The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(67)

Jackaby scooped the faun into his arms. Jenny leaned down and took the other side of the litter. I followed close behind them, watching over my shoulder for the next terror to come streaking through the fray at us. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.

And then I saw Charlie and Charlie saw me. It was just a moment in the midst of madness. In another instant Dupin would be clapping him on the shoulder, calling him back into action, and I would be rushing to keep up with Jackaby, Jenny, and Lydia. But for just that moment, Charlie’s deep brown eyes locked on mine and my hands stopped shaking. He radiated calm. It was what made him an exceptional peacekeeper at the best of times—and what made him an exceptional leader at the worst. Charlie smiled at me, and in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I found myself able to believe that everything was going to be all right.

And then the moment was gone.

Voices were screaming, and the air smelled of gunpowder and blood. We made our way to the back of the allied forces, where Mona O’Connor had already set up cots for emergency triage. “First customer,” Lydia Lee called out as we approached. Mona rushed to meet us and helped maneuver the unmoving policeman onto one of the makeshift beds.

Lydia looked at her grimly as she stood up with the litter under her arm. “I’m going back for more,” she said. She swallowed. “We’re going to need a lot more beds.”

“We’ll make do,” Mona answered. Lydia hurried away. “His heart’s not beating,” she said.

“He’s already dead,” said Jackaby heavily.

Mona ignored him. She was at the policeman’s head. She pressed his arms together into his chest and then raised them both up over his head, then repeated the motion.

“What are you doing?” Jenny asked.

“Silvester method. Artificial respiration.”

“He’s gone,” said Jackaby.

“Do I tell you how to hunt fairy tales, or whatever it is you do?” Mona barked. “I’ve seen breath come back to those longer gone than him.”

A series of shouts erupted from the battlefield, and the earth shook. The colossal Mr. Dawl had fallen. Over the heads of our allies I could see the Unseelie army’s frost giant, the j?tun, stomping into the fray. An orange blur darted across the plain just ahead of me. I glanced up. Bounding toward me was what appeared to be a miniature troll riding an orange tabby cat like a warhorse. I raised my blade as it raced toward us, but Jackaby caught me before I could swing.

“Not that one!”

I paused.

“Hammett.” Jackaby addressed the diminutive figure. “Hatun would be proud of you.”

The little troll barked something in a language I could not fathom.

“Not yet,” answered Jackaby. “We still don’t know where they’ve taken her.”

The troll snarled and pulled at the reins, and the cat bounded away. Hammett sliced at the heels of his enemies as they disappeared into the mess.

Loup, his jaws red with blood, leapt across the clearing, snapping and snarling as frightened soldiers scattered. Lydia Lee was trying frantically to maneuver a bleeding gnome onto her litter. Her head shot up and she froze. She was directly in the wolf’s path. Loup stalked forward, eyes bloodshot, growling. And then, very suddenly, a chocolate brown hound stood between her and the wolf.

Charlie had always seemed so large in his canine form. He did not seem large now. The wolf loomed over them, big and black and built of raw muscle and razor-sharp teeth. Charlie was half his size. The wolf did not slow as he neared them.

Marlowe yelled a command, and a cadre of policemen opened fire. Loup roared as the bullets ripped into him. When the volley paused, Charlie bounded forward and lunged for the wolf’s neck, but Loup was too fast for him. He caught Charlie with a nasty bite that nearly tore his ear clean off. Charlie yelped and stumbled into the dirt.

Jackaby was holding me back before I realized I was lunging forward.

“Let go of me! He’ll kill him!” I said.

“No, stop! Look!” Jackaby pointed.

Movement erupted at the tree line. A pack of great burly hounds burst onto the field. The lead hound was larger than Charlie, his fur patterned in rich browns and jet blacks with flecks of white about his muzzle. A dozen more raced behind them.

“Is that—?”

“The Om Caini,” said Jackaby. “That’s Charlie’s uncle in the lead, if I’m not mistaken.”

The Om Caini struck like lightning. Loup caught sight of a tawny hound closing in on his left and snapped at it, only to have Dragomir make the first attack from his right. Loup howled in pain and anger as another hound locked its jaws on his flank, and then a third at his throat. The dogs were merciless.

Lydia dragged the gnome away from the fight, panting. Mona O’Connor continued lifting and lowering the policeman’s arms. He did not appear to be coming back.

As if reacting to my thought, the policeman took a sudden wheezing breath.

Mona fell over backward. “Ha!” she declared triumphantly.

The policeman sat up.

“Take it easy,” Mona told him. “Stay down. You’ve got half a dozen broken ribs at least, you need rest.”

“Get away!” Jackaby yelled.

“What are you talking about?” Mona began.

That’s when I noticed the policeman’s glassy eyes.