The Second Siege (29 page)

“Bravo,” said Astaroth with an acknowledging bow. “Three notches for place, one for time, and there the Book shall be! Do you even know what it is you’re searching for?”

“Stop stalling,” said David. “The question was how to use the Key.”

“Simple,” the Demon said. “The Key steers Bram’s steed, silly boy.”

“But YaYa’s too old,” said Max aloud, puzzling over how the sphere would fit on Rowan’s Matriarch.

“
Not
the ki-rin,” said Astaroth wearily. “Max, be a good boy and be quiet. You know what they say: better to keep your mouth shut and have others think you a fool than to open your mouth and prove it, no?”

Max’s cheeks grew hot. For a moment, he forgot his fear and glowered at the demon.

“Save your anger,” said Astaroth with a dismissive wave. “No broken blade will harm me, not even one wielded by you.”

“The ship!” said David suddenly. “The
Kestrel
! Bram built it, didn’t he? That’s the steed from the Riddle.”

Astaroth clapped, cold and hollow, while the firelight danced upon his smooth features.

“Upon its accursed figurehead you shall place the Key, David Menlo. A beacon it shall be to guide you on your way. But be warned, young Sorcerer—such a place as it leads to is not for little boys. You might find my company preferable.”

“Be silent,” commanded David.

“Is that your third request?” teased Astaroth, counting upon his fingers.

Max panicked. He could not let such a chance pass; his question rang out in the night.

“What happened to my mother?”

David whirled to look at Max. For a moment, the small boy’s face contorted in anger.

Astaroth laughed.

“Aren’t we constant as the northern star?” hissed Astaroth. “I’m almost moved. A boy who pines for his mother, for she did leave him, did she not? And where is she, I wonder? Ensnared by a prophet, I fear. And to think it was the same man who led the witches to you. Peter Varga is his name, although I imagine you’ll assign him others less pleasant.”

“What does Peter have to do with anything?” demanded Max. “Where is she?”

“She is far,” said the Demon, his voice fading to a silken whisper as he leaned close to the circle’s perimeter. “Far away, Max McDaniels. You must find the Book of Thoth before ever you find her. And as for Peter, well, he has only one eye on the future, does he not? A poor man’s prophet, I fear. Cassandra would be shamed. Max, your mother sought the Sidh on a fool’s errand for which she has almost paid in full.”

“What does that mean?” asked Max, frantic. “How can I find her?”

“You shall not see your mother till you delve within Brugh na Boinne,” replied Astaroth, his black eyes crinkling. “I daresay it should be home sweet home to you, young Hound, but you cannot simply knock at the appointed hour. You must take the other way. Best hurry or she will be lost, entombed within the Sidh. Time has strange tides and it would not do to linger. . . .”

“How do we get the Book once we’ve arrived wherever it is we’re going?” interrupted David.

“Now, now,” said Astaroth, wagging a finger. “I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain. The ancient rules have been obeyed, and I take my leave. I have errands of my own, you see, and cannot stay for pleasantries. Goodnight, children. We will surely meet again.”

Placing the mask on his head once more, the Demon walked slowly beyond the firelight of the circle, disappearing behind one of the stones and into the forest beyond.

“We have to hurry,” panted Max, taking a step toward the forest.

David’s hand caught him by the sleeve.

“Don’t!” he hissed. “No one leaves this circle until Old Tom chimes one o’clock. The chime will dismiss Astaroth. Until it does, we can’t be certain he’s gone. He might be out there waiting for us.”

Max froze and stared out at the dark trees. A sickly sensation hovered in his stomach. Was the Demon still lurking out there beyond the firelight? They waited in cowed silence. Sarah, Lucia, and Cynthia huddled together within the circle, not daring to move a finger toward its protective edge. Amidst quiet prayers, Connor crossed himself and shut his eyes tight.

