Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(41)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charlie was an impressive hound. His ancestors, the Om Caini, had roamed as nomads for generations, always on the move due to the unique nature of their bloodline. Like werewolves, the House of Caine were half men and half beasts, but unlike their monstrous cousins, the Om Caini were not ruled by their animal instincts or by the lunar cycle. They could transform at will, although the phases of the moon still pulled at their deepest sensibilities. They were mighty hounds in their animal form; less powerful than the wolves, but still proud and noble and more fiercely loyal. Also—although I had not told Charlie this—they were impossibly adorable.
His coat was full and soft as he padded out, patterned in light caramels and chocolate browns blending to rich, silky blacks. His paws were wide and fluffy, and his ears were like thick velvet. I knelt to fasten the leash loosely around his neck. He watched me, embarrassment playing across his dark eyes. “It’s just for show,” I reminded him. He pressed his forehead against mine and I leaned in to hug him around the neck. “Goodness, but you’re soft. When this is over, we are curling up in the library to read a quiet book together,” I told him. “I could cuddle up against you for hours.” I realized what I had just said and felt my ears go all hot. I could never have said something like that to Charlie as a human. Charlie just wagged his tail.
“Ready?” Jackaby called.
We received the occasional stare as we took to the streets of New Fiddleham. Charlie was a big dog. He had a wide muzzle, and his back came up nearly to my waist. Even padding peacefully down the lane in his role as the harmless house pet, he inspired more than a few passersby to favor the opposite sidewalk.
Finstern had agreed to come along. Jackaby did not feel comfortable letting him out of our sight for too long, and the inventor seemed to be interested in seeing what our investigation might uncover anyway. He also regarded the hound with a level of interest I did not like.
“Powerful beast,” he said. “Charlie? Wasn’t that also the name of the young man—?”
“The one is named for the other,” Jackaby answered curtly.
“Which is named for which?”
“That,” Jackaby replied, “is an excellent question. Oh, look—here’s the first place, just ahead.”
The medium had a sign hung from her window, an outstretched hand with an eye in the center. The sign read:
MME VOILE—CLAIRVOYANT
PALMS. LEAVES. SéANCES.
Jackaby strode inside first, and the rest of us followed. A bell chimed, and from somewhere inside the building a chair squeaked against the floor. The cramped lobby was thick with the aromas of rosewater and sage. A curtain behind the counter whipped aside and a woman emerged dressed in flowing purple robes, a silk head scarf, and a lace shawl. She wore heavy makeup, her eyelids smoky blue and her eyes framed by thick black lashes. As she surveyed us, she adjusted a bronze tiara just above her hairline. It was strung with delicate, dangling chains that swayed hypnotically across her forehead.
“Greetings, weary travelers,” she said. “I sense that you—”
“Nope,” Jackaby said and pushed past us back out of the shop.
Back on the street Finstern caught up with him.
“What was that?”
“A charlatan,” Jackaby replied frankly. “To be expected. We’ll hope for better luck at our next stop.”
“How will you know?”
“I will know,” said Jackaby. “This way. There’s a whole shop dedicated to the occult about two blocks down on Prospect Lane. Mostly artificial relics and harmless trinkets, but several Lwa of the Vodou pantheon used to manifest there on Saturdays.”
Finstern narrowed his eyes at Jackaby. There was skepticism in his gaze, but also something else—something far more unsettling—like a deep and insatiable hunger.
“Come along,” called Jackaby. “It’s just ahead and to the right.”
Charlie made a small growling noise.
“Hm? Oh—to the left, I mean. Ahead and to the left.”
We wound our way around the city for an hour or two, stopping in at various esoteric little parlors. Some were little more than kitchen nooks hung with spare bedsheets, and others were richly decorated rooms with warm lighting and cloying incense.
Most of these Jackaby passed over with little more than a casual glance, although a few had apparently incorporated some legitimately supernatural set dressing or authentically arcane accoutrements. One of the frauds, Jackaby was amused to report, was not remotely gifted in extramortal communication, but was a budding telekinetic. The trembling table and rattling windows bespoke a genuine and admirable talent, although not one that would help us find the answers we sought.
Finstern caught sight of a posting on a public board as we moved on up the street. “Does that look like your Charlie boy to you?” he asked. I looked.
Sure enough, he had spotted one of the wanted posters featuring Charlie’s human likeness. Charlie’s ears flattened. “No,” I said. “No, not so much. I mean, similar features, to be sure—but they have very different, erm, noses. And the eyebrows are all wrong.”
Jackaby glanced back to see why we had stalled. He followed our gaze and grunted in annoyance. He had already given Marlowe an earful when the posters first appeared, but the commissioner could not seem to stop his district chiefs from papering the town with the confounded things. Beneath Charlie’s face it read: