The Second Siege (7 page)

“So it isn’t true?” squeaked a small black boy with glasses.

“Well,” said Connor, scratching his chestnut curls, “technically, that last bit
is
true, but they’re leaving out lots of important stuff! Max ain’t a murderer, for God’s sake—that’s crazy!”

“That’s
just
the word I was looking for!” said Anna, her smile turning sickly sweet. “Crazy. I think that’s how I heard a Sixth Year describe Max just this morning after breakfast. . . .”

Max bit off his reply and sighed, realizing that Anna was trying to bait him.

“Welcome to Rowan,” he said quietly, walking away from the First Years and leaving Connor behind to argue with Anna and Sasha. The cavernous hall seemed stifling. He thought about tracking down Julie again but quickly put the idea out of his mind—that terrible force within him was stirring and now was not the time to ask why she seemed to be avoiding him. Instead Max stopped and leaned against a pillar whose gray stones had been worn smooth by the centuries. He considered the presence lurking within him. Ms. Richter called it Old Magic; Miss Boon and the witch called it Cúchulain. Whatever its proper name, it was a force that had summoned terrible things to Max’s doorstep, and he was determined to keep it under control.

“I’m my own person,” he whispered, scratching the pillar with his thumbnail as Bob introduced Mum’s sister, Bellagrog Shrope, to enthusiastic applause.

When the cheers subsided and the students began climbing up the curving steps, Max turned to see if he might catch Julie. Instead, he saw Commander Vilyak standing at his elbow. The man smiled, but his eyes remained dead as he took a long, hard look at Max.

“You’re Max McDaniels,” he said decisively. “I’m Commander Vilyak.” As Max shook the proffered hand, he saw that the inside of Vilyak’s wrist had some sort of tattoo. Vilyak caught Max staring at it and grinned, removing his cuff link and pulling back his sleeve so Max could get a better look. He saw an image of a red hand, raised in greeting, bound by a slender cord. “That’s the mark of the Red Branch,” Vilyak said proudly. “Ever seen it before?”

“No,” said Max, strangely fascinated by the simple emblem.

“They’re very rare,” the man said fondly. “Only the top twelve Agents in the world get one of these. You know one of them, I think.”

“Cooper?” asked Max.

“Yes,” said Vilyak, smiling. “William Cooper is a member of the Red Branch. And he has told me a great deal about you, my young friend. Making your acquaintance is the only reason I’m here, what with things as busy as they are. Fortunately, everything Cooper reported has been confirmed.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Max. “We’ve just met.”

“I took the opportunity to review your scenario from this afternoon,” said Vilyak, shifting to a more businesslike tone. “I watched it several times.”

“Oh,” said Max, reddening. “That. Well, I guess I should have followed orders. . . .”

Vilyak leaned forward and spoke, enunciating each word very carefully. “It was brilliant.” The man clapped Max on the arm and gave him a parting wink. “Orders aren’t for everyone, Max. Don’t let them tame you too much—it’s not your nature. I’ll be in touch, eh?”

“Okay—er, thank you, sir!” said Max, flushing with an unexpected rush of pride. Vilyak joined a passing flock of senior faculty, and they departed in a slow procession of navy robes. Max craned his neck one more time, searching for Julie, before dashing up the stairs and out the Manse’s door. Nick might have awoken by now, and Max felt like running far and wide in the warm summer night.

Nick was indeed waiting as Max emerged from the Sanctuary tunnel. The lymrill crouched in the tall grass, swishing his coppery tail and finishing the remains of a particularly large and juicy rat. Nick’s eyes peered up as Max stepped into the clearing, two points of reflected moonlight shining bright among the deep greens of the darkening field. Giving the rat a final nudge, the lymrill licked its muzzle clean and stood to dig at the thick turf with its lethal, curling claws. With a sudden happy mewl, Nick bolted away, kicking up clumps of grass as he ran, and Max chased after.

By the time Max trudged back to the Manse, the campus was dark. A conspicuous exception, however, were the windows of Ms. Richter’s office. Light streamed from a slim gap in the drawn curtains, spilling onto the flagged patio. Shapes moved across the opening—apparently there were several people in the Director’s office. The drapes parted momentarily and Max saw Dr. Rasmussen standing at the window, surveying the orchard while speaking rapidly. With a scowl, the leader of the Frankfurt Workshop pulled the drapes shut once again. Max glanced at his watch; it was well past midnight. He wondered what would necessitate such a late meeting.

