Ghostly Echoes Page 12

  Finstern scratched his neck. “Manipulation of currents.”

  “Electrical currents?”

  “Vital currents,” corrected Finstern. “Electrical would be easier. Volts. Electromotive force. Quantifiable.”

  “You’ve created a lightning rod for vital energies?”

  “No, no, no, no. Too primitive. A vital life force has no inclination toward conduction through grounded wires. Won’t do. Fields are a better analogy. My latest prototype actually built on some of the principals of Nikola Tesla’s study last year. Radio frequency resonant transformers excited to induce coupling. Tesla has vision.”

  “That’s all very technical and impressive,” I said, “but you’re not doing anything new. People have been taking lives for a lot longer than they’ve been playing with frequencies and volts. You’ve just put a shiny brass casing on a very old wickedness.”

  “It’s not about taking life.” Finstern twitched. “It’s about controlling life. It’s about transferring vital energies from one host to another. It’s about power, Miss Rook. It’s always about power. About who has it, and who gets left behind.”

  “You’ve reduced all living things to power cells?” Jackaby asked.

  “No, no, no, no, you’re still not seeing it. It’s not just power, it’s powers. Skills, proclivities, inborn talents. Why is one child a prodigy and the next a foundering cretin? Vitality! My machine doesn’t just absorb raw energy, it absorbs the essence, the spirit, the soul!”

  “That’s spiritualism,” I said. “Not science. How can you quantify a soul?”

  Finstern twitched again and bit his lip. “The nature of vital energies is problematic,” he said. “But everything is science. Life is science. Magic is science. I’ve devoted my life to a subject I can’t see or touch or measure, but I know it’s there, and I know my device works.”

  “How can you be so sure?” said Jackaby.

  “Have you ever seen a crow attempt to walk on all fours?”

  “Crows don’t have four legs,” Jackaby said.

  “No. But the rabbit inside of its head didn’t know that, did he?” His eyes widened and his mouth crept into a zealous smile. “It works. I’ve seen it work. The only thing left is the fine-tuning.”

  “You have interesting taste in laboratory space,” Jackaby said.

  Finstern sneered. “I was invited.”

  “You were invited to the middle of a forest?”

  “I was invited to New Fiddleham.” Finstern scrabbled about in his pockets and produced a crumpled letter. Jackaby took it and glanced it over, then passed it to me. It was written on official-looking letterhead and read as follows:

  CITY OF NEW FIDDLEHAM

  FROM THE OFFICE OF THE MAYOR

  March 13, 1892

  Mr. Owen Finstern,

  We are pleased to extend this offer of employment. Your exemplary efforts in the field of experimental energy are precisely the sort of innovation we seek in modernizing and revitalizing our burgeoning metropolis. Should you accept, you will be working with some of the finest minds in the country as a member of New Fiddleham’s Technological Committee, and will be furnished with any and all resources necessary to continue your important work. We look forward to working with you very soon.

  Mayor Philip Spade

  “That’s Spade’s signature,” Jackaby said. “It’s authentic.”

  “Tell that to him. I have poured everything into my work. Everything. There is nothing left but my machine. I thought I would be funded at last, thought that I would have a chance to finish my research—but Spade turned me away the day I arrived. He said he had never heard of me, and that he certainly hadn’t sent for me. He had already assembled his crack team. I was superfluous. It’s fine. It is not the first time my talents have been overlooked. Perhaps this Unseelie council of yours will have a finer appreciation for visionary science.”

  Jackaby took a deep breath. “That was unkind of the mayor. You have done amazing work. A device like yours has immeasurable potential.” Finstern acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “With the right research and application you could really help a lot of people, Owen. You need to know that the people who came for you—the council—they want to harness that potential for their own means.”

  “What means?”

  “We don’t know yet, but you can be certain that it’s nothing good.”

  Finstern shrugged, his green eyes flickering from the glass on the floor to the fluttering shade. “Good. Bad. Subjective,” he said flatly. “I don’t need lectures about ethics, Detective. What I need are benefactors.”

  His choice of words sent a shiver up my neck. The man was a creep, but an invention like his given seemingly limitless funding in the hands of a sinister council of monsters — that was something far worse. It was bad enough to know that Pavel’s mysterious benefactors were looking for Owen Finstern without Finstern also looking for them.

  I excused myself politely. I needed to not be in the same room with that man any longer. Within the span of forty-eight hours I had been possessed by a ghost, had been shot by an energy ray, had done battle with a vampire, and had borne witness to the ravings of a real-life mad scientist. I was officially living out the pages of the penny dreadfuls I used to hide under my mattress from my mother. The heroes in those battered novels, I could not help but recall with a knot in my throat, did not always make it to the final page.

  I was glad for the sunlight streaming in through the windows as I made my way to the back of the house. I did not relish the coming night, knowing that a furious vampire with a compelling reason to be angry at me might only be biding his time for sundown.

