Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(62)

“It’s not like that,” I replied. “But he’s important.”

“Every soul is important.”

“Oh—I have this,” I said, rummaging in my pocket.

“What’s that?” the stranger said.

“A string from the lyre of Orpheus.” I pulled out the petrified relic. Jackaby had made many claims about the origins of his eldritch artifacts, but I had never before hoped so hard that he was right.

The stranger did not reach for it. “And?” he asked. I could hear the grimace in his voice. “Are you looking for somewhere to dispose of it? Have you run out of refuse bins above?”

I blinked. “You—you don’t want it?”

“What would I want with a crusty scrap of sheep intestines?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “As a memento, I suppose. A reminder of Orpheus and his lovely voice.”

“Little mortal,” the stranger said, “we don’t need a string to remember Orpheus. We have the idiot’s head. As it happens, I don’t especially want your little friend, here, either, so I’ll tell you what—I’ll give you the standard bargain. Leave. Keep your eyes forward without wavering until you’re both free from my domain, and he can follow you out. Don’t peek. Don’t doubt. Don’t hesitate. Do we have an understanding?”

I swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir,” I said.

“As for you.” The man turned to Carson. “You may follow in silence until you have crossed the final threshold, and then you will be free to leave—but know this. Should you hesitate, should you set even one foot back in the land of the dead, this realm will not relinquish you again.”

Carson nodded.

“Very good. Now then, I believe you will be needing these.” He gave a small gesture, and the blue-black tendrils surged out of the water and deposited my two lost obols into his hand. He delivered them to me.

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“Good-bye, little mortals,” the stranger said.

The fires dancing across the surface of the river suddenly flared white hot and leapt above our heads. Then, just as quickly, they were out and the tall dark man was gone. I resisted the immediate instinct to look back at Howard Carson. Keeping my eyes forward, I climbed back into the boat instead and handed Charon two obols.

“Thank you,” said Charon. Both coins glowed a warm red this time and then crumbled to dust between his fingers. “So,” he said. “Did you have a nice visit?”

The boat rocked as we cast off. Charon directed the dragon-shaped masthead into the swirling fog. I wanted to turn, to see Carson sitting behind me. It was maddening to imagine going through all of that only to lose him on the way out—but I stayed strong.

“I asked him,” said Charon.

“You asked him?” I said. “Asked him what?”

“About the waters,” said Charon. “I do not think that English has all the right words to explain it, but I will try, if you like. He calls it the Terminus. The End Soul.”

“That thing is a soul?”

“Yes. All souls have power, you see. Every person has a unique soul—a spirit—and so too does every place. Human spirits and the spirits of the places they inhabit can become bonded, and their bond makes both souls stronger. Your friend, Jennifer Cavanaugh, has such a bond—and it is powerful enough to allow her to remain above. The underworld also has a soul. It has the End Soul.”

“So,” I said, “if we had fallen in, we would have become bonded to this Terminus thing the way Jenny is bonded to Augur Lane?”

“Not exactly. In a way, you already are. All souls are bonded to the End Soul. What they can become is lost in the End Soul. They can become a part of the single energy that powers all eternity, but at the cost of everything that makes them unique. For some, those who are ready, it is a great reward. For others—those who would prefer to remain distinct—it is less pleasant. Does that make sense to you?”

“I think it does,” I said.

The dark waters lapped at the sides of the boat and shadowy shapes moved about in the mist all around us. We arrived more quickly than I expected back at the landing beneath the yew tree. The little trickle of water still snaked down from the entryway to drain into the river, and the glow of sunlight cut through the gloom from above.

“Charon?” I said.

“Yes, Abigail Rook?”

“Thank you for asking. You didn’t have to do that for me. You’re really very sweet.”

“That is kind of you to say, Abigail Rook,” said Charon. “I look forward to our next meeting.” He slid the boat snugly up against the mooring. “But I hope that I do not have the pleasure for a very long time.”

“Likewise,” I said as I climbed out onto the dock. “Good-bye.” I almost glanced behind me as I said it, but I caught myself and managed to keep my eyes fixed on the opening up above. If Howard Carson was behind me, he made not the faintest whisper of a sound. I ascended the stairs and stepped up to the bright threshold of the living world.





Chapter Thirty-One


Hell had been the lesser nightmare.

My body no longer lay face-down on the cold earth where I had left it. It had been dragged back into the sunlight and now sat propped up against the roots of the great tree. Owen Finstern was crouching over my corpse. My ivory-handled knife was in his hand and a zealous fury was in his eyes. “Carefully, now!” he demanded. “Secure the clamp plate over the collimating lens assembly.”