The Dire King Page 2

  “So much for meeting the fairy king at noon,” I said. “I guess Lord Arawn will have to wait.”

  “Oh hell,” Jackaby said. “No, I can’t miss my rendezvous. The fair folk don’t take kindly to social improprieties, and I can’t afford to wait for another meeting.”

  “Well then, I’ll go.”

  “Absolutely not. Arawn’s emissaries expect me. They would never grant you the meeting without me.”

  “I mean I’ll go to look for the Bible.”

  “What? Out of the question,” Jackaby said. “The last assistant I sent into that church alone has been eating bugs and bread crumbs out of the grass ever since.”

  “I won’t go alone; I’ll bring Charlie.” Officer Charlie Barker, formerly Charlie Cane, was the finest companion I could ask for on a job like this. In addition to being a top-notch and highly trained detective in his own right, Charlie was also—well—special. Descended from an ancient family of shape-shifters called the Om Caini, Charlie could transform at will into a powerful hound. He had saved my life and that of countless others, although he had been forced to live in hiding ever since his secret inhuman heritage had been revealed. A great affection had grown between Charlie and me—though his nature, the need to conceal it, and the pace of the unbelievable events unfolding around us made our situation . . . complicated.

  “Charlie is on special assignment for Marlowe again,” said Jackaby. “Left Douglas in charge of his dog and took off just before dawn this morning. Lord knows when the commissioner will be done with him this time—he needs all the help he can get. The whole of New Fiddleham is a boiling mess. I think I preferred it when Mayor Spade just pretended the supernatural didn’t exist. Now he’s causing more trouble than he’s averting with his ludicrous witch hunt. Marlowe can barely keep up.”

  I couldn’t entirely blame Mayor Spade. The nasty nixie in our cellar had spent the better part of the past ten years masquerading as Spade’s doting wife, manipulating and using him all the while. The truth of this had not come gently to the mayor. His world had turned upside down overnight, and in the weeks since, he had launched his own personal crusade to set it right, with little regard to how he might set it wrong in the process.

  Charlie had been covertly helping Commissioner Marlowe smooth out the prickliest situations caused by Spade’s creature-catching campaign. It was thankless work, but Charlie was stubbornly noble, risking his hide for a city that would just as soon label him one of the monsters. His stalwart nature made him gallant—but it also made him absent, which did little to help me right at the moment.

  “Why don’t you send me?” Jackaby and I both turned to see Jenny Cavanaugh, the ghost of Augur Lane, hovering in the doorway. She was translucent, her edges wavering ever so slightly, her silvery hair floating behind her. The loathsome Morwen Finstern had taken poor Jenny’s life over a decade ago, but Jenny had firmly taken back her afterlife. Around her neck now hung a pewter locket. Inside it was a simple inscription, From Howard with love, and a pinch of brick dust. Howard Carson had been Jenny’s past. The brick dust was her future. By carrying with her that small piece of her home and the place of her death, Jenny had made herself free to explore the world once again in her ghostly form.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Jackaby said.

  “Then it’s a good thing I can’t be killed again.”

  At length Jackaby relented. “Grafton said the shield was in the Bible. Look for a Bible with a crest on the cover,” he said. “Or perhaps one with something tucked inside. Just”—Jackaby met Jenny’s eyes—“be careful.”

  Jenny smiled softly at the detective. “And you.”

  Chapter Three

  Mother had always told me that it was prudent to be prepared—although I imagine she would have preferred that I equip myself with spare silk handkerchiefs and sun hats and leave the silver daggers and vials of holy water at home. By the time Jackaby swept into my room, I had finished loading the pockets of my skirts with supplies and safeguards: a sprig of wolfsbane, a small talisman, a silver coin. The weight of my knife and scabbard on one hip was balanced by that of my leather-bound notebook on the other.

  My modest collection was nothing compared to the walking arsenal of artifacts that was my employer. The overstuffed pockets of his long duster clinked and jingled, and he smelled pleasantly of cloves. “Ready, Miss Rook?”

