The ceiling above me creaked ominously, and my head swam. I tried to breathe slowly and not panic, but I was finding it hard to think. The air was clogged with dust, which spun like a dervish down the beam of sunlight, and the sting of the cut across my cheek throbbed. The ungrateful bird had left me with nothing but a painful reminder of just how dangerous a wild thing can be, which did not bode well for my upcoming dealing with a genuine dragon. I shook my head. With a sudden clarity I realized the bird had not left me with nothing. I reached behind me and felt the feather lodged in the wall. It was stuck deep, but with a little wiggling I had it free. In moments I had trimmed a rough edge off my skirt and clambered out onto the collapsed rooftop.
My eyes adjusted to the light, and I breathed clean air in gulps and gasps for several moments before making my way along sliding tiles back down to solid ground.
Jackaby poked his head out from a ramshackle shed and cocked an eyebrow up at me. “Where’s the bird?”
I sighed heavily and pointed up at the sky. Rosie had long since vanished.
“You released a Stymphalian bird in the middle of Gad’s Valley?”
“Technically,” I said, “I released a Stymphalian bird in the middle of a collapsing hovel.”
“Well.” Jackaby nodded. “That would not have been my first choice, but good work not being dead, I suppose. See if you can keep it up. This whole ordeal is about to get quite a bit harder.”
“Oh,” I said, doing my best not to sway visibly. “That sounds grand.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hudson’s horses had to be the most steadfast animals I have ever met. Jackaby fastened their harnesses to the trapper’s cart, and the muscular animals only tossed their manes patiently in the breeze while they waited. Neither the dragon attack nor Rosie’s screeching had spooked them. They were tall, healthy beasts, and the trapper clearly cared for them well. A hard lump caught in my throat as I wondered who would look after them now.
“The man he bought them from told Hudson they were descended from the battle stallions of the Trojan War,” Jackaby said as he finished buckling the reins and patted the flank of one of the noble animals. “Even hinted at some local legend that their ancestry could be traced back to the mares of Diomedes, which would’ve made them the second addition to his menagerie with a Herculean history. A salesman’s fib, I’m afraid, but I never had the heart to tell Mr. Hudson the truth.”
“They certainly seem to be something special,” I said, allowing Jackaby to help me up the step into the driver’s box.
“Well, of course they are.” Jackaby climbed in after me. “He expected nothing less of them, and treated them accordingly. They were never given the option to be anything but exceptional.” His mouth turned up in a smile, and he gave me a meaningful glance, then clicked the reins and set the horses trotting off down the drive, leaving the remnants of their master’s house behind.
Jackaby had tossed into the cart a motley assortment of sharp instruments and sturdy nets, but the collection did not look up to the challenge of subduing a twenty-foot dragon. “Is this everything you could find?” I said, peering back into the cart.
“I’m afraid so. Mr. Hudson’s usual arsenal appears to be somewhat depleted. He must have moved some of his finer tools in anticipation of the hunt before he became the prey. We may never know, unfortunately. We will make do with what we have.”
Jackaby had not yet expressed any sadness for the loss of his friend, but I could tell that it was weighing heavily on him. He had taken off his silly knit cap, and dark wisps of hair hung across his brow and framed his storm-gray eyes. Peculiar and harmless though he often seemed, there was an intensity to my employer that I never wanted to find myself up against. As I watched the shadows settle over his expression, I was silently glad that I was not the rogue dragon.
The cart rumbled up to the farmhouse by noon, and Jackaby pulled it into the shade of three broad pines. “What makes you believe the beast will return here?” I asked. “So far it’s chosen a separate target for every attack.”
“Because it must. This is where the bones were exhumed.”
“Was Brisbee right, then? Is this some sort of spiritual revenge for disturbing the remains—like a curse or something?”
“Nothing like that.” He stepped down from the cart.