Hollow City (33 page)

At each landing, we had to step around sleeping people wrapped in blankets: lone sleepers at first, then groups lying like scattered matchsticks, and then, as we reached bottom, an unbroken human tide that swept across the underground platform—hundreds of people squeezed between a wall and the tracks, curled on the floor, sprawled on benches, sunk into folding chairs. Those who weren’t sleeping rocked babies in their arms, read paperbacks, played cards, prayed. They weren’t waiting for a train; no trains were coming. They were refugees from the bombs, and this was their shelter.

I tried sensing for hollows, but there were too many faces, too many shadows. Luck, if we had any left, would have to sustain us for a while.

Now what?

We needed directions from the pigeon, but it seemed briefly confused—like me, it was probably overwhelmed by the crowd—so we stood and waited, the breaths and snores and mumbles of the sleepers murmuring weirdly around us.

After a minute the pigeon stiffened and flew toward the tracks, then reached the end of its leash and bounced back into Melina’s hand like a yo-yo.

We tiptoed around the bodies to the edge of the platform, then hopped down into the pit where the tracks ran. They disappeared into tunnels on either end of the station. I had a sinking feeling that our future lay somewhere inside one of these dark, gaping mouths.

“Oh, I hope we don’t have to go mucking about in
there
,” said

Olive.

“Of course we do,” Enoch said. “It isn’t a proper holiday until we’ve plumbed every available sewer.”

The pigeon bopped rightward. We started down the tracks.

I hopscotched around an oily puddle and a legion of rats scurried away from my feet, sending Olive into Bronwyn’s arms with a shriek. The tunnel yawned before us, black and menacing. It occurred to me that this would be a very bad place to meet a hollowgast. Here there’d be no walls to climb, no houses to shelter in, no tomb lids to close behind us. It was long and straight and lit only by a few red bulbs, glinting feebly at scattered intervals.

I walked faster.

The darkness closed around us.

*   *   *

When I was a kid, I used to play hide-and-seek with my dad. I was always the hider and he the seeker. I was really good at it, primarily because I, unlike most kids of four or five, had the then-peculiar ability to be extremely quiet for long periods of time, and also because I suffered from absolutely no trace of anything resembling claustrophobia: I could wedge myself into the smallest rear-closet crawl space and stay there for twenty or thirty minutes, not making a sound, having the time of my life.

Which is why you’d think I wouldn’t have a problem with the
whole dark, enclosed spaces thing. Or why, at the very least, you’d think a tunnel meant to contain trains and tracks and nothing else would be easier for me to handle than one that was essentially an open cemetery, with all manner of Halloweenish things spilling out along it. And yet, the farther into this tunnel we walked, the more I was overcome by clammy, creeping dread—a feeling entirely apart from the one I sensed hollows with; this was simply a
bad feeling
. And so I hurried us through as fast as the slowest of us could go, prodding Melina until she barked at me to back off, a steady drip of adrenaline keeping my deep exhaustion at bay.

After a long walk and several Y-shaped tunnel splits, the pigeon led us to a disused section of track where the ties had warped and rotted and pools of stagnant water spanned the floor. The pressure of trains passing in far-off tunnels pushed the air around like breaths in some great creature’s gullet.

Then, way down ahead of us, a pinpoint of light winked into being, small but growing fast. Emma shouted, “Train!” and we split apart and pressed our backs to the walls. I covered my ears, expecting the deafening roar of a train engine at close range, but it never came—all I could hear was a small, high-pitched whine, which I was fairly certain was coming from inside my own head. Just as the light was filling the tunnel, its white glow surrounding us, I felt a sudden pressure in my ears and the light disappeared.

We stumbled away from the walls in a daze. Now the tracks and ties under our feet were new, as if they’d just been laid. The tunnel smelled somewhat less intensely of urine. The bulbs along it had gotten brighter, and instead of giving a steady light, they flickered—because they weren’t electric bulbs at all, but gaslamps.

“What just happened?” I said.

“We crossed into a loop,” said Emma. “But what was that light? I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Every loop entrance has its quirks,” said Millard.

“Anyone know when we are?” I asked.

“I’d guess the latter half of the nineteenth century,” said Millard. “Prior to 1863 there wasn’t an underground system in London at all.”

