Library of Souls (Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children #3)(7)

“Go on,” she said to Addison. “What happened to Claire?”

“The wights marched off with her. Gagged her two mouths and tossed her into a sack.”

“But she was alive?” I said.

“And biting, as of noon yesterday. Then we buried Deirdre in our little cemetery and I hightailed it for London to find Miss Wren and warn all of you. One of Miss Wren’s pigeons led me to her hideaway, and while I was pleased to see that you had arrived before me, unfortunately so had the wights. Their siege had already begun, and I was forced to watch helplessly as they stormed the building, and—well, you know the rest. I followed as you were led away to the underground. When that blast went off, I saw an opportunity to aid you and took it.”

“Thank you for that,” I said, realizing we hadn’t yet acknowledged the debt we owed him. “If you hadn’t dragged us away when you did …”

“Yes, well … no need to dwell on hypothetical unpleasantries,” he said. “But in return for my gallantry, I was rather hoping you would assist me in rescuing Miss Wren from the wights. As unlikely as that sounds. She means everything to me, you see.”

It was Miss Wren he’d wanted to snatch away from the wights, not us—but we were the realistic save, farther from the train, and he’d made a snap decision and taken what he could get.

“Of course we’ll help,” I said. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “But you must realize, as an ymbryne, Miss Wren is more valuable to the wights than peculiar children, and thus she may prove more difficult to free. I worry that, if by some miracle we are lucky enough to rescue your friends …”

“Now wait a second,” I snapped. “Who says she’s more—”

“No, it’s true,” Emma said. “She’ll be under heavier lock and key, no question. But we won’t leave her behind. We’re not leaving anyone else behind, ever again. You have our word as peculiars.”

The dog seemed satisfied with that. “Thank you,” he said, and then his ears flattened. He hopped up onto a seat to look out the window as we pulled into the next station. “Hide yourselves,” he said, ducking down. “There are enemies near.”





*


The wights were expecting us. I glimpsed two of them waiting on the platform, dressed as police officers among a scattering of commuters. They were scanning the cars as our train pulled into the station. We dropped down below the windows, hoping they’d miss us—but I knew they wouldn’t. The one with the walkie-talkie had radioed ahead; they must’ve known we were on this train. Now all they had to do was search it.

It came to a stop and people began filing on board, though not into our car. I risked a peek through the open doors and saw one of the wights down the platform, speed walking in our direction as he eyeballed each car.

“One’s coming this way,” I muttered. “How’s your fire, Em?”

“Running on empty,” she replied.

He was getting close. Four cars away. Three.

“Then get ready to run.”

Two cars away. Then a soft, recorded voice: “Mind the closing doors, please.”

“Hold the train!” the wight shouted. But the doors were already closing.

He stuck an arm through. The doors bounced open again. He got on board—into the car next to ours.

My eyes went to the door that connected our cars. It was locked with a chain—thank God for small mercies. The doors snicked shut and the train began to move. We shifted the folding man onto the floor and huddled with him in a spot where we couldn’t be seen from the wight’s car.

“What can we do?” said Emma. “The moment this train stops again, he’ll come straight in here and find us.”

“Are we absolutely certain he’s a wight?” asked Addison.

“Do cats grow on trees?” Emma replied.

“Not in this part of the world.”

“Then of course we aren’t. But when it comes to wights, there’s an old saying: if you’re not sure, assume.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “The second those doors open, we run for the exit.”

Addison sighed. “All this fleeing,” he said disdainfully, as if he were a gourmand and someone had offered him a limp square of American cheese. “There’s no imagination in it. Mightn’t we try sneaking? Blending in? There’s artistry in that. Then we could simply walk away, gracefully, unnoticed.”

“I hate fleeing as much as anyone,” I said, “but Emma and I look like nineteenth-century axe murderers, and you’re a dog who wears glasses. We’re bound to be noticed.”

“Until they start manufacturing canine contact lenses, I’m stuck with these,” Addison grumbled.

“Where’s that hollowgast when you need him?” said Emma offhandedly.

“Run over by a train, if we’re lucky,” I said. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Only that he came in quite handy earlier.”

“And before that he nearly killed us—twice! No, three times! Whatever it is I’ve been doing to control it has been half by accident, and the moment I’m not able to? We’re dead.”