Max soon discovered the reason. In a wood-paneled room off the Manse’s foyer, some two dozen pajama-clad students were gathered in stunned silence before a large television. Julie Teller was among the group, wedged into a leather couch and looking horror-stricken as she stared at the screen. A bleary-eyed anchorman was speaking, his tone eerily calm.

“Today’s events are an unprecedented tragedy. For those viewers just joining us, five world leaders are dead and several others are missing under highly suspicious circumstances. While few details are available at this time, authorities believe the incidents to be linked and are acting accordingly. All domestic and international air travel has been temporarily suspended, as has trading across most global exchanges. The president has been moved to an undisclosed location and will address the American people later today . . . .”

Max stood speechless as the report went on to detail the ministers, presidents, and premiers who were dead or missing. There did not seem to be any pattern of wealth, politics, or popularity of the leaders. They were scattered across continents and regions, representing nations rich and poor. When the anchorman began to repeat his report, Max crossed quickly over to Julie and knelt next to the sofa.

“When did they start reporting this?” he asked her quietly.

She glanced at him as though gazing through a ghost. Her face blanched, and she scooted off the couch to hurry from the room. Utterly perplexed, Max followed and called after her, but she ignored him, scampering quickly across the foyer and up the staircase toward the girls’ dormitories. Max stood in the foyer, staring at the gleaming floor, while Julie’s steps pattered away.

Other footsteps—quick and purposeful—sounded from the corridor that led to Ms. Richter’s office. Cooper emerged into the foyer. Without so much as a glance at Max, the Agent strode out into the night.

“I won’t pretend to understand teenage girls,” sighed the goose. “I’ve seen over two hundred classes come through this school, and while times change, the teenage girl remains a fickle, mysterious beast. You should find yourself a nice selkie.”

Max smiled as Hannah buffeted him playfully with her wing.

“You’re too young to be heartbroken,” she continued. “That job’s been taken by this gorgeous goose who was left high and dry with twelve mouths to feed! Forget all about her, honey.”

“I’ll try,” sighed Max as Hannah began veering off the path toward her nest on the edge of the orchard. He was reluctant to leave her company. “Do you want to sit on the patio?” he asked hopefully.

“Why?” asked Hannah, her voice becoming shrill. “To fawn over that revolting hag while she spins her lies and stories? Not on your life! That one’s always nosing around the nest and cooing after the goslings. Like I don’t know she’d toss ’em back like popcorn first chance she got!”

The goose waddled off, calling after her children, who came scurrying back to join their mother. Max strolled through the orchard, peering up at row upon row of apple trees, whose golden fruit signified graduates of Rowan who had passed away. More laughter sounded ahead as he emerged from the orchard to find Bellagrog sitting on one of the flagstone patio’s benches, swirling a generous glass of brandy while she entertained some twenty students. Max’s stomach made a funny flip as he spied Julie Teller sitting on a stone bench, flanked by a pair of girlfriends. The smile evaporated from her face the moment she saw Max, and she took a sudden interest in her sandals. Max’s heart sank and he skirted the group, passing Mum, who was briskly sweeping fallen petals into little piles on the flagstones. The hag’s face was curdled with indignation.

“Bel,” she hissed, “I need you to hold the dustpan.”

“Not now, Bea,” rumbled Bellagrog, shooing away her sister. “You’re interrupting me stories—”

Bellagrog cocked an eyebrow and caught Max reaching for the French doors.

“Max!” the hag sang. “Max, Max, handsome Max—pull up a seat or I’ll crack yer back! Bwahahahaha! Was just breakin’ out me stories before supper. Have a seat while Bea fetches her sis another splash of brandy.”

“That’s your fourth!” commented Mum acidly, propping up her broom and scurrying inside.

“When’d she get so clever with numbers?” laughed Bellagrog, gulping down the last amber drop. “Now, Max, plenty of room right next to yer ol’ Auntie Mum.”

Max did his best to smile as he squeezed onto the bench next to the swollen gray hag, who smelled like a nauseating mix of meat and mold. The other students giggled, but Julie looked mortified and merely stared at the ground. Bellagrog patted his knee and took a deep whiff of Max’s upper arm, looking oddly distant as drool pooled behind her lower lip. A moment later, the hag blinked and fumbled for a pouch of tobacco, pinching off an enormous wad and stuffing it in her mouth just as Mum arrived with a crystal decanter.

