The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(49)

“Garlic,” said Jackaby calmly. “And silver dust, and a drop of holy water, for good measure. I’m not much of a drinker, but I know how to mix a fierce cocktail.”

Pavel’s whole face twisted in agony. He stumbled backward, glaring furiously at Jackaby.

“Miss Rook.” Jackaby had reached my side. He laid a hand gently on my shoulder. “You can end this.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t take my eyes off Pavel. He had collapsed with his back against the parapet. His legs kicked weakly as a convulsion shook his body.

“It’s time to finish him, Miss Rook,” said Jackaby.

“No,” I breathed.

“You owe that creature no pity.” There was a skin of ice over his words, but Jackaby’s voice was shaking.

“No,” I said.

Jackaby turned his gray eyes to me.

“He is already dying, sir.”

“He died before. It didn’t take.”

“No. I won’t become him,” I said.

Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “He has no fangs. He couldn’t change you into a monster like him now even if he tried to.”

“He couldn’t. But I could,” I said.

“You don’t understand the basic mechanics of vampirism. One must—”

“You don’t understand the basic mechanics of humanity,” I said. “I won’t make myself a cold-blooded murderer, sir. Not for him. Not like this.”

Jackaby met my gaze, and for several seconds neither of us blinked. Finally his eyes dropped. “No, you’re absolutely right,” he said. “I should not have suggested it.” Jackaby knelt and retrieved the locket from the ground at his feet. He brushed it off and tucked it into his pocket. Then he scooped up Jenny’s sharpened stake. “I will do it.”

“Sir, don’t—”

“The spear grips the hand,” said a familiar voice very softly on the breeze. Jackaby’s head shot up. The twain was sitting directly above Pavel on the parapet, his fluffy legs dangling over the edge.

“You keep saying that,” said Jackaby.

“I do,” said the twain. “It does.”

“Well then,” said Jackaby. “You’re an unfathomably powerful being, and you’ve just caught us lurking about your master’s stronghold, knee-deep in dead guards. So what happens next?”

The twain sighed. “Probably death,” he said. “Usually death.”

“The poem,” I said.

“What was that?” Jackaby said.

The twain looked at me. The bushy whiskers around his chin twitched.

“The poem,” I said again. “You keep repeating a line of it. I can tell it’s important to you.”

“It is important to you,” said the twain.

“All right,” I said. “Well, you’ve caught us red-handed, bodies left and right. We could fight. Somebody could die. Probably us, if we are to be honest. Or you could recite some poetry, instead.”

Jackaby’s eyebrow rose.

The twain rocked a little. Below him, Pavel’s breaths were growing weaker. The vile vampire actually looked, somehow, peaceful. The twain pushed himself up until he was standing on the parapet. When he spoke, his voice was steady and softly intense.

“In the heart of hate is nothing dear.

The spear grips the hand that grips the spear.

Temper the armor, steady the shield.

The weapon to fear is the one that you wield,

for a Kingdom of Blood is a desolate thing,

a dire crown for a dire king.”

“What does it mean?” said Jackaby.

The twain was silent.

“It means we’re not going to kill him,” I said.

Below him, Pavel’s fingers twitched. The vampire was dying.

“You do not wish him dead?” said the twain.

“No,” I said. “I don’t wish anyone dead.”

“He would not have any pity for you if your places were reversed.”

“It isn’t pity,” I said. “It’s . . . I don’t know. Something else. Humanity?”

“Is that what humanity looks like?” said the twain. “Would that all humans possessed humanity.”

His nose twitched, making him look even more like a hamster standing on its hind legs than usual. I felt a tingling sensation on my neck and then the sudden unexpected absence of a pain I had almost forgotten I was feeling. I clapped a hand to the cut Pavel had dealt me. It was gone. The front of my dress was still red with blood, but its source had been erased entirely.

“You—” I faltered. “Thank you. Can you help him, too?” I pointed at Pavel.

“I could,” said the twain.

“But you won’t,” said Jackaby.

“He does not wish it,” said the twain.

Pavel’s mouth was now moving as though he was speaking, though no sound escaped his lips.

“What do you think he’s saying?” I said.

“He, too, is speaking in verse,” said the twain, listening to the silence. “I do not know it. Is it familiar to you?”

Pavel’s voice was suddenly inside my head. “. . . For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil . . .”