“It’s not a competition,” I said.
Jackaby groaned. “Although if it were, I think we all know who would be winning it. I’ve devoted my adult life to drawing attention to the dangers of the supernatural world all around us.” He grimaced, clenching his eyes shut. “All those times Marlowe hushed up my cases to avoid alarming the public, he was actually right. An alarmed public is precisely what the Dire King wants.” He leaned heavily on the table. “I begin to feel I may have been remiss in hiding those banana slugs in Marlowe’s desk drawer. And for drawing that monocle and mustache on his portrait in the station house. And for taking out that newspaper advertisement in his name, requesting donations of foreign cheeses be sent to his home address.”
“We’ve all played into the council’s hands,” I said.
“I’ve nae played inta any hands,” Nudd said.
“Fine. Yes. We’ve all played into his hands, with the exception of Mr. Nudd,” I amended. “What matters now is that we take the initiative. We can’t keep fighting the battles they lay out for us.”
“The shield,” said Jackaby. “We may be too late to beat them to Hafgan’s spear and crown, but we still have a chance with the shield. We even have a clue that they don’t. We just have to figure out what in the Bible of the zealot means.”
“I was thinking of Morwen,” said Jenny. “She’s our best route to manipulating the Dire King the way he’s manipulated us. If it’s a battle of minds we’re fighting, Morwen has the information we need. She knows where to find the rend, and I would wager she knows where the crown and spear are as well.”
Jackaby nodded. “Agreed. We research the shield and interrogate the nixie. What else?”
“Reinforcements?” suggested Charlie. “I don’t relish the thought of the six of us up against the world. The worlds.”
“Good. Information, interrogation, and collaboration. Plans are always best with a rhyme scheme. All right, then. Miss Cavanaugh and Miss Rook, I want you to interrogate Morwen tomorrow. You two have the most experience with her to date. Watch her, though. She’s slippery. Mr. Barker and Mr. Hudson—first thing in the morning I want the two of you to call on everyone in town we can trust. Summon as many as you can for a meeting here the following evening. Marlowe may not be able to spare any of his men, but not every warrior wears a uniform. Mona O’Connor might be a good place to start. The woman has proven herself a fair hand at triage under tricky circumstances. Anton, the baker on Market Street. Little Miss—you’ll find her at Madame Voile’s.”
“Little Miss? No,” I said. “You can’t invite a seven-year-old girl to help you fight a war, even a psychic one.”
“Little Miss can locate the dead,” he said. “That is a talent that may prove vital in ensuring the world still exists come her eighth birthday. Corpses are apparently rising in New Fiddleham, and our own resident ghost brought down the only member of the Dire Council we’ve actually managed to capture. The dead may well turn the tide for the living in this fight. So, yes. Little Miss.”
“Wha’ aboot me?” Nudd asked.
“You trade in a lot of expensive goods, old friend—but what have you always told me is worth the most?”
“Unicorn kidney?”
“What? No. The other thing.”
“Muthern’s love?”
“No, no, no. Information.”
Nudd’s face blossomed in understanding. “What is it ye want the knowin’ of ?”
“I want to know about Hafgan’s shield. Anything you can tell me—and I need to know if anyone else has been looking for it.”
Nudd slapped the table. “Dinna worry. I’ll put the horde on’t righ’ quick. We ha’ eyes an’ ears all o’er the earth an’ the Annwyn.” His face rippled in an unpleasant convulsion that might have been a conspiratorial wink. “Kin trade a lot o’ information for a jar o’ eyes an’ ears. We’ll get yer shield.”
“What about you, sir?” I asked.
“You two investigated an occult crime scene and encountered an actual specimen of the living dead—all without me. I am not too proud to admit that I’m a shade envious, but I am also not naive enough to think it was an isolated incident. If the undead are walking the streets, then I shudder to imagine what else might be out there. I would prefer to be on the advance guard this time, not waiting to hear about it secondhand. Before my home became a mythical motel, my sources had just informed me that there are at least five more crime scenes in the city right now brimming with unusual activity. I will start with those.”
“Wait, back up. There’s dead folks walkin’ around the city?” Hudson said. “Shouldn’t this’ve come up a little sooner?”
“That’s it, then.” Jackaby heaved a heavy sigh. “Get some rest, everyone. Tomorrow, it seems, we begin one of those days from which history may not bounce back again.”
Chapter Eleven
I awoke the next morning coughing and spluttering, until I managed to dislodge a downy feather from the back of my throat. A lady with the head of a pigeon glanced at me from the vanity and then went back to preening. Four large geese had made themselves comfortable by the window. I wasn’t sure what was supernatural or human about them. They had looked at me with pronounced disdain when I came to bed last night, but in my experience, such is the temperament of all geese.
A pair of avian women was dozing in the corner. Those two looked like harpies to me, but I had not worked up the confidence to ask them to either confirm or deny this. Their faces were stunningly beautiful, with features that could have been carved by Michelangelo framed by flowing hair, but from the neck down they had the bodies of overlarge birds, akin to a falcon or an eagle. Fully extended, their wings would have spanned from wall to wall in the bedchamber. They had introduced themselves last night as Alkanost and Sirin, but for the life of me I could not remember which was which. The one on the left had raven black feathers and a sour countenance, and her counterpart had dove white plumage and a bright smile. The lighter of the two had been delighted to learn my surname, although seemed mildly disappointed when I told her that, no, to the best of my knowledge, there were no literal rooks in my ancestry.
I dressed quickly and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind me. A smell like freshly baked bread and spices wafted through the air, decidedly unlike the usual smells I had come to associate with mornings in Jackaby’s house. I trod with great care down the spiral staircase. A family of a dozen Cornish spriggans had camped out there, one on each step, and a moon white miniature pony was snoring at the foot of the stairs. The pony waggled its scruffy ears as I hopped over it.