Hollow City (29 page)

I rushed to Emma. “Are you okay?”

“On your knees!” the girl barked at me. “Put your hands on your head!”

“I’m fine,” Emma said. “Do as she says. She’s telekinetic and clearly unstable.”

I knelt down by Emma and laced my fingers behind my head.

Emma did the same. Horace, trembling and silent, sat heavily and placed his palms on the floor.

“We don’t mean you any harm,” Emma said. “We’re only after the pigeon.”

“Oh, I know perfectly well what you’re after,” the girl said with a sneer. “Your kind never gives up, do you?”

“Our
kind
?” I said.

“Lay down your weapons and slide them over!” barked the girl.

“We don’t have any,” Emma said calmly, trying her best not to upset the girl any further.

“This will go easier for you if you don’t assume I’m stupid!” the girl shouted. “You’re weak and have no powers of your own, so you rely on guns and things. Now lay them on the floor!”

Emma turned her head and whispered, “She thinks we’re wights!”

I almost laughed out loud. “We aren’t wights. We’re
peculiar
!”

“You aren’t the first blank-eyes to come here pigeon-hunting,” she said, “nor the first to try impersonating peculiar children. And you wouldn’t be the first I’ve killed, neither! Now put your weapons on the floor before I snap this pigeon’s neck—and then yours!”

“But we aren’t wights!” I insisted. “Look at our pupils if you don’t believe us!”

“Your eyes don’t mean
nothing
!” the girl said. “False lenses are the oldest trick in the book—and trust me, I know ’em all.”

The girl took a step toward us, into the light. Hate smoldered in her eyes. She was tomboyish, except for the dress, with short hair and a muscular jaw. She had the glassy look of someone who hadn’t slept in days; who was running now on instinct and adrenaline. Someone in that condition wouldn’t be kind to us, nor patient.

“We
are
peculiar, I swear!” Emma said. “Watch—I’ll show you!” She lifted one hand from her head and was about to make a flame when a sudden intuition made me grab her wrist.

“If there are hollows close by, they’ll sense it,” I said. “I think they can feel us kind of like I feel them—but it’s much easier for them when we use our powers. It’s like setting off an alarm.”

“But you’re using
your
power,” she said, irritated. “And she’s using hers!”

“Mine is passive,” I said. “I can’t turn it off, so it doesn’t leave much of a trail. As for her—maybe they already know she’s here. Maybe it’s not her they want.”

“How convenient!” the girl said to me. “And that’s supposed to be your power? Sensing shadow creatures?”

“He can see them, too,” said Emma. “And kill them.”

“You need to invent better lies,” the girl said. “No one with half a brain would buy that.”

Just as we were talking about it, a new Feeling blossomed painfully inside me. I was no longer sensing the left-behind residue of a hollow, but the active presence of one.

“There’s one nearby,” I said to Emma. “We need to get out of here.”

“Not without the bird,” she muttered.

The girl started across the room toward us. “Time to get on with it,” she said. “I’ve given you more than enough chances to prove yourselves. Anyway, I’m beginning to
enjoy
killing you things. After what you did to my friends, I just can’t seem to get enough of it!”

She stopped a few feet from us and raised her free hand—about to bring what was left of the roof down on our heads, maybe. If we were going to make a move, it had to be now.

I sprang from my crouched position, threw my arms in front of me, and collided with the girl, knocking her to the floor. She cried out in angry surprise. I rammed my fist into the palm of her free hand so she couldn’t snap her fingers again. She let the bird go, and Emma grabbed it.

Then Emma and I were up, rushing toward the open door. Horace was still on the floor in a daze. “Get up and run!” Emma shouted at him.

I was pulling Horace up by his arms when the door slammed in my face and a burned dresser lifted out of the corner and flew across the room. The edge of it connected with my head and I went sprawling, taking Emma down with me.

The girl was in a rage, screaming. I was certain we had only seconds to live. Then Horace stood up and shouted at the top of his lungs:

“Melina Manon!”

