A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children) by Ransom Riggs

Author:Ransom Riggs [Riggs, Ransom]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2018-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

FLAMING MAN

It was a sign. A literal and actual one made of neon. It had once read FLAMINGO MANOR, but a few letters had burned out. The manor itself—or whatever it was—was mostly obscured by a stand of pine trees.

Emma and I looked at each other, thunderstruck and smiling.

“Well,” she said. “You heard the young man.”

“Peculiars have to stick together,” I said.

And we all started after him.

We followed the boy through the field, down a dirt path that was grassed over and hidden from the road. Bronwyn was at the rear, grunting as she pushed the hobbled Aston over uneven terrain. Aside from the occasional car passing along the main road or the hiss of air brakes at the truck wash behind us, the evening was quiet.

We passed the old motel sign and cleared the trees, and there was the motel—or what was left of it. It had probably been the height of cool in about 1955, with its flying-V roof, kidney-shaped pool, and detached bungalows, but now it did a passable impression of an abandoned building. The roof was patched with tarps. The courtyard was a jungle of overgrown trees. Junk cars were rusting in the pitted parking lot. The pool was empty save a few inches of green water and a long, loaf-shaped thing that might have been—though it was hard to tell in the near-dark—an alligator.

“Don’t mind the look of the place,” said Paul. “It’s nicer on the inside.”

“There’s no way I’m going in there,” said Bronwyn.

“It’s got to be a loop, dear,” said Millard. “In which case, I’m certain it’s nicer on the inside.”

Loops were often downright frightening at their entrance points—it helped keep normal people away—and the Peculiar Planet guide had mentioned “looped accommodations” near Mermaid Fantasyland. The Flaming Man must’ve been it. And if that weren’t a good enough reason to follow the boy, we also couldn’t leave until Enoch fixed the car.

“Look,” Bronwyn hissed, and we turned toward the truck wash. The old police car was back, driving slowly past it, its searchlight panning from side to side.

“I’m going in,” said Paul, his voice edged with a new urgency. “I advise that you follow.”

We took no convincing.

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