The Desolations of Devil's Acre

by Ransom Riggs

  Fiona and Hugh had returned, too. But where was Enoch? And where was V?

  Addison was guarding the closed door to the sitting room, and barked at us as we came down the last few stairs into the kitchen. “And where’ve you been?”

  “You snuck out,” Miss Peregrine said, “and left behind the guards we assigned you.” She sounded more tired than angry.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” said Millard. “It’s entirely my fault. I—”

  She waved a hand. “We’ll talk about it another time. There are more important matters before us now.” She didn’t even ask where we’d been. “Olive dear, don’t forget the antiseptic before you apply the sticking plaster.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you run into trouble?” I asked.

  “You could say that,” Emma grumbled, rubbing a sore spot on her neck.

  “Your parents are very disagreeable,” said Bronwyn.

  “So are your uncles,” said Emma.

  “They’re back?” I recoiled a bit, anxiety spiking. “You saw them?”

  “Yes, and they don’t care much for trespassers,” said Bronwyn.

  Emma said, “They’ve gotten wise to the fact that strange people have been using their backyard for . . . something . . . and they’ve taken measures.”

  “Hired private security persons,” said Addison.

  “Aggressive private security persons,” Bronwyn added.

  “We got what we went for and returned only minorly bloodied,” said Miss Peregrine. “I’d classify that a success.” She finished drying her hair and draped the wet towel over the back of a chair.

  “Is that their blood or yours?” Noor asked Bronwyn, hovering as Olive patched her arm.

  Bronwyn shrugged. “Bit of both, I reckon.”

  “And mine,” Addison growled, licking a cut on his side.

  “Oh no, you too?” Olive said, and hurried to Addison with her first aid kit. “I’m nearly out of plasters!”

  “We’re going to have to move your family,” said Miss Wren. The chicken in her lap pecked crumbs of bread from her hand.

  “Move them?” I said.

  “Caul has targeted you. It stands to reason he may also attempt to kidnap your parents.”

  “I would,” said Hugh. “I mean, not me, but, you know, if I were Caul—”

  “Move them where?” I said. “And for how long?”

  “Leave the details to us,” Miss Peregrine said. “We’ll simply persuade them to go on holiday somewhere far away.”

  “They just got back from one,” I said.

  “Then we’ll persuade them to go on another,” Miss Wren said sharply. “Unless you’d rather risk them being used as hostages.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” Emma replied, then looked at me. “Would you?”

  “Of course not,” I said, my temper starting to rise.

  Everyone was on edge.

  “Let’s not quarrel,” Miss Peregrine said. “Jacob, we’ll be gentle as lambs with them, you have my word. And when this is all over, we’ll move them back.”

  “And wipe their memories,” I said. “It’ll be as if nothing ever happened.”

  “Yes, precisely.”

  She either hadn’t noticed the edge of sarcasm in my voice or had chosen to ignore it. As if nothing ever happened was a sweet-sounding fairy tale. My parents would never be the same. Their lives had been turned upside down, inside out, blendered on liquify. Even if they didn’t remember the most upsetting chunks of the last year—assuming they hadn’t already sustained some kind of brain damage from all these memory-wipes—the scars would never fade. But there was nothing to be done about it, and no reason to get mad at the ymbrynes for simply trying to protect my parents the best way they knew how. So I took a breath, centered myself, and tried to reset.

  “What about you, Miss Pradesh?” said Miss Wren. “Is there anyone Caul might torment in order to manipulate you? Anyone close to you?”

  Noor laughed acidly. “He already killed her.”

  “What about your friend?” said Millard.

  Noor tensed, then turned to him. “You don’t think he’d hurt Lily?”

  “Caul’s depravity knows no bounds,” Millard replied.

  A new darkness clouded Noor’s features. “If anything happened to her, I couldn’t live with it.”

  “Nor I,” said Millard. “Miss Peregrine, I would like to personally dedicate myself to her protection.”