When the chime sounded, distant and hollow, the circle’s flames began to flicker and diminish. A sudden, furious gale swept through the trees, causing them to huddle together like rabbits on a stormy plain. The wind screamed across the clearing in a rush of torn flowers and bits of tree bark. Max felt Sarah’s forehead press against his. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and Max squeezed them gently.

“He’s gone, Sarah,” said Max, mustering a smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We shouldn’t have come. . . . We knew you were up to something and we didn’t want to lose you again.”

She burst into tears.

“He was whispering to me,” she bawled. “The entire time he was speaking to you I could hear his voice whispering in my ear. He was telling me to push you out of the circle—push you out while your backs were turned. He promised so many things. And I
listened
! I’m so ashamed.”

Sarah sobbed uncontrollably.

“Did he speak to the rest of you?” asked Max.

Lucia and Cynthia nodded. Connor said nothing but rocked back and forth, hugging his knees.

“Connor?” asked Max.

“I’m sorry we came,” whispered the Irish boy, his voice hoarse. “It’s all my fault you had to waste a question on us.”

“You can make it up to us,” said David, taking the pack from Max’s hand and slinging it over his shoulder. “Tonight.”

“How?” asked Connor, avoiding David’s stern gaze and staring at the cold stone circle.

“You always wanted to see the Archives,” said David softly. “Well, this is your big chance. We’re going to swipe Bram’s Key from under the scholars’ noses.”

Connor blinked and watched David stalk off toward the woods. “I’ve been a bad influence on that one,” he concluded, rubbing his arms and hurrying after David.

Max helped Sarah off the stone and the four followed David and Connor. They paused only for a parting glance at the grim stones that jutted like broken teeth beneath the light of the pale gibbous moon.

“Up again, are you?” he asked, masking any surprise with cool reserve. He nodded at Max and didn’t bother to acknowledge the others, who peered curiously at him from the shallow flight of stairs that concluded at his room. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asked with a thin, mirthless smile. “It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”

“We need your help,” said David.

“Of course you do,” sighed Rasmussen with a frown. “That’s what I get for assuming you were the serving hag.”

“Her name’s Mum, in case you’ve forgotten,” said Max, glaring at the haughty man.

“Not her,” sniffed Rasmussen. “The other one. Even more revolting, if that’s conceivable, but she makes a passable cider. She’s coming any minute, so you’d best run along before she spots you out of bed. I have work to do.”

The man moved to shut his door, but Max wedged it open with his foot.

“It’ll just take a minute,” Max insisted, forcing the door open and walking inside. The others followed behind, mumbling hellos to the stunned and scowling engineer.

“Abominable child,” muttered Rasmussen, closing the door with a snick. He marched past them and swept up a pile of papers and drawings that were stacked on a writing desk near the windows. Max was surprised to see the beautiful suite was a mess. Crusted plates and stained coffee cups were piled into corners, clothes were strewn about, and the air smelled faintly sour.

“Whew,” said Connor, poking at a black dress sock hanging limply off a chair.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” said Rasmussen defensively, snatching the sock and tossing it toward a mound of dirty laundry. He folded his arms and glared at them. “What do you want?”

“Your displacement thingy,” said Max. “The one that bends light waves.”

Rasmussen twitched his nose as though it itched.

“And what would we be doing with it?” he asked.

“That’s none of your business,” said David. “We’re asking you for a favor and I think you owe us one.”

“Ha!” snorted Rasmussen. “Oh, the arrogance! I owe you? Because of
you,
I’m surrounded by bumbling idiots and malodorous hags! Because of
you,
my life’s work has been ruined! I owe you nothing.”

There was a sharp knock at the door. Rasmussen scowled.

“Of course she’d come now,” he said in a simmering tone as he strode over to an antique chest buried beneath a mound of used towels. Reaching inside, Rasmussen retrieved the wondrous fabric and hurled it at Max, who snatched it out of the air and draped it over the others before slipping underneath. With a menacing stare, Rasmussen raised a finger to his lips and strode over to the door. Bellagrog stood outside with a serving cart.