  “Whenever you are, sir.”

  “Then let’s be off. Our carriage is waiting out front.”

  “You’ve chartered a driver for the trip?” Jackaby almost never summoned a cab if he could manage on foot.

  “No,” said Jackaby. “Didn’t I mention? I have hired one on a more permanent basis. Well, semipermanent. Really quite temporary—call it a trial period. I retain the right to give her the sack as soon as the world is no longer in imminent peril. For the time being, it seemed convenient to retain reliable transportation.”

  I followed my employer down the spiral stairs, through the winding hallway, and out the front door. Waiting on the street was not a sleek black hansom cab, but an exceedingly battered one-horse vendor’s carriage with the words Dr. Emerson’s Enervating Elixir—also good for cats! written in peeling paint along the side.

  “Who is Dr. Emerson?” I asked.

  “A fellow whose tonic, it seems, did not sell well enough to merit the expense of his vehicle. He was willing to part with it for a reasonable figure.”

  A tall, dark woman stepped down from the driver’s box. She was dressed in a neat black skirt and matching jacket with a prim bow at the neck of her crisp white shirtwaist, and she wore a rosy bonnet pinned up in the curls of her hair. Her shoulders were broad and her jawline hard, but she moved with all the grace of a dancer. I knew her at once. Miss Lydia Lee.

  “Miss Lee!” I called out. “How delightful to see you again!”

  “Likewise, Miss Rook. And very kind of you to say.” Lydia Lee smiled a little nervously, tugging at the hem of her jacket. She opened the door and stood up straight like a proper valet.

  “Thank you, Miss Lee,” Jackaby said. “Up you go, Rook.”

  “Have you much experience working with horses?” I asked Miss Lee, climbing up the creaking step. Within, the coach smelled strongly of garlic and peaches. Behind our seats was a storage area, where a few empty bottles of Dr. Emerson’s Elixir clinked about on the floor.

  Miss Lee pursed her lips, looking less than confident as she clicked shut the door for us. “She’ll be fine,” Jackaby assured me. “The stable master taught her all about bits and bridles and all that business yesterday when we bought the old stallion off him. Miss Lee was of the opinion that she was woefully unqualified at first, but as I explained to her then, the best way to become qualified is to do. How’s it coming along, Miss Lee?”

  Miss Lee shrugged. “This old plug and I are getting used to each other, I guess,” she said, giving the dappled gray a pat before she climbed back up to take the reins. “The Duke’s only nipped at me two or three times this morning.”

  “Splendid progress. Seeley’s Square, please. We have a king to question.”

  When we arrived at the vibrant park in the center of New Fiddleham, the clock atop the Stapleton building read five minutes to twelve. My stomach had begun to flutter with the anxious excitement that every new case with Jackaby seemed to elicit. Admittedly, the feeling may have been exacerbated by the fact that the Duke seemed unwilling to take the winding curves of New Fiddleham’s streets at anything less than a full gallop no matter how desperately Miss Lee pulled at the reins. By the time we arrived, I was more than eager to step down from the coach and into Seeley’s Square. Mr. Jackaby bade Miss Lee good-bye as I took a few deep breaths and regained my bearings.

  The park before us was a beautiful expanse of green grass and healthy foliage. Butterflies fluttered about over the bushes and birds twittered in the treetops. A handful of businessmen took th
eir lunches on park benches, and a woman pushed a stroller along the path while twin girls in bright petticoats ran circles around her.

  Jackaby ambled away from all of them, heading off the path and through the less manicured brush toward a grove at the very center of Seeley’s Square. I had not noticed it at first, but in the dead center of the park stood a cluster of trees that grew in an unnaturally tight circle. Jackaby drew to a stop in front of them.

  “Is this where we will be meeting the . . . er . . . them?” I asked.

  “I believe we are meant to enter the ring first,” he replied.

  I tried to peer between the trunks to see what might lie within, but no matter how I craned my neck, I could not seem to catch the right angle. The trees did not appear to be touching one another, but it was almost as though they kept leaning closer so that no matter where I peeked the inside of the circle was just out of view.

