A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(45)

“That’s charitable of you, son. But we’re not in business anymore.”

“Why not? Because Abe died?”

“Because we got old.”

“Well, then,” I said, feeling a surge of confidence, “I’ll start it up again. I have friends who can help, too. A new generation.”

I heard a cupboard slap shut, a spoon tinkle in a cup. “You ever see a hollow in person?” he asked.

“I have. And I’ve killed them.”

“Is that right?”

“You didn’t hear about the Library of Souls? The Battle for Devil’s Acre?”

“I’m not exactly up on the latest current events.”

“I can do what Abe did. I can see them. Control them, too.”

“You know . . .” He sipped a drink loudly. “Maybe I did hear something about you.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. You’re raw, untested. Impulsive. And in our line of work, that gets you killed real fast.”

I gritted my teeth, but managed to keep my voice even and calm. “I know I have a lot to learn. But I think I have a lot to offer, too.”

“You’re serious, huh.” He sounded both amused and impressed.

“I am.”

“All right. You talked yourself into a job interview.”

“This wasn’t it?”

He laughed. “Not even close.”

“Okay, well, what do I—”

“Don’t call again. I’ll call you.”

The line went dead.



* * *



? ? ?

I dashed into the house, waved to my friends as I darted past them in the living room—they were watching some zombie movie—and Emma jumped up and followed me into an empty bedroom.

She hugged me hard, then poked me in the chest. “Start talking, Portman.”

“I made contact with one of Abe’s old partners. I just talked to him on the phone.”

She let me go and took a step back, eyes wide.

“Pull the other one.”

“I’m serious. This guy, H, worked with my grandfather for decades. They ran tons of missions together. But now he’s old, and he needs our help.”

I was reaching a little there, maybe. But only a little. H did need our help, he just needed to be convinced of it first.

“With what?”

“A mission. Here in America.”

“He should call the ymbrynes if he needs help.”

“Our ymbrynes don’t have authority in America. And apparently America doesn’t have ymbrynes of its own.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, Em. There are a hundred thousand things I don’t know. But I do know that Abe locked that door in his floor with a passcode only I would know. And he left that mission log for me to find. And if he’d had any idea there was a chance you would be here, he would’ve meant for you to find it, too.”

She looked away, wrestling with something.

“We can’t just run off on some mission. Miss Peregrine would never allow it.”

“I know that.”

She fixed me with a stare. “A mission doing what?”

“I don’t know yet. H said he’ll be in touch.”

“You really hate the assignment the ymbrynes gave you, huh?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“I think you’d be good at it. That was a pretty motivational speech.”

“So you’re in?”

A grin spread across her face.

“Hell, yes.”





That night I had a terrible dream. I was in a wasteland of burning fields, the horizon all soot and flame, black ooze puddled across the earth. I was frozen in the air, suspended above a deep pit. From its depths glowed two blue lights. They belonged to Caul—Caul in his monstrous form, a hundred feet tall, his arms like tree trunks and his fingers long, grasping roots reaching up toward me.

He was calling my name. Jacob, Jacob, his voice a high and taunting singsong. I see you. I see you there. I seeeeee youuuuuuuu . . .

Waves of putrid air funneled up around me, the smell like burning flesh. I wanted to gag, to escape, but I was paralyzed. I tried to speak, to shout down at him. But no words would come.

There was a skittering sound, like rats were climbing the walls of the pit.

“You’re not real,” I finally managed to say. “I killed you.”

Yes, he said. And now I am everywhere.

The skittering grew louder, until Caul’s fingers crawled over the lip of the pit—ten long and gnarled roots, coming at me, wrapping around my throat.

I’ve got big plans for you, Jacob . . . Big, big plans . . .

I thought my lungs would explode, then felt a sharp pain in my stomach.

I bolted upright, gasping for breath, and clutched my gut. I was awake, at home, on the floor of my bedroom, my sleeping bag twisted around me.

A slash of moonlight divided the room. Enoch and Hugh lay snoring in my bed. The hurt in my stomach was an old and familiar one. It was both pain and a compass needle.

The needle pointed downstairs and outside.

I disentangled myself from the sleeping bag and dashed out of the room and down the stairs. I moved silently, running on my toes. If this was what I thought it was, there wasn’t much my friends could do to help me. They would only get in the way, and I didn’t want to wake them up and cause a panic before I had assessed the situation. Fear only fueled a hollowgast.