Library of Souls (Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children #3)(60)

“What’s it made of?” I asked.

He laughed. “Snips and snails and puppy dog’s tails.” He held it toward me again. “No charge,” he said.

“He said he doesn’t want any,” Sharon said sharply.

I thought the dealer would lash out at him, but instead he cocked his head at Sharon and said, “Don’t I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Sharon said.

“Sure I do,” the dealer said, nodding. “You were one of my best customers. What happened to you?”

“I kicked the habit.”

The dealer stepped toward him. “Looks like you waited too long,” he said, and pulled teasingly on Sharon’s hood.

Sharon snatched the dealer’s hand. The guards raised their guns.

“Careful,” the dealer said.

Sharon held him a moment longer, then let go.

“Now,” the dealer said, turning toward me. “You’re not going to refuse a free sample, are you?”

I had no intention of ever uncorking the stuff, but it seemed like the best way to end this was to take it. So I did.

“Good boy,” the dealer said, and he shooed us from the room.

“You were an addict?” Emma hissed at Sharon. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“What difference would it have made?” Sharon said. “Yes, I had some bad years. Then Bentham took me in and weaned me off the stuff.”

I turned to look at him, trying to imagine. “Bentham did?”

“Like I said, I owe the man my life.”

Emma took the vial and held it up. In the stronger light, the silvery bits inside the black liquid shone like tiny flakes of sun. It was mesmerizing, and despite the side effects, I couldn’t help but wonder how a few drops might enhance my abilities. “He wouldn’t say what was in it,” Emma said.

“We are,” Sharon said. “Little bits of our stolen souls, crushed up and fed back to us by the wights. A piece of every peculiar they kidnap winds up in a vial like that one.”

Emma thrust the vial away in horror, and Sharon took it and tucked it into his cloak. “Never know when one of these might come in handy,” he said.

“Knowing what it’s made of,” I said, “I can’t believe you’d ever take that stuff.”

“I never said I was proud of myself,” Sharon said.

The whole diabolical scheme was perfect in its evilness. The wights had turned the peculiars of Devil’s Acre into cannibals, hungry for their own souls. Addicting them to ambrosia ensured their control and kept the population in check. If we didn’t free them soon, our friends’ souls would be the next to fill those vials.

I heard the hollow roar—it sounded like a cry of victory—and the man we’d watched take ambro a minute earlier was dragged through door and past us down the hall, bleeding and unconscious.

My turn, I thought, and a thrill of adrenaline shot through me.





*


Out back of the ambro den was a walled courtyard, the centerpiece of which was a freestanding cage about forty feet square, its sturdy bars easily capable, it seemed to me, of containing a hollowgast. A line had been painted in the dirt approximately as far from the cage bars as a hollow’s tongues could reach, and the crowd, made up of forty or so rough-looking peculiars, had wisely planted themselves behind it. The courtyard’s walls were ringed with smaller cages, and inside a tiger, a wolf, and what looked like a full-grown grimbear—animals of lesser interest, at least compared to a hollowgast—were being held to fight another day.

The main attraction could be seen pacing inside the big cage, tethered to a heavy iron post by a chain around its neck. It was in such a sorry state that I was tempted to feel bad for it. The hollowgast had been splashed with white paint and daubed here and there with mud, which made it visible to everyone but also a bit ridiculous looking, like a Dalmatian or a mime. It was limping badly and leaving trails of black blood, and its muscular tongues, which in anticipation of a fight would normally have been whipping around in the air, were dragging limply behind it. Hurt and humiliated, it was far from the nightmare vision I had become accustomed to, but the crowd, having never seen a hollow, seemed impressed nevertheless. Which was just as well: even in this much-reduced state, the hollow had managed to knock out several fighters in a row. It was still plenty dangerous, and very unpredictable. Which is why, I assumed, men armed with rifles were stationed around the courtyard. Better safe than sorry.

I huddled with Sharon and Emma to strategize. The problem, we agreed, wasn’t getting me into the cage with the hollow. It wasn’t even controlling the hollow—we were working under the assumption that I could do it. The problem would be getting the hollow out, and away from these people.

“Think you could melt through that chain around its neck?” I asked Emma.

“If I had two days to do it,” she said. “I don’t suppose we could just explain to everyone that we really need the hollow and we’ll bring it back when we’re finished?”

“You wouldn’t even get that whole sentence out,” said Sharon, eyeing the rowdy crowd. “This is more fun than these blighters have had in years. No chance.”

“Next fighter!” shouted a woman standing watch from a second-story window.