Library of Souls (27 page)

“What's it made of?” I asked.

He laughed. “Snips and snails and puppy dog's tails.” He held it toward me again. “No charge,” he said.

“He said he doesn't want any,” Sharon said sharply.

I thought the dealer would lash out at him, but instead he cocked his head at Sharon and said, “Don't I know you?”

“I don't think so,” Sharon said.

“Sure I do,” the dealer said, nodding. “You were one of my best customers. What happened to you?”

“I kicked the habit.”

The dealer stepped toward him. “Looks like you waited too long,” he said, and pulled teasingly on Sharon's hood.

Sharon snatched the dealer's hand. The guards raised their guns.

“Careful,” the dealer said.

Sharon held him a moment longer, then let go.

“Now,” the dealer said, turning toward me. “You're not going to refuse a free sample, are you?”

I had no intention of ever uncorking the stuff, but it seemed like the best way to end this was to take it. So I did.

“Good boy,” the dealer said, and he shooed us from the room.

“You were an addict?” Emma hissed at Sharon. “Why didn't you tell us?”

“What difference would it have made?” Sharon said. “Yes, I had some bad years. Then Bentham took me in and weaned me off the stuff.”

I turned to look at him, trying to imagine. “Bentham did?”

“Like I said, I owe the man my life.”

Emma took the vial and held it up. In the stronger light, the silvery bits inside the black liquid shone like tiny flakes of sun. It was mesmerizing, and despite the side effects, I couldn't help but wonder how a few drops might enhance my abilities. “He wouldn't say what was in it,” Emma said.

“We are,” Sharon said. “Little bits of our stolen souls, crushed up and fed back to us by the wights. A piece of every peculiar they kidnap winds up in a vial like that one.”

Emma thrust the vial away in horror, and Sharon took it and
tucked it into his cloak. “Never know when one of these might come in handy,” he said.

“Knowing what it's made of,” I said, “I can't believe you'd ever take that stuff.”

“I never said I was proud of myself,” Sharon said.

The whole diabolical scheme was perfect in its evilness. The wights had turned the peculiars of Devil's Acre into cannibals, hungry for their own souls. Addicting them to ambrosia ensured their control and kept the population in check. If we didn't free them soon, our friends' souls would be the next to fill those vials.

I heard the hollow roar—it sounded like a cry of victory—and the man we'd watched take ambro a minute earlier was dragged through door and past us down the hall, bleeding and unconscious.

My turn
, I thought, and a thrill of adrenaline shot through me.

* * *

Out back of the ambro den was a walled courtyard, the centerpiece of which was a freestanding cage about forty feet square, its sturdy bars easily capable, it seemed to me, of containing a hollowgast. A line had been painted in the dirt approximately as far from the cage bars as a hollow's tongues could reach, and the crowd, made up of forty or so rough-looking peculiars, had wisely planted themselves behind it. The courtyard's walls were ringed with smaller cages, and inside a tiger, a wolf, and what looked like a full-grown grimbear—animals of lesser interest, at least compared to a hollowgast—were being held to fight another day.

The main attraction could be seen pacing inside the big cage, tethered to a heavy iron post by a chain around its neck. It was in such a sorry state that I was tempted to feel bad for it. The hollowgast had been splashed with white paint and daubed here and there with mud, which made it visible to everyone but also a bit ridiculous looking, like a Dalmatian or a mime. It was limping badly and
leaving trails of black blood, and its muscular tongues, which in anticipation of a fight would normally have been whipping around in the air, were dragging limply behind it. Hurt and humiliated, it was far from the nightmare vision I had become accustomed to, but the crowd, having never seen a hollow, seemed impressed nevertheless. Which was just as well: even in this much-reduced state, the hollow had managed to knock out several fighters in a row. It was still plenty dangerous, and very unpredictable. Which is why, I assumed, men armed with rifles were stationed around the courtyard. Better safe than sorry.

I huddled with Sharon and Emma to strategize. The problem, we agreed, wasn't getting me into the cage with the hollow. It wasn't even controlling the hollow—we were working under the assumption that I could do it. The problem would be getting the hollow out, and away from these people.

“Think you could melt through that chain around its neck?” I asked Emma.

“If I had two days to do it,” she said. “I don't suppose we could just explain to everyone that we really need the hollow and we'll bring it back when we're finished?”

“You wouldn't even get that whole sentence out,” said Sharon, eyeing the rowdy crowd. “This is more fun than these blighters have had in years. No chance.”

“Next fighter!” shouted a woman standing watch from a second-story window.

Away from the crowd, a small clutch of men argued about which of them would fight next. There was already plenty of blood soaking the ground inside the cage, and none seemed in a hurry to contribute more. They'd been drawing straws, and a well-built man who was stripped to the waist had just picked the short one.

“No mask,” Sharon said, noting the man's bushy mustache and relatively unscarred face. “He must be just starting out.”

The man gathered his courage and strutted toward the crowd.
In a loud, Spanish-accented voice, he told them he'd never been beaten in a fight, that he was going to kill the hollow and keep its head for a trophy, and that his peculiar ability—ultraquick healing—would make it impossible for the hollow to inflict a mortal wound.

“See these beauty marks?” he said, turning to show off a collection of nasty, claw-shaped scars on his back. “A grim gave them to me last week. They were an inch deep,” he claimed, “and healed the same day!” He pointed at the hollow in the cage. “That wrinkled old thing doesn't stand a chance!”

“Now it's
definitely
going to kill him,” Emma said.

The man poured a vial of ambro into his eyes. His body stiffened and light beams shot from his pupils, leaving a cataract of burn marks on the ground. A moment later they winked out. Thus fortified, he strode confidently to the cage door, where a man with a large key ring met him to unlock it.