  I took a deep breath and patted the dusty bust of Shakespeare on the head as I wound down the twists and turns of Jackaby’s crooked hallway. I had these few daylight hours, at least, before I had to worry for my life.

  That was when I heard footsteps in the library.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I held my breath. I dared not scream or call out for Jackaby.

  “Jenny,” I squeaked as quietly as I could. “Jenny, can you hear me?”

  More footsteps issued from behind the library door, and with them a scraping as of claws against the hardwood floor.

  I gave a start as Jenny melted through the ceiling directly above me. “Abigail? Have you two finished interviewing that unpleasant man?” she asked. “I almost preferred the vampire. Why, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Shh!” I gestured frantically and mouthed the words in there.

  Jenny nodded, suddenly alert, and swept to the library to investigate. As she neared the door she faded away until she was entirely invisible. I strained to hear anything, but even the skitter of claws had stopped. I leaned closer and nearly flipped backward as Jenny’s face popped back out of the wood in front of me.

  “On second thought,” she said with a playful smile, “this one is all yours.” In another moment she was gone and I was left alone in the hallway again, more bewildered than before.

  I opened the door cautiously and found myself overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. A trim young man with dark, curly hair was seated on the floor by the open alcove window. He was out of his policeman’s blues, and in his lap flopped a scrappy, black-and-white sheepdog. It was licking his face mercilessly as he attempted to keep the thing still. I put my hands over my mouth and almost cried.

  “Charlie?”

  Charlie Barker looked abashed and quickly stood, letting his furry companion hop onto the floor. The dog’s paws clicked across the wood until he reached the carpet at my feet. He butted his head into my legs affectionately and wound around me, sniffing eagerly.

  “Yes—hello, Toby. I missed you, too.” Toby had survived the incident in Gad’s Valley when his owners had not, and Charlie had not the heart to leave him. “Charlie, what on earth are you doing here? You’re a wanted man! There are posters! People talk about the Werewolf of the West End now like it’s a real thing! You’re a bona fide legend!
If you had been seen . . .”

  “People see what they want to see,” Charlie said, shuffling his feet. “And if they cannot see the difference between a wolf and a hound, I think perhaps they might not notice little old me. Marlowe sent a telegram. Jackaby has been keeping him abreast of new developments. He told me about the pale man—about you. There was no way I could sit in Gad’s Valley waiting for the next post to arrive telling me you were dead.”

  “Charlie!” I wanted to kick him for being so rash and to kiss him for being here. There was no one I wanted closer and no one I wanted less to join me in harm’s way.

  “It’s good to see you, Miss Abigail.” He smiled shyly, his deep brown eyes full of real and unapologetic relief. I gave in.

  I crossed the library and wrapped myself around him. His arms were warm and strong and he smelled of cedar. Our first kiss had been a parting kiss. This one, our second, was all the more satisfying. It was like honey in hot tea.

  I pulled away, breathing him in. “You shouldn’t have come,” I sighed.

  “I know.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, his hand brushing my neck softly. “I was careful. I slipped in from the back streets. Apparently I am not the only legend lurking in the alleyways, though. Is it true? The pale man?”

  “Yes. It’s true. He’s called Pavel. He’s a vampire, and a despicable cad. I’m all right, really, although Pavel can’t say the same. Wooden stakes and holy water might be preferable, but it turns out a sturdy brick to the face is not entirely ineffective against the dark scourge of the night. I’m a bit hazy on the details, though.”

  Charlie pulled away, his eyebrows knit in concern. “What? Marlowe’s message only said that he spoke to you—something about a slip of paper . . . A brick?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh, yes—you’re a bit behind.”

  I recalled to him the details of the past few nights, and Charlie listened dutifully, nodding silently until I was done.

  “. . . and that’s all of it,” I finished. “Mr. Jackaby is speaking with Finstern now. They’re in the other room. Would you like to say hello?”

  He held my hand as we slid down the hallway. It was a small gesture, but it made me feel sweet and warm and not so alone.

  Toby bounded through the door before us, and Jackaby stood up, surprised. “I need to seriously reexamine my perimeter defenses. Is there anyone else in my house that I’m not aware of?”

  “My house,” came Jenny’s voice softly, and Owen Finstern spun his eyes suspiciously around the room.

  “I’m very sorry to arrive unannounced,” Charlie said. “Under the circumstances—”

  Jackaby waved him off. “No explanation needed. We can use any help we can get, to be honest. Miss Rook filled you in on the pertinent details?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Then you know that our most immediate threat is Pavel’s daylight accomplice, a female foe employed by the same base and brutal benefactors who bankrolled Pavel.”

  “How do we find her?”

  Jackaby sighed. “Unfortunately, anyone who knows anything about the mystery murderess or her shadowy council is either missing or dead.” Jackaby scowled at the inventor. “Which you would do well to remember before you go running off to meet them.”

