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?”

“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.