Darwen Arkwright and the School of Shadows (26 page)

“You really think there might be a flittercrake around here to summon?” said Alex. “And if there was, how would that help?”

“Just a hunch,” muttered Darwen, putting the whistle back in his mouth.

Darwen blew another soundless blast on the whistle, then stood, expectant, staring up into the misty sky. He stayed like that for a minute or more and was about to raise the whistle to his lips again when something came hurtling through the air, plummeting like a diving falcon, its leathery wings almost folded until they splayed parachute-like at the last moment. The birdlike thing thudded onto Darwen's shoulder, clinging with its long claws. It was a flittercrake.

Darwen considered the creature's little bald head, its keen mannish eyes and cruel beak, and he felt sure his hunch was correct.

It wasn't
a
flittercrake. It was
the
flittercrake. The one he had first seen at the mall. The one that had led him to the old mirror shop. It fixed him with its beady eyes, its sidelong, knowing grin telling Darwen that he was right.

That first day, the day that changed his life, Darwen had thought he had simply noticed the flittercrake by happenstance, that his decision to follow it straight to Mr. Peregrine's shop was due to nothing other than sheer curiosity. But that hadn't been right. The flittercrake had been sent to find him, and then—later—to feign an attack on a rabbit-like creature on the other side of the mirror, in a way calculated to lure Darwen into crossing over into Silbrica for the very first time. Eileen had essentially told him as much, but only now did it occur to Darwen that the creature had been working with Mr. Peregrine more closely than anyone had guessed. If the flittercrake was somehow connected to the old man, and it had been able to creep through broken portal mirrors and any other little gaps between worlds, maybe it knew something about where he was.

He kicked himself for not thinking of trying to contact the flittercrake before.

Alex peered at the creature, her distaste evident as it flexed its bat-like wings then turned and stuck its tongue out at her.

“Oh, that's just wrong,” she said.

“I remember you,” said the flittercrake to Alex, in a high-pitched rasping voice that raised the hair on the back of Darwen's neck. “From the place with the mirror shop.”

“The mall?” said Alex. “I don't remember you.”

“Didn't see me, did you?” said the flittercrake. “You weren't supposed to.
He
was.”

The little creature flicked a long-nailed thumb in Darwen's direction and rolled his eyes as if he was bored of dealing with such stupid people.

“You know where Mr. Peregrine was taken?” asked Darwen.

The flittercrake considered him thoughtfully, then nodded.

“Is it close by?” Darwen pressed.

“Close enough,” said the flittercrake, his hard little gaze unflinching.

“Show us,” Darwen concluded.

“You sure you want to go?” said the flittercrake, grinning maliciously. “Not a nice place. Dark and dangerous.”

“If Mr. Peregrine is there, then yes,” Darwen said, holding the creature's eyes with his own.

“He might be,” said the flittercrake with a tiny shrug. It turned from him sulkily.

“You just said he was!” Darwen exclaimed, his patience growing thin. “Do you know where he is or not?”

“I know where he
was
,” rasped the flittercrake, its voice like fingernails on a blackboard. “He might have been moved. He might not be alive. I haven't been anywhere but the portal itself. There are rooms.”

“Show us,” said Darwen, ignoring the suggestion that Mr. Peregrine might not be alive with an effort.

“All of you?” hissed the flittercrake. “Not just you?”

“All of us,” said Darwen.

“Fine,” sniffed the flittercrake, “but I'll be very surprised if you all make it out alive. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

With one last leering grin, the creature shot straight up into the misty air like a skylark. Once up, it circled lazily, waiting for them to get back out onto the road, then flew up and into the rocky hills. There were few trees here, and the low vegetation broke through jutting slabs of splintered, gray slate. To the left they saw the mouth of an arched railway tunnel set into the scree-scattered hillside, from which a single track emerged. The flittercrake shot them a wolfish grin, then beat its wings into a long, looping flight past it.

“Is that a portal?” asked Alex as the creature vanished into the dark.

“No,” said Darwen, conscious of the others watching him closely. “Come on.”