The girl froze. “What did you say?”

“Your name is Melina Manon,” he said. “You were born in Luxembourg in 1899. You came to live with Miss Thrush when you were sixteen years old, and have been here ever since.”

Horace had caught her off guard. She frowned, then made an arcing motion with her hand. The dresser that had nearly knocked me unconscious sailed through the air and then stopped, hovering, directly above Horace. If she let it drop, it would crush him. “You’ve done your homework,” said the girl, “but any wight could know my name and birthplace. Unfortunately for you, I no longer find your deceptions interesting.”

And yet, she didn’t quite seem ready to kill him.

“Your father was a bank clerk,” Horace said, speaking quickly.

“Your mother was very beautiful but smelled strongly of onions, a
lifelong condition she could do nothing to cure.”

The dresser wobbled above Horace. The girl stared at him, her brows knit together, hand in the air.

“When you were seven, you badly wanted an Arabian horse,” Horace continued. “Your parents couldn’t afford such an extravagant animal, so they bought a donkey instead. You named him Habib, which means
beloved
. And loved him you did.”

The girl’s mouth fell open.

Horace went on.

“You were thirteen when you realized you could manipulate objects using only your mind. You started with small things, paper clips and coins, then larger and larger ones. But you could never pick up Habib with your mind, because your ability did not extend to living creatures. When your family moved houses, you thought it had gone away entirely, because you couldn’t move anything at all anymore. But it was simply that you hadn’t gotten to know the new house yet. Once you became familiar with it, mapped it in your mind, you could move objects within its walls.”

“How could you possibly know all this?” Melina said, gaping at him.

“Because I dreamed about you,” said Horace. “That’s what
I
can do.”

“My God,” said the girl, “you
are
peculiar.”

And the dresser drifted gently to the floor.

*   *   *

I wobbled to my feet, head throbbing where the dresser had hit me.

“You’re bleeding!” Emma said, jumping up to inspect my cut.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said, dodging her. The Feeling was shifting inside me, and being touched while it was happening made it harder to interpret; interrupted its development somehow.

“Sorry about your head,” Melina Manon said. “I thought I was the only peculiar left!”

“There’s a whole gang of us down your well, in the catacomb tunnel,” Emma said.

“Really?” Melina’s face lit up. “Then there’s still hope!”

“There was,” said Horace. “But it just flew out the hole in your roof.”

“What—you mean Winnifred?” Melina put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. A moment later, the pigeon appeared, flying down through the hole to land on her shoulder.

“Marvelous!” said Horace, clapping his hands. “How’d you do that?”

“Winnie’s my chum,” Melina said. “Tame as a house cat.”

I wiped some blood from my forehead with the back of my hand, then chose to ignore the pain. There wasn’t time to be hurt. I said to the girl, “You mentioned that wights have been here, chasing pigeons.”

Melina nodded. “Them and their shadow beasts came three nights ago. Surrounded the place, took Miss Thrush and half our wards here, then set fire to the house. I hid on the roof. Since then, wights have come back every day, in little groups, hunting for Winnifred and her friends.”

“And you killed them?” Emma asked.

Melina looked down. “That’s what I said, ain’t it?”

She was too proud to admit she’d lied. It didn’t matter.

“Then we’re not the only ones hunting for Miss Wren,” Emma said.

“That means she’s still free,” I said.

“Maybe,” said Emma. “Maybe.”

“We think the pigeon can help us,” I said. “We need to find Miss Wren, and we think the bird knows how.”

“I never heard of any Miss Wren,” said Melina. “I just feed Winnie when she comes into our courtyard. We’re friends, she and I. Ain’t we, Winnie?”

The bird chirped happily on her shoulder.

Emma moved close to Melina and addressed the pigeon. “Do you know Miss Wren?” she said, enunciating loudly. “Can you help us find her?
Miss Wren
?”

The pigeon leapt off Melina’s shoulder and flapped across the room to the door. She warbled and fluttered her wings, then flew back.

