The Second Siege (11 page)

Max felt very insignificant indeed as he was swept out of the room alongside his father and David amidst a crush of aides, Agents, scholars, and minor dignitaries. His senses swam with the smell of damp coats, the sober chatter of shocked officials, and the gleaming eyes of the witches who followed him out the door. Nigel was waiting for them when they emerged into the hallway. The Recruiter looked on the verge of tears.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said, flapping his arms helplessly. “I honestly never thought it would come to this. I am so terribly sorry, Scott.”

Mr. McDaniels nodded and shook Nigel’s hand. The frail blond man retrieved a silk handkerchief from his jacket and blew his nose. He gave a guilty laugh and dabbed at his eyes.

“Can I at least help you pack?” asked Nigel. “Share a laugh or two? I could send an Agent out for some Bedford Bros. thingies. . . .”

“That would be nice,” said Max, smiling at the memory of that strange and wonderful night when Nigel’s tests had confirmed the special spark within him. “My dad and I will meet you there. We’re going to get Nick.”

“Max, I don’t think you’ll be able to do that,” said Miss Boon from behind them. “Nick and Maya are extremely rare—perhaps the last of their kind. We can’t let them go.”

Max whirled at the young instructor, who met his furious stare with calm reserve.

“I thought we were rare, too,” he seethed.

Several nearby scholars and diplomats ceased their conversations at the commotion. Miss Boon gave a sad smile.

“Max, I am heartbroken at the Director’s decision,” she said soothingly, “but I also helped research the curse that would have befallen us. We have no choice but to honor Bram’s Oath. I am sorry.”

“That’s fine,” snapped Max, ignoring Nigel’s gentle tug at his elbow. “But we’re not leaving without Nick and Maya. We took an oath, too, you know.”

“I’ll speak to the Director,” promised Miss Boon. “Meanwhile, I’ll leave you to organize your things. Unfortunately, you are not to speak to any student about today’s council—including your departure tomorrow morning.”

“You mean we can’t say good-bye to our friends?” asked David.

“I’m so sorry,” replied Miss Boon, avoiding his gaze. “Given the situation’s sensitivity, it’s out of the question.”

“Sensitivity?” scoffed Mr. McDaniels. “You’ve got some nerve using that word.”

Miss Boon straightened and gave a curt nod to the group.

“Nigel, I trust you will escort Max and David to their room. Good-bye and good luck.”

“Good-bye, Miss Boon,” said Max quietly, dipping his head as his anger was replaced by a sudden pang of sorrow. The young Mystics instructor swept down the hallway, scattering scholars and bull-necked security personnel in her wake.

That evening, Max watched Nick rummage through a bag of Bedford Bros. Crispy Snacks while Nigel and Mr. McDaniels snapped shut the clasps of an overstuffed suitcase. David was still absent, having gone to the Archives to return several grimoires before saying good-bye to Maya in the Sanctuary. Despite Ms. Richter’s permission for the boys to take their charges with them, David had decided that Maya should stay behind, having concluded that the ulu’s frail constitution was poorly suited to life in the witches’ mountain camps.

An hour later, Max was sitting by the fire, listening to Mr. McDaniels explain each and every photo in the McDaniels family photo album to Nigel with painstaking detail. The Recruiter’s eyelids were fluttering when Max thought he heard the sound of their door opening upstairs. Max glanced at David, but his roommate was now fretting over which remaining books to take, having already stuffed his enchanted pack with nearly all of his worldly possessions.

“Did you hear the door open?” asked Max quietly.

Nigel blinked and looked up gratefully from the photo album. “Come again?” he asked.

“I think someone’s upstairs,” Max whispered.

Nigel frowned and scooted off the couch, walking to the foot of the stairs.

“What on earth are you doing here?” asked the Recruiter, addressing someone on the landing above.

Max gaped as the tall, skeletal figure of Jesper Rasmussen descended the stairs.

“Answer my question, man,” said Nigel sternly.

From his coat pocket, Dr. Rasmussen produced a slim gun and pointed it at Nigel. The gun hardly made a sound, but Max heard Nigel mutter a surprised “Oh!” before collapsing to the floor. With silent horror, the group watched a pinprick of blood expand into a small crimson stain above Nigel’s heart.

Max leapt to his feet.

“Don’t be foolish,” warned Dr. Rasmussen in a quiet, calm voice. Max followed the man’s gaze to where a small dot of red light now danced on Scott McDaniels’s forehead. “As quick as you are, Max, I can shoot your father before you can lay a finger on me. If you and David fail to do exactly as I say, he will die. Do you understand?”

David nodded; his mouth was agape with shock. Max merely stared at Dr. Rasmussen, his anger bringing the man’s features into sharp relief. Turning from Rasmussen’s triumphant smirk, Max glanced again at Nigel’s slumped form. His hands began to shake.

“Max,” pleaded his father, “don’t.”

“Very wise of you, Mr. McDaniels,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “For the moment, you have saved the life of your son. If you wish to continue living, however, you must come closer.”

