The Dire King Read online

  “Big times?” said Hudson.

  “Aye. Big times. The beginnin’ times. The end times. Times fra’ which history don’ bounce back again.” There was a collective moment of silence in the library. “Iffin’ we got a twain on our side, ’tis nae a good sign. An’ iffin’ we’ve go’ a twain against us . . .” He let the sentence die off.

  “Well. Let’s hope he’s on our side then, shall we?” said Jackaby. “We find ourselves on the precipice of a war we do not want to fight. The question is, how do we avoid it?”

  “No,” I said. I found myself suddenly the center of attention. “He was right. The war is already here. The precipice on which we find ourselves is that of a choice we do not want to make.” I took a deep breath. “But we cannot afford to avoid it. Either we engage the Dire King on our own terms now—or we allow him to engage us on his.”

  I felt my voice quaver in the hush of the library, but I continued. “Mayor Spade thinks he is making a stand for his city. He’s paranoid, but his fear is not unfounded. The Dire King brought the battle to New Fiddleham. Spade is allowing fear to drive him to hatred and injustice, which means that the Dire King is already winning the first battle. When the veil weakens, when the Annwyn begins to cross over into the earth, the otherworlders will be met with Spade’s hate. That’s exactly what the Dire Council wants. The first battlefield isn’t a place; it’s a point of view.”

  Jackaby pursed his lips silently. His gaze darkened. He did not disagree.

  “Mayor Spade is fighting a war,” I went on, “but he’s been fighting it blind, and so have we. The Dire Council has been so much cleverer every step of the way. Every time we thought we had won a battle, we had only helped stoke the fires of their growing war machine. Remember my first case with you, sir? What do you know about redcaps?”

  Jackaby blinked, finding himself unexpectedly in his element. “They survive off the fresh blood of their victims. Typically found in the ruins of castles. Very solitary, antisocial creatures.”

  “And where did we find ours?”

  “Running for political office in the middle of a vibrant metropolis,” he answered.

  “Right,” I said. “How long did the council expect a redcap to last in the public eye before his bloodlust got the better of him? He was a pawn. He was meant to be exposed. They wanted the spectacle.”

  Charlie winced. “And I gave it to them. When I transformed in the square.”

  “That was nothin’ to the spectacle I gave ’em,” Hudson added mournfully. “Them transformin’ critters they set loose on those high society folks. They was lookin’ to cause trouble then, too. You almost had that one under wraps until I bungled it for everybody. Instead of a couple creepy critters in a swanky party, we wound up with a full-grown dragon screamin’ outta the sky.” He waggled his hook by way of illustration. The hand he didn’t have was a harsh reminder.

  “I’m the one who floated straight into the mayor’s own house and tore a hole through his wall catching that nixie,” Jenny added. “Spade was horrified. I saw his face. I didn’t even care. It just felt good to feel strong for once. That was what put him over the edge. If anyone tipped the scales toward public panic it was me.”

  “It’s not a competition,” I said.

  Jackaby groaned. “Although if it were, I think we all know who would be winning it. I’ve devoted my adult life to drawing attention to the dangers of the supernatural world all around us.” He grimaced, clenching his eyes shut. “All those times Marlowe hushed up my cases to avoid alarming the public, he was actually right. An alarmed public is precisely what the Dire King wants.” He leaned heavily on the table. “I begin to feel I may have been remiss in hiding those banana slugs in Marlowe’s desk drawer. And for drawing that monocle and mustache on his portrait in the station house. And for taking out that newspaper advertisement in his name, requesting donations of foreign cheeses be sent to his home address.”

  “We’ve all played into the council’s hands,” I said.

  “I’ve nae played inta any hands,” Nudd said.

  “Fine. Yes. We’ve all played into his hands, with the exception of Mr. Nudd,” I amended. “What matters now is that we take the initiative. We can’t keep fighting the battles they lay out for us.”

  “The shield,” said Jackaby. “We may be too late to beat them to Hafgan’s spear and crown, but we still have a chance with the shield. We even have a clue that they don’t. We just have to figure out what in the Bible of the zealot means.”