Darwen wasn't sure how far they walked. A mile, maybe two, then they veered off to the right and into a complex of low buildings where a sign read Lechwedd Slate Caverns.

“It's a mine,” said Rich.

“Of course,” said Alex miserably. “I was hoping for a theme park or a mini-golf course, but it's a mine. Naturally.” She watched as the flittercrake dived and settled, clinging to a piece of sagging gutter, following them with its ratty eyes. “You think we can trust that thing?”

“No,” said Darwen, “but I don't think we have a choice. We're running out of time, and if I'm right, and his connection to Mr. Peregrine is real, then we need to take advantage of it.”

The sun was still low in the sky, the parking lot cold and empty, and the buildings seemed deserted. The flittercrake paused, then leapt into flight again, alighting this time on a sign whose arrow read Deep Mine. They followed it till they came to a turnstile and what looked a little like a railway line, except that it was tilted so that it descended steeply into the ground, the passenger waiting areas made up of stepped metal gantries. The “train” beside them was four yellow metal boxes with glass panels, also stepped to meet the pitch of the rails, each with seating for six.

As Alex gazed apprehensively down into the blackness below, Rich considered the controls dubiously. “It's operated from in there,” he hissed, nodding toward an office building beside the track. There were lights in the windows, and as Darwen watched, he saw a shadow move across one of them.

Something was inside.

Choices

D
arwen laid a
finger on his lips and moved cautiously toward the door, which was, he now saw, slightly ajar. He could just make out a hum of machinery, but over the top he could hear voices. He flattened himself against the wall by the doorway and listened intently.

“Always the early shift, me,” said one voice, a man. Welsh. Soft-spoken and bored-sounding. “I don't know why they bother. They aren't even using most of these anymore. Waste of my time.”

“Easy money then, innit?” said another voice, also a man, but not local. A Londoner, perhaps, Darwen thought. It was a deep, roughsounding voice: almost a snarl. “Don't see what you're complaining about. Sitting around 'ere, doing nothing, and taking home a fat check at the end of the week. Money for old rope, innit?”

“But what's it all for?” the other returned. “Science experiments, they say, but for what? And what kind of laboratory looks like that? And why is it in a mine? It doesn't make any sense.”

“Don't have to,” the other grunted. “I don't need to know so long as the cash keeps coming. And you shouldn't be snooping around either.”

The other gave a sputter of protest, but his colleague talked right over him.

“Don't deny it,” he said. “I've seen you poking around. Asking questions when the odd bods come. You'll mess it up for all of us. So cut it out.”

“You're not curious?” said the Welshman. “You don't want to know why we're doing this?”

“Cloning, I reckon,” said the Londoner. “Illegal, probably. It's like I said: asking questions will just ruin everything, so—just for once—shut your Welsh cake-hole.”

“Charming, I'm sure,” said the other. “Ever the sparkling conversationalist, aren't you?”

“They don't pay me to talk, and they don't pay me to push buttons and top off the fluids every four hours,” said the Londoner, an edge of menace in his voice. “They pay me to keep an eye on things, and that includes you, so unless you want a knuckle sandwich, I'd button it.”

Darwen shifted and found Alex on the other side of the doorway staring at him and mouthing soundlessly
“
What do we do?”

Darwen had no idea. It sounded crazy, but though he was used to the peculiar Silbrican perils of scrobblers and gnashers, people—ordinary men like these two—scared him.

The Londoner was talking again. “I'm looking to get promoted, anyway, me,” he was saying. “No more sitting around this dump with you.”

“You're not serious!” said the Welshman. “Just let them send you wherever and tell no one where you are or what you're doing? Sounds dodgy to me. They never come back, you know, the people they promote off-site. One day they're here, the next they're gone, and no one ever hears from them again.”

“You should see the benefits package they're offering,” said the Londoner. He whistled between his teeth. “I don't care where they send me or what I do. And it's not like I'd be leaving anyone behind to miss me, except you, Owen.”

“Oh, yes,” said the Welshman wryly. “I'd miss you terribly.”

Darwen thought furiously. They couldn't just walk in and pretend they belonged there. And they certainly couldn't hope to overpower two men without a weapon of some kind. Darwen guessed it was these two he had seen through the observation mirrors in Mr. Peregrine's watchtower, and if so, the Londoner was a particularly big bloke.