  “As noble as that is, we need you here,” said Miss Peregrine. “I’ll assign one of our best guards to watch over her.”

  “I wish you could just bring her here,” said Noor.

  “Would that we could,” Miss Peregrine sympathized. “But she’s normal.”

  “She’ll know she’s being watched. Maybe the guard could take her a message from me, so she’ll know they’re friendly, and that I’m okay.”

  Miss Peregrine agreed. A paper and pencil were found, and Noor began to scribble out a short letter for the guard to read to her friend. Before she could finish, the door that led to the sitting room opened a crack, and Enoch emerged wearing long black gloves and a white apron flecked with red splotches.

  “She’s primed and ready,” he said, and looked from Miss Peregrine to Noor. “How about you?”

  Noor swallowed hard, then put down her pencil. Emma stood up to join us, but Miss Peregrine raised a hand to stop her. “We don’t need an audience, only those who are essential. Jacob, Noor. Miss Wren, myself, and Mr. O’Connor.”

  Emma sat again. “I was essential to retrieving her . . .”

  “It’s nothing personal, Em,” Enoch said. “No one expects to be yanked from a sound death-sleep and questioned, and having a big audience makes it even more disconcerting. The dead can get a bit shy.”

  “It’s okay,” Bronwyn said, “I’d rather not watch, anyway. It always gives me nasty dreams.”

  “Bronwyn,” Olive hissed, pointing behind her hand at Noor.

  Bronwyn looked mortified. “Cripes. Sorry. Pretend you’re at the cinema and it’s just a scary film, that’s what I do.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Noor said curtly. She seemed uncomfortable with all the pity being aimed her way. “All that matters is that we find out where the meeting place is.”

  “Right,” said Miss Peregrine. “Enoch, if you’ll lead the way.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  V lay upon a long wooden table that had been positioned near the window. Daylight laddered through the blinds and fell across V’s body in harsh yellow stripes. She looked like a cadaver in a medical school dissection: legs straight, bare feet splayed, chest butterflied open. Blood dripped steadily into a bucket under the table. Jars of pickled organs, some opened, were lined up along the windowsill, and the smell that escaped them was sharp and sour.

  “I’ve already emptied the hearts of two sheep, a lion, and an ox into her,” Enoch was saying. “I had to requisition one fresh chicken heart, too—don’t tell Fiona. A nice mix that should keep her fairly even-tempered. All that’s left is the poet.”

  Miss Peregrine frowned. “I won’t ask where you got that, Enoch.”

  He gave her a cheeky wink. “It’s better that way.”

  Enoch had already begun deadrising V, and for Noor’s sake, I was grateful that some of the worst parts were already done. I’d watched him work on a human only once before: It had taken several gruesome minutes and something like five sheep hearts to rouse Martin, Cairnholm’s late museum curator. Noor wouldn’t have to witness all that gory preamble.

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at V for long—it felt like an intrusion—but from the corner of my eye I noticed her foot twitch, and I thought I heard a quiet murmur, like the sound of someone half woken from sleep.

  Enoch reached under the table and drew out a
lump wrapped in damp butcher paper. “With such limited time, I couldn’t nick one of the major poets’ hearts, sorry to say.” He unwrapped the paper and tipped out a mottled-gray lump the size of a baseball. “Just some poor penniless scribbler.”

  “Will she start reciting his poems?” asked Miss Wren.

  Enoch laughed. “I doubt it; this is his heart, not his brain. But it should help loosen V’s tongue.”

  Noor hadn’t spoken since we’d entered the room. She appeared to be staring at the wall rather than allowing her eyes to drift toward V. I moved close to her, my arm touching hers, and she jolted slightly. She’d been quietly humming the jingle from an old TV commercial.

  “Ready, everyone?” asked Miss Peregrine, though she was only looking at Noor.

  “Yes,” she said. “Please just do it.”

  Enoch needed no encouragement, but he wasn’t gleeful. There were few things in life Enoch took seriously, but his work was one.