  “I was thinking of Morwen,” said Jenny. “She’s our best route to manipulating the Dire King the way he’s manipulated us. If it’s a battle of minds we’re fighting, Morwen has the information we need. She knows where to find the rend, and I would wager she knows where the crown and spear are as well.”

  Jackaby nodded. “Agreed. We research the shield and interrogate the nixie. What else?”

  “Reinforcements?” suggested Charlie. “I don’t relish the thought of the six of us up against the world. The worlds.”

  “Good. Information, interrogation, and collaboration. Plans are always best with a rhyme scheme. All right, then. Miss Cavanaugh and Miss Rook, I want you to interrogate Morwen tomorrow. You two have the most experience with her to date. Watch her, though. She’s slippery. Mr. Barker and Mr. Hudson—first thing in the morning I want the two of you to call on everyone in town we can trust. Summon as many as you can for a meeting here the following evening. Marlowe may not be able to spare any of his men, but not every warrior wears a uniform. Mona O’Connor might be a good place to start. The woman has proven herself a fair hand at triage under tricky circumstances. Anton, the baker on Market Street. Little Miss—you’ll find her at Madame Voile’s.”

  “Little Miss? No,” I said. “You can’t invite a seven-year-old girl to help you fight a war, even a psychic one.”

  “Little Miss can locate the dead,” he said. “That is a talent that may prove vital in ensuring the world still exists come her eighth birthday. Corpses are apparently rising in New Fiddleham, and our own resident ghost brought down the only member of the Dire Council we’ve actually managed to capture. The dead may well turn the tide for the living in this fight. So, yes. Little Miss.”

  “Wha’ aboot me?” Nudd asked.

  “You trade in a lot of expensive goods, old friend—but what have you always told me is worth the most?”

  “Unicorn kidney?”

  “What? No. The other thing.”

  “Muthern’s love?”

  “No, no, no. Information.”

  Nudd’s face blossomed in understanding. “What is it ye want the knowin’ of ?”

  “I want to know about Hafgan’s shield. Anything you can tell me—and I need to know if anyone else has been looking for it.”

  Nudd slapped the table. “Dinna worry. I’ll put the horde on’t righ’ quick. We ha’ eyes an’ ears all o’er the earth an’ the Annwyn.” His face rippled in an unpleasant convulsion that might have been a conspiratorial wink. “Kin trade a lot o’ information for a jar o’ eyes an’ ears. We’ll get yer shield.”

  “What about you, sir?” I asked.

  “You two investigated an occult crime scene and encountered an actual specimen of the living dead—all without me. I am not too proud to admit that I’m a shade envious, but I am also not naive enough to think it was an isolated incident. If the undead are walking the streets, then I shudder to imagine what else might be out there. I would prefer to be on the advance guard this time, not waiting to hear about it secondhand. Before my home became a mythical motel, my sources had just informed me that there are at least five more crime scenes in the city right now brimming with unusual activity. I will start with those.”

  “Wait, back up. There’s dead folks walkin’ around the city?” Hudson said. “Shouldn’t this’ve come up a little sooner?”

  “That’s it, then.�
� Jackaby heaved a heavy sigh. “Get some rest, everyone. Tomorrow, it seems, we begin one of those days from which history may not bounce back again.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I awoke the next morning coughing and spluttering, until I managed to dislodge a downy feather from the back of my throat. A lady with the head of a pigeon glanced at me from the vanity and then went back to preening. Four large geese had made themselves comfortable by the window. I wasn’t sure what was supernatural or human about them. They had looked at me with pronounced disdain when I came to bed last night, but in my experience, such is the temperament of all geese.

