The wind was really wailing now, and a sudden, hard gust danced through the station house, sending a stack of paperwork flying around the room. The portly duty officer latched the window tightly and quickly busied himself sorting out the mess. Even with the windows sealed, the angry gale roared against the panes.

Jackaby was sitting on the bench in his cell, but his eyes were a million miles away.

“Quiet a moment,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. He shut his eyes, and his head cocked to the side as he listened. I listened as well, though it was getting impossible to hear anything over the howling wind.

And then, like a match struck in the dark, my mind made sense of the sound. It had been growing steadily louder on the tails of the storm. I felt the blood drain from my face as icy tingles shot down my spine and danced through my extremities. A drop struck my cheek, and I brushed away my own hot tear.

“You hear it, too?” Jackaby’s voice came somberly through the wind.

I nodded solemnly. “So sad,” I managed.

“Yes,” said Jackaby. “Mrs. Morrigan has a remarkable voice.”

At the mention of the banshee’s name, a burst of lightning lit the little window, and the thunderclap was not far behind. I slumped in my seat, my head reeling, and listened to the banshee’s cry—listened to the sound of our own deaths riding after us on the storm.

“Cake?”

My misty eyes found focus. The policeman with the walrus mustache was holding a tray with a few cheerful slices of birthday cake. He pushed one through the slot at the bottom of my cell.

“It’s just gonna go stale, anyway,” he said, kindly. “And we get ants.”

Jackaby managed a weak smile as the man slid one to him as well. “Thank you, Officer,” he said. “Many happy returns.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The following hours, during which the stormy winds continued to harass the station-house walls, felt like days. We were half a mile from the Emerald Arch, but, like currents against a sinking ship, the banshee’s wail continued to wash over us in rhythmic waves. I recalled the image of Mr. Henderson, pillows belted to his ears to drown out the sound, and his actions seemed much less like madness now.