The Desolations of Devil's Acre by Ransom Riggs

Author:Ransom Riggs [Riggs, Ransom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241320969
Google: TSAFEAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Penguin UK
Published: 2021-02-23T00:00:00+00:00

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We were halfway up the scaffolding when a shout came from below: “The hell do you think you’re doing? Get away from there!”

We looked down to see Wreck Donovan and Dogface goggling at us from the alley. When Wreck saw me, he squinted and said, “Is that you, Portman?”

“What are you doing there?” said Dogface.

“Keep your voices down!” Millard hissed.

“We live here,” I said.

“Then why you breakin’ in?” Dogface said with a sneer.

“We’re sneaking in,” said Bronwyn. “And never mind why.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked them. “I thought you’d all have left with Parkins and LaMothe.”

Dogface spit on the ground. “To hell with those gutless traitors.”

“We decided to stay and cast our lot with the only peculiars that got any honor at all, and that’s you,” said Wreck. “You’re welcome and God help us.”

They continued on their way, and we resumed our clambering.

“I guess we misjudged them,” I said.

“We shall see about that,” Millard replied.

We went back in through the window we’d snuck out of. No one inside had heard the shouts, and we decided not to tell them. Bronwyn wedged the bone clock into the same trunk that contained Millard’s books and maps, which she had outfitted with ropes that would allow her to carry it like a big, bulky backpack. She’d only just fastened it shut when we heard a commotion downstairs, and rushed down to the kitchen to find all twelve ymbrynes talking with our friends amid the hay and chicken feathers.

It was nearly time to leave, and they’d come to see us off. Some gave us their feathers as talismans, which we tucked into our pockets or poked through the metal grommets of our period-accurate backpacks. Horace distributed the bulletproof sweaters he’d made from peculiar sheep’s wool. These had become indispensable; at this point I would’ve felt naked going on a dangerous outing without one, itchy as they were.

And then the moment came, and we followed Miss Peregrine out of the house and around to the alley again. Klaus was gone; instead there were six large crates waiting for us. Mine was big enough to fit two people, and since Noor had already been closed into a smaller crate by herself, Emma squeezed in beside me. We sat shoulder to shoulder, knees hugged to chests, our backs against the crate walls. Horace was describing to the ymbrynes his new theory about how to stop Caul’s transmissions—something about playing a specific frequency through the loudspeakers, a note that tended to disrupt hypnosis—but then the crate lid closed over our heads and his voice muffled.

Emma and I jostled against each other as our crate was loaded onto a wagon.

“Did you ever think it would get this bad?” I said, my teeth clacking as the wagon began to roll along the Acre’s pitted streets.

“You mean with Caul getting resurrected and coming after us? And all the power of the Library of Souls at his disposal?”

“Yeah. That.”

I felt her shoulders rise, then fall. “Truthfully? I never thought it would get this good.

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