Rook
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Synopsis
This standalone adventure set in the world of the New York Times bestselling Jackaby series brims with humor, heart, and—of course—a hefty dose of supernatural mayhem.
Abigail Rook never intended to be the mortal bridge between the human and supernatural world. But now, the power of the Sight--and all the chaos that comes with seeing the essential truth of everything, every human, fairy, werewolf, enchanted slip of paper, and municipal building, at all times--is hers alone. With this overwhelming new gift, she should be able to solve crimes and help New Fiddleham, New England find calm in its supernatural chaos.
The only problem? She has no idea what she’s doing.
And New Fiddleham isn't waiting for Abigail to be ready. Local witches and other magical beings are going missing, as tensions between human and supernatural residents curdle into a hatred that could tear the city apart. Abigail's fiance, Charlie, works alongside her to unravel the magical disappearances, but as a shapeshifter, he's under threat as well. Then Abigail's parents appear, ready to take her back to England and marry her off to someone she's never met. Abigail has no choice but to follow her Sight, her instincts, and any clues she can find to track a culprit who is trying destroy everything she holds dear.
Publisher: Workman Publishing Company
Print pages: 368
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Rook
William Ritter
I was already out of breath as I crested a hill looking out over the busy streets of New Fiddleham. My mentor had a naturally rapid gait, and it had been too long since I’d had any practice keeping pace. “A moment, if you don’t mind, Mr. Jackaby,” I called.
“Of course.” He paused to stand in what he might have believed was a nonchalant posture, leaning stiffly with his shoulder against a lamppost and his hands in the pockets of his tatty old duster while he waited for me. His restlessness was palpable—it crawled under his lapels and clambered through his messy hair. The man’s impatience had little to do with today’s hike and everything to do with me. I couldn’t blame him.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t apologize,” he chided, but his aura churned.
Auras, for those who have the good fortune of not being able to see them, look a bit like a glowing light and a bit like wispy smoke and a bit like a dream you tried to hold in your mind after waking up. Auras are slippery. They’re also everywhere. Everything has its own energy. Sometimes that energy is simple—an average brick’s energy is ruddy and brick-shaped; an average pebble’s is small and pale. Other times, an aura is a hundred times larger and more complicated than the physical object generating it. A simple silver brooch could fill a room with waves of midnight and sadness, or a strand of hair could burn as bright as a bonfire. That might all sound like a dazzling spectacle, and it is, but one does not wish to be dazzled when one is trying to butter a potato. One wishes that a potato would just sit still and be a potato for five blessed minutes. Auras are exhausting. And I had spent my formative months as a Seer sequestered in a building packed with my mentor’s paranormal relics and crime scene mementos. They dazzled ceaselessly.
Until recently, Jackaby had been the one to see auras, and he had been good at it. He had made a career out of it, solving impossible mysteries by following invisible clues. The sight should have remained his until the day he died—and technically it had. Fortunately, Jackaby’s untimely demise had only been temporary. Less fortunately, his supernatural sight had transferred itself behind my unready eyelids the moment his heart had stopped beating, and there it had remained even after his resuscitation. The power was mine now, whether I wanted it or not.
“Shall we?” Jackaby asked.
I nodded, following him under a narrow brick arch. My eye twitched as we crossed through the tight alleyway. The space was claustrophobic, and the air was thick with the electric grays of anxiety and fear. One wall had been splattered with dull red paint, in which someone had hastily scrawled the words MUNDUS NOSTER. Each letter thrummed angrily. It made me feel itchy, like scar tissue forming around a cut.
“What’s that?” I asked aloud.
“Hmm?” Jackaby followed my gaze. His lip twisted in a brief sneer. “Don’t pay it any mind. Just local gangs demonstrating typical New Fiddleham hospitality. At least they’ve put some effort into their Latin this time. Our world. Not particularly original. I’ve seen four or five variations in the past week.”
I swallowed. “Is that normal?” I asked.
