The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(29)

I dressed quickly and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind me. A smell like freshly baked bread and spices wafted through the air, decidedly unlike the usual smells I had come to associate with mornings in Jackaby’s house. I trod with great care down the spiral staircase. A family of a dozen Cornish spriggans had camped out there, one on each step, and a moon white miniature pony was snoring at the foot of the stairs. The pony waggled its scruffy ears as I hopped over it.

I heard voices and nudged open the squeaky door to Jackaby’s laboratory. I found myself facing a man made out of living fire. He was bare chested with billowy trousers tied by a cord around his flickering waist, batting Jackaby away from a pan of something that smelled sweet and lemony. Jackaby scowled like a scolded child.

I blinked as my tired eyes tried to focus on the fiery figure, but the smokeless flames that defined his body wavered like a mirage in the desert.

“Leave it!” the man said. “It must simmer now, until the dough is thick.” His voice was a deep baritone flavored with a rich Arabian accent.

“You’ve got to stir it,” argued Jackaby.

“I know how to make kunafah,” said the man. “It will not burn. I am good with fire.” He chuckled warmly.

“Good morning, sir,” I said, announcing myself.

“I’m really quite handy in the kitchen, myself,” Jackaby insisted, ignoring me. “And as this is my abode—”

“Perhaps it would be best to let the gentleman cook, sir,” I said. “It does smell lovely, whatever it is.” I could not remember the last time Jackaby had prepared something for breakfast that did not end up melting its own pot or lodging itself in the wall.

The man of fire turned and gave me a broad, charming smile. “You should listen to the woman,” he said. I found myself mesmerized. It looked as though beneath his surface was a core as black as coal, but his skin was a living white-blue flame. “Please,” he said graciously, “help yourselves before you go.”

Jackaby bristled, but snagged a piece of flatbread from a mouth-watering spread already laid out on the counter. I selected one as well. It was still warm and soft, and it smelled buttery and fresh. I took a nibble. And then I took two more from the stack before jogging out the door after Jackaby.

“Thank you!” I called to the man.

He winked back at me.

“Hmph. Jinn,” Jackaby said as I joined him in the hallway. “Insufferably stubborn lot.”

“That was a jinni?” I said. “As in, from a magic lamp?”

“No, that was a jinni, as in, from the Lower Inkling District. Third Street. He’s a machinist. Formerly of the Arabian Desert, I suppose, but he has lived in New Fiddleham peacefully for as long as either of us has been alive. Calls himself Shihab currently, but I imagine he’ll have to change that once or twice a century for the sake of the census man.”

Charlie emerged from the washroom just ahead of us. He was freshly shaved, although his eyes betrayed how little sleep he had gotten during the night.

“Oh! Good morning, Miss Rook, Mr. Jackaby,” he said.

“I thought you had gone with Hudson,” Jackaby said.

“I was just on my way to meet him,” Charlie answered. “He should be bringing his cart around. I’m very glad to have caught you before I go, though.”

“Lovely timing, Mr. Barker,” I said. “We can see you out.”

“Actually, if the detective does not mind,” Charlie said, timidly, “I was wondering if I could speak to you alone for just a moment first.”

“Mm-hmm.” Both of Jackaby’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead until they were hiding in his tousled bangs. He let his eyes dart between the two of us suggestively for a moment, and then waved me off. “Fine. I have matters of my own to attend to. Try not to raise the dead while you’re alone this time, will you?” He stalked off in the direction of his office, leaving me to walk the winding hallway with Charlie.

“Something you wanted to discuss with me?” I asked. Charlie did not speak at once. I noticed his fingers fumbling absently with his vest pocket and my throat suddenly felt tight. In spite of my mother’s best efforts, I had grown up more prepared to answer a reckless call to adventure than to answer the sort of question that comes from a nervous young man fidgeting with a ring in his vest pocket. He did look awfully sweet.

“You spoke very eloquently last night,” he said. “About choices. About not avoiding them until it is too late. I have something to ask you—and I do not wish to wait until it is too late.”

“Yes?”

“I—I have been thinking a lot, lately,” said Charlie, holding the door for me as we stepped into the foyer. The desk within had been shoved aside to make room for the now-slumbering giant, whose gentle snores made the windows rattle. The gnomes in their violet hats were sitting in a circle by his arm, playing a game of dice. “I’ve been thinking about the future, should we have one,” Charlie continued. “I have been thinking about . . .” He stumbled. “My . . . family.”

“Charlie,” I said, reaching a hand out to his faintly trembling arm.

“KAZIMIR CAINE!” roared a deep, rumbling voice. A man dressed in black furs with a thick salt-and-pepper beard had been slouched on the battered waiting bench. He launched himself upright abruptly, startling the young woman sitting next to him.