The Clockmaker sprayed the belfry with flame, moving his arm in an arc. Jack thought the move was a purposeless gesture of anger until Gwen tumbled to the floor beside him, her wool coat on fire. He pulled it from her shoulders and tossed it out into the belfry, attracting a second line of fire that burned it to cinders in seconds.
Jack pressed the clerk back against the stand. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Gwen coughed, waving her hand in a futile attempt to get the smoke away from her face. “How about, ‘Are you okay?’ Isn’t that the usual opener after one’s friend is nearly barbecued while coming to one’s aid?”
“Welcome, ma chère,” said the Clockmaker as another blast of flame hit the stand.
“See? Even the villain knows how to deliver a proper greeting.”
“Gwen, what about my dad?”
“Your mother’s with him.”
“My mother?”
Gwen ducked as more flames lit the belfry around them. “She came ahead of the rest. Mrs. Hudson was rallying the wardens when she left, but, Jack—”
“I know. They won’t get here in time.” He sighed and peeked over the stand, quickly dropping again to avoid the incoming fire. “I can’t get to him. He sees every move I make.”
Click.
“Two minutes until the bells, mes amis. And then you will see justice served. That is, if you live that long!”
A long blast of fire licked the platform, bending around the iron stand and forcing Jack and Gwen to squeeze together. As soon as the flames subsided, two more beetles buzzed into view, flanking them from either side, and Jack was too busy shielding Gwen with his father’s coat to knock them away. They lashed out with electric bolts.
To Jack’s surprise, both bugs missed wide. Way wide. Gwen knocked one away with a snap of her scarf. The other dove at Jack, but he hardly had to dodge at all. He shifted his head to the side and the bug smacked into the iron plate, dropping to the floor and flopping about. Jack ground it into the stone with his cane and kicked it away before it exploded.
Jack and Gwen stared at each other for half a heartbeat, trying to process what had happened. Then light dawned on Gwen’s face. “The smoke . . . confused their cameras,” she said, coughing into her arm.
She was right. The smoke in the belfry had grown as thick as it had been in the burning flat. If not for the green light cutting through the haze, Jack would not be able to see the clerk at all—not with his eyes, anyway. He lowered his voice. “I have a plan. If we can lose these lights, both the bugs and their master will be totally blind.”
Gwen tied the scarf behind her head, covering her mouth and nose. “Yes, but so will we.”
“You will. I won’t.” Jack scooted to the corner of the platform and risked another peek, encouraged by the fact that the Clockmaker did not seem to see him. He scanned the green haze, trying to settle his senses despite the choking smoke.
Ropes: one of them burning.
Bell hammers: ready to strike the apocalyptic hour.
Conduit: running along the ceiling above the northern windows.
Yes.
Jack traced the copper line to a pillar, where it descended into a common electrical box. “I see the breakers,” he whispered, retreating from the edge, “in the northeast corner of the belfry. But the Clockmaker is standing by Nero’s Globe on the eastern balcony, not twenty feet away. I’ll have to run right through the line of fire to get to the box.”
Click. One minute to go.
“Wait.” Gwen suddenly shifted to the other side of him, inches from exposing herself to the Frenchman’s fire. “Let me go. If I distract him, running for the box, perhaps you can hit him from the other side.”
“You don’t have to do that, Gwen. You’ve already done enough.”
“Actually, I do.” The clerk raised her eyebrows. “Joint regulations, volume one, section one, rule one: ‘Defend the Realm against all enemies, even at the risk of life and limb.’ ”
Jack chuckled, which mostly came out as a cough. “You’re always quoting the rules, Gwen, but you never follow them. Why start now?”
“I beg your pardon.” The clerk looked taken aback. “I follow all the rules, all except one.”
The chimes in the four corners began to play, counting out the last twenty-five seconds before the stroke of midnight. Thick bronze ripples filled Jack’s vision. “Oh, really?” he shouted over the clanging bells. “And which one is that?”
“Haven’t you been paying attention?” Gwen shouted back. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, snatching up the cane and his father’s coat. Then she gave him the brightest freckle bounce he had seen all day. “It’s you, Jack Buckles. You’re my broken rule.”
Before Jack could say another word, Gwen raced into the open. The Clockmaker raised the Ember, directing it her way.
“No!” Jack grabbed the iron platform and pulled himself up, scrambling into a run toward the opposite corner.
The Clockmaker looked from one to the other, confused by the split attack. He let out a maniacal cry and swung his arm toward Jack as he opened his fist. Fire sprayed across the belfry. But the flames missed both targets. Gwen reached the box a millisecond later and jabbed the cane straight through the lid, activating the stun gun. Sparks flew in all directions. The green lights went out with a bang, and the bells disappeared in the darkened haze.
“What are you doing?” shouted the Clockmaker. “Darkness will not stop me!” He coughed in the smoke as he stumbled toward the moonlit balcony, heading for the globe.
Jack closed his eyes. He no longer needed them. The ripples from the chimes reflected off the stands and the bell hammers. They reflected off the windows and pillars. And they reflected off the Clockmaker and his beetles, too. Jack saw every bug as he raced to intercept the Frenchman—scarab-shaped silhouettes formed of glowing bronze. Lightning struck out from every one of them, but the bolts were easy to dodge.