“Evening, sir,” she said amiably, pushing the cart inside. “Hot cider and toast, just like you requested. Put an extra drop of the good stuff in it, since it’s Christmas and all.”

Rasmussen stiffened and glanced at the children.

“Er, yes. Thank you, serving hag. That will be all.”

Bellagrog ignored him, setting a silver tray on the writing desk and buttering his toast with brisk, efficient movements.

“I can do that myself!” said Rasmussen, red-faced, wrestling the knife from the potbellied hag.

“Awright, awright,” said Bellagrog, holding her hands up. “I thought you liked me to do it, that’s all. Never bothered ya before, did it?”

“Yes, well, things have changed,” said Rasmussen, squinting as he set to buttering a piece of toast with inexpert stabbing motions. Bits of bread were flung into the air as the toast was chiseled into a pockmarked wreck.

Bellagrog merely watched him with a bemused expression. Her crocodile eye wandered up and down Rasmussen’s spare frame. Her gaze became distant. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse.

“Ya got any family, Doc?”

“No,” muttered Rasmussen, abandoning one shredded catastrophe and moving on to another.

“Well, I do,” drawled the hag thoughtfully. “Sure, I got me wee sis right here with me, but Yuletide gets me thinkin’ ’bout the others, too. They can drive ya batty, family can, but blood’s blood.”

“Very moving,” said Rasmussen, oblivious to Bellagrog’s cautious movements.

Max gasped as the hag suddenly slipped a massive cleaver out of her apron. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted the heavy blade above her head and—

The cleaver froze, poised like a guillotine, above the unsuspecting man.

Bellagrog sniffed the air, nostrils puckering like a pig’s. Her eyes widening with surprise, the hag gaped in the direction of Max and the others. Abruptly lowering the blade, she scowled and hid the cleaver in her apron’s pouch.

“There!” said Rasmussen in triumph, holding up a reasonably whole piece of buttered toast.

“Bravo, Doctor! Well done, indeed!” crowed Bellagrog, applauding Rasmussen, who poured himself a mug of pungent cider.

“Yes, well, the others were clearly defective,” said Rasmussen, glancing at the small mound of toast scraps. “You’ll have to make more.”

“In a jiffy,” said Bellagrog with a low curtsy. “I believe that piece was toasted a bit more than the others, sir. I’ll be sure the others follow suit.”

“See to it,” said Rasmussen, dismissing her with a wave.

“Shall we do your laundry tomorrow, sir?” asked the hag, pushing the cart toward the door.

“Yes,” said Rasmussen, gazing imperiously about the room. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Of course, sir. Trust your Bel to take care of everything. Merry Christmas, sir.”

“Yes, yes. Merry Christmas,” Rasmussen murmured, downing his cup in one smooth swallow.

With a parting glare in the direction of the children, the hag shambled out, pushing the cart before her. Rasmussen closed the door and spun on his heel.

“Well, you’ve got what you’ve come for, haven’t you?” he said, fumbling through his pockets for a match. He lit his pipe, puffing at them with the impatient air of a peevish lord. “I’ll expect it folded and placed at my door when you’re finished. And don’t think you don’t owe me something in return.”

“Sure thing,” said Max, slipping out from beneath the cloth. “I’ll even give you a tip for free.”

“What’s that?” growled Rasmussen, standing aside as the others filed past into the hallway.

“
Never
let Bellagrog in here again,” Max warned. “Never be alone with her. Have someone else prepare your meals. That hag’s crafty as they come and she wants your head on a platter. Literally.”

Rasmussen snorted with laughter and blew sweet-smelling tobacco in Max’s face.

“My, my, are you trying to
frighten
me?” he scoffed. “It’s Christmas, not Halloween, miserable boy. Happy slinking about or whatever it is you Rowan students do at two in the morning. Off with you.”