Jackaby didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His aura churned faster.
“This is why you wanted me to get back out into the city, isn’t it?” I said. “To see things like that for myself?”
“You are not responsible for stopping every vandal in New Fiddleham, Miss Rook,” Jackaby replied. He kept his eyes fixed forward. “I told you already, this trip is only for practice. No ulterior motives. No pressure. When you are ready, you’re ready.” A few agitated pinwheels of anxiety spun off his aura, but he kept his expression flat. “You’ve been cooped up for months. It’s good for you to get back into the world, breathe some fresh air.” He sniffed. “Or at least some New Fiddleham air. Mind that sticky-looking puddle, there.”
He had a point. It had been ages since I had ventured more than a few blocks from home, and on those rare outings I tended to keep my attention on the cobblestones. The house had become my safe haven. Granted, it was also a safe haven to several species of supernatural wildlife, a handful of temperamental nature spirits, and at least one ghost—but none of those things were as frightening to me as the outside world. As it happens, the resident ghost of 926 Augur Lane had become one of my dearest friends of late. Her name was Jenny Cavanaugh, and she would have given you the coat off her own back, if that coat had not also been a spectral apparition incapable of passing to mortal hands.
I picked up the skirts of my walking dress as I hurried to stay fast on Jackaby’s heels. “So this whole exercise isn’t even a tiny bit about the commissioner’s request?” I asked.
“Hmm? What was that?” Jackaby deflected clumsily.
“For a consultation? I saw the letter in your office.”
“Ah. Well. No, this trip is certainly not about Commissioner Marlowe. Unless . . .” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Unless you felt like you were ready?” A faint hint of bright turquoise formed a hopeful little halo behind his head. “It’s only that the police are ill-equipped for a lot of the new cases coming their way. I’ve been assisting here and there when I can, but the sight would be particularly helpful right about now.”
“I don’t know.” I took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry. I want to be ready, truly. Jenny says—”
“It’s fine,” Jackaby said, hurriedly. “It’s fine. His requests can wait.”
“Requests?” I asked. “More than one? How many has he sent?”
Jackaby’s mouth hung open for a beat. His eyes darted to the left. “Look at that! We’re here!” he declared. “Last stop for the day.”
We had drawn up along the side of a wide building hewn from broad gray stones.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
An ordinary tour guide might have been encouraging me to take in the majestic sight of the Romanesque arches above us or perhaps the savory smells of the street vendors half a block ahead. I could tell that this was not my mentor’s intention.
“See it?” Jackaby patted the wall beside him. “Should be just about here, yes?”
I nodded. “I see it,” I said. “It looks like a stain—only it’s not really there, is it?”
Jackaby beamed happily. “Of course it’s there. Well. I can’t see it—not anymore—but I remember it. What does it look like to you?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s got layers,” I said. “Dark green underneath, but not a proper green. It’s a guilty sort of green? Like seaweed and shame. Then it gets lighter and more yellow as it warms up. It’s . . . sparkly? It’s like there are slivers of diamond mixed up in the bricks. They’re good sparkles, I think. Mostly.”
“Well, Detective?” Jackaby prompted. “You’ve got all the pieces of the puzzle. Take a guess. What’s just on the other side of that wall?”
I bit my lip. For months, I had memorized the unique tints of specific creatures. Elven magic, troll musk, pixie dust—they all gave off distinct energies, like footprints. But the sight didn’t stop at species. Every being, human or otherwise, had a history and memories that trailed behind them like swirling eddies, further coloring their energy. Fears and hopes saturated every passerby. Bang any two people together, and you’d find the air thick with a cloud of thoughts and emotions. Reading the residue that people left behind was like trying to tell what had been written on a blackboard based on the chalk dust coming off the erasers.
“Behind this wall is . . . a room?” It was like I had inherited an artist’s priceless paints, but I could barely manage to scribble out a finger painting. “It seems like a place where a lot of people have visited.”