“That’s it, Bea,” said Bellagrog, holding out her glass. “A little more . . . and a little more . . . and
that’s
a proper glass!” The hag almost began to purr as she tipped back her drink. “As I was saying,” she continued, “it wasn’t no Sunday shower what made yer Auntie Mum pack her bags and hop the pond. Big things are afoot! Reminds me o’ the summer of ’40, when Nan sniffed trouble and moved us up to Shropshire before the bombs started fallin’. Mum was still in diapers yet!”

“Oh,” cooed a Third Year girl, “I’ll bet you were an adorable baby, Mum!”

Mum blushed and smiled appreciatively.

“Who said anything about a baby?” chortled Bellagrog. “She was a bloody teenager!”

Mum’s lip trembled as the students burst into laughter.

“I never wore diapers in my teens!”
she thundered.

“Have it your way, Bea,” said Bellagrog with a wink. “Let’s just call ’em ‘training bloomers’ if it’ll make you happy. . . .”

More howls of laughter sent Mum gathering up her things with frantic gasps and mutters. Max felt a pang of sympathy for Mum as she gave her sister a murderous stare and stormed inside, slamming the French doors shut.

“Always had a thin skin, Bea did,” said Bellagrog with an indulgent smile. “Anyway, it was right pretty country near Shropshire. Plenty to eat, too, with all the men off fighting the war and . . . er . . . leaving their families. . . .”

Bellagrog gave Max a sheepish shrug as her audience began whispering to one another and scooting away. She snapped her fingers to reclaim their attention, leaning forward to continue in a throaty whisper.

“Let’s just say it was easy living for the Shropes, while those hags what stayed near London had an awful hard time of it. The moral of me little tale is that any blubbering fool will go arunnin’ once it rains, but it takes a smart old bird to find a cozy nook soon as the wind goes still and quiet. And it’s quiet in the world, my lovelies—radio ain’t singing me tunes, telephone’s out half the time. Soon, dark nasties will be digging into cellars. . . .”

“Dark nasties . . . like
hags
?” quipped Connor, poking his head out from the French doors.

This brought a laugh from the group, but none laughed louder than Bellagrog, whose whole body shook with mirth while she wiped a tear from her crocodile eye.

“Aye, nasties like hags,” she allowed with a final, convulsive chuckle. “But other things, too—vyes and hobgoblins and older things much too terrible to mention.”

Max knew the hag reveled in trying to frighten them, but he also saw that there was wisdom and hard experience in her words. Bellagrog was a survivor; it was evident in the way her small red eyes darted about, constantly filtering her environment into threats and opportunities.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Connor, “but Mr. McDaniels asked me to look for you—they need you in the kitchens.”

“Well,” said Bellagrog, swirling her brandy and downing it in one huge swallow, “it’s nice to be needed, ain’t it? And it’s awful nice to be here snug and cozy with the likes of you while it’s getting dark outside. Stay with me, my wee ones, and we’ll wait it out right here—backs against the wall and brandies in hand!”

With a creak and a snort, the hag eased herself up, followed toward the French doors by the assembled students. Waiting for Julie, Max said her name and tapped her on the shoulder. Without so much as a sideways glance, she breezed past him.

“What is the
matter
with you?” shouted Max.

Several students turned and gaped at Max. But Julie wasn’t one of them. She walked away, her shoulders as stiff and straight as a church pew. Red-faced, Max opened his mouth and shut it again, turning toward Connor. The Irish boy shrugged and stepped closer, sniffing at Max’s armpit.

“Mystery solved,” he declared.

“Shut up,” said Max, sinking into an antique chair, utterly perplexed.

“You know,” said Connor thoughtfully, “we could TP her room, leave a flaming bag on her doorstep—the possibilities are virtually endless. Of course, there are easier ways. . . .”

Max exhaled and glared at his friend, whose face was now alight with scheming.

“I’ve told you a dozen times,” said Max, “I don’t want to use Mr. Sikes.”

“That’s just ’cause Davie scared you off his services,” said Connor. “He’s really a help.”

“When I need a lemonade, I’ll let you know,” said Max.

“No,” said the Irish boy thoughtfully, “he’s a lot more useful than that. He
listens
to me.”

“If he’s so great, why don’t you have him make Lucia fall madly in love with you?” said Max, smiling. Connor blinked and shook his head.

“No, no—I mean, if I went whining to Mr. Sikes every time Lucia told me to bugger off, he’d stop answering my calls.”

“He
has
to answer your calls,” said Max pointedly. “He’s a demon.”

“Well, he can’t make Julie fall in love with you,” Connor said quickly, pausing between chimes as Old Tom sounded six o’clock. “I, er, already asked him about that sort of nonsense. I have something else in mind. A brilliant idea—and I
know
it will work.”