  “How are we meant to do that?” I asked.

  “Hm.” Jackaby reached out a hand and touched the nearest tree. It responded by remaining a tree. Jackaby began to rummage through his pockets. “The Jericho doorbell is no good on a living wall. Magic beans would get us over the top and then some, but it seems rather a waste.”

  While he pondered, I strode around the perimeter of the grove. It was fifteen or twenty feet in diameter, growing with perfect geometric precision. “It’s no good,” I said. “They’re just the same, all the way around the—” As I finished walking the full circle I froze. Jackaby had vanished.

  “Sir?” I called. I hurried back the way I had come in case he had followed behind me. “Mr. Jackaby?” As I came to the front again I jumped. Standing where I had last seen my employer was a new figure, dressed in green. Over a pale olive tunic, he wore forest green robes that just brushed the tips of the grass. He stood with confidence, although his frame was slight and he stood no taller than myself. His hair was a tawny yellow, tucked behind pointed ears and hanging straight and long down his slender back.

  “You accompany the Seer?” His voice was soft.

  “Erm, yes,” I said. “Yes, I am Mr. Jackaby’s assistant. Abigail Rook. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “You may call me Virgule.”

  “Grand. Virgule. So, you’re really a . . . ” Even in the face of one I had difficulty accepting that this was an honest-to-goodness fairy.

  “A liaison,” he finished. “Your master requests your presence with him within the ring.”

  “Well, good. Shall we, then?”

  “No.” His expression remained flat. “You may bring no items with you that might do harm to the Fair King.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes, of course.” I removed the silver dagger from my pocket and presented it to Virgule.

  Virgule took the knife. He slid it from its sheath and then back. He returned it to me. “This blade is of no consequence. It is not the offending item.”

  “Then what?” I emptied my pockets item by item, wondering how on earth Jackaby had managed to complete this process before me. I presented the vial of holy water, my notepad, the padlock key.

  “There. Iron. Place the implement in here, please. It will be returned to you in due time.” He gestured to a knothole that I was quite certain had not been there a moment before, and I deposited the key within it. “Now,” said Virgule, “you may enter.”

  As I watched, he approached the wall of living wood ahead of me, took a steadfast step, and was simply and suddenly inside the circle. The nearest tree abruptly became the farthest, leaving an obvious gap directly in front of me, as though the impenetrable barrier had been nothing but a trick of the eye all along.

  I shook my head and followed, a lady of science and reason strolling into an impossible fairy ring.

  The sounds of the bustling city all around us melted away. The grove was cool and shady, with a faint hint of vanilla and citrus in the air. Jackaby acknowledged me with a nod. He stood in the middle of the clearing, the light from the noonday sun finding its way through the circle of branches above us to bathe him in a column of golden light. All around him little flecks of pure white danced and spun through the sunbeams.

  Virgule crossed the grass to stand beside another willowy figure. She wore robes of deep blue in contrast to Virgule’s greens. Her hair was honey blond and her features were even more graceful than her counterpart’s, save for a pearl white scar running from one high cheekbone down to the corner of her lips. She stood with a military bearing and an emotionless expression. “Seer,” she said. “It has been many years.”

  “Thank you for granting us an audience,” said Jackaby. “Miss Rook, allow me to introduce General Serif and Captain Virgule, emissaries to Lord Arawn.”

  “Charmed,” I said.

  “Not noticeably,” said Virgule. “Is it a passive enchantment?”

  Serif cleared her throat. “Whether we will escort you anywhere remains to be decided,” she said. “Lord Arawn does not waste his time lightly on the tribulations of humans.”

  “He will have time for this,” said Jackaby. “It concerns the Dire Council.”

  “The Dire Council has long been disbanded,” she told him. “You’re chasing shadows.”

  “One of those shadows is currently locked in my root cellar,” Jackaby replied. “She killed a lot of innocent people before we put her there, and she wasn’t working alone. Her father remains at large, and he has recently claimed dominion over the earth and Annwyn, which concerns both our homelands.”

