“My mistake!” chirped the detective. “Oh dear, in my excitement I seem to have dropped the fellow’s hat.”
The ruby red derby perched atop the tower of sticks, tongues of flames licking the brim. For a moment the hat seemed immune, the fire even dimming a little beneath it, and then it began to crackle. The feather fizzled to nothing in one rapid puff, and the ribbon was suddenly alight. The thing popped and cracked violently as syrupy drips fell into the heart of the fire, which sizzled and spat. The derby smoldered, and thick, black, greasy coils of smoke rolled off it in a plume that darkened the stars. At last it burst into flame. Swift screamed.
The commissioner’s body spasmed and twisted upright until Swift was on his knees. His grotesque face contorted in agony, and his eyes went mad with confusion and rage. Smoke seeped from his charcoal gray coat, and he lurched forward. Whether because of the brace still lashed to his left leg or whatever internal hell was boiling inside him, he stumbled, clanking and crumpling to the dirt before he could take a full step. Swift’s sharp, leathery fingers clawed at the mossy earth, pulling him forward a few more feet before his arms, too, gave out and he shrank into himself, writhing in misery. The air grew thick with acrid clouds of smoke, and the commissioner’s clothing crumbled into soot, the skin beneath crackling and flaking away like ash. All the while, the man screamed in wretched fury, his voice losing all humanity and deteriorating into the guttural howls of an animal in pain.
And then it was over. The screams ceased and the air was thick with inky, pungent smoke. The hat’s stiff brim, the only skeletal remains of the wretched item, shifted and slid into the heart of the little fire beside us.
No one spoke as the smoke gradually cleared. There, at the edge of the flickering firelight, lay a scorched patch of moss, a few hinged rods with burnt leather straps, and two thick, iron shoes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Time passed in uneven flashes as I drifted in and out of consciousness. In one moment I was on the cold forest floor, and in the next I was lying atop the desk in Jackaby’s front room. Jenny was hovering over me, looking gentle and reassuring. The same ghostly face that had sent me tumbling backward over my chair two days before now filled me with a sense of relief and normalcy.
In a blink, Jenny was gone. Jackaby and someone else—old Hatun, I realized—were setting Charlie onto the broad wooden bench on the opposite wall. Somewhere between the darkness of the forest and the paving stones of Augur Lane, he had returned to a human shape. He was naked except for the blood-caked strips of fabric that had once been a blouse. His face was nearly as white as Jenny’s, and he was drenched with sweat. My head swam and I stared, unable to look away from the terrible damage. Without fur to hide them, the deep red gashes from Swift’s claws were visible all over him. Worst of all was his shoulder. In his human state, it appeared Charlie had been stabbed just under his right clavicle, barely above his lung. I winced and closed my eyes, fighting back tears as I realized he would be lucky to survive the night.
I was surprised to awaken to the early-morning rays of sunlight cutting across the room. My head rested on a pillow, and a soft blanket lay over me. Charlie, still looking harmless and human, slept on the bench. Douglas perched over him like a feathered sentinel. A pillow had been tucked under Charlie’s head as well, and a quilt had been draped over his lower half. A little color had returned to his cheeks, and a proper bandage of white gauze was wrapped expertly around his chest and back, though beads of sweat still glistened on his brow and his skin looked clammy.
I watched his chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. A bruise was beginning to blossom along his side in yellows and blues, and the cuts were everywhere, red and angry. As my eyes passed over each mark, the blows replayed in my memory. My breath caught in my throat, and I felt my chest throb in a dull ache.
My own small scar was tender as I reached a hand to the injury, but the sensation was something deeper. The thought of Charlie, as either man or beast, falling victim to that horrible monster on my behalf was a dreadful barb, caught beneath my ribs. Now, as he lay barely breathing beside me, I had to add guilt to the already confusing emotions I felt for the man. Hushed voices from the hallway drew my mind back into the room. I craned my neck and listened.
“You really shouldn’t have moved him in that condition,” a woman whispered. It was not Hatun or Jenny, but the cadence and Irish accent were familiar.
Jackaby answered her. “I realized the risk, but Inspector Marlowe made it quite clear that after last night, leaving him where the police force would be responsible for him would be far more hazardous to the poor fellow’s health. Thank you for coming so quickly. This has been a rather bizarre situation, and not an easy one for you to be thrust into.”
“If what you said last night truly happened, then I owe him at least this much for the part he played in all this.”
“How soon do you think it would be safe to move him again?”
“Let him rest as long as you can, but all things considered, he’s healing remarkably well.”
“I’m sure the lunar cycle has had a little to do with that. We can only hope his convalescence continues so well from here on. Thank you again, Miss O’Connor.”
Light poured in as the hallway door slid open. Mona O’Connor, the nurse from the Emerald Arch, came through first. She looked exhausted, with curly strands of red hair escaping from where they had been pushed behind her ears, and dark, rust red stains smattered across her apron. She gave me a nod.
“I see you’re awake, dear. Good,” she said. “Drink plenty of liquids in the next few days, and try to rest while you heal up, understand?”
I nodded.
“Lovely. You’ll be fine. A nice, soft bed would do you more good than this slab, if you feel up to stairs.”
She collected her coat and hat, and Jackaby saw her out. He turned back to me after he had closed the door.
“She really is quite talented,” Jackaby said casually. “She has competent hands, although I found her bedside manner somewhat rough. Then again, I imagine most of her patients don’t unconsciously metamorphose into animals and then back in the middle of her care. She had to be a little creative with her use of force.”
“He’ll be all right, then?” I asked. My chest felt tight and sore as I spoke, but the pain had dulled considerably. I propped myself up on my pillow carefully, keeping the soft blanket wrapped around my shoulders for both warmth and dignity.
“He will heal, but the real question is whether we can get him safely away from here before Marlowe decides to come looking for him.”
“Marlowe?”