Then, from behind us, another light appeared—this one accompanied by a gust of hot wind and a thunderous roar. “
Train!
” Emma shouted again, and this time it really was. We threw ourselves against the walls as it shot past in a cyclone of noise and light and belching smoke. It looked less like a modern subway train than a miniature locomotive. It even had a caboose, where a man with a big black beard and a guttering lantern in his hand gaped at us in surprise as the train strafed away around the next bend.

Hugh’s cap had blown off his head and been crushed. He went to pick it up, found it shredded, and threw it down again angrily. “I don’t care for this loop,” he said. “We’ve been here all of ten seconds and already it’s trying to kill us. Let’s do what we have to and get gone.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Enoch.

The pigeon guided us on down the track. After ten minutes or so, it stopped, pulling toward what looked like a blank wall. We couldn’t understand why, until I looked up and noticed a partially camouflaged door where the wall met the ceiling, twenty feet overhead. Because there seemed no other way to reach it, Olive took off her shoes and floated up to get a closer look. “There’s a lock on it,” she said. “A combination lock.”

There was also a pigeon-sized hole rusted through the door’s bottom corner, but that was no help to us—we needed the combination.

“Any idea what it could be?” Emma asked, putting the question out to everyone.

She was met with shrugs and blank looks.

“None,” said Millard.

“We’ll have to guess,” she said.

“Perhaps it’s my birthday,” said Enoch. “Try three–twelve–ninety-two.”

“Why would anyone know your birthday?” said Hugh.

Enoch frowned. “Just try it.”

Olive spun the dial back and forth, then tried the lock. “Sorry, Enoch.”

“What about our loop day?” Horace suggested. “Nine–three–forty.”

That didn’t work, either.

“It’s not going to be something easy to guess, like a date,” said Millard. “That would defeat the purpose of having a lock.”

Olive began to try random combinations. We stood by watching, growing more anxious with each failed attempt. Meanwhile, Miss Peregrine slipped quietly from Bronwyn’s coat and hopped over to the pigeon, who was waddling around at the end of its lead, pecking at the ground. When it saw Miss Peregrine, it tried to hop away, but the headmistress followed, making a low, vaguely threatening warble in her throat.

The pigeon flapped its wings and flew up to Melina’s shoulder, out of Miss Peregrine’s reach. Miss Peregrine stood by Melina’s feet, squawking at it. This seemed to make the pigeon extremely nervous.

“Miss P, what are you up to?” said Emma.

“I think she wants something from your bird,” I said to Melina.

“If the pigeon knows the way,” said Millard, “perhaps it knows the combination, too.”

Miss Peregrine turned toward him and squawked, then looked back at the pigeon and squawked louder. The pigeon tried to hide behind Melina’s neck.

“Perhaps the pigeon knows the combination but doesn’t know how to tell us,” said Bronwyn, “but it could tell Miss Peregrine, because both of them speak bird language, and then Miss Peregrine could tell us.”

“Make your pigeon talk to our bird,” said Enoch.

“Your bird’s twice Winnie’s size and sharp on three ends,” Melina said, backing away a step. “She’s scared and I don’t blame her.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” said Emma. “Miss P would never hurt another bird. It’s against the ymbryne code.”

Melina’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “That bird is an
ymbryne
?”

“She’s our headmistress!” said Bronwyn. “Alma LeFay Peregrine.”

“Full of surprises, ain’t you?” Melina said, then laughed in a way that wasn’t exactly friendly. “If you’ve got an ymbryne right there, what d’you need to find another one for?”

“It’s a long story,” said Millard. “Suffice to say, our ymbryne needs help that only another ymbryne can give.”

“Just put the blasted pigeon on the ground so Miss P can talk to it!” said Enoch.

Finally, reluctantly, Melina agreed. “Come on, Winnie, there’s a good girl.” She lifted the pigeon from her shoulder and placed it gently at her feet, then pinned its leash under her shoe so it couldn’t fly away.

Everyone circled around to watch as Miss Peregrine advanced on the pigeon. It tried to run but was caught short by the leash. Miss Peregrine got right in its face, warbling and clucking. It was like watching an interrogation. The pigeon tucked its head under its wing and began to tremble.

Then Miss Peregrine pecked it on the head.

“Hey!” said Melina. “Stop that!”

The pigeon kept its head tucked and didn’t respond, so Miss Peregrine pecked it again, harder.

