Ghostly Echoes (23 page)

“What? No! Are you mad?” Jenny said.

“Time is running out.”

“No. Not you,” I said. Jackaby and Jenny both looked at me. “It can't be you. You're the one they're after. They need your eyes, and if you're right, you'd be giving them exactly what they want. No, it has to be me.”

“Abigail . . .” said Jenny.

“Besides,” I said. “I can't see if anything comes through from the other side, but Jackaby can. He can watch for the aura and remove the stone the second anyone tries to take over.”

“Abigail, no . . .” Jenny pleaded.

“I can't ask this of you,” said Jackaby.

“You don't have to. They used me. I want to return the favor.”

I sat down at the ransacked desk and Jackaby picked up the pouch. I held out my hand. Very carefully, he dropped the stone into my outstretched palm. I could see Jenny drifting back and forth behind him, worrying the translucent lace on her dress. At first nothing happened. I stared at the carved circles and imagined opening a window. I pushed with all my mental muscles against the stone. Still nothing for several seconds.

The sensation came abruptly. The scar on my temple felt hot, but I ignored the pain and focused on the little stone, concentrating hard. The room spun and the edges of my vision dimmed. A tunnel of darkness closed in until all that remained were the stone's rough circles. The lines were suddenly more than carvings. They curved high above me and described the outline of a long tunnel through the darkness. The walls to either side were made of shadows and gloom. I moved through the passage—falling or flying, I could not say—drifting through a series of uneven rings. Something shimmered ahead of me, a single star in the sea of black. I drew closer.

Pure white light punctured the darkness, and in the center of it stood a man. The figure was almost lost in the blinding brightness. His features were inscrutable—a charcoal silhouette against the halo of light. I suddenly wanted to be anywhere else, but I willed myself to inch closer, trying to discern any details.

THE AGE OF MEN HAS ENDED. The thought had no voice, no accent. The words simply sprang from inside my head, echoing like cannon fire. I AM THE KING OF THE EARTH AND THE ANNWYN. I AM DONE WITH YOUR KIND AND I AM DONE WITH YOUR WALLS AND I AM DONE WITH WAITING. The figure lunged forward and I saw his eyes in the darkness, blood red and full of malice.

The stone clacked against the desk. The dark tunnel fell away and I was back in the house on Augur Lane. I blinked. My cheek was on fire. Jackaby slipped the channel back into the red pouch and pulled the cords tight.

“Well?” he said. “What did you see?”

I held on to the desk with both hands to keep from spinning off the chair. “He's there. He called himself a king. It was like he was waiting for me at the end of a long—” I caught my breath. “Red eyes and the end of a long, dark hallway. That's what Eleanor was seeing all those years ago! The hallway wasn't a place at all. It was a channel, straight to him.”

“He was in her head?” said Jackaby. “For months, he was in Eleanor's head.” His hands balled into fists. “But she resisted. She died resisting. They needed her. The Dire Council needed her sight and she died rather than let them take it.”

“And now they need you,” said Jenny, quietly.

“He spoke to me,” I said. “The
king of the earth and the Annwyn.
He said he was done with walls and he was done waiting.”

“Good,” said Jackaby.

“Good?” said Jenny.

“Good. All this time we've been chasing shadows while he was building war machines and murdering innocent bystanders. Not anymore. We took his teeth when we bested Pavel and we bound his hands when we bested Morwen. If this king wants my eyes he'll need to come out of the shadows to get them himself. We're finally forcing
his
hand instead of the other way around. He's tired of waiting? Good. So am I.”

“Sir,” I said. “You know we're with you, but we're not ready to fight a war. They want to tear down a wall we can't even see and unleash an army we can't begin to imagine. We're not ready for any of this.”

“They killed Eleanor because she stood against them. They killed Howard Carson. Lawrence Hoole. Nellie Fuller.” He looked up at Jenny. “Jenny Cavanaugh. How many countless others? Good people have lost their lives every time they've risen up against the Dire Council's villainy. I will not let those losses be in vain, nor will I stand idly by while countless others meet the same fate. We don't know how long our window will last, and we cannot give him time to rally. He could be at our doorstep before we know it.”

“Well then,” I said, summoning the strength to stand up without wobbling. “Let's go save the world.”

SUPPLEMENTAL MATERIAL

It was well after midnight when Jackaby passed by my room. He paused in the hallway before doubling back to poke his head through my open door.

“You haven't slept,” he said.

“No, sir. Not yet.” I sat up, hugging the blankets around myself. My stomach was a tightening knot. “I—I'm—” I sighed.

“You're what?” Jackaby stepped inside.

“I'm—” I took a deep breath. I didn't want to say it out loud. Saying it out loud somehow made it true. I dropped my head, letting the words fall in sheepish whispers on the blanket. “I'm afraid.”

“Of course you are,” said Jackaby flatly. “You're intelligent and you're aware. Why shouldn't you be afraid?”

“That's very reassuring, sir. Thank you,” I said. “Are you afraid?”

“Constantly,” he said. “It's the reason I'm still alive. Fear keeps us sharp. Listen to your fear.”

“And what if my fear tells me—what if it tells me I should run away?” I asked.