“Okay,” Jackaby said. “Move past the obvious, now. Why do people come here?”
“They come here . . . because they feel bad?” I ventured. “Except coming here makes them feel worse, I think. But feeling worse makes them feel . . . better, somehow?” My head was beginning to hurt. “Does any of that make sense?”
Jackaby nodded. “Nearly there. What sort of place is it?”
“A . . . pub?”
“So close.” Jackaby snapped his fingers. Ripples of disappointment spread along his aura.
“Oh, just tell me.”
“We’re on the side of St. Mary’s,” he said. “Behind these bricks is the confessional. Remarkable how those heavy feelings have seeped all the way through solid stone over the years. Beautiful, too, isn’t it? I always found it so hard to describe. You should really see the particles of guilt when they catch the light around sunset.”
I ran my fingers over the swirling energies that clung to the wall. It was oddly pretty. I closed my eyes, but the colors still hung before me in darkness—the sight a stronger force than my own eyelids.
“Ready to head back?” Jackaby asked.
“Why should guilt be beautiful?” I asked. “It seems like guilt should be ugly, shouldn’t it?”
Jackaby shrugged. “I suppose it’s less about the emotion and more about the honesty of confessing.” He adjusted the strap on his satchel. “Honesty’s rare. Finding a place where you feel safe enough to be open and true—that’s something special. I think the sight responds to that.” He patted the wall once more, affectionately. “Shall we?”
The walk back toward Augur Lane took us over wide, winding streets, down narrow alleys framed by tall brick buildings, and past the stately grounds of St. Pantaloon’s (the latter being a hospital that was supposed to be named for Saint Pantaleon, patron of physicians and midwives, but—due to a bit of sloppy cursive on the official documents—had been named, instead, for baggy women’s trousers). One of the things I had come to love about living in New Fiddleham was that it refused to abide by the logic of any other town—nor by any logic at all, most days.
Since arriving, I had often mused that the city felt alive—that it hummed in the myriad voices of the people within its walls. In the past, the thought had been merely romantic. Now that I had the sight, the feeling had evolved into less of a metaphor and more of a firm observation. Walking through the city felt like clinging to the back of a great, powerful horse or burying my face in the soft fur of some gigantic bear. Even the cold cobblestones beneath my feet had a life to them, a history. They breathed. The air, perfumed by a mix of wash water and frying meats, carried with it something else as well—an essence that was more than scents on the breeze.
Generations of people had hung their dreams and fears and hopes on this city—I could see them as plainly as I could see the laundry strung between buildings. To countless people, this bulky, bustling beast of a town had meant more than bricks and mortar—it had meant opportunity and second chances. This city would be different than the last. This city would make manifest the lives they had been waiting for. Faithfully, desperately, countless souls had made the choice to believe in New Fiddleham, and their belief had given the city life. New Fiddleham was alive. But it was also aching.
“Is that Anton’s bakery up ahead?” I asked.
Jackaby nodded, but his energy soured almost at once. “It might be faster if we cut up along Mason Street.”
“Hang on.” I furrowed my brow. Something was off. “Why is it all boarded up?”
Jackaby cleared his throat. “Erm. Anton decided it was time to move on,” he said. “Packed up shop a month or two ago. A feral brownie swarm nested in the rafters as soon as he was gone, so I don’t envy whoever tries to move in next.”
My chest felt heavy as we continued past Anton’s. Other shops had shuttered as well, and a few of them had broken windows. A cherry tree with a halo of wild magic was growing sideways out of the wall of a used bookstore. The sidewalk beneath it was littered with broken bricks and rotten cherries, as if the thing had simply punched its way out, rather than growing gradually over many years. An axe was buried in the tree trunk, but the bark had swollen around the axe head and trapped it. A soggy newspaper hung in one of the branches. It was tattered from the wind, but the words The Paranormal Problem stood out in bold font at the top of an editorial.
