A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,125

a puff of dust, the curtain began to rise. Beyond it was an empty and decaying theater. The seats were torn, the balcony level was teetering at a precarious angle and looked as if it might collapse at any moment.

On the stage were six people. Their gazes were trained on us but they seemed to be watching one another just as closely, each maintaining a wary distance from the rest. Frankie and Poop stood closest to us, Frankie wearing a coat with tails and holding a baton, as if she were the ringleader of a circus.

It seems amazing to me now, but I had no way of knowing then who the others were. That was probably for the best, because if I’d known their reputations, I might’ve been too intimidated to think straight. Frankie had reached out to the most notorious peculiar gangs in New York, and the leaders of three had made an appearance. Front and center was a young fellow with hair like a cresting wave. He wore an immaculate suit, shoes caked in red mud, and a thin, threatening smile. His name was Wreck Donovan. Standing behind him were his two flunkies, a demure girl who was casually reading a newspaper and a boy who didn’t strike me as someone who could read at all, his mouth hanging open in dim amazement.

Wreck was staring at me while having an argument with someone else: a young-looking girl in an immaculate white dress tied with a huge silk bow. Her hair was coiffed in complicated, ironed curls that cascaded down her back. Her face was milky-white and smooth and very cold, the mouth an inverse of Wreck’s, turned down at the corners and always moving, as if she were chewing something, or talking to herself silently. The strangest thing about her was the cloud of black smoke that hovered around her head and shoulders, churning slowly but never dissipating. It narrowed to a funnel shape that seemed to emanate from her right ear. Her name was Angelica, and she was alone.

Wreck hated to be photographed, but one day I would see a blurred snapshot of him posing much as he sat before me now. Angelica, on the other hand, loved the camera, and one portrait of her in particular—moping on a swing, smoke cloud wafting to one side—would become famous among American peculiars, framed and hung with pride by some, used as target practice or a wanted poster by others.

Wreck and Angelica were arguing about someone who hadn’t shown up yet—the representative for the Untouchables—and Frankie was refusing to start without him.

“There’s no chance he’s gonna show his hairy mug here,” Wreck said. “Or anywhere else in the city, for that matter.” He had a melodious voice tinged with a light Irish accent.

“I hope he does,” said his gape-mouthed flunkie. “I’ll tie him up and turn him in for the bounty.”

“That, I’d pay to see,” said Angelica. “None of you are getting that bounty, anyhow. Dogface and his clan aren’t afraid of you. Leo and his goons, yes, but not you.” She spoke in a kind of lilting sigh, the sentences starting high and chirpy before fluttering down to the floor.

Wreck glanced at his pocket watch, uncrossed his legs, and stood. “One more minute, Frankie. Then I take my associates and blow.”

“Poop, make him sit!” Frankie shouted.

“Please sit down, Mr. Donovan,” said the tutor.

“I’ll never take orders from someone who lets a child call him names,” said Wreck.

“You’re gonna regret talking about me like that,” Frankie said. “One day, you’re gonna beg for my forgiveness.”

Before their argument could escalate, there was a loud slam from the rear of the theater, a set of double doors swung wide, and a small figure rushed in.

“There he is!” said Frankie. “Told you he’d show.”

He charged down the aisle, peeling off a hat and high-collared coat that had obscured his face. “Sorry I’m late,” he said in a high, sharp New York accent. “Traffic was a nightmare!”

He bounded up the steps and into the stage lights, and I was shocked to see that his face—every square inch but his eyeballs and lips—was covered in long, thick fur. This was Dogface, the leader of the Eldritch Street Untouchables, the most despised peculiar clan in New York.

“Dogface!” Wreck shouted. “I truly didn’t think you’d have the stones to show yourself, after the beating we gave you last week.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Dogface replied, licking two fingers and brushing a lock of fur from