The Second Siege (3 page)

“I don’t think it’s her decision to make,” said David softly, with a shake of his head. A casual flick of his fingers ignited several candles and an oil lamp. “That witch wasn’t lying. I think it’s likely they have some sort of legitimate claim.”

“So what?” scoffed Max. “You can’t just sign away someone’s life hundreds of years before they’re even born! That’s not fair.”

David raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“I don’t think ‘fair’ factors into it. The very idea that people should have a say over where and how they live is a fairly new one. Elias Bram must have been desperate to make that deal, though. That Book of Thoth or Origins or whatever it’s called must be important—”

A loud, impatient knock sounded at the door.

“Hold that thought,” said Max, trudging up the stairs to see who it was. Max’s father, Scott McDaniels, stood panting outside, his plump frame leaning against the doorway. Normally cheery and bright-eyed, Mr. McDaniels’ round features were now pale and curdling with concern.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he croaked, pausing to kiss Max on top of the head before squeezing past into the room. “Been apple picking for tomorrow’s desserts. Is David here?”

“Down here, Mr. McDaniels,” called David from below.

“Good, good,” said Mr. McDaniels, closing the door behind him and ushering Max below to where they joined David at the table. “What is all this baloney about a witch and promises? Ms. Richter told me something, but it all sounded like gobbledygook. She was joking, right?”

“She’s not joking, Dad,” said Max. “The witch said that there was some agreement made a long time ago—that David and I are supposed to go live with them.”

“That can’t be right,” said Mr. McDaniels, worrying away his fingernails. “Ms. Richter said they live far away—in the Himalayas or someplace! How would those witches even know who you are, much less where to find you?”

Max winced.

“They heard about us from Peter—he visited them last year and mentioned us. I think the fact that he was in contact with them may be why he was in trouble to begin with.”

“
Peter’s
responsible?” asked Mr. McDaniels. Originally known to Max as “Ronin,” Peter Varga was an outcast Agent who had rescued Max on more than one occasion. His spine broken by Marley Augur’s hideous hammer, Peter had been rehabilitating at Rowan and was often kept company by Mr. McDaniels, who pushed him along in a wheelchair so he could look out over the Atlantic.

“Well,” said Max quickly, “I don’t know if he’s
responsible
. I mean, he didn’t make the oath.”

“But he’s the reason that witch knew to come here and look for you!” fumed Max’s father, his initial shock quickly turning to anger.

“Don’t get upset, Mr. McDaniels,” said David meekly. “If Ms. Richter didn’t know about Bram’s Oath, I think it’s safe to say Peter didn’t, either. Besides, Max isn’t going to have to go anywhere.”

“He’s not?” asked Mr. McDaniels, the purple draining from his face. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ll be difficult,” said David simply. “If someone has to go, it’ll be me. If they want me to cooperate, they’ll have to let Max stay here.”

Mr. McDaniels blinked twice and took a long, quivering breath while he fumbled through his apron’s pocket for a handkerchief.

“David,” said Max, dumbfounded by his roommate’s offer, “there’s no way—”

Max was drowned out by an enormous honk as Mr. McDaniels blew his nose. David was suddenly swept up and crushed against Mr. McDaniels’s padded side, his pale face disappearing into an enormous tartan armpit.

“David Menlo,” cried Mr. McDaniels, rocking the small boy back and forth, “I don’t know what to say! That’s so very good of you—ridiculous, but I’ll never forget it as long as I live!”

“Grrrglpppp!” came David’s muffled voice.

“Say again?” asked Mr. McDaniels, wiping his round, teary cheeks with the back of his hand.

“Dad, I don’t think he can breathe,” said Max, pointing to David’s hand, which flopped about like a fish in a vain attempt to free his head.

“Oh,” said Mr. McDaniels, releasing David at once. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” said David with a weak laugh. “Just a
little
tight.”

“Nobody’s going off alone to live with any witches,” said Mr. McDaniels, gripping both boys fiercely by the shoulder. “The three of us are a package deal—it’s all or none, or else there’ll be hell to pay!”

