Free Beastly Bones by William Ritter Page B

and its reflection bounced blindingly off the nearby windows.
    â€œAbigail Rook!” The ragged woman smiled up at me like a pleased old auntie.
    I caught my breath. “Oh goodness—Hatun. How nice to see you again.” Hatun was one of Jackaby’s occasional contacts on the streets of New Fiddleham. “Did you happen to see a man run through here?”
    She thought hard for a few seconds. Her face crinkled up in concentration.
    â€œJust now?” I prompted. “Did you see someone run through here just now?”
    Her face brightened “That’s what it is!” She clapped her hands happily. “You’re alive! That’s what’s different about you.”
    I blinked. “Yes. Erm. I was alive the last time you saw me, too.”
    Hatun waved her hand dismissively. “Right, right. Sometimes I see things a little out of order is all. All the same, I’m glad you’re not dead just yet.”
    â€œWell, thank you for that, I suppose.”
    â€œYou’re leaving town?” she asked.
    â€œYes. For Gadston, on the next train. You didn’t see anyone?”
    â€œWell thank goodness. Hate to see you go, but it’s for the best. I am fond of the fellow, but remember what I told you about following Mr. Jackaby. I’ve seen it.” She leaned in and whispered loudly, “Death.”
    Hatun did not look like much, but she was exceptional in her own right. While Jackaby had a unique vision of the world, Hatun saw the world through a sort of kaleidoscope of angles, some of which were more helpful than others. Her premonitions were generally on the less-reliable side, ranging from talking teakettles to an apocalypse of eggplants, but they were on the right track often enough to generally merit a listen. She had once told me that I would follow Jackaby to my demise, a prophecy that turned out—very fortunately—to be exaggerated. I had only
nearly
died, although I had the scar above my heart to remember it by.
    â€œOh—right, that. No, I’m not
leaving
leaving. I am still working for Jackaby. That business you were worried about, though—I came out of it only a little worse for wear. That’s all over.”
    â€œIs it, now?” The way Hatun looked straight at me—as though she were looking much, much farther than my eyes—made me more uncomfortable than I care to admit.
    â€œRook!” Jackaby called from the doorway. The train had begun to rattle loudly into the station, and he had to yell over the sound of the hissing steam. “Rook! What on earth are you up to?”
    I waved him over. “Just saying hello to an old friend.”
    He marched along the platform toward us, a pair of tickets clutched in his hand. Along the way he seemed to catch sight of something in the air. He slowed and reached one hand out to gently feel ahead of him, as one might reach over the side of a boat to brush the waves. A puff of steam engulfed him. He waved it away and continued on to the end of the platform.
    â€œJackaby. You’re looking well,” Hatun said.
    â€œGood day, Hatun. I don’t suppose either of you noticed something peculiar hanging about in the air around here? Sort of a purplish, ashen color? Vaguely funereal? No?”
    â€œYes!” I said. “Well, no. I saw a man. He was terribly creepy, and I’ve seen him before, Mr. Jackaby. He was outside the house this morning.”
    â€œHmm.” Jackaby’s expression darkened. “I’ve seen that aura before as well.”
    I swallowed. “Campbell Street?”
    He nodded solemnly.
    â€œFire,” said Hatun, barely above a whisper.
    â€œCome again?” Jackaby asked.
    The little old woman stepped toward Jackaby. Her eyes were closed to slits and she breathed in deeply through her nose. “So much fire.”
    Jackaby and I exchanged concerned glances.
    â€œOr possibly fireflies,” Hatun amended, blinking. “Or