A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(127)

The creature was transforming into something else: It was becoming a wight. I watched it for a minute, queasy but fascinated, ready to bash its head in with the paperweight if I needed to.

Its body began to squirm. The movement seemed involuntary, like its organs were metamorphosing inside its chest cavity. Its breathing, which had been wet and ragged like a hollowgast’s, quieted and became regular. It was almost like witnessing a birth.

It sat up and looked at me.

I took a step backward, gripped by a sudden idea. This creature had been H’s constant companion for years. It had seen and overheard all sorts of things. And now it was almost human. What might it remember, if it could remember anything at all? How much of its past life as a hollowgast did a wight retain? How quickly did its memories fade?

“Say something,” I commanded it. “Speak.”

It just stared at me. Didn’t even grunt. Maybe wights were born like livestock animals, able to stand and even to run, but mute, knowing nothing.

It reached out its arm, steadied itself against the wall, and rose slowly to its feet. It shuffled a short distance to an end table and ripped the tablecloth away. I thought for a moment it was going to tie the cloth around its waist—as if the creature had suddenly realized it was naked, and felt shame—but instead it hobbled to H, knelt beside him, and settled the cloth over his face.

That meant it remembered something: H had been its master.

“Can you speak?” I said. “I want to hear your voice.”

It turned to look at me, its face slack, swaying slightly on its feet. Its mouth fell open. A sound came out.

“Ehhhhhhhhh.”

A moan, not a word. But it was better than nothing.

“Yes,” I said. “What’s your name?”

It rocked its head from side to side. It was trying mightily to form words, but there seemed to be a great fog clouding its brain.

It opened its mouth again. Sucked in a breath.

A scream shattered the silence. Noor was sitting up now and terrified, her eyes going from the wight to me to H, dead under his shroud.

“It’s all right!” I shouted. “Everything’s fine!”

But my strained tone and everything before her contradicted that. Now that the hollow was transforming, it could be seen by anyone. She had woken suddenly into a terrifying scene and the light inside her, which had been pulsing gently while she was asleep, was now a sharp and brightening star rising up the column of her throat. I moved toward her, repeating that she wasn’t in danger, but she was shaking her head and couldn’t seem to speak. She looked afraid. Not of me or the wight or the dead man—but of the thing inside her she didn’t know how to stop. She was a brand-new peculiar and couldn’t fully control her ability yet.

I flung myself to the floor and covered my head with my arms. Through split fingers I saw Noor grip the sofa and turn away from me. Like a sneeze made of light, an explosion came out of her nose and mouth: a cone-shaped jet-engine exhalation that roared through the air and blasted into the kitchen. The walls, the floor, the whole apartment shook. A hot pressure wave blew over me, singeing the fine hairs on the back of my neck. There was an all-encompassing din of tile cracking and dishes breaking and metal warping, and the sudden, dazzling glare of the blast forced my eyes shut.

When it had dimmed again, I raised my head. There was a new light in the room—not the reddish-orange glow that had emanated from Noor, but daylight streaming through an open window. Smoke was pouring out of the kitchen. The half hollow was nowhere to be seen. The blast’s recoil had sent Noor flying over the couch and onto the floor, where I could hear her groaning.

“Noor?” I sat up slowly. “Are you hurt?”

“My head’s killing me,” I heard her say, and then her face appeared from behind the couch. “Otherwise . . .” She glanced down at herself. “No holes.” Smoke wafted from her lips as she spoke. “You?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

“Jacob.” She stayed behind the couch, watching me. “What are you doing here?”

I sat up a little straighter. “I came to help you.”

“That hasn’t been working out so well.” She looked at H and winced. “For anyone.” She let her face fall onto the couch. “I keep telling myself none of this is happening,” she said into the cushions. “But I can’t seem to wake up from the nightmare.” She looked up at me. “Damn. You’re still here.”

“It’s not a dream,” I said. “I went through the same thing just a few months ago. I know exactly what you’re feeling.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she said. “Just tell me what the hell is happening.”

“That would take hours, but the CliffsNotes version is: Bad people want to get their hands you; I’m one of the good guys; and we need to get you out of New York as quickly as possible.”

“You don’t even know me. Why are you helping me?”

“It’s a little hard to explain, but it’s kind of the family business.” I glanced behind me at H. “Also, I made a promise.”

“Does anything you say ever make sense?”

“It’ll start to.” I stood up and went to her. “Can you walk?”