“Keep an eye on the guy with the keys,” I said. “We might need those.”

Sharon reached into his pocket and drew out a wriggling rat by its tail. “Did you hear that, Xavier?” he said to the rat. “Go get the keys.” He dropped the rodent on the ground and it scurried away.

The boastful fighter entered the cage and began to face off with the hollow. He'd taken a small knife from his belt and assumed a bent-kneed stance, but other than that he showed little appetite for a fight. Instead, he seemed to be running out the clock by running his mouth, giving a speech with all the blowhard bluster of a professional wrestler. “Come at me, you animal! I am not afraid! I'll slice out your tongues and make a belt to hold up my pants! I'll pick my teeth with your toenails and mount your head on my wall!”

The hollow watched him boredly.

The fighter made a show of drawing his knife across his forearm, and as blood began to well he held up the wound. It healed and closed before a single drop could reach the ground. “I am invincible!” he cried. “I am not afraid!”

Suddenly the hollow faked toward the man and roared, which so startled him that he dropped his knife and threw his arms across his face. It seemed the hollow had grown tired of him.

The crowd burst into riotous laughter—and so did we—and the man, red-faced with embarrassment, bent to pick up his knife. Now the hollow was moving toward him, chains clinking as it went, tongues extended and curled like clenched fists.

The man realized he'd have to engage the monster if he was to salvage his dignity, so he took a few tentative steps forward while brandishing the knife. The hollow flicked one of its painted tongues
at him. The man swiped at it with his knife—and connected. Cut, the hollow squealed and retracted the tongue, then hissed at the man like an angry cat.

“That'll teach you to attack Don Fernando!” the man shouted.

“This guy never learns,” I said. “Taunting hollows is a bad idea.”

He seemed to have the hollow on the run. It backed away while the man approached, still hissing and waving his knife. When the hollow could retreat no farther, its back against the bars of the cage, the man raised his knife. “Prepare to die, demon spawn!” he shouted, and charged.

For a moment I wondered if I'd have to step in and save the hollow, but soon it became clear that it had set a trap. Snaking beneath the man was all the slack of the hollow's chain, which the hollow grabbed and swept violently to one side, sending Don Fernando flying head-first into a metal post.
Clonk
—and he was out, limp on the ground. Another KO.

He'd been such a shameless braggart that the crowd couldn't help cheering.

A team of men with torches and electric-tipped taser poles ran into the cage and kept the hollow at bay while the unconscious fighter was dragged out.

“Who's next?” the referee woman shouted.

The remaining fighters traded looks of apprehension, then resumed arguing. Now no one wanted to enter the cage.

Except me.

The man's ridiculous performance and the hollow's trick had given me an idea. It wasn't a sure-fire plan, or even a good one, but it was something, and that was better than nothing. We—meaning the hollow and I—were going to fake its death.

* * *

I screwed up my courage and, as tends to happen while I'm doing something either slightly brave or very foolish, my brain disengaged from my body. I seemed to watch myself from afar as I waved an arm at the referee and shouted, “I'll go next!”

Before then I'd been invisible; now the crowd and the fighters all turned to stare.

“What's your plan?” Emma whispered to me.

I had one but had been so caught up with working it out that I'd failed to share it with Emma or Sharon, and now I had no time to lay it out for them. Which was probably for the best. If spoken aloud, I feared it might sound ridiculous or, worse yet, impossible, and then I'd lose my nerve.

“I think it's better if I just show you,” I said. “But it definitely won't work unless we get those keys.”

“Don't worry, Xavier's on the job,” said Sharon. We heard a squeak and looked down to see the rat in question with a piece of cheese in its mouth. Sharon picked him up and scolded him. “
Keys
, I said, not cheese!”

“I'll get them,” Emma assured me. “Just promise you'll come back in one piece.”

I promised. She wished me luck and kissed me on the lips. Then I looked at Sharon, who tilted his head at me as if to say,
I hope you're not expecting a kiss from me, too
, and I just laughed and walked toward the fighters.

They were looking me up and down. I was sure they thought I was crazy, and yet none of them tried to stop me. After all, if this ill-prepared kid, who wasn't even going to take a vial of ambro before his fight, wanted to throw himself at the beast and wear it down a little, that was a gift they were willing to accept. And if I died trying, I was just a slave anyway. Which made me hate them and put me in mind of the poor kidnapped peculiars whose extracted souls were swimming around in the vials they all clutched—which made me even angrier. I did my best to channel all that rage into unwavering
determination and focus, but it was mostly just distracting.

And yet. While the man with the keys was working to open the cage, I looked inward and found, to my surprise and delight, that I was not racked with doubt, nor haunted by visions of my impending death, nor battling waves of terror. I had met and exerted control over this hollow twice before; this would be the third time. Despite my anger, I was calm and quiet, and within this quiet I found that the words I needed were waiting for me, ready to be spoken.

The man opened the door and I stepped into the cage. He'd only just closed it when the hollow started toward me, rattling its chain like an angry ghost.

Tongue, don't fail me now
.

I raised a hand to hide my mouth and said, in guttural Hollow:

Stop
.

The hollow stopped.

Sit
, I said.

It sat.

A wave of relief washed over me. I'd had nothing to worry about; reestablishing the connection was as easy as picking up the reins of an old compliant mare. Controlling the monster was a bit like wrestling someone much smaller than I: it was pinned and wriggling to get free, but so outmatched by my strength that it posed little danger. But then the ease with which I controlled the hollow was its own sort of problem. There was no simple way to get it out of the cage unless everyone believed it was dead and no longer a threat, and there was no way anyone would believe it was dead if my victory came too easily. I was a scrawny, un-ambro-enhanced kid; I couldn't just slap it and have it keel over. For this ruse to be properly convincing, I needed to put on a show.