“She told us they looked out for each other,” I said, although my words refused to rise above a whisper.
Jackaby straightened and continued toward the far end of the field. Blackbirds were circling overhead.
“Shouldn’t we cover the bodies or something?” I managed.
“That sounds like a fine sentiment, Miss Rook. Please join me when you’re through.”
“What are you . . . ?”
He didn’t turn back as he replied. “The Pendletons are not the reason we are here.”
I found two clean woolen horse blankets in the barn, though only after dodging the sheep, which nearly trampled me as they crowded into the shelter of the building. Returning to the field, I shrouded the couple as best I could. The doleful dog whimpered and lay down with his head on his paws a short way off, watching me. As I knelt to cover the woman’s face, something pressed sharply into my knee. It was mostly flat, a little larger than a half dollar, and blue green with a sheen of brilliant purple when it caught the light.
Toby growled quietly as I plucked it up. I composed myself, wiping my eyes as I crossed the pasture to find Jackaby near a broken gap in the fence. Broad planks of wood had been snapped in half, splinters spread out across the grass. I held my breath as I approached. The splinters, I realized, were not the only thing spread across the grass.
“Looks to have been a ram,” Jackaby said, nudging something squishy with his foot. “And this bit is from a different sheep entirely. I would wager the farmers were just in the way. Livestock seems to have been the intended target. How many do you think it finished off—two or three all together?”
My insides churned. The air was thick and cloying. I stepped back from the massacre for some fresh air and found it in short supply. “Mm-hmm.” I nodded. My eyes were welling up again, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the Pendletons, the smell, or both.
Jackaby picked something up out of the grass. “Buckshot,” he said. “Whatever it was, it appears Mrs. Pendleton got a shot in, at least.”
I looked at the gashes along the fallen fence post. They were twice as deep as the ones on the tree beside the goat, cleaving halfway through the thick board in a single stroke. “Does it look like dragon marks to you?”
“Wouldn’t that be a marvelous peculiarity—but of course it’s sadly impossible,” said Jackaby.
“You’re sure, sir?” I said. I tried to focus on the details of the case instead of on the horrors around me. “I’d be the first to say that dragons don’t exist, but if those fossils are really mythological and not Mesozoic, is it such a leap to imagine one attacking local sheep? Do you see any . . . I don’t know . . . magical aura or anything?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” My employer’s brow furrowed, and he traced a finger around the edges of one of the marks. “Now that you mention it, it is decidedly akin to the residual emanation from the fossils. Fascinating.” He shook his head. “The fact remains, however, that we cannot possibly be facing a dragon. Those breeds went extinct thousands of years ago. You would be just as likely to see one of your lumbering dinosaurs roaming the plains today as you would a Western dragon. Besides, a dragon large enough to eat goats and sheep would leave a wake of fire wherever it went. There have been none reported, and Gad’s Valley has been unseasonably dry this . . .” His sentence died off, and he cocked his head as he looked at me curiously. “What do you have there?”
I had been worrying the iridescent disc absently while he spoke. I looked down and handed it to him. “It . . . It’s a scale, isn’t it?” I said.
“Hmm.” He nodded, turning the thing over in the light.
“That’s a dragon scale, isn’t it?”
“Miss Rook,” Jackaby said, his eyes glinting, “I do believe it is.”