New Fiddleham had always been a city with troubles—its shadows had shadows—but I had been under the impression that things had been getting brighter. I eyed my mentor. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Loads of things,” he confirmed without hesitation. “An octopus has three hearts. Spiderwebs make excellent bandages, provided you take the spiders out first. Let’s see—interpreting cheese curds was a popular method of divination in the Middle Ages. It’s called tyromancy.”
“You know what I meant,” I said.
Jackaby’s jaw tightened and his pace slowed. “Seven,” he said. “Commissioner Marlowe has reached out on seven separate occasions asking when you might be ready to consult again. He needs help. Between you and me, his officers are in way over their heads. And it’s only getting worse.”
“Why didn’t you tell me things had gotten this bad?”
“Jenny felt it was best not to put too much pressure on you before you were ready.” He fidgeted with the strap of his satchel. “I promised. And she’s right. Besides, there’s always a bit of bad,” he added.
“This is more than a bit, though, isn’t it?” I asked.
Faded yellow flecks flickered in Jackaby’s aura as he wrestled with his answer. In the end, he settled for honesty. “It is concerning,” he admitted.
I felt a numb weight in my stomach. “Is this all happening just because the Seer hasn’t been around to solve everyone’s strange problems?” I asked. “Were you always the secret linchpin holding this city together?”
“Not so secret,” Jackaby grumbled. “I told them how important my work was as often as possible—not that anyone used to listen.” He must have caught the expression on my face, because his tone quickly shifted. “No. This isn’t your fault. Not even tyromancers could have seen things curdling quite like this. It’s complicated. The battle at the rift—it exposed a lot of magical beings, some of whom had been living here in secret for years and many more who crossed over for the first time through the new gate. It shook things up, that’s all.”
“But paranormals stood alongside humans in that battle!” I said. “I was there! It united everyone.” The words sounded naive even as I said them.
“Oh, the incident did bring people closer together,” Jackaby said, heavily. “It turns out people hate being close. Have you ever ridden on a crowded train car? People up close can be deeply unsettling.”
We passed a wall from which a wine barrel was protruding at a rakish angle at about head height. The masonry around the thing did not look like it had shifted, nor had the wood been cut or broken. Bricks and barrel simply appeared to be occupying the same space. A scrap of a label was just visible, poking out of the place where they met. It looked scorched, as if melding with the bricks had heated it to burning. I could see residual traces of energy still swirling around it.
“Things like this don’t help.” Jackaby patted the barrel as we passed. “Supernatural accidents, paranormal crimes, the occasional minor arson—this sort of thing used to come up every week or so, and I could typically handle each one quietly in a single afternoon. Except now they’re cropping up with troubling frequency, and I can’t . . .” He let the sentence trail off.
“No. You can’t. But I could have,” I said. “And I haven’t been. I’ve been letting it all pile up for months and months.”
Jackaby’s chest rose and fell. I could see that he wanted to disagree, but his weary aura betrayed him.
“You should have told me,” I said.
“Would knowing have made your training any easier? You weren’t ready.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but then shut it again.
After several paces, Jackaby rallied, willing himself to put on a halfhearted smile. “It’s fine. Progress demands discomfort. New Fiddleham is growing to become a better version of itself, just as we all are. Every scuffle in the streets or angry bit of vandalism is merely a growing pain. Throwing yourself at New Fiddleham’s problems before you overcome your own isn’t going to help anyone—least of all you. Although, if you think you might be ready soon . . .”
Jackaby’s words gradually faded to the back of my mind. My attention had snagged on a blue-black aura in a shady alleyway ahead. Sadness. Fear. Desperation. It was so intense, I could taste the feelings at the back of my mouth. I slowed down and stepped closer.
The figure in the alley was a child, slumped with her back against the bricks, her arms wrapped around her knees and her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. I glanced over to see what she was looking at. Facing her were several official-looking posters. They bore names and rough illustrations of half a dozen people, and each one was topped with the same bold heading: MISSING. A smaller, stiff script under each one encouraged citizens to report any information that might lead police to their whereabouts. Two of the posters had red paint splashed across them in crude Xs, and a third had the word DEMON scrawled across the drawing’s face. Not far off, the wall had been treated to another inscription of the dark red MUNDUS NOSTER.
