Library of Souls (18 page)

Half drawn through a cloud of swirling ash, something large and boxy was rumbling toward us. Then came the growl of a big engine downshifting, and out of the black appeared a truck. It was a modern machine of military issue, all rivets and reinforcements and tires half a man high. The back was a windowless cube, and two flak-jacketed, machine-gun-armed wights stood guard along its running boards.

The moment it appeared, the squatters went into a kind of frenzy, laughing and gasping for joy, waving their arms and clasping their hands like marooned shipwreck survivors flagging down a passing plane—and just like that, we were forgotten. A golden opportunity had smacked into us, and we weren't about to waste it. I tossed aside the head, scooped Addison into the crook of my left arm, and scrambled out of the road after Emma. We could've kept going—cut away from Smoking Street and retreated to some safer quarter of Devil's Acre—but here, finally, was our enemy in the flesh, and whatever was happening or about to happen was clearly of importance. We stopped not far off the roadside, barely hidden behind a knot of charred trees, and watched.

The truck slowed and the crowd swarmed it, groveling and begging—for
vials
, for
suulie
and
ambro
and
just a taste, just a little, please sir
, disgusting in their worship of these butchers, pawing at the soldiers' clothes and shoes and getting steel-toed kicks in return. I thought surely the wights would start shooting, or gun the engine and crush those foolish enough to stand between them and the bridge. Instead the truck stopped and the wights began to shout instructions.
Form a line, right over here, keep orderly or you'll get nothing!
The crowd fell into formation like destitutes in a bread line, cowed and fidgeting in anticipation of what they were about to receive.

Without warning, Addison began to struggle to be set down. I
asked him what was the matter, but he only whimpered and struggled harder, a desperate look on his face like he'd just caught a major scent trail. Emma pinched him and he snapped out of it long enough to say, “It's her, it's her—it's Miss Wren,” and I realized that
prizzo van
was short for prison van, and that the cargo in the back of the wights' enormous vehicle was almost certainly human.

Then Addison bit me. I yelped and let him go, and in an instant he was scrambling away. Emma swore and I said, “Addison, don't!” But it was useless; he was operating on instinct, the irrepressible reflex of a loyal dog trying to protect his master. I dove for him and missed—he was surprisingly speedy for a creature with just three working legs—and then Emma hauled me up and together we were after him, out of our hiding place and into the road.

There was a moment, a fleeting instant, when I thought we could catch him, that the soldiers were too mobbed and the crowd too preoccupied to notice us. And it might've happened but for the shift that came over Emma halfway across the road, when she spied the doors at the back of the truck.
Doors with locks that could be melted. Doors that could be flung open
, she must've thought—I could read it in the hope dawning on her face—and she passed Addison without even reaching for him and clambered onto the truck's bumper.

Shouts from the guards. I grabbed for Addison but he slid away, under the truck. Emma was starting to melt the handle of one door when the first guard swung his gun like a baseball bat. It hit her in the side and she tumbled to the ground. I ran at the guard, ready to do to him whatever I could with my one good arm, but my legs were kicked out from under me and I crashed down onto my hurt shoulder, a thunderbolt of pain surging through me.

Hearing the guard scream I looked up, saw him unarmed and waving an injured hand, and then he was tripping away into the mad swim of churning bodies. The squatters swarmed him, not just begging but demanding, threatening, crazed—and now, somewhere, one
of them had his weapon. Looking panicked, he waved to the other wight with a two-hands-over-the-head
get me out of here!

I struggled to my feet and ran for Emma. The other guard dove into the crowd, firing into the air until he could pull out his comrade and get back to the truck. The moment their feet hit the running boards, they slapped the side of the truck and the engine roared. I reached Emma just as it took off for the bridge, its monster tires spitting gravel and ash.

I clasped her arm to reassure myself she was still whole. “You're bleeding,” I said, “a lot,” which was a clunky statement of fact but also the best I could articulate how awful it felt to see her hurt—limping, a gash on her scalp leaking blood into her hair.

“Where's Addison?” she said. But before “I don't know” had left my lips, she interrupted—“We've got to go after it. This may be our only chance!”

We looked up as the truck was reaching the bridge and saw the guard gun down two squatters chasing after it. As they fell writhing to the dirt, I knew she was wrong: there was no chasing down the truck, no getting across the bridge. It was hopeless—and now the squatters knew it. As their comrades fell, I could feel their desperation turn to rage, and in what seemed an instant that rage turned on us.

We tried to run but found ourselves blocked on all sides. The mob was shouting that we'd “ruined it,” that “they'd cut us off now,” that we deserved to die. Blows started raining down on us—slaps, punches, hands tearing at our hair and clothes. I tried to protect Emma but she ended up protecting me, for a few moments at least, swinging her hands around, burning whomever she could. Even her fire wasn't enough to get them away from us, and the hits kept coming until we were on our knees, then balled up on the ground, arms protecting our faces, pain coming from every direction.

I was almost sure I was dying, or dreaming, because I heard at that moment singing—a loud, peppy chorus of “Hark to the driving
of hammers, hark to the driving of nails!”—but with each line came a smattering of fleshy thuds and corresponding yelps: “What
(SMACK!)
to build a gallows, the
(THWACK!)
for all that ails!”