  “Then perhaps we should focus on the people who are dead,” came Jenny’s voice from the air above the desk. “Professor Hoole was closer to this device than anyone.”

  Finstern spun around on the bench. “Is everybody hearing that?” he asked.

  Jackaby nodded. “Yes, and it’s impolite to interrupt while others are communing with the departed, or didn’t your research into the occult teach you that much?”

  Finstern’s face lit up. “You’re the dead woman?” he said to the room. “Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you. I don’t like you.” Jenny’s voice was flat.

  Finstern clapped like a toddler at a puppet show. “Brilliant! I told Edison it was possible! I told him communication with the other side could only be a matter of calibration and sensitivity. He scoffed at my designs for a spirit phone—of course he didn’t let me keep them, either. This is marvelous, though. How are you speaking?”

  “I don’t know. How are you speaking?” Jenny did not sound amused.

  “Practiced modulation of the vocal chords. Do you have a larynx? Is there a frequency you need to employ to become audible? Can you see frequencies? Tell me, how many spirits like yourself reside in a city of, say, a hundred thousand?”

  “I don’t know!” Jenny said. “I’m not an expert on ghosts, I just am one.”

  “Of course,” Jackaby said.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “If our answers lie with the dead—then perhaps we should speak with someone who is an expert on ghosts. You’re brilliant, Miss Cavanaugh, and absolutely right. Nobody knows what Hoole was building better than Hoole. All we need is a means of communicating with him from beyond the grave.”

  “Oh, is that all,” I said.

  “There are a handful of mediums operating in New Fiddleham,” Jackaby continued. “Lieutenant Dupin used to see one every month to have his cards read.”

  “Mediums lie,” Finstern said. “Misrepresentation of observable phenomena. It’s not real.”

  “It’s called showmanship,” Jackaby said.

  “It is invalid data.”

  “Not everything needs validation to be real. Charlie may be onto something. It’s worth a try, anyway.”

  Jackaby set Charlie to watching Mr. Finstern and sent me to check on Mrs. Hoole while he darted into his laboratory to make the necessary preparations. I slipped outside and knocked on the door to the cellar.

  The bolts click, click, clicked and the door swung open. The widow was in one piece, but she did not look as though she had slept a wink.

  “You really shouldn’t open the door straightaway,” I said. “I could have been anyone.”

  Mrs. Hoole nodded. “Of course you could. That was stupid of me.”

  “Are you all right?” I said. “We’re going out to see if we can find some answers. It’s probably best that you keep yourself sealed in. Do you need anything, though?”

  She shook her head. “Why did you protect me?” she asked. “Last night when that monster attacked me, you jumped in front of him. You don’t know me. As you say, I could have been anyone.”

  “Oh. It was just the right thing to do, I suppose.”

  “How do you know if you’re doing the right thing?” she asked. “I keep trying, but sometimes I feel as though I’ve done nothing but the wrong thing all my life.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t true,” I said. “You keep trying—and in the end I think maybe that’s the only right thing anybody can do.”

  She nodded, although she did not seem bolstered by the advice. “Thank you, Miss Rook. You have been far too kind.”

  Mrs. Hoole pulled the cellar door gently closed and I heard the locks click, click, click back in place.

  I hastened back into the house, where I met Jackaby emerging from his laboratory with his satchel slung over his shoulder and a long brown cord in his hand. The bag on his arm looked even heavier than usual, but he didn’t seem to be bothered. “Ready?” he asked.

  “As ever, sir.”

  We returned to the foyer, and Jackaby held out the cord to Charlie.

  “A leash?” Charlie said. “Toby is really very well trained, sir. I don’t know that that’s necessary.”

  “Toby’s staying here,” Jackaby said. “Don’t worry, Douglas is a reliable custodian.”

  “Douglas is a duck.”

  “Yes, well, he wasn’t always!” Jackaby was still a little sensitive on the subject of Douglas’s transformation. He blamed himself for allowing his former assistant to blunder into harm’s way in the first place. To his credit, Jackaby had long since found the means to reverse the curse. It was Douglas who chose to remain in fowl form, which frustrated my employer to no end. “The bullheaded bird is more
than capable of looking after your mutt for a few hours. The leash is for you.”

  Charlie glanced at Finstern, who was pacing the room. The inventor didn’t seem to be listening. He leaned down to look into Ogden’s terrarium, about to tap the glass with his finger.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jenny’s voice chided. Finstern looked up and all around him.

  “You can’t mean to suggest that I wear . . .” Charlie whispered to Jackaby.

  “You can’t very well go walking down the street in broad daylight, can you? And as much fun as it sounds to travel through New Fiddleham exclusively through back gardens and over hedges, we are a bit short on time. We can go without you, if you prefer?”

  Charlie took the leash without enthusiasm. “I’ll be right back.”

  “No,” said Jackaby loudly, so that the inventor could hear. “You won’t. Do release the hound, though. We’ll be taking our guard dog with us.”

  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.