Darwen felt an insistent nudge and, turning, found Rich at his elbow, eyebrows raised, hefting something carefully in one hand. It was a slab of slate the size of a book. Darwen knew what he was thinking. If Rich could get inside quickly or stealthily enough, could get behind the two men, preferably while they were still sitting, could raise that hunk of stone over their heads . . .

Darwen shook his head fiercely. The memory of what had happened to Blodwyn was too present in his mind.

“Checking the perimeter,” muttered the Londoner, with a scraping of chair legs. “Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone.”

“Always a joy to work with,” said the Welshman.

Darwen listened to the bigger man's receding footsteps, then the creak and clang of a heavy metal door. He waited barely a second before pushing the door open and stepping into the control room, leaving Rich and Alex gazing at each other, flabbergasted.

For a moment Darwen just stood in the doorway, his eyes flashing around the room. There were two chairs, close to a bank of old-fashioned controls: knobs, switches, and levers set into a slab of thick black metal whose wires trailed all over the room. Sitting in one of the chairs was the man in the white lab coat who Darwen had seen in the watchtower. He was reading a newspaper and sipping tea from a chipped mug. He hadn't noticed Darwen, who was standing quite still and silent only feet from him. Darwen probably could reach back to Rich, take that slab of rock from him, and cross over to the man before he got out of his chair. . . .

No.
He would not do that.

“All right?” Darwen said.

The man in the chair started so violently that he spilled his tea all over the newspaper and leapt to his feet. “What are you doing in here?” he gasped, his Welsh accent even stronger in his astonishment.

“I came for the tour,” Darwen answered simply, using the same excuse they'd fallen into back at the lighthouse in Conwy.

“There are no tours of the deep mine anymore,” the Welshman began, but then he caught something in Darwen's eyes and his face became a mask of suspicion. “Who are you?” he said, rising.

“My name's Darwen.”

He could almost hear Alex and Rich rolling their eyes behind him.

“Why are you here?” the Welshman replied, still suspicious. He was about forty, getting thick and soft around the middle, fair hair thinning fast so that the scalp showed through, pale blue eyes in a slightly chubby face. “No one comes in here. And if
he
catches you, you'll be in serious trouble. You need to get out before he gets back.”

“He?”

“George. My co-worker, George Tomlinson. I say co-worker, but he's little more than a hired thug.”

“And what kind of work do you do, Owen?” asked Darwen.

The man seemed taken aback by this use of his name, and he looked distracted as he replied, “Oh, this and that. I'm just a tech, really. Just, you know, monitoring the equipment, running the train, and making sure the current stays according to the protocols in the manual . . .” He caught himself, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Why am I telling you this? You need to get out before George gets back,” he added, nodding to the door at the far end of the room. It was metal, unpainted, and dotted with reinforcing bolts. It looked like the kind of door you might see in a prison cell or a submarine.

“How long will George be?”

Owen shrugged and glanced at his watch. “Two or three minutes,” he said. “Five if he goes to the bathroom.”

“And can you lock that door from the inside?”

“I could bolt it,” said Owen, looking increasingly uneasy with the conversation. “Why?”

“Buy me a little time,” said Darwen.

“For what?”

“I need to go down into the mine.”

“You can't do that!” sputtered Owen. “I'll lose my job.”

“Good job, is it?” asked Darwen, meeting the man's eyes and holding them.

Owen shrugged and glanced away, so Darwen pressed on.

“The kind of job you're proud of? A job that makes you think you are doing something good for the world?”

The man's mouth opened and his eyes seemed to glaze.

“Or do you not want me to go down there because you know I'll find something I'm not going to like?” said Darwen, meeting Owen's eyes. “Something that shouldn't be down there?”

The man's mouth dropped open still further.

“That's what I thought,” Darwen persisted. “I'm looking for an old man who's been hooked up to machines of some sort. He was kidnapped, drugged, and now you have him in that mine.”

