The Hound of Rowan (34 page)

“That's something, Max,” said Jason, raising Max higher. “Only thirteen and the best in Rowan's
history
!”

Jason hosted a celebration party in his room, a timbered Viking hall. Some forty students lounged about, playing cards and darts or simply content to sprawl about in small groups, listening to music or tiptoeing through a minefield of pizza boxes to scavenge for leftovers.

Max was having the time of his life. After weeks of adhering to a strict diet, he now stuffed himself with pizza and sweets. Even better, he sat and talked with Julie, who seemed to have forgotten all about their awkward kiss during Kettlemouth's song.

In mid-afternoon, the party was interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the door. Max's spirits sank as Jason opened the door and Miss Boon peered in at him, her face pinched and angry.

“Max,” she called, “please get your things and come with me.”

Max wiped his hands on a paper towel and stood.

“Do I have to go
today
?” he pleaded. “I thought maybe—”

“You thought what?” she interrupted. “That you'd attained some sort of carefree ‘celebrity' status this morning? No, no, no. Need I remind you that
both
your party and punishment were well earned? Alex Muñoz has been down at the dock scrubbing that ship for the last hour. Now get your things.”

Max's face turned crimson; he bit his tongue. He murmured “Good-bye” and “Thank you” to everyone, avoiding Julie's eyes in the process. Tugging on his sweatshirt, he followed Miss Boon down the hallway.

         

Max swung his lantern in wide circles, periodically overcome with great surges of anger and embarrassment. The fog had become so thick that he found himself stumbling into hedges. Old Tom was a hulking block of flat gray; the gas lamps dotting the grounds sprang to life, their lights appearing as will-o'-the-wisps in the gloom.

Storming past Maggie, Max heard the ponderous slap of heavy waves and the shrill cry of seagulls. As he descended the winding stairs to the beach, he began to make out the
Kestrel
hovering in the air above the dock, tethered by a dozen slender ropes. Miss Kraken had provided the enchanted ropes that had raised the heavy ship as if it were a helium balloon.

Alex stood under the boat, scrubbing up at it halfheartedly with a stiff bristle brush. Clinging to the area of the hull that normally rested beneath the waterline were millions of barnacles whose hard shells made the task an arm-numbing chore. Alex and the miserable weather promised to make it particularly unbearable.

“Surprised you bothered to show up,” huffed Alex, scrubbing vigorously now that Max had arrived. “Must be nice to get away with whatever you want.”

Setting his lantern down, Max said nothing and merely went to select one of the long-handled brushes lying next to a mop bucket. Alex snorted with contempt and turned his attention to the hull.

Max took a long look at Brigit's Vigil before setting to work. Its shape could hardly be seen through the fog, and Max wondered if Ronin was indeed there, as he suspected—nestled deep among the rocks and crabs and swirling brine. Despite Max's now daily visits to Rattlerafters, Ronin had sent no word or signal since the day Max received his letter. And Max had not ventured out to Brigit's Vigil, wary of the water since the campout on the
Kestrel.
Picking a spot away from Alex, he began scrubbing in a sudden fit of energy.

They had worked in silence for almost an hour—Alex in disdainful stabs, Max in busy arcs—when Old Tom's chimes sounded from over the ridge. Alex turned and tossed his brush past Max, where it clattered against the metal bucket.

The Second Year hissed, “Keep scrubbing, Maxine—keep scrubbing or I'll tell Miss Boon that Rowan's little hero is neglecting his duties!”

“Whatever, Muñoz,” Max snapped. “I probably got twice as much done in the last hour as you have all week.”

Alex just smiled and shook his head incredulously.

“You really are an idiot. Did you know that? An idiot,” he said again, stretching each syllable. “Our punishment isn't about scrubbing the
Kestrel
clean! Hell, Miss Boon could do that in five minutes with a bit of Mystics. It's about standing out here as punishment. Scrub till you break your back, Maxine. No one cares, you moron. Man, wait till Daddy's blubber catches up with your brain—they probably won't even admit you ever went here!”