Jackaby leaned against the battered old dresser and regarded me with a bemused smile. “Then you should probably run away. I told you as much when I hired you. This line of work comes with heavy risks.”

“Why haven't you run?” I asked.

His smile faltered and he swallowed. “I ran once,” he said. “In a way, I haven't stopped.” He crossed the room in silence before dropping into a threadbare armchair in the corner.

“What did you run from?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow at me but did not reply.

“It's hard to imagine,” I said. “What could scare a man who fights monsters?”

His expression hardened. “Being a man who doesn't.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the chair-back. “Being a man who lets the monsters win. I've been running from that for a very long time.”

I nodded, not knowing what else to say. The clock in the hallway ticked out a stoic rhythm that echoed through the house for several beats. Jackaby broke the silence at last.

“Have I told you the story of the two pennies?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Another folktale?”

“A memory,” he said. “I met a man that day.”

“Which day?” I asked.

“The day I ran. The sight was still so new to me then, and I had so much to learn. I was a rudderless boy with the weight of the world on my unready shoulders. I didn't know where I was going, just that I needed to be gone.

“I walked for hours before reaching the nearest town, which is where I met the man. He wore stained overalls and a faded cap. His hair was gray, and his moustache bushy. He had a muddy cart at his side and a long-handled brush in his hands—he was a simple workman, cleaning a fountain in the town square. I don't know why, but I stopped to watch him. There was something calming about the way he worked.

“The workman was just packing up when a married couple passed by with a little girl in tow. The old workman set his brush aside and greeted them with a kindly smile. He showed the child a penny he had fished out of the fountain. He told her an impromptu story about wishing wells and lucky coins. I listened from my bench. The girl's parents seemed to find the man charming. The girl was riveted. The story was a lot of nonsense.

“When he was done, he handed the coin to the girl. She closed her eyes solemnly and tossed it into the water. The old man tipped his cap, and the family went happily on their way.

“I watched them as they walked off down the lane. I had seen the coin. It was a penny. Unexceptional. No aura, no halo, no magic. And yet—

“Impossibly, the girl was changed by the experience. There was a new glow around her. I could see it as plainly as you can see the glow of a candle. It was a blue aura, but a warm blue. It was as though she had been charmed, and I suppose she had been. I would wager anything that little girl got her wish after all.

“The workman was looking right at me when I turned back. He gestured for me to come forward, so I climbed down from my bench and approached him nervously. He hung his rag on the cart and merrily pressed a second salvaged coin into my palm.

“It was a penny, just like the first. Just like countless others. A scuffed Indian Head. Brown. Small. It might have been the least special penny ever minted. The man told me to make a wish. I smiled warily and tossed the thing into the fountain.”

“What did you wish for?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Jackaby said, rubbing his neck. “My life as I knew it was over. I was alone. I was afraid. I wanted nothing that a wet penny could give me. The nice man patted my arm and pushed his cart away down the cobblestones. I watched my penny sink to the bottom of the fountain. That's when I saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“The first penny, the little girl's. It was glowing blue, but a warm blue, just like the girl's aura—a hopeful blue. My own coin came to rest beside it, brown and lusterless. Her coin had been as dull as mine, but the wish had changed it. It was now shining with a raw and radiant optimism—a lucky penny, indeed.”

“Missed opportunity, then,” I said. “The man's story was real, after all. You should have made a wish.”

Jackaby opened his eyes, and a smile gently returned to his cheeks. “I did not need the wish so much as I needed the lesson,” he said. “I learned what I needed to learn. I learned that we make our own luck, Miss Rook. It wasn't the coin. It was finding something to believe in. There is real power in that.”

“I like that,” I said. “So, what have you found to believe in, sir?”

Jackaby looked at me for a long time. His storm gray eyes bore into mine, but his expression was curiously gentle. At length he rose to his feet. “Good night, Miss Rook,” he said. “Until tomorrow comes.”

In another moment Jackaby would be out the door. Soon I would hear his feet pad down the carpet, hear his door click shut at the end of the hall. For that instant, though, I felt a curious sensation ripple over me. I felt the knot of fear inside me loosen. I felt as though if I looked down I might see myself aglow—blue, perhaps, but a warm blue, a hopeful blue.

“Good night, Mr. Jackaby,” I said. “Until tomorrow comes.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I must thank Elise Howard, Eileen Lawrence, Brunson Hoole, and all of the amazing minds at Algonquin Young Readers, without whom the Jackaby series would not be the Jackaby series; my brilliant wife, Katrina, who continues to be my first and most trusted reader; and my agent, Lucy Carson, who remains Jackaby's stalwart ally. I would also like to acknowledge all of the brilliant students who grace my classroom with their presence and who provide me with tremendous hope for the future. Keep reading, love odd, and celebrate strange!

KATRINA SANTORO

William Ritter
is an Oregon author and educator. He is the proud father of the two bravest boys in the Wild Wood and husband to the indomitable Queen of the Deep Dark.
Ghostly Echoes
is the third book in his acclaimed
New York Times
bestselling Jackaby series. Visit Will online at
rwillritter.wordpress.com
and find him on Twitter:
@Willothewords
.