Max’s father nodded and walked stiffly toward the heavy-lidded, skeletal man. His round face was shiny with sweat; he raised his hand in a steadying gesture.

“Just don’t hurt anyone,” pleaded Mr. McDaniels. “There’s no need to hurt anyone.”

“I will determine what is needed,” replied Dr. Rasmussen coolly. “Ingest this, if you would.”

From his breast pocket, Dr. Rasmussen produced a silver sphere the size of a pinball. He tossed it to Mr. McDaniels, who caught it with a puzzled expression.

“What is it?” said Mr. McDaniels suspiciously, inspecting the silver sphere.

“Your medicine,” replied Dr. Rasmussen. “Take it like a good boy. You have three seconds.”

“Dad, don’t!” exclaimed Max. “It’s poison!”

The red laser centered on Mr. McDaniels’s forehead. Dr. Rasmussen began to count.

“Three . . . two . . .”

“Dad!”

Mr. McDaniels closed his eyes and swallowed the metallic ball. He grimaced as he strained to force it down. After several seconds, he gasped. “It’s doing something to me!”

“Yes,” said Dr. Rasmussen with a slow nod. “The discomfort will be over shortly. Listen very carefully to what I have to say. You have ingested an explosive, Mr. McDaniels. It is, as we speak, affixing itself to the lining of your stomach so that it cannot be removed or expelled without killing you in the process. It is programmed to detonate every two minutes unless it receives a coded transmission from the computer in my brain. If I am unable or unwilling to transmit this code, you will die. Fortunately for you, I am a reasonable man. I will continue to spare your life provided you, Max, and David follow my instructions to the letter. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Mr. McDaniels. Sweat poured off his body, and he gave a sudden gag. “What about Nigel?” he asked, glancing at the Recruiter’s crumpled form.

“He is already gone,” muttered Dr. Rasmussen. “And we have little time. Max and David, you are to bring only as much as you can carry on your backs. Pack warm clothes and be quick. We are leaving in five minutes’ time.”

“What about my father?” Max growled. “He’ll need things, too.”

“We shall see,” replied Dr. Rasmussen with a shrug. “The clock is ticking, my young friend.”

Three minutes later, Max and David stood breathing heavily with hiking packs stuffed full of woolen sweaters and socks and flannel underwear. Rasmussen nodded toward Nick, who was crouched and bristling behind a potted palm.

“Most interesting,” said Dr. Rasmussen, as though peering through a microscope. “Bring the lymrill, too,” he added casually while reaching inside his jacket.

From his pocket, he produced a folded square of a strange, shimmering gauzy material. With a deft flick of his wrist, the cloth unfolded until it was the size of an enormous bedsheet. Almost instantly, the sheet disappeared as though it were completely transparent.

“This device bends the visible light spectrum,” explained Dr. Rasmussen. “It will hide us as we exit the dormitories. Once we have descended to the foyer, I will make myself visible and depart as usual. When my driver opens the door to my car, you will hurry inside before me. The cloaking device is also sound-dampening, but please believe that I will know if you try to call out, signal, or deviate from my plan in any way. The consequences will be swift.”

Minutes later, they were all moving quickly down the hallway, clinging to the opposite wall while a pair of Third Years chatted in a doorway. Nick’s claws dug into Max’s chest while the confused lymrill trembled and clung to his body. Max grimaced and held on fiercely to the base of Nick’s tail as it strained to shake and rattle. The awkward procession continued in terrified, gasping steps until they reached the bottom of the stairs. Dr. Rasmussen held a warning finger to his lips as he slipped outside the cloth and strode forward into the foyer, where Mum was muttering to herself and dragging a mop unevenly across the tiles. She glanced up as Rasmussen crossed toward the door.

“Oh, hello, sir,” she said, giving a brief curtsy.

Rasmussen glanced down at her as though she were something he might flick off his shoe.

“You’re the serving hag, aren’t you?” he asked dryly as he pushed open the double doors.

“Yes, sir. Me and my sister,” said Mum, sniffing suddenly as though she had a cold. She paused a moment. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rasmussen, pausing by the open door while Max, David, and his father scurried past him. “Learn to make proper coffee.”

With that, Rasmussen closed the door behind him and moved quickly down the steps, passing Max and the others in the process. A sleek limousine was already waiting with a uniformed driver standing at attention by one of the doors. Max held his breath as a pair of Agents casually approached from behind the Manse.

“Leaving already, Dr. Rasmussen?” asked one.

“Can’t be helped,” replied Dr. Rasmussen, motioning for his driver to open the door.

“Would you like to see the Director?” asked the other. “I don’t believe she was aware that you planned to depart this evening.”

Dr. Rasmussen offered the pair an icy smile and paused before the open door. Max, David, and Mr. McDaniels scuttled inside the limousine, practically toppling onto one another as they collapsed onto its deep leather seats.