After a few lines and a few thwacks, the blows stopped raining down and the mob backed away, wary and grumbling. I saw dimly, through a haze of blood and grit, five brawny gallows riggers, tool belts hung from their waists and hammers raised in their hands. They'd cut a wedge through the crowd, and now they circled us, looking down doubtfully as if we were some strange species of fish they hadn't been expecting to find in their nets.

“Is this them?” I heard one of them say. “They don't look so good, cousin.”

“Of course it's them!” said another, his voice like a foghorn, deep and familiar.

“It's Sharon!” Emma cried.

I could move my hand just enough to wipe one eye clear of blood. There he stood, all seven black-cloaked feet of him. I felt myself laugh, or try to; I'd never been so glad to see someone so ugly. He was digging something out of his pocket—little glass vials—and raised them above his head shouting, “I'VE GOT WHAT YOU WANT RIGHT HERE, YOU SICK MONKEYS! GO TAKE THEM AND LEAVE THESE CHILDREN BE!”

He turned and threw the vials down the road. The mob flooded after them, gasping and shouting, ready to tear one another apart to get them. And then it was just the riggers, slightly rumpled from the melee but unscathed, tucking their hammers back into their belts. Sharon, striding toward us with one snow-white hand outstretched, was saying, “What were you thinking, wandering off like that? I was worried sick!”

“It's true,” said one of the riggers. “He was beside himself. Had us looking everywhere for you.”

I tried sitting up but couldn't. Sharon was right over top of us, peering down like he was examining roadkill.

“Are you whole? Can you walk? What in the devil's name have these reprobates done to you?” His tone was somewhere between angry drill sergeant and concerned father.

“Jacob's hurt,” I heard Emma say, her voice cracking. “So are you,” I tried to say but couldn't get my tongue straight. It seemed she was right: my head felt heavy as stone, and my vision was a failing satellite signal, good one moment, gone the next. I was being lifted, carried in Sharon's arms—he was much stronger than he looked—and I had a sudden flashing thought, which I tried to say aloud:

Where's Addison?

I was all mush-mouthed but somehow he understood me, and turning my head toward the bridge, he said, “There.”

In the distance, the truck seemed to be floating in midair. Was my concussed brain playing tricks?

No. I could see it now: the truck was being lifted across the gap by the hollow's tongues.

But where's Addison?

“There,” Sharon repeated. “Underneath.”

Two hind legs and a small brown body dangled from the truck's underside. Addison had clamped onto some part of its undercarriage with his teeth and caught a ride, the clever devil. And as the tongues deposited the truck on the far side of the bridge, I thought,
Godspeed, intrepid little dog. You may be the best hope we've got
.

And then I was fading, fading, the world irising toward night.

T
urbulent dreams, dreams in strange languages, dreams of home, of death. Odd bits of nonsense that spooled out in flickers of consciousness, swimmy and unreliable, inventions of my concussed brain. A faceless woman blowing dust into my eyes. A sensation of being immersed in warm water. Emma's voice assuring me everything would be okay, they're friends, we're safe. Then deep and dreamless dark for unknown hours.

The next time I woke, I wasn't dreaming and I knew it. I was tucked into a bed in a small room. Weak light spilled from behind a drawn window shade. So, daytime. But what day?

I was in a nightgown, not my old, blood-stained clothes, and my eyes were clear of grit. Someone had been taking care of me. Also: though I was bone-tired, I felt little pain. My shoulder had stopped aching, and so had my head. I wasn't sure what that meant.

I tried sitting up. I had to stop halfway and rest on my elbows. A glass pitcher of water stood on a night table by the bedside. In one corner of the room was a hulking wooden wardrobe. In the other—I blinked and rubbed my eyes, making sure—yes, there was a man sleeping in a chair. My mind was moving so sluggishly that I wasn't even startled; I merely thought,
that's odd
. And he was: so odd-looking, in fact, that I struggled briefly to understand what I was seeing. He seemed a man composed of halves: half his hair was slicked down while the other half was cowlicked all over the place; half his face was scraggly beard and the other half clean-shaven. Even his clothes (pants, rumpled sweater, ruffled Elizabethan collar) were half
modern, half archaic.

“Hello?” I said uncertainly.

The man shouted, startling so badly that he fell out of his chair and landed on the floor in a clatter. “Oh, my! Oh, goodness!” He climbed back into the chair, eyes wide and hands aflutter. “You're awake!”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you …”

“Ah, no, it was my fault entirely,” he said, smoothing his clothes and straightening his ruffled collar. “Please don't tell anyone I fell asleep watching you!”

“Who are you?” I asked. “Where am I?” My mind was clearing fast, and as it did it filled with questions. “And where's Emma?”

“Right, yes!” the man said, looking flustered. “I might not be the best-equipped member of the household to answer … 
questions …
”

He whispered the word, eyebrows raised, as if questions were forbidden. “But!” He pointed at me. “
You're
Jacob.” He pointed at himself. “
I'm
Nim.” He made a whirling motion with his hand. “And
this
is Mr. Bentham's house. He's very eager to meet you. In fact, I'm to notify him as soon as you're awake.”

I squirmed up from my elbows to sit fully upright, the effort of which nearly exhausted me. “I don't care about any of that. I want to see Emma.”