“The man’s prejudice is infuriating. After the fine service the good detective rendered, the self-sacrifice and personal injury he sustained, that stubborn oaf still wants to call Mr. Cane a werewolf and a public enemy and have him trussed up in chains!”
“Well, can you entirely blame him? If Charlie isn’t a werewolf, then what . . . ?”
“ ‘Caini,’ they call themselves. ‘The Dogs.’ In Romania they are sometimes called the ‘Om-Caini,’ or the ‘Caine Barbati.’ They are a nomadic tribe—therianthropic, yes, but not lycanthropic—and not malevolent, although much maligned.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
My employer sighed heavily and dragged his hand across his face. “Charlie is a member of a very old, very reclusive family of shape-shifters. The House of Caine has no permanent home, rarely settling anywhere for long, and you can see why. They are gypsies, feared and misunderstood, and constantly on the move. The Caini are less fiercely powerful than werewolves, but more fiercely loyal.
“I saw him at once for what he was, of course, and was immediately impressed to find he had made a life here in New Fiddleham. I did my best not to expose the fellow, but I suppose it’s too late for that, now. The Caini’s powers wax and wane with the cycles of the moon, but a full grown Dog like Charlie should have been able to maintain either form at will at any time of the month. It was his own stubborn loyalty that pushed him into overexertion after the banshee was killed, and you saw what came of that. I knew he was losing control, the fool. Now, thanks to his devotion to this ignorant town and its superstitious people, it seems Charlie Cane must follow in his ancestors’ footsteps and flee.”
I watched as Charlie shifted fitfully in his sleep. The quilt over his legs wiggled as his feet twitched unconsciously. He reminded me of a puppy, pawing softly at the floor as he dreamt.
“So . . . he isn’t really a monster, after all,” I said, weakly. “Good. That’s good.”
Jackaby regarded me for several long moments. “Do you see those paintings by the door?” he asked.
I followed his gesture and nodded. On the left hung the knight slaying a dragon, and on the right was the ship being towed through stormy seas by a massive, golden fish. I had seen them on my first day exploring the house.
“Do you know the stories?” Jackaby asked.
“I recognize Saint George, but no—not really.”
“Saint George. The Golden Legend,” said Jackaby, walking under the image of the knight. “A city besieged by plagues brought on by a terrible dragon. Livestock and then human children were sacrificed to appease the beast. When the king’s own daughter was offered up, Saint George intervened, saving the girl’s life. He wounded the creature and bound it, bringing it back to the city to slay before the eyes of the townsfolk.”
Jackaby stepped over to the other painting. “What about this one?”
When I shook my head, he went on.
“This is the story of Manu and the Fish, from Hindu tradition. As the legend goes, a small fish came to Manu for protection. Manu took pity, and kept the thing safe in a jar until it could grow large enough to fend for itself. The fish grew larger and larger, and was enormous when Manu finally released it back into the river. Because of Manu’s kindness, the fish warned him that a great flood was coming, and told Manu to prepare. The fish returned in the midst of the flood to help tow Manu to a safe place to wait for the waters to recede.”
At this point, Jackaby returned to stand beside me. “Saint George’s legend tells of the dangers of mythical creatures, and the value of man asserting dominance over them. Manu’s tale, quite conversely, stresses the value of mercy, coexistence, and peaceful symbiosis.”
He paused, watching Charlie breathing slowly in and out for a few moments. “Were it not for the assistance of our young ‘monster,’ here, you almost certainly would not have survived Swift’s attack. Marlowe is a good man,” Jackaby added, thoughtfully, “but he only knows how to slay dragons. This world is full of dragon-slayers. What we need are a few more people who aren’t too proud to listen to a fish.”
I felt my chest tighten. I had failed to listen. “Jackaby,” I said, “I think Hatun knew what was going to happen.”
He raised an eyebrow at me.
“I think she knew I was going to be attacked. Although she made it sound as though I was going to die.”
“She said you were going to die?”
“Basically,” I answered. “She said that my demise would be imminent if I followed you. I guess you were right about her being unreliable. A lucky thing, too—I much prefer damaged to dead. She was trying to warn me to stay away, but I didn’t listen.”
Jackaby did not respond. He was surveying me with a brooding, sober expression. I was just starting to grow uncomfortable when he broke out of the moment with a wave. “Yes, well, anyway,” he said, the storm clouds vanishing instantly from his eyes. “Nice to have the whole affair behind us. I’ll be whipping up a bit of breakfast. Toddle on over to the laboratory when you’re ready.”
Douglas, from his perch atop the bench, shook his feathery head in a silent caution. I nodded as Jackaby bustled off down the hall. In the distance I could hear him calling, “Jenny! Have you seen that saucepan? The one from that set your grandmother left you?”
“You mean the one you riddled with buckshot dents last month?” came the spirit’s muffled reply. “Or the one you melted last summer with that alchemy nonsense?”
“The first one!”
I eased up to a seated position. The motion was difficult, but not overwhelming, and I found myself smiling as I took in my outrageous surroundings again. It was good to be home.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
By midday, Charlie had regained his color, and many of the nasty red scratches had somehow already faded to pale scars. I watched his chest rise and fall again until Jenny came to help me into a fresh, loose blouse. I found it in me to finish a cup of tea and a bit of toast, but still Charlie slept.
Now that I was awake, Douglas had relieved himself of his post and flapped off into the house somewhere, leaving me alone with the injured man. I stepped gingerly to the bench where he lay. He looked every bit as sweet and unassuming as he always had, perhaps even a little more so when his brow crinkled ever so slightly and his muscles tensed in his sleep. I hated to think he might be reliving his savage battle, and dearly wished there was something I could do to ease his turmoil. I reached out a hand to brush a curl of dark hair from his forehead, and then hesitated.
My heart thumped, beating hot against my scar. In the storybooks, a beautiful princess would revive him with a kiss, and the pair would live happily every after—but I was not a beautiful princess. I was a girl from Hampshire who liked to play in the dirt.
A cold breeze brushed my elbow, and a moment later Jenny’s soft voice came from over my shoulder. “How are you feeling, Abigail?”
“Helpless,” I answered, honestly. “I don’t like feeling helpless.”