Library of Souls (Page 39)

“Jacob’s hurt,” I heard Emma say, her voice cracking. “So are you,” I tried to say but couldn’t get my tongue straight. It seemed she was right: my head felt heavy as stone, and my vision was a failing satellite signal, good one moment, gone the next. I was being lifted, carried in Sharon’s arms—he was much stronger than he looked—and I had a sudden flashing thought, which I tried to say aloud:

Where’s Addison?

I was all mush-mouthed but somehow he understood me, and turning my head toward the bridge, he said, “There.”

In the distance, the truck seemed to be floating in midair. Was my concussed brain playing tricks?

No. I could see it now: the truck was being lifted across the gap by the hollow’s tongues.

But where’s Addison?

“There,” Sharon repeated. “Underneath.”

Two hind legs and a small brown body dangled from the truck’s underside. Addison had clamped onto some part of its undercarriage with his teeth and caught a ride, the clever devil. And as the tongues deposited the truck on the far side of the bridge, I thought, Godspeed, intrepid little dog. You may be the best hope we’ve got.

And then I was fading, fading, the world irising toward night.

Turbulent dreams, dreams in strange languages, dreams of home, of death. Odd bits of nonsense that spooled out in flickers of consciousness, swimmy and unreliable, inventions of my concussed brain. A faceless woman blowing dust into my eyes. A sensation of being immersed in warm water. Emma’s voice assuring me everything would be okay, they’re friends, we’re safe. Then deep and dreamless dark for unknown hours.

The next time I woke, I wasn’t dreaming and I knew it. I was tucked into a bed in a small room. Weak light spilled from behind a drawn window shade. So, daytime. But what day?

I was in a nightgown, not my old, blood-stained clothes, and my eyes were clear of grit. Someone had been taking care of me. Also: though I was bone-tired, I felt little pain. My shoulder had stopped aching, and so had my head. I wasn’t sure what that meant.

I tried sitting up. I had to stop halfway and rest on my elbows. A glass pitcher of water stood on a night table by the bedside. In one corner of the room was a hulking wooden wardrobe. In the other—I blinked and rubbed my eyes, making sure—yes, there was a man sleeping in a chair. My mind was moving so sluggishly that I wasn’t even startled; I merely thought, that’s odd. And he was: so odd-looking, in fact, that I struggled briefly to understand what I was seeing. He seemed a man composed of halves: half his hair was slicked down while the other half was cowlicked all over the place; half his face was scraggly beard and the other half clean-shaven. Even his clothes (pants, rumpled sweater, ruffled Elizabethan collar) were half modern, half archaic.

“Hello?” I said uncertainly.

The man shouted, startling so badly that he fell out of his chair and landed on the floor in a clatter. “Oh, my! Oh, goodness!” He climbed back into the chair, eyes wide and hands aflutter. “You’re awake!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you …”

“Ah, no, it was my fault entirely,” he said, smoothing his clothes and straightening his ruffled collar. “Please don’t tell anyone I fell asleep watching you!”

“Who are you?” I asked. “Where am I?” My mind was clearing fast, and as it did it filled with questions. “And where’s Emma?”

“Right, yes!” the man said, looking flustered. “I might not be the best-equipped member of the household to answer … questions …”

He whispered the word, eyebrows raised, as if questions were forbidden. “But!” He pointed at me. “You’re Jacob.” He pointed at himself. “I’m Nim.” He made a whirling motion with his hand. “And this is Mr. Bentham’s house. He’s very eager to meet you. In fact, I’m to notify him as soon as you’re awake.”

I squirmed up from my elbows to sit fully upright, the effort of which nearly exhausted me. “I don’t care about any of that. I want to see Emma.”

“Of course! Your friend …”

He flapped his hands like little wings while his eyes darted from side to side, as if he might find Emma in a corner of the room.

“I want to see her. Now!”

“My name’s Nim!” he squeaked. “And I’m to notify—yes, under strict instructions …”

A panicky thought flew into my head—that Sharon, mercenary that he was, had rescued us from the mob only to sell us for spare parts.

“EMMA!” I managed to shout. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

Nim went blank and plopped into the chair—I’d scared him silly, I think.

A moment later feet came pounding down the hall. A man in a white coat burst into the room. “You’re awake!” he exclaimed. I could only assume he was a doctor.

“I want to see Emma!” I said. I tried to swing my legs out of the bed, but they felt heavy as logs.

The doctor rushed to my side and pushed me back toward the sheets. “Don’t exert yourself, you’re still recovering!”

The doctor ordered Nim to go find Mr. Bentham. Nim ran out, bouncing off the doorjamb and flopping into the hall. And then Emma was at the door, out of breath and beaming, her hair spilling down a clean white dress.

“Jacob?”

At the sight of her, a burst of strength coursed through me and I sat up, pushing the doctor aside.

“Emma!”

“You’re awake!” she said, running to me.