  A pair of avian women was dozing in the corner. Those two looked like harpies to me, but I had not worked up the confidence to ask them to either confirm or deny this. Their faces were stunningly beautiful, with features that could have been carved by Michelangelo framed by flowing hair, but from the neck down they had the bodies of overlarge birds, akin to a falcon or an eagle. Fully extended, their wings would have spanned from wall to wall in the bedchamber. They had introduced themselves last night as Alkanost and Sirin, but for the life of me I could not remember which was which. The one on the left had raven black feathers and a sour countenance, and her counterpart had dove white plumage and a bright smile. The lighter of the two had been delighted to learn my surname, although seemed mildly disappointed when I told her that, no, to the best of my knowledge, there were no literal rooks in my ancestry.

  I dressed quickly and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind me. A smell like freshly baked bread and spices wafted through the air, decidedly unlike the usual smells I had come to associate with mornings in Jackaby’s house. I trod with great care down the spiral staircase. A family of a dozen Cornish spriggans had camped out there, one on each step, and a moon white miniature pony was snoring at the foot of the stairs. The pony waggled its scruffy ears as I hopped over it.

  I heard voices and nudged open the squeaky door to Jackaby’s laboratory. I found myself facing a man made out of living fire. He was bare chested with billowy trousers tied by a cord around his flickering waist, batting Jackaby away from a pan of something that smelled sweet and lemony. Jackaby scowled like a scolded child.

  I blinked as my tired eyes tried to focus on the fiery figure, but the smokeless flames that defined his body wavered like a mirage in the desert.

  “Leave it!” the man said. “It must simmer now, until the dough is thick.” His voice was a deep baritone flavored with a rich Arabian accent.

  “You’ve got to stir it,” argued Jackaby.

  “I know how to make kunafah,” said the man. “It will not burn. I am good with fire.” He chuckled warmly.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said, announcing myself.

  “I’m really quite handy in the kitchen, myself,” Jackaby insisted, ignoring me. “And as this is my abode—”

  “Perhaps it would be best to let the gentleman cook, sir,” I said. “It does smell lovely, whatever it is.” I could not remember the last time Jackaby had prepared something for breakfast that did not end up melting its own pot or lodging itself in the wall.

  The man of fire turned and gave me a broad, charming smile. “You should listen to the woman,” he said. I found myself mesmerized. It looked as though beneath his surface was a core as black as coal, but his skin was a living white-blue flame. “Please,” he said graciously, “help yourselves before you go.”

  Jackaby bristled, but snagged a piece of flatbread from a mouth-watering spread already laid out on the counter. I selected one as well. It was still warm and soft, and it smelled buttery and fresh. I took a nibble. And then I took two more from the stack before jogging out the door after Jackaby.

  “Thank you!” I called to the man.

  He winked back at me.

  “Hmph. Jinn,” Jackaby said as I joined him in the hallway. “Insufferably stubborn lot.”

  “That was a jinni?” I said. “As in, from a magic lamp?”

  “No, that was a jinni, as in, from the Lower Inkling District. Third Street. He’s a machinist. Formerly of the Arabian Desert, I suppose, but he has lived in New Fiddleham peacefully for as long as either of us has been alive. Calls himself Shihab currently, but I imagine he’ll have to change that once or twice a century for the sake of the census man.”

  Charlie emerged from the washroom just ahead of us. He was freshly shaved, although his eyes betrayed how little sleep he had gotten during the night.

  “Oh! Good morning, Miss Rook, Mr. Jackaby,” he said.

  “I thought you had gone with Hudson,” Jackaby said.

  “I was just on my way to meet him,” Charlie answered. “He should be bringing his cart around. I’m very glad to have caught you before I go, though.”

  “Lovely timing, Mr. Barker,” I said. “We can see you out.”

  “Actually, if the detective does not mind,” Charlie said, timidly, “I was wondering if I could speak to you alone for just a moment first.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Both of Jackaby’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead until they were hiding in his tousled bangs. He let his eyes dart between the two of us suggestively for a moment, and then waved me off. “Fine. I have matters of my own to attend to. Try not to raise the dead while you’re alone this time, will you?” He stalked off in the direction of his office, leaving me to walk the winding hallway with Charlie.