Max looked at him impatiently.

“Forget all about her,” said Connor.

“That’s it?” asked Max, walking off toward the dining hall. “That’s your brilliant idea? Hannah beat you to it.”

“No,” said Connor, tugging Max to a halt. “I mean
really
forget about her—wipe her clean from your memory.”

“I don’t want that imp in my head,” said Max.

“Why?” asked Connor. “He only does what you want him to.”

“I don’t know,” said Max.

“Just
talk
to him,” pleaded Connor. “If you don’t want to do anything, you don’t have to.”

“Okay,” said Max. “Tonight, after dinner. But don’t tell David.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” said Connor happily. “I’m just glad you wised up and are willing to consider his invaluable services. I’ve aced every assignment this year!”

“You use him to
cheat
?” asked Max, raising his eyebrows.

“Naw,” said Connor. “I wouldn’t call it cheating—he just sort of looks over my shoulder and nudges me in the right direction now and then. I’m doing the work!” added Connor in response to Max’s dubious expression.

The two dashed off to dinner, where David proved to be absent for a seventh consecutive night. Every night for the past week Max had heard his roommate tiptoe back into their room from the Archives in the early morning hours and collapse onto his bed for an hour or two of sleep.

While David was nowhere to be seen, Julie Teller had unfortunately chosen to sit at the next table. Glancing occasionally at her throughout the meal, Max mused sadly that soon she might be nothing but a random face in the hallways.

Max had just caught Connor watching him, the Irish boy chewing thoughtfully on a piece of asparagus, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Commander Vilyak standing over him.

“Hello there,” said the Agent with a thin smile. “How are things?”

“Oh, hi,” said Max, standing up to shake his hand. “I mean, fine, sir. Things are fine. Er, Commander Vilyak, this is my friend Connor Lynch.”

Vilyak gave Connor an acknowledging nod as Connor stood and said hello. Max swelled with pride as Julie’s table abruptly halted their conversation to take note of someone as senior as Vilyak stopping to speak with two Second Years.

“Are you from Ireland, Connor?” asked Vilyak.

“Yes, sir,” said Connor. “Dublin.”

“Well met, indeed,” said Vilyak, bowing. “Max, you of all people should know that the Red Branch hails from Ireland—the country holds a special place in my heart.”

“Why should I know that, sir?” asked Max.

“The Red Branch comprised the finest warriors of Ulster. Cúchulain himself was their greatest champion. Miss Boon might say you were born to our Order.” Max frowned at the amused gleam in the man’s flat black eyes. He did not like that his Mystics instructor was sharing her hypothesis that Max might be Cúchulain reborn. “In fact, I thought the young Hound of Rowan might like to see something of particular interest tonight. Something in the Archives.”

“What’s that, sir?” asked Max.

“Ooh!” interrupted Connor. “Are you going to take Max into the Archives?”

“If he has a mind to go,” said Vilyak.

“Can I come, too?”

Vilyak laughed and patted Connor on the arm.

“I admire your enthusiasm, but I’m afraid I’m already bending the rules by taking Max,” said the Agent with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Connor looked crestfallen.

“What do you say, Max?” asked Vilyak. “Care to see some of Rowan’s secrets?”

Connor practically writhed with jealousy as Max nodded eagerly.

“Connor, I’ll talk to you later about that thing,” said Max as he followed Vilyak out of the dining hall. Max paused to get a last glimpse of Julie and was surprised to see her watching him from her table. He looked away and hurried to keep pace with Vilyak’s long, brisk strides.

Once outside the Manse, they walked along the garden paths toward Old Tom and Maggie, positioned like two great gray stones overlooking the sea.

“So,” said Max, “I heard you used to be Director, before Ms. Richter.”

“That’s true,” said Vilyak. “I was Director for six years, but I’m happy to have all of that behind me.”

“Really?” asked Max. “Why is that?”

“A desk is no place for me,” said the Agent, turning his doll’s eyes on Max. “Out in the field is where I belong—hunting our enemies. As wonderful as Rowan is, it is just a little corner of what we do. Commanding the Red Branch is my true calling.”

Vilyak led Max into Old Tom, climbing the stairwell to the third floor and down to a side passage that housed several seldom-used classrooms. Producing a large key from his pocket, Vilyak unlocked the door to Room 313. Max peered inside and saw nothing but a dusty room with some two dozen desks, several bookcases, and a smudged, swiveling blackboard on a wooden stand.

“After you,” said Vilyak.