“That’s enough!” Melina said, and lifting her shoe from the leash, she reached down for the pigeon. Before she could get her fingers around it, though, Miss Peregrine severed the leash with a quick slash of her talons, clamped down with her beak on one of the pigeon’s twiggy legs, and bounded away, the pigeon screeching and
flailing.

Melina freaked out. “Come back here!” she shouted, furious, about to run after the birds when Bronwyn caught her by the arms.

“Wait!” said Bronwyn. “I’m sure Miss P knows what she’s doing …”

Miss Peregrine stopped a little way down the track, well out of anyone’s reach. The pigeon struggled in her beak, and Melina struggled against Bronwyn, both in vain. Miss Peregrine seemed to be waiting for the pigeon to tire out and give up, but then she got impatient and began swinging the pigeon around in the air by its leg.

“Please, Miss P!” Olive shouted. “You’ll kill it!”

I was close to rushing over and breaking it up myself, but the birds were a blur of talons and beaks, and no one could get close enough to separate them. We yelled and begged Miss Peregrine to stop.

Finally, she did. The pigeon dropped from her mouth and wobbled on its feet, too stunned to flee. Miss Peregrine warbled at it the way she had earlier, and this time the pigeon chirped in response. Then Miss Peregrine tapped the ground with her beak three times, then ten times, then five.

Three–ten–five. Olive tried the combination. The lock popped open, the door swung inward, and a rope ladder unrolled down the wall to meet the floor.

Miss Peregrine’s interrogation had worked. She’d done what she needed to do to help us all, and given that, we might’ve overlooked her behavior—if not for what happened next. She took the dazed pigeon by its leg again and, seemingly out of spite, flung it hard against the wall.

We reacted with a great collective gasp of horror. I was shocked beyond speaking.

Melina broke away from Bronwyn and ran to pick up the pigeon. It hung limply from her hand, its neck broken.

“Oh my bird, she’s killed it!” cried Bronwyn.

“All we went through to catch that thing,” said Hugh, “and now look.”

“I’m going to stomp your ymbryne’s head!” Melina shrieked, crazed with rage.

Bronwyn caught her arms again. “No, you’re not! Stop it!”

“Your ymbryne’s a savage! If that’s how she conducts herself, we’re better off with the wights!”

“You take that back!” shouted Hugh.

“I won’t!” Melina said.

More harsh words were exchanged. A fistfight was narrowly avoided. Bronwyn held Melina, and Emma and I held Hugh, until the fight went out of them, if not the bitterness.

No one could quite believe what Miss Peregrine had done.

“What’s the big fuss?” said Enoch. “It was just a stupid pigeon.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Emma, scolding Miss Peregrine directly.

“That bird was a personal friend of Miss Wren’s. It was hundreds of years old. It was written about in the
Tales
. And now it’s dead.”

“Murdered,” said Melina, and she spat on the ground. “That’s what it’s called when you kill something for no reason.”

Miss Peregrine nibbled casually at a mite under her wing, as if she hadn’t heard any of this.

“Something wicked’s gotten into her,” said Olive. “This isn’t like Miss Peregrine at all.”

“She’s changing,” said Hugh. “Becoming more animal.”

“I hope there’s still something human left in her to rescue,” Millard said darkly.

So did we all.

We climbed out of the tunnel, each of us lost in our own anxious thoughts.

*   *   *

Beyond the door was a passage that led to a flight of steps that led to another passage and another door, which opened onto a room filled with daylight and packed to the rafters with clothes: racks and closets and wardrobes stuffed with them. There were also two wooden privacy screens to change behind, some freestanding mirrors, and a worktable laid out with sewing machines and bolts of raw fabric. It was half boutique, half workshop—and a paradise to Horace, who practically cartwheeled inside, crying, “I’m in Heaven!”

Melina lurked sullenly at the rear, not speaking to anyone.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“It’s a disguising room,” Millard answered, “designed to help visiting peculiars blend in with this loop’s normals.” He pointed out a framed illustration demonstrating how clothes of the period were worn.

“When in Rome!” said Horace, bounding toward a rack of clothes.

Emma asked everyone to change. In addition to helping us blend in, new clothes might also throw off any wights who’d been tracking us. “But keep your sweaters on underneath, in case more trouble finds us.”