“They don't tell me anything, you know,” said Owen, his resolve crumbling. “I just monitor the fluids and—”

“But he's down there?” Darwen exclaimed, his heart leaping. “He's there and he's alive?”

“Well, yes,” said Owen, starting to rub his temples anxiously. “But I don't know what sort of shape he's in.”

“Please, tell me what you
do
know,” Darwen insisted. “He's my friend.”

Owen had been shaking his head, but that last phrase stopped him. He gave Darwen a long, worried look, then nodded. “He was alive, look you, at least till two days ago. But not conscious, exactly. It's like a coma, really, but part of him has to still be awake for the process to work. I don't know what it does. Some sort of medical experiment, I think. Cloning, George says. I just, you know, keep an eye on things so they don't die. I didn't know he'd been kidnapped or anything. . . .”

“The process keeps him alive so the thing that looks like him retains a little of his personality,” said Rich, who had appeared in the doorway.

“The thing that looked like him?” Owen echoed, horrified.

“The flesh suit,” said Rich. “It looks just like him even though what it's doing is the absolute opposite of what the real person—Mr. Peregrine—would want.”

“What kind of things?” asked Owen, his voice faint now.

“Abducting children,” said Alex, pushing her way in.

Owen stared at her, baffled.

“Murder,” said Darwen flatly.

“What?” Owen managed.

“Look at this place, Owen,” said Darwen, as calmly as he could. “Look at this equipment. You know that what we're telling you is the truth. So you had better make a choice before George comes back.”

“Wait,” said Owen. “I'm telling you he was alive two days ago. I was monitoring the tank he was in. But then they took him. Transferred him to a deeper part of the mine I've never even seen. I don't know why.”

Darwen's heart sank. He had no idea what this meant. Rich and Alex looked at him, desperate and unsure, and Darwen resolved to go on anyway.

“Take us there,” he said to Owen.

“I don't know exactly where—” Owen began.

“Then we'll find the place together,” said Darwen firmly.

For a long moment—a moment they could not afford given George's imminent return—nothing happened, and Darwen watched the confused interplay of anxious thought on Owen's face. Finally the man took a great sighing breath.

“You'd better get on board,” he said. “I'll transfer the controls to the train itself so I can come down with you.”

Darwen nodded, showing only the briefest of smiles. “Do it,” he said.

Owen pushed a button and turned a dial all the way around to zero. Immediately an alarm started ringing.

“That's torn it,” Owen said.

Even as he spoke, they heard hurried footsteps beyond the metal door. Alex flew at it, hitting it hard with her shoulder just as it started to open. Owen ran to help her as a strong hand reached through from outside. The Welshman slammed into the door and the hand was snatched back with a grunt of pain. Alex shot the bolt home.

“How long will that buy us?” she asked, panting.

“Till George gets the oxyacetylene torch out of storage,” said Owen. “Not long.” He paused, pressed a button, and shook his head. “What am I doing? I'm going to lose my job!”

“Everyone here is about to lose their job,” said Darwen. “My friends and me? We're shutting the place down.”

There was an ominous clang against the door. Someone other than George was trying to force his way in. Or some
thing
.

“Odd bods,” muttered Owen, and now he looked truly scared.

“Odd bods?” Darwen repeated.

“Big fellas,” said Owen. “Strong. Foreign, we think. Don't speak English. They wear overalls and they always have their faces covered up, but some say they have big teeth and red eyes. . . .”

“Scrobblers,” said Alex. “Great.”

“Into the train,” Owen exclaimed, leading the way.

There was another bang against the door, and then a tiny prick of blue flame started to open a thin red gash along the door where the bolt was. The four of them raced out to where the yellow train cars stood weirdly poised to drill down into the earth. Owen sat at the back and started thumbing on controls as the others took their seats and pulled the glass doors closed behind them.

“Quick,” said Darwen. “They must be almost through.” As he said it, Darwen heard the snap and tinkle of the bolt on the heavy door breaking cleanly in half and falling to the stone floor.

“
Diwdiw!”
exclaimed Owen in Welsh, staring at the flittercrake, which had been perching on the outside of the train but had flapped in with Darwen and now clung to his shirt. “What on earth?”