“I wonder what it’d be like living with the witches,” mused Max in an effort to lighten the mood. He went to his bookcase to retrieve his
Rowan Compendium of Known Enemies
. “Probably lots of newts and black cats and gingerbread houses. Bet they don’t have anything like the Course—Richter said they’re afraid of machines.”

He scrolled through the index but failed to find anything between
werewolf
and
wraith.

“You won’t find them in there,” said David. “I don’t think Rowan technically classifies the witches as enemies—just something to be avoided. And I don’t think they’re like witches from fairy tales. Did you see those markings on her face?”

“You should have seen her, Dad,” Max said as he put the book away. “She looked like a headhunter!”

“Those markings were spells,” said David, ignoring Max’s sarcasm. “Weird spells—primitive—tattooed right into her skin. They’re some kind of protection. . . . I think the witches are frightened of something.”

Just then someone else rapped at the door, the knock as loud and impatient as before.

“Open the bleedin’ door, you bogtrotters! I’m back for me edgemacation!” bellowed a loud voice with a thick Irish accent.

Max grinned and bounded away up the stairs.

There, in the hallway, stood Connor Lynch, Max and David’s best friend. Fresh from Dublin, Connor was sporting a wild crown of chestnut curls that framed a pink-cheeked face so flush with good humor he might have been the Ghost of Christmas Present. He handed Max a battered set of golf clubs.

“Look after these like a good lad, eh?” he said, clapping Max on the shoulder as he dragged his enormous duffel in behind him.

“Hey, Connor,” said Max, closing the door while Connor hurried downstairs to hurl hellos at David and Mr. McDaniels. “Don’t you want to drop your stuff in your room?”

“Nah,” called up Connor, settling into one of the lower level’s cozy nooks and rummaging through his duffel like a badger. “My fine roommates are already gushing about how they spent their summer vacations milking yaks or building latrines or knitting booties for underprivileged kittens. Insufferable weenies,” he concluded with a sad shake of his head. “I was hoping to crash here for a bit until—”

More knocks sounded at the door. Max heard giggling outside.

“Until the girls get here!” crowed Connor, retrieving a shiny bag from his duffel and tossing it to Mr. McDaniels, who caught it with a snort of pleasant surprise. David looked unsettled by the sudden prospect of more visitors, much less girls. He sniffed his armpit before quickly changing shirts behind the door of his armoire.

Max stood aside as Cynthia Gilley, Sarah Amankwe, and Lucia Cavallo streamed into the room in a swarming chorus of greetings and hugs. Within minutes, the six classmates and Mr. McDaniels were huddled downstairs and enjoying an impromptu party fueled by Connor’s bags of Bedford Bros. Colossal Cookies, a new product introduced by one of Mr. McDaniels’s former clients.

“Whatcha think?” Connor asked Mr. McDaniels as Max’s father closed his eyes and sampled a thick, ridged cookie as if it were a canapé. “I saw ’em at the airport and thought of you.”

Mr. McDaniels signaled for a moment of quiet while he thoughtfully chewed the cookie.

“That’s a quality product,” he said at length, giving the bag a brisk nod of approval. “Two jabs of light and flaky with an uppercut of chocolate. I should give the head honchos over there a call—suggest a slogan or two.”

“Dad,” said Max, shaking his head at his obsessively loyal father. “They’re not your client anymore. Those cookies could taste like mothballs and you’d say they were great.”

“Oh no,” said Mr. McDaniels, smiling as he patted his enormous stomach. “You can lie to a man’s face, but you can’t lie to his belly, son. The belly
knows
. Remember that.”

“Is that supposed to be some pearl of wisdom?” asked Max, burying his head as the others burst into laughter. Mr. McDaniels just gave a contented smile and passed along the bag.

“Enough of cookies!” snapped Lucia, a no-nonsense Italian beauty whose flashing eyes and indifference to Connor’s charms had left the Irish boy smitten. “Out with it, you two!” she said, snapping her fingers at Max and David. “What is happening here?”

