The Owl Keeper (12 page)

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Rose slammed the lid and latched it. "Run!" she ordered, and raced off.

Max scooped the box under his arm. "I'm taking this with me!" he called out. With the box shut and the creature hidden from view, he felt almost brave.

Rose stopped in midflight. "Are you insane? That thing's a cold-blooded killer!"

"I'm not leaving it here," he said stubbornly, then started running.

It was a total act of lunacy, he knew, and Rose would never understand. For that matter,
he
didn't understand. What was this sudden compulsion to save this bizarre creature? He didn't have an answer. It was as if the impulse to rescue it had been programmed inside his head.

"It's your funeral, Max!" shouted Rose, sprinting ahead of him. "I'm sure Mrs. Crumlin would love a cuddly new pet!"

They raced from door to door--twisting the glass knobs, pulling the wrought iron handles, kicking the dark heavy wood--but all the doors remained firmly locked.

The metal boxes inside the alcove began rattling and banging. Each box, Max realized, contained one of these gruesome creatures. His pulse started to race.

"If those mutants get loose they'll tear us to shreds!" cried Rose. Then, wrenching the box from Max, she said, "I need this."

"Hey!" he yelled in alarm as she sprinted away. "Where are you going with that?"

He raced after her, but in his haste Max tripped over a broken plaster statue and fell headlong onto the floor, bashing his knee.

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Sprawled across the marble tiles, he watched Rose clamber onto a bench, her eyes fixed on a stained glass window.

"Sorry, maggot-breath," he heard her say. She raised the box over her head and threw it.

The box containing Skræk #176 sailed through the air, smashing a stained-glass angel and a circle of doves. The window shattered; rain gusted in. Max blinked and Rose was over the sill.

"Hurry, Max!" she hollered from outside. "Jump!"

Rising shakily to his feet, Max limped over to the bench and stepped onto it. His knee ached painfully and his head was pounding so loud he couldn't think. From the alcove, he could hear high-pitched shrieks coming from inside the metal boxes.

Gripping the windowsill, he looked out into the rain and his head began to spin. With his sleeve he brushed away bits of broken glass. He felt nauseated and light-headed--not surprising, since vertigo was part of his condition.

The plague wolf howled again. Terrified, Max scrabbled up onto the sill. Rain soaked his face as he took a deep trembling breath. Then he jumped.

He landed in the high wet grass, rolled a few times and came to a stop. Sitting up, he squinted through the rain and darkness, searching for Rose.

Beside him he saw the metal box upended in the grass. He crawled over, dragging his wounded leg. Setting the box upright, he unlatched the lid with shaking fingers. With fear and apprehension, he bravely peered inside.

A putrid smell wafted up, turning his stomach. Blind and shivering, the creature crouched in a corner, making no sound at all.

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Its teeth glinted like tiny needles. Max stared down at the slippery, rancid-smelling creature with a kind of wordless terror. He could feel the skræk's utter coldness, its ferocity and brutality. Yet despite his feelings of repugnance, he also felt pity for so desolate and lonely a creature.

He noticed the top of the cage had gotten twisted in the fall. If he pulled the wire mesh out, Scars #176 could escape. Max chewed his lip, deliberating. Should he set it free? After all, it was a living, breathing creature--sort of.

"Max!" he heard Rose shout. "Where are you?"

Impulsively he gripped the torn wire and wrenched it back. His stomach roiled in fear and revulsion. What he was doing was dangerous, he told himself. Yet the urge to save the skræsk seemed to be hardwired into his brain.

"Fly away," whispered Max, shaking the box. He heard the crackle of two thin wings as they unfolded, reminding him once again of his dreams. "Go!" he ordered. "You're free!"

The creature shot out of the cage and into the air. One wing-- scratchy, smelly and jagged at the edges--brushed Max's forehead. The skræsk flapped, then sank into the wet grass.

Heart pounding, Max jumped back, watching it try again, only to be knocked down by the rain.

"Max!" cried Rose, running toward him.

He grinned as the creature finally sailed into the air, buffeted by the wind. Soaring skyward, Skræsk #176 flew off, rustling and squeaking--a farewell of sorts, Max supposed--into the rain-soaked night, leaving him to wonder what on earth he had just done.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

[Image: The owl.]

Max opened the back door and staggered into the kitchen, dripping water over the linoleum. He had limped home through the torrential rain and was soaking wet. Worried his father might be up eating a late-night snack, he froze in midstep. But the room was empty and silent.

He crept over to his mother's handbag, hanging on a peg by the door, and slipped the smart card back into her wallet. Then, with one of Mrs. Crumlin's burnt dish towels, he tried to mop up the mess, but his knee hurt so badly he couldn't bend down.

