The Dire King Page 25

  I looked up. Perched on the bookshelf was a squat little man all covered in fur. Through my new eyes, I could see the twain’s power and potential spinning within him.

  “You could be with him,” he said. “He is your twain. You were given the choice. Why did you say no?”

  I wiped my eyes. “You mean, why didn’t I join Charlie in death?”

  He nodded. “I often think about my twain. I miss her, every day. I am incomplete without her. I am . . . I am—”

  “Lost,” I suggested.

  “Lost.” The twain leaned against the inside of the bookcase. “That is love, though, isn’t it? Sacrifice.”

  “No,” I said, after a pause. “All due respect to Romeo and Juliet, but I don’t think love is sacrifice at all. Real love is when you let another person make you better. You don’t lose yourself in love—you find yourself there.”

  The twain lifted his head.

  “Charlie made me feel like a better me,” I continued. “And he made the world better, day by day. It was his gift. And now he’s gone. I can let that gift die with him, or I can make it my gift. I can keep making the world better, day by day. That feels more like love to me.” I wiped my eyes. “Charlie’s gone, and I’m not all right. Not yet. But I intend to keep making myself better, day by day, too.”

  I looked up again. The twain had vanished. The sky was already warming to a rich plum outside the window. The sun was rising.

  Supplemental Material

  The funeral was held at Rosemary’s Green. There were more caskets than I had expected, and some of them were very large. A heady glamour hung over the crowd, although no one else seemed to notice it. Human beings, I realized, made up only half of the mourners at the event. In my eyes, the various otherworlders’ true faces were coupled with the human masks they were presenting and were underscored by their unique auras, as well as wave after wave of heavy emotions. The sensory overload was beginning to make me nauseated.

  Marlowe stood at the front and said something, but I was having trouble focusing on his voice. Everybody began to sit down. I felt a hand on my arm, and Jackaby led me to an open chair. Someone else was talking now—something about many faiths and noble sacrifices. I think the sermon had begun.

  Suddenly, a tiny figure materialized in the aisle ahead of me. The twain. I wiped my eyes, trying to catch a clear breath through the fog of glamour. I looked at the faces in the crowd, but nobody else appeared to see him. The twain gave me a solemn nod, then he turned away and began walking toward the front of the crowd.

  I stood up. Faces all around me turned to look, and a medley of concern and irritation bubbled up from the crowd. The twain reached the front, and then, in the next moment, he was standing on a casket—on Charlie’s casket. I pushed my way past several sets of knees until I was in the aisle. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that the speaker had halted his sermon. I was disrupting the ceremony, but I could not have been less concerned about how it looked to any of them. They could not see what I was seeing.

  The twain turned to face me one last time. “Make the world better for being in it,” he said. “And make each other better for being in it together.” And then he sank down into the wood.

  There was a blinding light within the coffin. The twain’s greatest gift. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The sun was rising inside my chest. In my pounding heart, a door that had been locked was opening.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Katrina, without whom this entire series would have never been more than a collection of playful notes; Lucy, who took a chance on a ridiculous idea and rode with it to the end; and Elise and her entire team, who have helped turn a lump of clay into something beautiful. I am unspeakably grateful.

  I would also like to thank my mother, for providing moral support and technical advice, and Rita Moore, for being my Slavic languages consultant.

  Finally, I would like to thank so many amazing readers who have given my strange little stories space on their bookshelves and a place in their hearts. You are always welcome in New Fiddleham.

  William Ritter

  William Ritter is an Oregon author and educator. He is the proud father of the two bravest boys in the Wild Wood, and husband to the indomitable Queen of the Deep Dark. The Dire King is the fourth and final book in his acclaimed New York Times bestselling Jackaby series.

  Published by

  Algonquin Young Readers

  an imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill

  Post Office Box 2225

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

  a division of

  Workman Publishing

  225 Varick Street

  New York, New York 10014

  © 2017 by William Ritter.

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.

  Design by jdrift design.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Ritter, William, 1984- author. | Ritter, William, 1984- Jackaby series.

  Title: The dire king / William Ritter.

  Description: First edition. | Chapel Hill, North Carolina : Algonquin Young Readers, 2017. | Series: A Jackaby novel ; [4] | Summary: In this conclusion to the Jackaby series, the eccentric detective and his assistant Abigail Rook find themselves in the middle of a war between magical worlds.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017002941 | eISBN 9781616207625

  Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Imaginary creatures—Fiction. | Supernatural—Fiction. | New England—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. | LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Paranormal fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R576 Di 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available here