  All around him, the little flecks of light in the sunbeams had begun to circle, orbiting the detective, gradually moving faster and faster.

  “The Dire King,” Virgule whispered timorously.

  Serif shot him a cold glare. “Rumors,” she said. “You have testified to nothing about which the Fair King is not fully aware.”

  “Your rumors have been leaving a trail of corpses across my city,” Jackaby insisted. “And they’ve been recruiting from your side of the veil to do it. Redcaps, vampires, nixies.”

  Serif was impassive. “Your city is of little concern to us, Seer, and a handful of Unseelie nuisances are nothing that the Fair King cannot quell. If you have nothing further—”

  The beads of white spinning around Jackaby suddenly collided at a single point, bursting into a brilliant, blinding flash. I shielded my eyes, and when I looked up again, blinking in surprise, an archway had opened in midair. It was rimmed with sparkling light, and beyond it I could see a room lined with heavy columns. Serif’s words appeared to be caught in her throat. Virgule found his voice before she did. “Our master will see you now.”

  Chapter Four

  The council room of Arawn, the Fair King and lord of the Seelie fae, was not bathed in golden light, it was not cool and airy, and it definitely did not smell of vanilla and gentle citrus. The room in which we found ourselves as we crossed through the portal appeared to be part of a medieval castle. The walls were hewn of massive stones and hung with heavy tapestries depicting all manner of humans and beasts engaged in war, in sport, and in activities that would have made my mother blush. Above us the columns gave way to vaulted ceilings that might have looked equally at home in a cathedral. A wide fire occupied most of one wall, and in spite of the cavernous space, the air was hot and heavy. At one end of the room was a terraced rostrum, like the pulpit of a church, and on this stood a tall throne embedded with gems that sparkled violet in the crackling firelight. The throne stood empty, but on either side of it sat twin hunting hounds, milky white with vivid crimson ears. They lifted their heads to watch us as we filed into the room.

  A wide oak table stood before the dais, and around this two figures were seated, quarreling. Both wore brown robes and neither looked especially regal. “A trade embargo with the Northern Elflands won’t accomplish anything,” said the first, a dour fellow with round spectacles. His hair was tied in a no-nonsense knot at the back of his head.
“Lord Arawn is well aware that King Freyr has no authority over the dark elves. We would only strain one of our strongest alliances. Appealing to the dwarves is the best way.”

  “You want to drive the kingdom deeper into debt to those filthy pit-breeders?” interrupted the other. He had a weaselly, angular face. “I’d almost rather see the stinking swarts keep robbing us blind than hand it over willingly to the ruddy longbeards.”

  “Leave us.” The voice came from behind us. It was deep and firm.

  There was no doubt in my mind, as I turned to see who had spoken, that I was now in the presence of royalty. Although Jackaby was taller, Lord Arawn seemed to tower over everyone in the room. His regal stature suggested that at any moment an artist might pop out from behind a pillar to finish up an oil painting of him. His features were graceful, but his frame was sturdier than those of his subjects, and his jawline was harder. His flaxen hair was topped with a polished bronze circlet, and around his shoulders was draped a cloak of deep, velvety purple clasped with a golden pendant engraved with a sunburst.

  “My liege.” Serif knelt. “The Seer begs an audience.”

  “Thank you, General,” Arawn said. “I am aware. Please escort Ampersand and Kern to the aldermen’s hall. They can conclude their discussion without me.” The pair at the table had ceased their bickering and were already hastily packing up their papers. Serif bowed low.

  “Captain.” The king turned to Virgule as Serif and the others filed out. “You may oversee the veil-gate.”

  “Yes, my liege,” said Virgule, positioning himself ceremonially beside the portal.

  “From within the fairy ring, if you please,” Arawn amended with a practiced calm.

  “Yes, my liege.” Virgule nodded and then stepped back through the glowing doorway into the grove in Seeley’s Square. Behind him, the portal shimmered and then vanished with a faint pop like a soap bubble.