When I turned my eyes back to the girl, she was watching me intently.
“Hello there,” I said, softly.
The girl didn’t answer. Her eyes, rimmed with red, narrowed as she surveyed me. She had a smudge of soot on her cheek, and the hem of her dress was caked with dirt. Her hair was so black that it almost looked blue in the cool light of the alleyway.
“It’s okay,” I continued. “My name is Miss Rook. This is my friend Mr. Jackaby. What’s your name?”
“Are you with the police?” she asked.
I glanced at Jackaby, who gave me an encouraging nod but remained silent. “Sometimes,” I said, turning back to the girl. “Not recently.”
“I’m not supposed to speak to police.”
“Sound advice,” I said. “They’re dreary conversationalists, on the whole. You’re much better off speaking to me.”
“You talk funny,” the girl said.
“I’m from England,” I said. “I grew up in a town called Portsmouth. Lots of people sound like me in Portsmouth. Would it be all right with you if I sat down for a bit?”
She shrugged gloomily. “It’s anyone’s sidewalk.”
I settled myself gently onto the ground a few feet away from her, our backs pressed against the same cool wall. “Portsmouth is a bit like New Fiddleham,” I said. “Ships in the harbor. Church bells on Sunday. But it’s different, too. There’s nowhere in the world that feels quite like home, is there?”
The kid only watched me, warily.
“I like the ways New Fiddleham is different,” I added. “It’s good to be different. Different is beautiful.”
“Maybe in Portsmouth it is,” mumbled the kid.
For several seconds, we sat in silence.
“Do you know any of them?” I asked gently, indicating the posters.
“You ask a lotta questions,” said the kid.
“I suppose I do.” I nodded. “It’s sort of my job to ask questions. I try to help people, if I can.”
She sniffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re not worried that you’ll get your fancy dress all dirty?”
“Dirt’s nothing,” I told her. “You should have seen my skirts after I fought a whole dragon. I was a right mess.”
“You didn’t fight a dragon.”
“I did,” I said. “I’ve fought a lot of creatures.”
She eyed me through narrow lids.
“You don’t believe me,” I said. “But I can do loads of things. For example, just by looking at you, I can tell that you’ve got a headstrong aura.”
She rolled her eyes.
“And you’ve spent a good bit of time in a cemetery recently.”
Her eyes ceased rolling.
“I’d wager that’s where you’ve been sleeping, yes? Graveyard dirt glows much brighter than garden dirt. I’ve practiced a lot with dirts. You also ate a cherry tart not long ago—no—raspberry? It was stolen, which I always find makes them taste sweeter, don’t you?”
The girl’s mouth pursed tightly, her brow furrowed, and she pushed herself up to her feet. “Have you been following me?” she demanded.
“Nothing like that,” I said.
“Stay away from me!” she cried, and bolted off down the alleyway.
“Wait!” I climbed to my feet. “I didn’t mean—I only . . .”
She was already out of earshot.
“Yeah. You get used to that.” Jackaby sighed. “Would you like to give chase?”
I shook my head, watching her vanish around the corner. With a sigh, I crossed the alley to get a closer look at the posters on the wall. The girl’s aura hung heavily off one in particular; it was a sketch of a woman by the name of Mary Horne. She had been reported missing two weeks prior. My eyes darted from paper to paper. They were all so recent—none of them older than last month. The ones marred by red paint were known paranormal citizens—their descriptions included species. The others, including Horne, appeared to be human.
I took a slow, deep breath. “So,” I said. “You say Commissioner Marlowe could use some help?”
Jackaby’s aura bubbled. He failed utterly to conceal a smile. “Welcome back, Detective Rook.”
The sun was high in the sky . . .
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