  He turned to face the table. Miss Peregrine took a step back to join Miss Wren. Enoch stripped off his black gloves, took the poet’s heart in his left hand, and raised it above his head. Then he leaned over V’s body and plunged his right hand into her open chest.

  I flinched. Noor’s eyes were still locked on the wall.

  Enoch squinted in concentration as his right hand rummaged around inside V’s chest. Suddenly he seemed to latch onto something, and a moment later he shuddered and a violent convulsion passed through him. I fought an urge to run and help him, but there was nothing I could do; this was part of his process.

  In his raised left hand, the poet’s heart quivered, then started beating.

  “It’s happening,” Miss Peregrine whispered.

  V began to moan, quietly at first. She made a sound like choking. Or like a dead throat clearing.

  “Rise up, dead woman,” Enoch intoned. “Rise and speak.”

  He lowered the arm that held the heart, then quickly retracted his right hand from inside V, sucking in a quick breath like something had bit him.

  V sat up. I had known it was coming but wasn’t prepared for the shock. She lurched upward with a sudden, flopping jerk, like an electrified rag doll. Her head lolled to one side. Her eyes were open, but the pupils rolled back and forth. Her mouth worked soundlessly, as if chewing gum.

  Enoch’s hair stood in spiky electrified tufts and steam rose from both his hands. He looked briefly stunned, then slicked back his hair and looked at Miss Peregrine. “The floor is yours,” he said, voice a little shaky.

  Miss Peregrine stepped toward V. “This is Alma Peregrine.” She paused. “V—Velya—can you hear me?”

  A gurgle issued from the dead woman’s throat, but that was all.

  Miss Peregrine tried again. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but you are . . .” She hesitated. Coughed lightly into her hand. “Well, there’s no easy way to break the news. You are dead. Percival Murnau murdered you. I’m ever so sorry.”

  V’s head snapped straight on her neck, but her pupils kept wandering.

  “Can she hear me?” Miss Peregrine asked Enoch.

  “Keep talking,” Enoch said. “Sometimes it takes a while to get through to them.” But his tense demeanor made me think sometimes you couldn’t get through at all.

  Miss Peregrine soldiered on. “We need information, V. We need to ask you something, and it’s very important you find a way to answer us.”

  Miss Wren, running out of patience, stepped beside Miss Peregrine and cut in. “Where’s the meeting place? The secret meeting place for the seven ymbrynes?”

  V grimaced and jerked her head away as if in pain.

  “Too loud,” V said, her voice like sandpaper.

  Noor jumped, then curled her fingers around my wrist.

  “Miss Wren, please,” Enoch said. “She’s dead, not deaf.”

  “Too bright,” said V.

  “Too bright!” said Miss Peregrine. She stepped quickly to the window, twisted the rod on the blinds, and the light in the room dimmed.

  V sagged forward. She moaned, took a few rapid breaths, then raised her head. Her pupils were still bouncing back and forth, settling nowhere. “Whooooooo,” she breathed. “Who’s there?”

  “Alma Peregrine,” said Miss Peregrine.

  “This is Miss Wren speaking.”

  Enoch gave a little bow. “Enoch O’Connor. Pleased to be your resurrectionist today.”

  V had not reacted yet. Miss Peregrine looked at me. I said my name. Her head tilted slightly. Her mouth opened, then closed again.

  Noor forced herself to look at V. “And Noor.”

  V jolted. Her eyes stopped rolling and focused on Noor. “Baby?” the dead woman rasped. “Is that you?”

  Noor looked away as if stung. Baby, coming from someone so vividly dead, was a shock even to me.

  I clasped Noor’s hand and squeezed. She squeezed back. Tapped some well of strength. Then faced V again.

  “Yes. It’s Noor.”

  “Come here. Let me get a look at you.”

  Noor hesitated.

  Miss Wren said, “V, we need to ask you a question.”

  The dead woman’s arm rose, grasped at Noor. “Come closer. Let me see you. Let me touch you.”

