Library of Souls (6 page)

We followed him as far as the traffic barrier. I looked around, trying to imagine the kidnappers' next move. Behind us was the crowd, and in front, beyond the traffic barrier, cars prowled the block for parking. “Maybe our friends came this far on foot,” I said, “then were put into a car.”

Brightening, Addison stood on hind legs to peek over the traffic barrier. “Yes! That must be it. Bright boy!”

“What are you so cheerful for?” said Emma. “If they were taken away in a car, they could be anywhere by now!”

“Then we'll
follow
them anywhere,” Addison said pointedly. “Though I doubt they're terribly far. My old master had a townhouse not far from here, and I know this part of the city well. There are no major ports nor obvious points of exit from London nearby—but there
are
a few loop entrances. It's much more likely that they've been taken to one of those. Now lift me up!”

I did, and with my help he scrambled over the barrier and began to sniff around the other side. Within seconds he'd found our friends' scent trail again. “This way!” he said, pointing down the street after the wight, who'd gotten into the police car and was driving away.

“Looks like we're in for a walk,” I said to Emma. “Think you can make it?”

“I'll manage,” she said, “so as long as we find another loop within a few hours. Otherwise I may start sprouting gray hairs and crow's feet.” She smiled, as if this were something to joke about.

“I won't let that happen,” I said.

We jumped the barricade. I took one last look at the Underground station behind us.

“Do you see the hollow?” said Emma.

“No. I don't know where it is. And that worries me.”

“Let's worry about one thing at a time,” she said.

* * *

We walked as fast as Emma could manage, keeping to the side of the street still sunk in morning shadow, watching for police and following Addison's nose. We passed into an industrial area near the docks, the River Thames revealing itself darkly between the gaps in warehouses, then into a fancy shopping district where glittering stores were crowned with glassy townhouses. Over their roofs I caught glimpses of the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, whole again, the sky around it clear and blue. The bombs had all been dropped and the bombers were long gone—shot down, scrapped, retired into museums where they gathered dust behind ropes, to be gawked at by schoolchildren for whom that war seemed as distant as the Crusades. To me it was, quite literally, yesterday. Hard to believe these were the same cratered, blacked-out streets through which we'd run for our lives only last night. They were unrecognizable now, shopping malls seemingly conjured from the ashes—and so were the people who walked them, heads down, glued to phones, clothed in logos. The present seemed suddenly strange to me, so trivial and distracted. I felt like one of those mythical heroes who fights his way back from the underworld only to realize that the world above is every bit as damned as the one below.

And then it hit me
—I was back
. I was in the present again, and I'd crossed into it without the intervention of Miss Peregrine … which was supposed to be impossible.

“Emma?” I said. “How did I get here?”

She kept her eyes trained on the street ahead, always scanning
for trouble. “Where, London? On a train, silly.”

“No.” I lowered my voice. “I mean to
now
. You said Miss Peregrine was the only one who could send me back.”

She turned to glance at me, eyes narrowing. “Yes,” she said slowly. “She was.”

“Or so you thought.”

“No—she was, I'm sure of it. That's how it works.”

“Then how did I get here?”

She looked lost. “I don't know, Jacob. Maybe …”

“There!” Addison said excitedly, and we broke off wondering to look. His body was rigid, pointing down the street we'd just turned onto. “I'm picking up dozens of peculiar scent trails now—dozens upon dozens—and they're fresh!”

“Which means what?” I said.

“Other kidnapped peculiars were brought this way, not just our friends,” said Emma. “The wights' hideout must be close by.”

“Close by
here
?” I said. The block was lined with fast food joints and tacky souvenir shops, and we stood framed in the neon-lit window of a greasy diner. “I guess I'd been imagining someplace … 
eviller
.”

“Like a dungeon in some dank castle,” Emma said, nodding.

“Or a concentration camp surrounded by guards and barbed-wire fences,” I said.

“In the snow. Like Horace's drawing.”

“We may find such a place yet,” said Addison. “Remember, this is likely just the entrance to a loop.”

Across the street, tourists were taking pictures of themselves in front of one of the city's iconic red phone boxes. Then they noticed us and snapped a picture in our direction.

“Hey!” Emma said. “No photos!”

People were beginning to stare. No longer surrounded by comic conventioneers, we stuck out like sore, bloody thumbs.

“Follow me,” Addison hissed. “All the trails lead this way.”

We hurried after him down the block.

“If only Millard were here,” I said, “he could scout this place without being noticed.”

“Or if Horace were here, he might remember a dream that would help us,” Emma said.

“Or find us new clothes,” I added.

“If we don't stop, I'll cry,” Emma said.

We came to a jetty bustling with activity. Sun glinted off the water, a narrow inlet of the murky Thames, and clumps of tourists in visors and fanny packs waddled onto and off of several large boats, each offering more or less identical sightseeing tours of London.

Addison stopped. “They were brought here,” he said. “It would appear they were put onto a boat.”

We followed his nose through the crowd to an empty boat slip. The wights had indeed loaded our friends onto a boat, and now we needed to follow them—but in what? We walked around the jetty looking for a ride.

“This will never do,” Emma grumbled. “These boats are too large and crowded. We need a small one—something we can pilot ourselves.”

“Wait a moment,” said Addison, his snout twitching. He trotted away, nose to the wooden boards. We followed him across the jetty and down a little unmarked ramp that was ignored by the tourists. It led to a lower dock, below the street, just at water level. There was no one around; it was deserted.