The Frenchman reached the pedestal and shoved his hand into the globe, opening his fist. The Ember glowed a vibrant yellow. Dozens of smaller versions appeared on the faceted glass.
“Gwen!”
The clerk, glimmering in Jack’s vision like a golden angel, turned his way and hurled the cane in a blind toss, end over end.
The Clockmaker heard the shout as well. He yanked his hand from the sphere and turned toward the sound, dousing the miniature embers. “You are finished, tracker!”
But Jack was already past him. He jumped, using the brick frame of the arched window to launch himself up and catch the cane, reversing direction in midair. As he came down, he pulled the shaft from the falcon head, unsheathing the sword inside. He brought the blade down on the wrist joint of the Clockmaker’s armor, putting all the force of muscle and gravity into the swing.
The Frenchman screamed in pain, a real scream this time. He stumbled backward onto the balcony and knocked over the pedestal as he passed.
The globe fell to the stone and shattered.
The severed fist, enclosing the Ember in an iron grip, dropped at Jack’s feet.
The Clockmaker toppled backward over the rail.
Chapter 60
“I CAN’T believe the wardens never found him.” Gwen plopped down in a high-backed chair, not unlike the chair from the room where she and Jack had found her uncle. “Not to mention Scotland Yard. Do you think perhaps he survived?”
Jack only shrugged, slipping his hand into his father’s, careful to avoid the mass of tubes descending from the rack next to the bed. “They never found the clockwork beetles, either.”
A troop of the largest men Jack had ever seen had stormed the belfry not long after the Clockmaker went over the rail—every one of them dressed in tweed, and not a few wearing bowlers. They had opened the tall windows on every side to clear the smoke. But even as the vapors drifted out into the night, the wind had dropped to a standstill. Lanterns had been hung from the platforms, and a tall figure in a straight black dress had
entered the chamber, hefting an aged weather vane in her hand, one shaped like a tall ship. “We’ve been looking for this,” Mrs. Hudson had said, her heels coming together with a definite clop right in front of Jack. Her stern gray eyes, nearly crossed in her handheld spectacles, had shifted down to the severed fist at his feet. “And I believe we’ve been looking for that as well.”
Then they had all been whisked away, back to the Keep, where Jack and Gwen were treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation and put to bed, though Jack had not slept at all.
“When is he going to wake up?” asked Jack, gazing at his father’s bandaged face. John Buckles Twelve had not opened his eyes since the clock chamber—not once.
“I believe it’s too early to tell.” A doctor entered the room, the same gray-haired man Jack had seen in the hall outside Percy’s room the night before. Jack’s mom entered behind him, followed by Sadie and Mrs. Hudson.
The doctor lifted a chart from the end of the antique bed and made a note. “Your father has suffered much. We think the Clockmaker went to great lengths in his efforts to find the Ember. There are signs of torture, drugs as well, great volumes of them. They’ll take time to flush out. Until then, he is unlikely to awaken.”
“Drugs?” Jack didn’t understand. “But he spoke to me last night.”
The doctor gave him a pleasant but condescending smile as he returned the chart to its hook. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, young man.”
“Jack.” Gwen sat forward in her chair, concern clouding her face. “Your dad never woke up. He never said a word to you. I was there.”
Jack opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, narrowing his eyes. He gave the clerk a silent Really?
She nodded gravely.
That didn’t make sense. He knew what he saw. Or did he? Absentmindedly, Jack reached into the pocket of his leather jacket. The red sphere with the gold lattice inlay was still there. He was sorely tempted to draw it out, but he found that Mrs. Hudson was staring right at him, so he left it there and quickly withdrew his hand.
Sadie touched his arm. “Daddy will get better, Jack. You’re going to help him. You’ll see.”
“I’ll return in an hour to check on the patient,” said the doctor, nodding to Jack’s mom and Mrs. Hudson as he left the room.
Once he was gone, Mrs. Hudson closed the door and raised her spectacles. “Now that you’re all together, I suppose it is time to explain what we’re going to do with you.”
“Am I going to jail?” Sadie marched forward, only to be pulled back by her mother.
If Mrs. Hudson was capable of a smile, Jack thought he saw it then, though it was exceedingly difficult to tell. “No, child. The ministry handles the enforcement of its own regulations. Besides, you’re too young for jail, or for too many rules in general just yet. Your mother, however, is another story.”
Jack’s mom squared her shoulders, drawing herself up to her not-too-considerable height. “I am ready to face the consequences of my actions, madam.”
“And so you shall.” Mrs. Hudson lowered her spectacles to the end of her nose. You and your husband violated your oaths. More than once. However, as he is still recovering, the ministry believes a form of house arrest is preferable to the lock-up. We will consent to a period of convalescence at House Buckles, and decide what is to follow later.”
“You mean we get to stay in that warm old house downstairs?” Sadie beamed.
Her mother squeezed her shoulder. “Yes, dear. Now hush.”
“And what about me?” asked Jack. “What does the ministry plan to do with me?”