“What Lucia
means,
” said Cynthia, swatting away Lucia’s hand as she snatched up another cookie, “is that since the two of you were here over the summer, you must know what’s going on.” The ample-bottomed English girl bit into her cookie and fixed David with an expectant, maternal stare.

“With what?” asked David.

“Oh, like the fact that the charming little gatehouse has been replaced with a fortress,” said Sarah, looking regal and splendid in a scarlet wrap from her native Nigeria.

“Whose walls are fifty feet high,” said Lucia.

“And covered with thorns,” added Cynthia.

“And crawling with Agents,” finished Sarah.

“Mystics, too,” chimed in Connor. “I saw them peering down at me from the windows. Two blinky old codgers! Gave me the creeps . . .”

“David knows more about it,” said Max. “He’s been helping Ms. Richter.”

“Well, they haven’t let me help with the design,” said David, sounding a bit peeved. “They just use me for the grunt work—raising the walls and stuff.”

“
You
raised the walls?” asked Sarah, wide-eyed. “They must be twenty feet thick!”

David nodded and nibbled a cookie. Ever since his arrival at Rowan, Max’s roommate had exhibited a freakishly intuitive grasp of Mystics.

“Now that Astaroth’s free, Ms. Richter thinks we need stronger defenses. Of all the banished demons, Astaroth was reputed to have been the greatest scholar and Sorcerer,” said David with a shrug.

“But isn’t Rowan already hidden away from outsiders?” asked Cynthia, sitting up with a look of real concern. “Even if he’s free, no outsider—not even Astaroth—should be able to find us here. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s the way it’s
supposed
to work,” said David, frowning, “but I have my doubts.”

“What do you mean?” asked Max, glancing at Sarah, who looked frightened.

“How did that witch find Rowan?” asked David, his pale eyes boring into Max. “Of course Ms. Richter was shocked by what Dame Mala wanted, but couldn’t you tell how surprised she was that a witch was even here?”

“Maybe they should let you run this place, David,” said Scott McDaniels with a grunt as he waved off the circling bag. “You’d have my vote.”

“Please don’t even joke about that, Mr. McDaniels,” said David quietly, reaching for another cookie. “I’m afraid Rowan has another traitor, or else we’re not as hidden as we’d like to think.”

Connor raised his hand in sarcastic schoolboy fashion.

“And just who are these witches?” he asked.

“That’s my cue,” said Mr. McDaniels, brushing crumbs from his hands and pushing back from his chair. “I’ll let you kids catch up on all that. I’ve had enough of witches for one day. Besides, I told Bob I’d set up the ol’ Beefmeister 2000 in the kitchen. Got quite a feast in store for tomorrow—lots of grilled meats on the menu. Save your appetites!”

The group said good-bye to Mr. McDaniels, who lumbered up the stairs like a sleepy bear. Max stretched and flicked on the lights, transforming the dark room into a two-tiered circle of golden wood crowned now by a sky of midnight blue. While the constellations twinkled above, Max and David shared the tale of Dame Mala’s visit, interrupted periodically by Connor’s incredulous questions until he was finally shushed by Lucia. When Max described Dame Mala’s parting promise that the witches would return, Lucia crumpled the empty bag of cookies and uttered a string of what sounded to be some choice Italian phrases.

“Do you actually think you’d have to go away?” asked Sarah, looking hard at Max.

“David thinks there’s probably something to their claim,” said Max, avoiding her gaze and shrugging. “It’s hard to believe it could happen, though.”

“There’s no way, mate,” said Connor. “That’s like—that’s like
slavery
! Things like that can’t happen anymore.”

“We’ll see,” said David, glancing at Max. “There’s no point in anybody worrying about it right now, though. Please don’t tell everyone—they think I’m weird enough.”

“Done,” said Connor, “but I heard some Sixth Years gossiping in the foyer about how they saw Cooper marching some woman out the gate. That must have been your witch, eh?”

Max nodded.

“They’re bound to blabber,” said Connor. “But we can take care of that if you like.” He grinned and burrowed in his duffel once again, retrieving a slim book of red leather and a small bag of black felt. He placed them on the table with a triumphant gleam in his eye.