  Noor let go of my hand and approached the table. She reached out and grabbed V’s hand in the air, and when she made contact I saw a shudder go through Noor’s body.

  V held Noor’s hand, kneaded it.

  Noor seemed frozen.

  “Talk to her,” Enoch whispered.

  “Mama,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  V rocked on her hips, swaying from one side to the other. “Sorry for what?”

  “For what happened to you. It was my fault.”

  “It’s okay, baby. I’m not mad anymore. We’ll get another TV.”

  Noor gasped and pulled her hand away.

  V moaned. “Where’d you go? Come back.”

  “That was a long time ago, Mama.”

  Enoch leaned in. “You’re dead now, madam,” he said, as if talking to a senile old lady. “You’re not alive any—”

  Noor put up a hand to stop him. V said nothing for a moment, then broke out laughing like she’d heard the world’s funniest joke. A fine red mist sprayed from her butterflied chest.

  None of us knew what to do. Not even Enoch. When her unsettling laughter died down, she sagged like a marionette who’d had her strings cut, then let out a long, mournful cry that sent chills through me.

  Enoch hissed at Noor and made a looping hurry-it-up gesture with his finger. We only had so much time.

  “Mama!” Noor said loudly.

  V slowly straightened, looked at Noor again. Her face was pained.

  “I need to ask you a question,” Noor said.

  At this, I saw Miss Wren visibly relax.

  “No snacks after dinnertime,” V said. “You know the rules.”

  “Not that, Mama. Something else.” Noor glanced over her shoulder at Miss Peregrine, who nodded her encouragement. “Mama, we got a phone call. It told us to go to the meeting place. I think we we were supposed to go there together. You and me. But we can’t, so I have to go without you. Can you tell me where it is?”

  V was quiet for a moment. We could hear the poet’s heart beating in Enoch’s hand. The shuffle of our friends’ feet as they crowded the other side of the closed door, listening.

  Then V let out a long, distressed groan. A sound of realization, and of mourning. It seemed she understood. The worst had happened. Despite all her sacrifices, the thing she’d devoted her life to preventing had come to pass.

  Miss Peregrine nodded grimly. “V, listen to me. Caul has returned. We need to gather the seven . . .”

  Noor stepped up to the table again. As close to V as she’d been. “Please, Mama. We’re in troubl
e. We need your help. Please tell me where it is, Mama. The meeting place.”

  V stopped moaning. Suddenly, her face jerked upward to look at Noor. “It’s almost tuck-in time,” she said sweetly. “But we can’t read stories until your teeth are brushed. Did you brush your teeth?”

  Noor took a deep breath, then replied, “Only the ones I want to keep.”

  V’s blue lips pulled upward into a smile. “PJs?”

  “On,” said Noor.

  “And Penny?” said V. “Where’s Penny-doll?”

  “Got him right here,” Noor lied; there was no doll.

  “What shall we read tonight? Frog and Toad? Eloise? No, no—I know. Our special stories.”

  “We don’t have time for that now, Mama.”

  “Get it down from the shelf. Go on. The old heavy one with the cover peeling off. I know, I know. We’ll fix it, just need some paper tape and a binding edge. No, you can’t put Band-Aids on books, silly goose. Good, now bring it over. That’s a girl.”

  Noor hadn’t moved; the scene playing out was entirely in V’s memory.

  “Turn to chapter . . . that’s right, your favorite one. Now, come sit in Mama’s lap.”

  Noor stiffened and tried to back away, but V grabbed her wrist and held on tight.

  “Sit.”

  “My question, Mama.”

  V pulled her close. Noor squirmed. “Sit, sit, sit. Mama misses you.”

  “Please,” she begged. “I need you to answer me.”

  “Read with me.”

  Noor let out a shuddering sigh. Enoch circled his finger more urgently, eyes wide.

  “Okay, Mama.”

  “Noor,” said Miss Peregrine, her voice betraying some alarm, “Are you sure you want to—”