“Not so fast!” A new voice thundered out of the darkness of the forest. Jackaby froze with the bloody derby poised over the fire. A heavy drip sizzled on the burning embers. We both turned to watch as Chief Inspector Marlowe pushed past the underbrush and into the clearing, his pistol trained on Jackaby. His eyes passed over the scene as he moved, pausing on the fallen form of Officer O’Doyle, then Swift’s prone body, and widening as they took in Charlie. “I don’t know what happened here, Jackaby, but I’ll thank you not to destroy the evidence.”

“Oh, put it down, Marlowe,” Jackaby replied. “We’ve done your job for you. It’s over. All that’s left is to finish him off before he kills again”—he nodded toward the commissioner—“and then get some medical attention for that one as soon as possible.” He gestured over his shoulder at Charlie.

Marlowe lowered his weapon and eyed Charlie. “You’re right about that,” he grunted. “The city will sleep safely tonight with that thing dead and buried.”

“What, Charlie? Don’t be an ass. You said yourself that boy was one of your best detectives.”

At the sound of his name, Charlie stirred, one deep breath sending a ripple of shudders through his body. He remained prostrate, but his heavy, felted eyelids flickered open a crack.

Marlowe started at the sudden motion, and his gun flashed back out, fixed on Charlie. Jackaby was almost as fast, stepping between the inspector and his mark. “Come now, Marlowe, let’s not do anything rash.”

“Have you gone completely and totally insane?” Marlowe demanded. His weapon, now pointed squarely at Jackaby’s chest, did not waver.

I heard a quiet clink and my eyes shot to Swift. The commissioner still lay on the damp earth, but now the shadowy form was beginning to awaken. The silky gray coat rose and fell in slow breaths, and the moonlight glinted off his heel as the iron shoe twitched.

“Jackaby!” I cried in a hoarse whisper, but the detective was occupied with Marlowe.

“As usual, Inspector, you have entirely failed to see things for what they truly are.”

“What is wrong with you, Jackaby? For the first time ever, there really is an impossible monster behind everything, and now you’re the one who doesn’t believe it?”

“Marlowe!” I called out as the commissioner’s leg brace creaked again ever so slightly.

“You saw what that thing did to O’Doyle and Swift,” the chief inspector was busy barking. “Move aside!”

“I did not personally see how Officer O’Doyle was dispatched, as it happens, but I doubt Officer Cane was involved,” said Jackaby, “and he definitely did not put those bullet holes in the commissioner. I did.”

Marlowe actually stepped back a little. “You are alarmingly bad at making yourself sound sane, do you know that?”