This way
, it seemed to say.

That was proof enough for me. “We need to take the bird with us,” I said.

“Not without me,” said Melina. “If Winnie knows how to find this ymbryne, then I’m coming, too.”

“Not a good idea,” said Horace. “We’re on a dangerous mission, you see—”

Emma cut him off. “Give us the bird. We’ll come back for you, I promise.”

A sudden jolt of pain made me gasp and double over.

Emma rushed to my side. “Jacob! Are you all right?”

I couldn’t speak. Instead I hobbled to the window, forced myself upright, and projected my Feeling out toward the cathedral dome, visible over the rooftops just a few blocks away—then down at the street, where horse-drawn wagons rattled past.

Yes, there
. I could feel them approaching from a side street, not far away.

Them
. Not one hollow, but two.

“We have to go,” I said. “Now.”

“Please,” Horace begged the girl. “We
must
have the pigeon!”

Melina snapped her fingers, and the dresser that had nearly killed me raised up off the floor again. “I can’t allow that,” she said, narrowing her eyes and flicking them toward the dresser just to make sure we understood one another. “But take me along and you get Winnie in the bargain. Otherwise …”

The dresser pirouetted on one wooden leg, then tipped and crashed onto its side.

“Fine then,” Emma said through her teeth. “But if you slow us down, we take the bird and leave you behind.”

Melina grinned, and with a flick of her hand the door banged open.

“Whatever you say.”

*   *   *

We flew down the stairs so fast that our feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. In twenty seconds we were back in the courtyard, leaping over dead Mr. Crumbley, diving down the dry well. I went first, kicking in the mirrored door at the bottom rather than wasting time sliding it open. It broke from its hinges and fell in pieces. “Look out below!” I called, then lost my grip on the wet stone steps and fell flailing and tumbling into the dark.

A pair of strong arms caught me—Bronwyn’s—and set my feet on the floor. I thanked her, my heart pounding.

“What happened up there?” asked Bronwyn. “Did you catch the pigeon?”

“We got it,” I said as Emma and Horace reached the bottom, and a cheer went up among our friends. “That’s Melina,” I said, pointing up at her, and that was all the time for introductions we had. Melina was still at the top of the steps, fooling with something. “Come on!” I shouted. “What are you doing?”

“Buying us time!” she shouted back, and then she pulled shut and locked a wooden lid that capped the well, closing out the last rays of light. As she climbed down in darkness, I explained about the hollows that were chasing us. In my panicked state, this came out as “
GO NOW RUN HOLLOWS NOW
,” which was effective if not terribly articulate, and threw everyone into hysterics.

“How can we run if we can’t see?!” Enoch shouted. “Light a flame, Emma!”

She’d been holding off because of my warning back in the attic.

Now seemed like a good time to reinforce that, so I grabbed her arm and said, “Don’t! They’ll be able to pinpoint us too easily!” Our best hope, I thought, was to lose them in this forking maze of tunnels.

“But we can’t just run blindly in the dark!” said Emma.

“Of course,” said the younger echolocator.

“We can,” said the older.

Melina stumbled toward their voices. “Boys! You’re alive! It’s me—it’s Melina!”

Joel-and-Peter said:

“We thought you were—”

“Dead every last—”

“One of you.”

“Everyone link hands!” Melina said. “Let the boys lead the way!”

So I took Melina’s hand in the dark and Emma took mine, then she felt for Bronwyn’s, and so on until we’d formed a human chain with the blind brothers in the lead. Then Emma gave the word and the boys took off at an easy run, plunging us into the black.

We forked left. Splashed through puddles of standing water. Then from the tunnel behind us came an echoing crash that could only have meant one thing: the hollows had smashed through the well door.

“They’re in!” I shouted.

I could almost feel them narrowing their bodies, wriggling down into the shaft. Once they made it to level ground and could run, they’d overtake us in no time. We’d only passed one split in the tunnels—not enough to lose them. Not nearly enough.