Here Addison stopped, wearing a look of deep concentration. “Peculiars have come this way.”

“
Our
peculiars?” Emma said.

He sniffed the dock again and shook his head. “Not ours. But there are many trails here, new and old, strong and faded, all mixed together. This is an oft-used pathway.”

Ahead of us, the dock narrowed and disappeared beneath the main jetty, where it was swallowed in shadows.

“Oft used by whom?” Emma said, peering anxiously into the dark. “I've never heard of any loop entrance underneath a dock in Wapping.”

Addison had no answer. There was nothing to do but forge on and explore, so we did, passing nervously into the shadows. As our eyes adjusted, another jetty resolved into view—one altogether different from the sunny, pleasant one above us. The boards down here were green and rotting, broken in places. A scrum of squeaking rats scampered through a mound of discarded cans, then leapt a short distance from the dock into an ancient-looking skiff, bobbing in the dark water between wooden pylons slimed with moss.

“Well,” Emma said, “I guess that would do in a pinch …”

“But it's filled with rats!” said Addison, aghast.

“It won't be for long,” Emma said, igniting a small flame in her hand. “Rats don't much care for my company.”

Since there didn't seem to be anyone to stop us, we crossed to the boat, hopscotching around the weakest-looking boards, and began to untie it from the dock.

“STOP!” came a booming voice from inside the boat.

Emma squealed, Addison yelped, and I nearly leapt out of my skin. A man who'd been sitting in the boat—how had we not seen him until now?!—rose slowly to his feet, straightening himself inch by inch until he towered over us. He was seven feet tall at least, his massive frame draped in a cloak and his face hidden beneath a dark hood.

“I'm—I'm so sorry!” Emma stammered. “It's—we thought this boat was—”

“Many have tried to steal from Sharon!” the man thundered. “Now their skulls make homes for sea creatures!”

“I swear we weren't trying to—”

“We'll just be going,” squeaked Addison, backing away, “so sorry to bother you, milord.”

“SILENCE!” the boatman roared, stepping onto the creaking
dock with one enormous stride. “Anyone who comes for my boat must PAY THE PRICE!”

I was completely terrified, and when Emma shouted “RUN!” I was already turning to go. We'd only gotten a few paces, though, when my foot crashed through a rotting board and I pitched face-first onto the dock. I tried to scramble up but my leg was thigh deep in the hole. I was stuck, and by the time Emma and Addison circled back to help me, it was too late. The boatman was upon us, looming overhead and laughing, his cavernous guffaws booming around us. It might have been a trick of the darkness, but I could've sworn I saw a rat tumble from the hood of his cloak, and another slip from his sleeve as he slowly raised his arm toward us.

“Get away from us, you maniac!” Emma shouted, clapping her hands to light a flame. Though the light she made did nothing to chase away the dark inside the boatman's hood—I suspected not even the sun could do that—it showed us what he held in his outstretched hand, which wasn't a knife, nor any weapon. It was a piece of paper, pinched between his thumb and a long, white forefinger.

He was offering it to me, bending low so I could reach it.

“Please,” he said calmly. “Read it.”

I hesitated. “What is it?”

“The price. And some other information regarding my services.”

Quaking with fear, I reached up and took the paper. We all leaned in to read by the light of Emma's flame.

I looked up at the giant boatman. “So this is you?” I said uncertainly. “You're … Sharon?”

“In the flesh,” he replied, his voice an oily slither that made my neck hairs stand on end.

“Good bird, man, you scared us half to death!” said Addison. “Was all that bluster and cackling really necessary?”

“My apologies. I was napping and you startled me.”

“We startled
you
?”

“For a moment I thought you really were trying to steal my boat,” he chuckled.

“Ha-ha!” Emma said, forcing a laugh. “No, we were just … making sure it was moored properly.”

Sharon turned to examine the skiff, which was simply roped to one of the wooden pylons.

“And how do you find it?” he asked, the dull white crescent of a grin spreading beneath his hood.

“Totally … ship-shape,” I said, finally jimmying my leg free from the hole. “Really good, um, mooring.”

“Couldn't have tied a better knot myself,” said Emma, helping me to my feet.

“By the way,” said Addison. “The ones who
did
try … are they really all …?” He glanced at the dark water and swallowed audibly.

“Never mind that,” the boatman said. “Now you've woken me, and I am at your service. What can I do for you?”

“We need to hire your boat,” Emma said firmly. “By ourselves.”

“I can't allow that,” Sharon said. “I always captain the boat.”

“Ah, too bad then!” Addison said, turning eagerly to leave.

Emma caught him by the collar. “Wait!” she hissed. “We're not done here.” She smiled pleasantly at the boatman. “So, we happen to know that a lot of peculiars come through this …”

She looked around, searching for the right word.

“… place. Is that because there's a loop entrance nearby?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Sharon said flatly.

“Okay, yes, of course you can't just
admit
it. I completely understand. But you're in safe company with us. Obviously,
we're
—”

I elbowed her. “Emma, don't!”

“Why not? He's already seen the dog talk and me make fire. If we can't speak honestly …”

“But we don't know if
he
is,” I said.

“Of course he is,” she said, then turned to Sharon. “You are, aren't you?”

The boatman stared at us impassively.

“He is, isn't he?” Emma asked Addison. “Can't you smell it on him?”

“No, not clearly.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn't matter, so long as he's not a wight.” She gave Sharon a beady-eyed glare. “You're not, are you?”