“Yeah. That’s what you get, freak!”
I have seen a monstrous dragon narrow its eyes to golden slits as it rounded on its prey. Jackaby’s gaze as he spun toward the alley was slightly less friendly than that.
This was one of those neighborhoods that knew more shadows than light, without a doubt. I swallowed the lump that was climbing up my throat. We were walking the sort of streets my mother would not ride through at a gallop. So of course Jackaby was going in for a closer look. I bit my lip.
“Sir?”
Jackaby ignored me. The curtain of shadows within the alley welcomed him in, and I found myself suddenly alone on the sidewalk. “Sir?”
I took a deep breath. With all the willpower I could summon, I plunged after Jackaby into the dark.
“Hit him again! Hey! I said hold still, freak!”
Jackaby was not far ahead of me. He reached into his coat and produced three little red rocks as he stepped farther into the alleyway. “There is a story,” he announced loudly to no one in particular, “that comes from the heart of the Chilean mountains.”
Three men were leaning over a prone figure in the dark. “Who the hell are you?” said the largest, standing up straight. He was an inch or two shorter than my employer, but easily a hundred pounds heavier. His shirtsleeves were rolled up over thick muscles, and he cracked his neck as Jackaby approached.
“It tells of a monster,” Jackaby continued, “a powerful elemental creature with a hide of dripping flames and bones of solid rock. It is said that this monster lives in the molten lava of an active volcano, and that it hungers for human flesh. Do you know what sort of human flesh it favors most?”
The men looked at one another, unsure how to respond to the uninvited storyteller. A whimper issued from the figure at their feet.
“Young women.” Jackaby’s voice was cold. “Virgins. Curious, isn’t it? How the monsters always seem to prey on the innocent and the weak? Perhaps it’s because goodness and love are so unlike monstrosity. It is the ugliest aspect of human nature that we fear what is most different from ourselves with such violent contempt.”
The figure lying on the ground slapped away the men’s hands and curled into a ball against the brick wall. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, and I saw that it was a woman. Her hair was pinned up in tight black curls and her skin was deep brown. She wore a pink, sleeveless dress with high-cut skirts, like a dancer from a burlesque show. Her dress was muddied, and just one pink shoe lay at her feet.
“What, you mean this filth?” The big man sneered. “Ain’t nothing innocent about him.”
“Her,” Jackaby said evenly.
“Psst!” One of the other men nudged his comrade. “That’s that detective. The one who sees things. They say he caught a werewolf who was pretending to be a policeman.”
The third man swore derisively. “You believe that load of—”
“There were witnesses. Lots. He’s the real thing. I hear he sees through walls and things.”
“He can’t see through much,” said the first man, “if he can’t see that’s a damned boy. Freak show in a dress.” The pink dress shuddered and the figure let out a whimper. “Sicko makes his money off walkin’ the streets. Now he’s learning a lesson about what happens when his kind walks down the wrong street—so why don’t you two just keep walkin’ before we teach you the same lesson?”
“The thing about the legend,” Jackaby went on, seemingly oblivious of the scene before him, “is that monsters like the Chilean Cherufe are never satisfied. You can keep sacrificing young maidens until you’ve burned through them all, but the monster will still be there, will still be waiting, will still be a monster. I’ve ceased appeasing monsters. Young lady? Shall we?”
A face peered up in the darkness, eyes rimmed with red and full of fear and anger. The woman glanced between her attackers, and then pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. She left the shoe behind and limped forward on torn stockings. Her hands were shaking and she glared daggers at the big man. She was larger than I had expected, tall enough to look her attacker in the eye. I half expected her to lash out and strike him, but she gritted her teeth and walked away as steadily as she was able. Jackaby held out a hand as she approached, but she shied away and stepped past him.
As she reached me, I saw her face in the light at last. Tears had streaked down her dark cheeks, and her lip was bloodied. She had a strong jaw and broad shoulders for a girl. She looked at me with suspicion as she drew near. I offered her a sympathetic smile. “It’s all right,” I said. “You can lean on me.”
Her lips shook and fresh tears welled in her eyes, but she nodded and put an arm around my shoulder. She was a foot taller than I was, so I don’t know how much support I actually provided, but she seemed to rally a fraction as she turned back to watch Jackaby and the other men.
“So you’re a freak, too, huh?” sneered the big man.
I couldn’t see Jackaby’s face, but I could almost hear the broad grin in his answer. “I’m not generally one for titles, but that is one I’ll embrace with pride.”
“Whatever,” the man spat. “You can have him. That sick bastard ain’t the innocent virgin from your fairy tale, Mr. Detective Man. And we ain’t the monsters here.”
“Oh, you seem to have gotten the wrong impression,” Jackaby replied. “The metaphor may be appropriate—but I wasn’t simply speaking figuratively.” He held up one of the little red rocks. “I was explaining what you’re up against. Cherufe’s tears are rare relics, and more than I care to waste tonight. When I packed I was anticipating more menacing monsters than the likes of you. I think we are both fortunate we could conclude our little encounter on reasonable terms. Good day, gentlemen.”
Jackaby turned and walked away.
“You are a freak!” the man yelled after him.
Jackaby kept walking.
“Better not let me see that sicko around here again!” the man hollered. “His kind don’t deserve to walk free! You should’ve let us finish teaching him a lesson! It was for his own good!”
Jackaby stopped. His fists were clenched.
“If I ever see him again, I’ll—” The man never finished his taunt.
The first red rock hit the ground with an ardent blast. The cobblestones liquefied on contact, and, with a splash of flame, the alleyway in front of the thugs was suddenly glowing with heat, bubbles of bright orange spattering and sizzling as they popped.
The men fell backward, but Jackaby let fly another stone before they could rally. It arced over their heads and erupted on the other side of the thin alleyway, locking them between two glowing pools of magma. Terror danced across their faces in flickering reds and yellows.