Max stopped scrubbing. His words were soft.

“Don't you say a thing about my father.”

“I don't have to.” Alex shrugged with a laugh. “You should hear what everyone says about him! You think it's a coincidence he ‘helps out' in the kitchens? I don't. Personally, I think Daddy's just trying to snag some extra meals…. No wonder I hear Mommy took a hike, huh?”

The words slapped Max across the face. Alex suddenly became vividly clear despite the tatters of fog blowing across the dock. Max dropped his brush off to the side. Alex's smile faltered a moment—a flicker of doubt—before he resumed.

“What?” he asked. “You want to fight me? Aren't you scared without Bob or Miss Boon? They're not here to save you this time….”

Max shook his head and took a step forward, grinding his toe into the dock to test his footing. A hoarse quake rose in his voice.

“I'd worry about myself if I were you.”

Alex frowned and took a small step backward. Suddenly, his face contorted with shame and disgust.

“Fine!” he muttered as if to himself. “Fine. Let's do this. One condition, though.”

“Name ten,” whispered Max. “They won't help you.”

Alex's eyes glittered as he smiled.

“No watches,” he said. “I don't want you crying for help in the middle of this!”

Max glanced down at his security watch, its small screen fogged by mist. He had been explicitly warned never to remove it. But Alex slipped his own watch off and snickered at Max's hesitation.

Unclasping his watch, Max placed it on the dock.

As he expected, Alex's foot shot out just as Max stood back up. Stepping to the side, Max caught it and swept under the boy's other leg, spilling him hard.

Alex scowled and scrambled quickly to his feet; Max stood completely still, trying very hard to control the rage that flooded every inch of his being. Alex advanced at him, breathing heavily and circling around to try to position Max against a heavy wooden post. Feigning a rush, he suddenly stopped and raised his hands.

The wet dock turned slick with ice beneath Max's feet.

Max tried to jump, but the lack of friction caused his feet to shoot out from under him. He fell heavily, hitting his head against the post. In a moment, Alex was on him, pinning an elbow against his throat and throwing wild punches.

Anger erupted within Max. He seized Alex's wrists, causing the older boy to gasp in pain. With a violent heave, Max flung Alex off of him.

Max sprang up in a heartbeat. Alex was sprawled on the dock, and before he could even move, Max was upon him.

“Let's hear it, Muñoz,” Max panted. “Let's hear
everything
you want to say. Let's hear all about my family!”

With a sharp crack, Max's fist tore through the wooden plank immediately to the right of Alex's head. Smoke rose from the deck. The Second Year shrieked and writhed in terror but could do nothing to break Max's grip.

Emotions flooded Max's heart; he shook and tears streamed down his face.

“I don't hear anything. Is that even
possible
with you?”

Crack!

“All out of insults for my dad? Why don't you tell me how stupid I am?”

Crack!

“No? Then tell me something about my mom! Why don't you tell me where she went? Sounds like
you
might know!
Go ahead and tell me!
”

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Three more holes were punched in the surrounding dock, which was now smoking heavily and hot to the touch. Max raised his bleeding hand again, and then froze. Alex had stopped struggling and lay very still, a cool drizzle falling on his blank face.

For a moment, Max thought he had killed him, that he had throttled the boy to death in his rage. But then Alex suddenly focused his eyes and gave Max a look of mute horror. Max blinked. His anger dissipated into the fog. He released Alex and rose slowly to his feet.

“You're not worth it,” he sighed.

Alex lay there for several moments, breathing heavily. He groped at his face, apparently feeling for any damage that might have been done. Blindly, he sought out the holes in the dock, tracing their splintered edges with his fingers. Climbing sluggishly to his feet, he coughed and stumbled past Max, who watched in confused silence. Alex became sick, throwing up over the side of the dock. Wiping his mouth and coughing again, Alex reached out with a trembling hand and flung Max's watch far out into the gray swells. The Second Year watched it sink and stared at the water for several moments. When Alex at last turned around, he held a long, thin knife—the same ugly weapon Cooper often carried. He was crying.