  “Something you wanted to discuss with me?” I asked. Charlie did not speak at once. I noticed his fingers fumbling absently with his vest pocket and my throat suddenly felt tight. In spite of my mother’s best efforts, I had grown up more prepared to answer a reckless call to adventure than to answer the sort of question that comes from a nervous young man fidgeting with a ring in his vest pocket. He did look awfully sweet.

  “You spoke very eloquently last night,” he said. “About choices. About not avoiding them until it is too late. I have something to ask you—and I do not wish to wait until it is too late.”

  “Yes?”

  “I—I have been thinking a lot, lately,” said Charlie, holding the door for me as we stepped into the foyer. The desk within had been shoved aside to make room for the now-slumbering giant, whose gentle snores made the windows rattle. The gnomes in their violet hats were sitting in a circle by his arm, playing a game of dice. “I’ve been thinking about the future, should we have one,” Charlie continued. “I have been thinking about . . .” He stumbled. “My . . . family.”

  “Charlie,” I said, reaching a hand out to his faintly trembling arm.

  “KAZIMIR CAINE!” roared a deep, rumbling voice. A man dressed in black furs with a thick salt-and-pepper beard had been slouched on the battered waiting bench. He launched himself upright abruptly, startling the young woman sitting next to him.

  Charlie froze. The man lunged at him, and I wondered for a moment if the big brute was going to take his head off, but then there was a patting of backs and Charlie was returning a vigorous hug.

  “Uncle Dragomir!” he said, pulling out of the bear hug. The girl on the bench had risen as well. She had dark, curly hair and wore a long traveling cloak. “Alina!” As Charlie hurried to embrace her, the resemblance was unmistakable; this was Charlie’s sister. “What are you two doing here?” Charlie asked, looking delighted but dumbfounded. Alina’s eyes dropped and she swallowed hard.

  “The question is, what are you doing here?” Dragomir’s voice was heavy with Slavic syllables. I had grown so accustomed to Charlie’s subtler accent, it was easy to forget sometimes that his was largely Americanized. “We’ve heard things. There is talk of trouble on the rise. I had no idea it was this bad.”

  Dragomir sneered as he glanced around the room. One of the gnomes had apparently gotten either a very good roll or a very bad one, and his kinsmen erupted into a flurry of discontent. The giant snorted and rolled over in his sleep, sending the gnomes scrambling to get out of his w
ay.

  “I cannot say I am surprised. Even as a pup, you were always causing trouble. Your father had such hopes for you, even after you left. And now little Kazimir, son of the great Suveran of the Om Caini, has fallen in with this lot. Rousing quite a rabble, as I hear it. You are living up to your name, aren’t you?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I said, but Charlie shook his head, abashed.

  “It means,” Dragomir said, glaring at me, “that I keep the peace. It is my job in our family. I am the—how do you say—arbiter. Kazimir does the opposite.”

  “Charlie isn’t the one causing this mess,” I rebutted, “and neither are we. Charlie is a peacekeeper as well. He’s a policeman.”

  “Why do you keep calling him such a ridiculous name? What kind of name is Charlie for the heir to the House of Caine?”

  I chose not to point out that Charlie had adopted a different surname as well, as of late. “We’re the ones trying to help, sir,” I said. “My employer and I have spoken to Lord Arawn. He keeps the gates between our world and the Annwyn, and he will soon be alerting the leaders of his neighboring kingdoms.”

  “Don’t lecture me on things you do not understand, child. Arawn doesn’t need to tell his neighbors anything.” Dragomir’s voice was confident and proud. “The otherworlds already know all about your hole in the veil. It is the topic of every trader and traveler between the realms. The Om Caini have good ears. We know how to listen.”

  “Well, that’s grand, then. Jackaby will be glad to hear it,” I said. “We could use the support. There is an organization at work called the Dire Council. They are the ones responsible for the rend; we’re sure of it. We’ve nullified a few of their number, but we are still trying to track down the Dire King.”

  Dragomir looked unimpressed. “That’s not how the story is going in the otherworlds. Word among the elves and dwarves is that humans are preparing to invade the Annwyn. They say the rend came from your side of the veil. They are saying that the humans have grown bold.”