The song was a whirlpool, powerful and disorienting, and pulling me ever deeper. At times it was melodic, sung with beautiful, sweeping tones of exquisite sorrow—but then it would collapse into the wretched discord of a woman in the throes of anguish, and back again. There was no break between the two, and the further into the lament I fell, the more I saw them as one and the same. It was my mother’s voice, and it was my voice, and it was no voice at all. No words in any language could have more precisely conveyed the sadness and foreboding flooding through my senses. It was the last song I would ever hear.

With great difficulty, I pulled my mind back into the dim police station. I looked into the next cell at Jackaby, who was standing by the thin, high window, looking out into the tempest. How long had he been there? Minutes? Hours? It was a blur. He looked inexplicably calm.

I pulled the scratchy, woolen blanket tighter about my shoulders, wondered briefly when I had received it, and walked over toward him. His breaths were deep and even. His storm gray eyes flashed for an instant with the brilliant reflection of lightning outside.

“What do you see?” I asked through the bars.

“Nothing,” he answered softly. “Just the rain.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” I asked, wiping my eyes with the wooly corner of the blanket.

He looked at me for a moment and smiled gently. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I suppose I am curious, first. I’ll let myself be afraid when my curiosity is satisfied—and as my curiosity will only be satisfied when I’ve looked our murderer in the face, it is unlikely I shall need to spend much time in fear.”

“Ah,” I said. “That’s convenient.”

“Quite.”

I followed his gaze out the window. “So,” I said, “we’re going to die.”

“Well, of course we are, Miss Rook. Don’t be dense. Everyone dies.”

“Tonight,” I said.

Jackaby sighed. “Yes.”

“Any thoughts about what sort of creature we should be expecting?” I asked.

“Many thoughts, yes.”

“Any conclusions?”

Jackaby’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced my way. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes. Madness? Excitement? Hope? The banshee’s melancholy melody howled through the trees and I shivered, holding my attention on that glimmer like a hot ember in a pile of cold ash.

“There is someone who has aroused my curiosity,” he mused, turning away again. “Just a theory. Suspicions with no proof.”

“Someone—a suspect? Who?”

Jackaby’s answer, if he had intended to give me one at all, was interrupted. The banshee’s wail came to a crescendo as the wind picked up. Icy chills danced up my back, and even the detective winced. The door at the far side of the room swung open, and Junior Detective Charlie Cane stepped inside.