“That is the primary question, isn’t it, Mr. Buckles? A question both of philosophy and legality.” Mrs. Hudson raised a thin, gray eyebrow. “There are some who would quarantine you down on Sublevel Twenty-five with the snakes and the sour grapes. You are, after all, a thirteen-year-old thirteen showing rather strong tracker capabilities, much earlier than normal”—she tightened her gaze—“not to mention certain roguish tendencies.”
Jack gave her a thin smile. “You can’t put a Buckles with the snakes. That’s the S aisle.”
Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Case in point.” She let out a breath through her pointed nose, softening her expression, if only a little. “There are . . . others . . . who argued in your favor. Had you, a thirteen, not intervened, the Twelfth Buckles would have surely died. And you managed to recover the Ember from the Clockmaker—no small feat. Then again—”
“Get to the point.” Gwen practically exploded from the high-backed chair, arms flopping to her sides. “What are they going to do with him?”
Mrs. Hudson scowled, the force of the look pressing the clerk down into the chair again. “You, Miss Kincaid, displayed a deplorable disregard for Section Thirteen protocols yesterday. You overstepped the meager authorities of your office on numerous occasions. Sadly, the ministry believes you will continue to do so, and redirecting your energies seems an eminently easier task than suppressing them.” Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips, pointedly clearing her throat before continuing. “Thus, contrary to reason and good sense, you are hereby promoted to journeyman clerk, with an immediate change of post.” She lowered the spectacles and nodded toward Jack. “We are going to train him, Miss Kincaid. That is what we are going to do with him. And you will be his guide.”
“You’re . . . going to train me as a tracker?” Jack had a hard time spitting out the words. He had fully expected some type of brig or lab rat scenario. He had not expected a job.
“Don’t restate the obvious, Mr. Buckles. That sort of thing is so terribly American. But, yes, the ministry thinks it best to mold you as we may, although you will not be a full tracker for some time—if ever.” She shot another scowl at Gwen. “Among the many words that escaped Miss Kincaid’s lips over the last twenty-four hours—most of them secrets—she may have failed to mention that all trackers begin their ministry service either as apprentice clerks or apprentice wardens.” She raised the spectacles again, tracking them down to Jack’s toes and back up to the tips of his hair. “And I think we can all agree you are far too small to be a warden.”
Sadie left her mother’s side and threw her arms around Jack. “Did you hear that? We all get to stay here together!”
Jack couldn’t help but smile. There were worse outlooks for a thirteen-year-old than being moved into a manor house and inducted into a secret society of detectives. As he hugged his sister back, he noticed Mrs. Hudson reaching back to rap on the door. Immediately, an arm slipped through, handed her a clipboard, and slipped out again.
Mrs. Hudson crossed the room and pressed the clipboard into his hands. “No time like the present to get started, eh, Apprentice Clerk Buckles?”
Jack examined the papers. There were green pages on the top, pink on the bottom. The topmost page appeared to have been reconstructed from charred pieces. He could make out Gwen’s handwriting on a few of the lines, and he recognized the form number in the top left corner: 26-B-2.
Mrs. Hudson withdrew a pen from her sleeve and handed it over, showing that somewhat-possible smile again. “Welcome to the Ministry of Trackers, Mr. Buckles. All forms must be completed.”
Acknowledgments
The word “author” sounds lonely. I think it’s the leading A. But there are dozens who walk with an author for one mile or another along the journey of a book. And some walk beside him the whole way. My wife is one of the latter. On top of all her love and support, she is a daily part of my writing process. She reads, critiques, and brainstorms. If not for her, there would be no calico cat. It was she who demanded that I finally man up and pitch Jack Buckles to my agent Harvey Klinger, who was expecting something else entirely. Harvey greeted the idea with all his usual encouragement and handed the thing over to Sara Crowe, the best children’s literature agent ever. I am so grateful to all three of you. You gave Jack his first breaths.
And I am grateful to David Gale for his faith in this project, and to Liz Kossnar, Jen Strada, and all the others
who placed their expertise, hard work, and enthusiasm behind this story through Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers. You’ve made this process an absolute joy.
Others shaped this book through help, critique, and encouragement. John first, as always, James and Ashton, Rachel and Katie, Steve and Tawnya, Nancy and Dan, Randy and Hulda, the other Nancy, the Millers, Scott and Ethan, Seth and Gavin, and the Barons. Lastly, Adey Grummet of All Hallows by the Tower proved gracious and invaluable in aiding my research. Thank you all so much.
James R. Hannibal is no stranger to DEEP DARK SECRETS or hunting bad guys, having served in the US Air Force AS A STEALTH BOMBER PILOT and a Predator mission commander. LIKE JACK BUCKLES, James “suffers” from synesthesia, an intersection of the senses that was once considered mental illness and often causes hyperobservance. IF YOU BAKE HIM A CAKE, he might tell you that IT SMELLS BLUE AND STICKY— and you should take it as a compliment.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2016 by James R. Hannibal
Jacket illustration copyright © 2016 by Eric Kalsbeek
Jacket lettering copyright © 2016 by Kyle Letendre
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