A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(69)

Millard snorted. “It changes?”

“Only peculiars of my persuasion can find it. Diviners.”

“Well, could you take us there?” I asked.

“Um. I don’t know.”

“Come on,” said Emma. “We’re good company.”

“I don’t much like to travel. Besides, it isn’t a nice trip.”

“What’s so bad about it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s just . . . not so nice.”

“Matchstick. I need you.”

It was Enoch, his arms painted in grease to the elbows. He darted toward Emma like he was going to wipe filth on her new clothes, and she squealed and leapt out of range. He laughed, then started back toward the garage.

Emma’s shirt had come partly untucked. She fixed it, glaring after him. “Idiot.”

We followed Enoch toward the garage. So did Paul, whose curiosity about what we were up to apparently overwhelmed whatever awkwardness he felt about denying our request.

As we were making our way across the parking lot, Bronwyn said, “Did I cross a line back there, asking those old fellows about their peculiarities?”

“Peculiar abilities are like muscles,” Millard replied. “If you don’t use them for a long time, they can atrophy. Perhaps they’ve none left, and you hit a nerve.”

“It wasn’t that,” said Paul. “They weren’t allowed.”

“What do you mean?” said Emma.

“The gang in charge made a law that nobody can use peculiarities but them. They even hire snitches to make sure nobody does.”

“My God,” said Millard. “What kind of country is this?”

“A cruel one,” said Emma.

Paul sighed. “Is there another kind?”



* * *



? ? ?

The sign said ED’S GARAGE, but it just looked like an old barn to me. There was nobody around; the loop must’ve been made on a Sunday or a holiday. Bronwyn had pushed the Aston into an empty bay lined with tools, and Enoch nearly had the car running now. There was some metal to be welded, he said, and for that he needed Emma’s fire to finish the job.

It took several minutes of sustained effort, pacing and rubbing her hands together, for Emma to make her hands hot enough to weld metal. They were nearly white, and so dangerous she had to hold them well away from her body, lest her clothes catch fire. We stood back while she leaned under the hood and sparks flew. It was so noisy and fascinating that only when she’d finished, sweat pouring down her face and breathing hard, did we hear angry shouts coming from the motel.

We dashed out of the garage. The same vintage police car that had harassed us earlier was now parked in the Flamingo’s forecourt with its doors flung open.

“Looks like the highwaymen tracked you down,” said Paul. “You all better run. Take the back way out.” He pointed to a road that led behind the garage and out of town.

“We can’t leave all of them at the mercy of those thugs,” said Millard.

“What?” said Enoch. “Of course we can.”

Just then one of the fake cops dragged Miss Billie through the courtyard by her arm, her three poodles yapping crazily and nipping at his heels.

“If you can spare me for one moment,” said Bronwyn, “I’m going to go and break that man’s jaw.”

“It’s no use fighting them,” said Paul. “It just makes them madder. They’ll come back with more people and more guns and it’ll be even worse.”

“There’s always use in fighting,” said Emma. “Especially when it makes terrible people cry.” She laced her fingers together and popped the knuckles, and sparks flew from her still-glowing hands. “Enoch, how’s the car running?”

“Good as new,” he said.

“Jolly. Keep it idling for us.” She turned to me. “Back in two shakes.” She turned to Bronwyn. “Coming?”

Bronwyn rolled her shoulders and shook her arms, limbering up, then nodded.

I secretly loved it when Emma got like this—so pissed off that she grew oddly calm, her anger a focused tool she could wield to great and destructive effect. She and Bronwyn started walking toward the motel. The rest of us weren’t going to stay behind, of course, but since Emma and Bronwyn were the ones among us most capable of wreaking havoc, we kept a few paces behind them.

In the forecourt, one of the highwaymen had Miss Billie by the wrists and was shouting questions at her while the other one rampaged from bungalow to bungalow. “They was here, I know it!” he shouted, and burst out of Adelaide’s place. “Every one of you who’s lyin’ is gonna wish to hell they hadn’t! You know the punishment for disobeyin’ orders!”

They didn’t look much like cops, on closer inspection. They were wearing green fatigue pants and army boots, and they had the buzz-cut hair and dumb, overconfident swagger I’d come to know well growing up in Florida. The shorter of the two wore a gun holstered on his hip.

“Disobeyin’ orders is even worse than not payin’ your protection fees!” the taller one shouted. “Next time your clock needs windin’, maybe old Rex don’t turn up.”

“You leave him alone!” cried Miss Billie.