you’ve just witnessed firsthand. We face foes of an eldritch and unearthly ilk. The doors of my cellar are reinforced with iron plates, soldered with silver, and etched with apotropaic charms. The walls are coated in a lacquer derived from wolfsbane, sage, and Irish white heather, and there are several significant reliquaries buried not far beneath the surface to discourage tunneling. You will find that it is a stronghold unlike any other, madam, and quite possibly the only place in the world where I can guarantee your safety right now.” Jackaby swallowed the last of his tea in one gulp and gazed gloomily at the leaves in the bottom of his cup. “Also, there are pickles and jam down there,” he said absently. “You are welcome to the pickles and jam.”
The cellar was slim with an arched ceiling that made it feel a bit like the inside of an empty barrel. The air was cold but dry, and it smelled not unpleasantly like earth and incense. In the light of a little oil lamp, I could see that the walls were inscribed from floor to ceiling with symbols ranging from simple runes to sprawling, elegant patterns. A few wooden shelves toward the back housed, as promised, jars of preserves and pickled vegetables.
Jackaby assembled a simple cot and showed Mrs. Hoole how to secure the door from the inside. Three heavy bolts made of silver, iron, and stone could be thrown and released only from inside the room. I brought down fresh linens and a good heavy quilt, and she thanked me for my kindness. As I left, I heard the three bolts click firmly into place.
“Do you really think she’ll be safe in there?” I asked as we reentered the house.
“There is no safer chamber in all of New England. I have come a long way since collecting lucky herbs in a cigar box. Besides, I prefer keeping the lady close but not too close.”