The Peregrines

Chapter 32

Beyond the door lay a lengthy rectangular space filled with practical furniture, illuminated by a harsh greenish glow from fluorescent lights above. It tried to pass as an office, but I could see through the facade. The walls were padded with foam for soundproofing, and the door was sturdy enough to survive a nuclear explosion. This was definitely not your typical office.

We could hear some rustling at the far end of the room, but a large filing cabinet obstructed our view. I gently tapped Bryce's arm and nodded, signalling that it was time to move. We started to creep forward, hoping to catch whoever was in here off guard.

I spotted a white coat and a man with a balding head. Clearly, he wasn't an ymbryne. Did they miss the sound of the door opening? Apparently, they did, and then it hit me: they were lost in music. A woman's voice floated through the air, singing a smooth, sultry rock tune—one I recognized but couldn't quite place. It felt so odd and disorienting to hear it in this moment, in this setting.

We moved ahead, the music playing just loudly enough to cover our steps as we navigated through desks overflowing with papers and maps. A wall-mounted rack displayed hundreds of glass beakers, each filled with a swirling, silver-specked black liquid. As I paused to look closer, I noticed that each beaker was labelled with the names of the victims whose souls were trapped inside, written in tiny letters.

As we cautiously glanced around the filing cabinet, we spotted a man in a lab coat sitting at a desk, busy sorting through papers with his back turned to us. The area surrounding him was a chaotic display of anatomy. A skinned arm lay exposed, showcasing its muscles, while a spine dangled on the wall like a prized possession. A few bloodless organs were strewn across the desk, resembling misplaced puzzle pieces. The man was scribbling notes, nodding his head, and humming a tune—something about love and discovery channels?

We emerged into the open space and made our way across the floor towards him. We were just a few yards apart now. Emma extended her hand, prepared to ignite it. However, just as we were about to get close to the man, he addressed us.

"Hello, there. I've been expecting you." It was a slimy-smooth voice I would never forget. 

Caul.

With a crackling sound reminiscent of a whip, Emma unleashed flames that erupted from her palms. "Tell us where the ymbrynes are, and I might spare your life!"

The man jumped in his seat, turning quickly to face us. What we saw shocked us as well: beneath his startled gaze, his face was a grotesque mass of melted skin. This was not Caul—he wasn't even a wight—and it was impossible for him to have spoken. His lips were sealed shut. In his hands, he clutched a mechanical pencil and a tiny remote control. A name tag was pinned to his coat.

Warren.

"Gee, you wouldn't hurt old Warren, would you?" Caul's voice echoed once more, emerging from the same spot as the music: a speaker embedded in the wall. "Though it wouldn't matter much if you did. He's only my intern."

Warren slumped down in his swivel chair, his eyes wide with fear as he stared at the flame flickering in Emma's hand.

"Where are you?" Emma shouted, looking around.

"Never mind that!" Caul said through the speaker. "What matters is that you've come to see me. I'm delighted! It's so much easier than hunting you down . . . Although, I see that you already found my Kira-bear and Bryciee-boo,"

I cringed at the nickname. If I ever get my hands on him, he's dead meat.

"We've got a whole army of peculiars on their way!" Emma bluffed. "The crowd at your gates is just the tip of the spear. Tell us where the ymbrynes are and maybe we can settle this peacefully!"

"Army!" Caul said, laughing. "There aren't enough fight-ready peculiars left in London to form a fire brigade, much less an army. As for your pathetic ymbrynes, save your empty threats, I'm sure Kira would gladly help me by keeping them away from you—I'll gladly show you where they are. Warren, would you do the honours?"

"How about you shove it!" I snapped.

Warren pressed a button on the remote he was holding, and with a dramatic whoosh, a panel in the wall next to us slid open. Behind it, we could see a second wall made of sturdy glass, revealing a familiar vast room shrouded in darkness.

We leaned close to the glass, our hands forming a frame around our faces to get a better look. Slowly, a scene emerged that resembled a forgotten basement, cluttered with furniture, thick curtains, and human figures caught in odd positions. Many of these figures, much like the spare parts scattered on Warren's desk, seemed to be devoid of their skin.

Oh God what's he done to them—

My gaze flicked around the shadows, my heart pounding in my chest. "That's Miss Glassbill!" Emma cried, and then I saw her, too. 

She was seated in a chair to the side, with a boyish look and a flat face, her perfectly symmetrical braids cascading down each side of her head. We banged on the glass and shouted her name, but she just gazed blankly, lost in her thoughts, not reacting to our calls. "What have you done to her?" Jake shouted. "Why won't she answer?"

"She's had a bit of her soul removed," Caul said. "Tends to numb the brain."

"You bastard!" Emma shouted and punched the glass. Warren backed his rolling chair into the corner. "You black-hearted, despicable, cowardly..."

"CAUL, YOU'RE SO BLOODY DEAD!" I yelled. I could feel my anger bubbling up, and that familiar tingling sensation in my hands began to return.

"Oh, calm down," Caul said. "I only took a little of her soul, and the rest of your nursemaids are in top health, if not spirits."

A bright overhead light suddenly illuminated the cluttered room, revealing that many of the figures were merely dummies—definitely not real—mannequins or some sort of anatomical models, arranged like statues with their muscles and tendons flexed and pronounced.

Among them, the sight of people gagged and tied to chairs and wooden posts was something entirely new. They flinched and squeezed their eyes shut against the sudden brightness, revealing that they were real, living individuals. Women. Eight, ten—every single one of them—dishevelled, weary, and appearing to have suffered through hours of torment together recently.

Our poor, battered ymbrynes.