“Do not disturb the Director,” said Dr. Rasmussen with a dismissive air of authority. “She is a busy lady, I am a busy man, and these are busy times. I will contact her tomorrow. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

Dr. Rasmussen slipped inside, and the driver closed the door. Sitting up, Max caught a glimpse of Mum standing on the front steps, leaning against her mop with a puzzled expression as the limousine pulled away.

Mum knows we’re here,
Max realized. He thought of the hag’s sudden sniff in the foyer; Mum’s sense of smell was sharper than a bloodhound’s. Max glanced at his father, who sat rigid against the backrest as the two Agents approached the hag.
Oh my God,
pleaded Max as his pulse began to pound.
Don’t set off an alarm, Mum!
He squirmed for a better look, but the limousine eased around the fountain and he lost sight of the hag.

“Stay beneath the cloth until we are outside the gates,” muttered Dr. Rasmussen, glancing at his watch with a satisfied smile. “We are precisely on time . . . good, good.”

The car wound about the drive and out toward the ocean, where the mist David had conjured hung in the air like a spectral curtain. Max craned his neck around to see the yellow lights of the Manse, Old Tom, and Maggie twinkle out of sight as the limousine bent to the right, plunging into the wood and through the thick walls of stone to where the great gates opened to let them pass.

“Where are you taking us?” asked Max, glaring at Rasmussen.

“Be silent,” muttered Rasmussen while he typed swift keystrokes into a handheld computer.

Several minutes later, the limousine came to a halt outside a white clapboard church on the outskirts of Rowan Township. Rasmussen motioned for them to get out; Max noticed that the driver had turned the lights off but kept the engine running.

“Hurry,” said Dr. Rasmussen curtly. “There may be spies nearby.”

The man led them around the church to a small cemetery in back. Reaching into his overcoat, he placed a small metal disk at the base of a weathered headstone.

“You will wait here,” he ordered. “This device is a trigger whose global position has just been set to this precise location. If Mr. McDaniels strays more than ten meters, the explosive he has ingested will detonate. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Max, stepping between Rasmussen and his father. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Wait here,” replied the man, casting a long glance at Nick. “Someone will come for you. Now I must go. Give me the lymrill.”

Max retreated a step as the man approached; Nick squirmed in Max’s arms, and his quills stiffened.

“Don’t touch him,” warned Max.

“You’re in no position to argue,” muttered Rasmussen distractedly, extending a gloved hand.

Nick writhed; moonlight flashed on his claws, and Rasmussen cursed as blood spattered onto the grass. Rasmussen clutched an arm that had been slashed from wrist to elbow.

“Stupid animal!” hissed Rasmussen. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a slim device that hummed as he waved it over the wound. The flow of blood promptly stopped.

“It’s not his fault,” whispered Max. “Don’t hurt him.”

Dr. Rasmussen’s features contorted briefly into a taut scowl. Slowly, he regained his composure while the wound on his forearm knitted itself whole like a closing zipper. He drew himself up and gave Nick a loathing glance.

“Don’t wander off,” he said icily, backing slowly out of the cemetery and slipping around the church. Max heard the car door close, followed by the low purr of its engine receding into the night. They were alone.

“Dad,” said Max, turning at once. “Stand right next to that thing!”

Mr. McDaniels did as he was told, cradling a hand against his belly as he slumped against the gravestone. Max handed Nick to David and hurried over to his father.

“It’s going to be okay,” said Max soothingly, mopping away the beads of sweat that dotted his father’s forehead. “We’ll figure out how to get that thing out of you.”

Mr. McDaniels groaned and squeezed Max’s hand.

“Poor Nigel,” muttered David, stroking Nick and setting him down onto the ground, where he curled into a ball and nibbled his tail.

Max tried to ignore David; it was all too overwhelming, and he could not focus on anything but the issue at hand. David sniffled and leaned close to inspect the slim, circular device resting on the gravestone.

“Don’t touch it,” hissed Max, shooing David away.

“I won’t,” said David. “But—”

A snapping twig cut David short.

Max whirled to stare at the stand of birch trees just beyond the cemetery’s low fence. Something peeped from behind a tree and shuffled back deeper into the wood.

“David, stay with my dad,” breathed Max, easing his father behind the shelter of the gravestone. He straightened and began walking slowly toward the trees.

“Who’s there?” he called, scanning the trees for movement.

Nothing answered.

Max reached the fence and peered into the darkness; he locked onto a pair of startled blinking eyes. Quick as a flash, Max hopped the fence and darted into the forest to tackle the bulky figure, which shrieked and collapsed beneath him.

“Don’t hurt me!” squealed a familiar voice.

Max rolled the figure over and squinted at the creature squirming helplessly beneath him.

It was Mum.

“What are you doing here?” breathed Max, helping the roly-poly hag to her feet. Mum brushed several leaves out of her hair and plucked a crushed wicker basket from the ground.

“I wanted to know what you were doing,” she sniffed, flinging the ruined basket into a bush. “I smelled you, your yummy father, and that awful thing sneaking off with that mean man. Mum wanted to see what was so secret.”