“Alex,” Max said with measured calm. “You're not supposed to have those things outside the Training Rooms.”

Alex said nothing; his face contorted in a silent scream of rage, fear, and humiliation. His shoulders shook as he switched the knife to his left hand.

“Alex!” Max hissed. “What do you think you're doing?”

The answer was a murderous sweep with the knife, its tip swooshing past Max's chest as the younger boy jumped backward, gaping in disbelief. Sobbing, Alex shifted the knife to his right hand and stabbed upward. Max leapt backward out of range, almost slipping off the pier and into the water.

“Alex—stop it!” Max said. “The fight is
over
!”

Then, over Alex's shoulder and through the fog, Max caught sight of a figure approaching quickly from the beach.

“Help!” Max shouted. “Miss Boon? Over here—help!”

Alex stopped and turned, squinting into the fog. He bent down and let the knife slip through one of the jagged holes Max had made in the dock. He rose and stumbled toward the figure.

“Miss Boon?” Alex called. “Thank God you're here! McDaniels tried to kill me!”

Max was about to raise his voice in protest when he froze; the approaching figure did not move like Miss Boon, and it was far too tall. Bile rose in Max's mouth as he recognized what it was.

“Alex!” Max cried. “Get away from it! That's
not
Miss Boon!”

A vye was loping up the dock.

Alex's hands fell limply to his sides, and in a flash, the vye swept the boy up and crushed him to its hip.

“Let him go!” Max shrieked, running down the dock toward the creature.

A deep-throated growl rumbled from the vye, ending in a high-pitched whine. It clutched Alex closer and stooped to seize Max. But Max was too fast, launching himself at the vye like a missile. The top of his head smashed into its snout. The vye gave a startled yelp and dropped Alex, giving Max time to land an off-balance kick that caused the bony leg to buckle.

Alex was unconscious. The vye was between them and the beach. While the older boy's watch was only some twenty feet away, Max could not get it without momentarily abandoning him. Seizing Alex's limp hand, Max dragged him backward away from the vye, which now scrambled after them on all fours.

The shock and horror of his sudden realization almost made Max laugh: Nigel's voice practically screamed inside his head.

“Always look for the second vye, Max. Always!”

The blow to the back of his skull was so hard that Max was unconscious before he could feel the taloned hands take hold of him.

         

Max groaned and forced open his eyes. It was dark. His neck was clammy, and his joints ached as a fever coursed through his body. Some sort of fur was piled on him, and it stank—a nauseating reek of animal fat and musky hair. He gagged and retched only to find that his limbs were bound tightly to a hard surface. Tossing his head from side to side, he tried to nuzzle the revolting fur away from his face, knocking over several glass objects in the process. His body rose and fell in a smooth roll that made his stomach queasy. Timbers creaked and strained nearby.

I'm on a ship,
he realized.

He heard footsteps above; a doorway clattered open, and a shaft of moonlight streamed into the room at an angle.

“I think one is awake,” said a man's voice. Tentative. Older.

“Which one?” came the familiar voice of a woman. Max squirmed and felt the sweat roll off him in smooth little beads.

“The feisty one,” said the man. “It is time for his shot.”

Something blocked the moonlight; a terrifying silhouette was projected on the wall.

Max heard stairs strain under slow footsteps. He struggled with all his might against his bonds, but they held fast. A face peered into the cabin. Max felt a wave of primal horror as he met its eyes: cold, animal eyes—
appraising
eyes—with a distinct gleam of human intelligence. The moonlit cabin only hinted at its features: the sharp glint of a tooth, the wetness of its snout, a glittering eye, its wolfish ears. Max held his breath as they gazed at each other for several moments. The vye carried an unlit lamp that began to glow as the monster's contours and features danced and shifted. By the time the cabin had filled with a dim yellow light, Max looked upon an older, gaunt man with small black eyes and wearing a loose, dirty overcoat. The man hooked the lamp to a small chain that hung from the cabin roof.