were you thinking ?”
Nikolai Hawthorn, who had taken his wife’s surname along with this alternative life, was tossing belongings into a satchel while his son, scowling, crouched on the floor. Jack had been cleaning the equipment—the blessed daggers, talismans, and charms—when he told his father what he’d done.
“I saved a girl.”
“You killed one of them. We’re not supposed to murder them. Only prevent their harm. There are rules, boy, and you’ve broken a major one.” His father shoved a hand through his dark hair, the pewter ring on his forefinger—a hound curled around a sardonyx—catching the light.
“What are these for then?” Jack swept a hand over the assortment of daggers his father had collected during his travels: misericordes from Italy, a kuttar from India, and an antique parazonium from Greece. He hadn’t slept since killing the creature in the burned-out house. The green-eyed girl had run away—he didn’t blame her—and the hand in which he’d gripped the dagger was still numb, as if he’d sunk it into a snowbank for hours. Recalling how the spirit mimic’s face had broken beneath the silver blade, and the darkness that had spilled out, he struggled with an urge to retch. “If we don’t kill them, what use are we? They kill. They are not spirits—they are monsters .”
“Even monsters have friends, Jack. Monsters have families .”
“Like Grendel’s mother in Beowulf.” Jack felt a pang, remembering the story his mother had used to read to him. The wound of his mother’s recent deathfrom illness still bled between them. “You said what you drove out of people were only bad spirits.” Jack rose. “This one was not like the others. What are you not telling me? ”
“Jack.” His father didn’t raise his head, only said in a voice that meant the discussion was over, “We are leaving. Now— ”
“ Da. ” Jack indicated the door, his eyes wide.
Nikolai Hawthorn set his hand on the silver revolver engraved with the leaping hounds that were the signature of a famous Italian gun maker. Jack had never seen him use it before.
At his father’s nod, Jack yanked the door open.
The figure on the other side, swathed in a char-black greatcoat and a tricornered hat, kept its face in shadow. It spoke in a low, female voice that pressed against Jack’s eardrums. “I mean you no harm. I am here to ask for your assistance. Only that.”
Jack’s father said, calmly, “I’ve told you . . . I’ll have nothing to do with your kind—”
“How very impolite.” The hatted head turned toward Jack, who felt slicked in ice water as the eyes in the shadowed face gleamed like mirrors. “For your son’s sake, I think you will.”
THE PRESENT
Jack regarded the door knocker of the New Orleans house with amusement. “A skull. How unique.”
“Maybe it’s to keep Jehovah’s Witnesses away.” Phouka eyed it.
“I can’t imagine”—Jack lifted his gaze to the house’s stained façade—“that would ever be a problem.”
Phouka raised the metal hoop in the skull’s mouth, and let it fall. The resulting boom echoed throughout the rattletrap mansion. If Jack had still been mortal, he would have shuddered. Since he wasn’t, he merely said, “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
The door opened silently, revealing an elegant corridor with crimson walls and a tribe of taxidermy crocodiles attached, upside down, to the ceiling. At theend of the hall, a chandelier of dingy glass threw splotchy light on a three-foot figure that didn’t move or speak.
Jack exchanged a look with Phouka. He narrowed his eyes at the little shadow, which giggled and pattered away, its child’s gown flashing pale in a strand of light.
“He’s got haunts.” Jack said “haunts” the way someone might say “cockroaches.” “I hate those things.”
“Let’s get this over with.” Phouka adjusted her newsboy cap.
And they stepped into the crimson hall, beneath the upside-down
Nikolai Hawthorn, who had taken his wife’s surname along with this alternative life, was tossing belongings into a satchel while his son, scowling, crouched on the floor. Jack had been cleaning the equipment—the blessed daggers, talismans, and charms—when he told his father what he’d done.
“I saved a girl.”
“You killed one of them. We’re not supposed to murder them. Only prevent their harm. There are rules, boy, and you’ve broken a major one.” His father shoved a hand through his dark hair, the pewter ring on his forefinger—a hound curled around a sardonyx—catching the light.
“What are these for then?” Jack swept a hand over the assortment of daggers his father had collected during his travels: misericordes from Italy, a kuttar from India, and an antique parazonium from Greece. He hadn’t slept since killing the creature in the burned-out house. The green-eyed girl had run away—he didn’t blame her—and the hand in which he’d gripped the dagger was still numb, as if he’d sunk it into a snowbank for hours. Recalling how the spirit mimic’s face had broken beneath the silver blade, and the darkness that had spilled out, he struggled with an urge to retch. “If we don’t kill them, what use are we? They kill. They are not spirits—they are monsters .”
“Even monsters have friends, Jack. Monsters have families .”
“Like Grendel’s mother in Beowulf.” Jack felt a pang, remembering the story his mother had used to read to him. The wound of his mother’s recent deathfrom illness still bled between them. “You said what you drove out of people were only bad spirits.” Jack rose. “This one was not like the others. What are you not telling me? ”
“Jack.” His father didn’t raise his head, only said in a voice that meant the discussion was over, “We are leaving. Now— ”
“ Da. ” Jack indicated the door, his eyes wide.
Nikolai Hawthorn set his hand on the silver revolver engraved with the leaping hounds that were the signature of a famous Italian gun maker. Jack had never seen him use it before.
At his father’s nod, Jack yanked the door open.
The figure on the other side, swathed in a char-black greatcoat and a tricornered hat, kept its face in shadow. It spoke in a low, female voice that pressed against Jack’s eardrums. “I mean you no harm. I am here to ask for your assistance. Only that.”
Jack’s father said, calmly, “I’ve told you . . . I’ll have nothing to do with your kind—”
“How very impolite.” The hatted head turned toward Jack, who felt slicked in ice water as the eyes in the shadowed face gleamed like mirrors. “For your son’s sake, I think you will.”
THE PRESENT
Jack regarded the door knocker of the New Orleans house with amusement. “A skull. How unique.”
“Maybe it’s to keep Jehovah’s Witnesses away.” Phouka eyed it.
“I can’t imagine”—Jack lifted his gaze to the house’s stained façade—“that would ever be a problem.”
Phouka raised the metal hoop in the skull’s mouth, and let it fall. The resulting boom echoed throughout the rattletrap mansion. If Jack had still been mortal, he would have shuddered. Since he wasn’t, he merely said, “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
The door opened silently, revealing an elegant corridor with crimson walls and a tribe of taxidermy crocodiles attached, upside down, to the ceiling. At theend of the hall, a chandelier of dingy glass threw splotchy light on a three-foot figure that didn’t move or speak.
Jack exchanged a look with Phouka. He narrowed his eyes at the little shadow, which giggled and pattered away, its child’s gown flashing pale in a strand of light.
“He’s got haunts.” Jack said “haunts” the way someone might say “cockroaches.” “I hate those things.”
“Let’s get this over with.” Phouka adjusted her newsboy cap.
And they stepped into the crimson hall, beneath the upside-down
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