Back in his room he peeled off his drenched clothes and

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stuffed them under the bed. He was so weary he was seeing double. Heaving a sigh of relief to be at home at last, he crawled under the quilt and fell into a deep sleep.

He slept through most of the following day. If he had dreams, he didn't remember them when he awoke late that afternoon. His knee felt stiff and sore. Mrs. Crumlin arrived with a bowl of crushed millet chowder and his medicine. If she knew about him sneaking out last night, she didn't let on.

"Mrs. Crumlin?" he said, slurping the cough syrup. "Have you ever heard stories about plague wolves?" He choked as the syrup stuck halfway down his throat, remembering the terrifying creature in Cavernstone Hall.

Risky talk, he knew, but he had to know whose side she was on. Was her loyalty to him--or was the government paying her to report back to it?

Mrs. Crumlin narrowed her black eyes. Max felt the air crackle between them. "Plague was wiped out decades ago," she said curtly. "The High Echelon's brilliant technology put an end to that."

He handed her the spoon, wiping his sticky fingers on the quilt. "So there's no such thing as black wolves infected with plague virus?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "They're a myth, right?"

She threw him a brittle smile. "Of course they're a myth, you silly boy. Wolves went the way of the trout and the polar bears, and those animals have been extinct for ages. Where in the world did you hear such an absurd story?"

"Nowhere. I made it up." Max closed his eyes and sank into the pillows, heart racketing inside his chest.

That's it, he thought. Mrs. Crumlin lied to me about The Ruins

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and now she's lying about the plague wolves. She's totally untrustworthy. On the other hand, was the High Echelon feeding her half-truths, keeping her in the dark like everyone else about its secret experiments? Did she, he wondered, know about the skræks?

"Maxwell Unger!" shrilled Mrs. Crumlin.

His eyes flew open. Lips pursed, she stood before him, feet planted on the rug, holding up his dripping jacket. One of the pockets hung by a thread. "Whatever happened to this? How could you be so careless?"

Max shrank under her beady gaze, realizing that he'd done a poor job of hiding his clothes under the bed.

Mrs. Crumlin brushed clumps of matted grass and mud off the jacket. "Where on earth have you been?" She stumped over to him and, reaching down with her large hand, pushed the hair off his forehead. "How did you get that goose egg?" she demanded. "And those scratches on your face? Hmmm?"

"I had an accident," he said, recoiling from her touch. "It was raining and I fell down the back steps." She would never believe him, but he didn't care--not anymore.

"I am aware that you wander outside in the night, Maxwell. Your father says I have eyes in the back of my head, even when I'm not here, and I daresay he's right." She hung the sodden jacket over a chair. Max watched the water drip off, forming tiny puddles on the floorboards.

"Am I correct in assuming that you keep within the boundaries of your parents' property, Maxwell?" She set the bowl of soup on his nightstand. "You wouldn't be hiding anything from me, would you?"

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"I'd never do that, Mrs. Crumlin." Max reached for the soup.

A cog in the wheel.
That was how Rose had described Mrs. Crumlin, which Max took to mean a drone who worked for the authorities. Was Mrs. Crumlin reporting things he said to the High Echelon? That would explain why she was always peppering him with questions.

Her expression turned cold and distant. "Keep in mind, Maxwell, should you encounter any lurkers, lurchers or runaways on these midnight excursions of yours, you are to inform me at once. Understood?"

"Yes, Mrs. Crumlin." He stirred his soup, not daring to look up. Her suspicious tone made him uneasy. Could she know about Rose, or was she just guessing?

What would happen if he told her the truth? He was sure Mrs. Crumlin would act out of blind loyalty; she'd have no qualms about reporting Rose to the authorities. He realized he knew deep in his bones that Mrs. Crumlin was on
their
side, not his.

She bustled about the bedroom, moving things around on his bureau, plumping pillows, dragging his wet sweaters and long underwear out from under the bed. Now he was seeing Mrs. Crumlin in a new light. Was her wise, kindly guardian routine just a facade? He wondered if behind the flour-stained dresses and graying hair tucked into a hairnet there was a devious, calculating, much scarier Mrs. Crumlin. He had a sinking feeling that the answer was yes.

"Shall I set up a game of Dark Hearts and Winding Shrouds in the parlor?" she suggested. "That might cheer you up."

"No thanks," said Max. "My throat's scratchy. I just want to

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sleep." He dipped his spoon into the broth, vowing never to believe another thing Mrs. Crumlin told him. And he would never, ever say anything that might give Rose away.

"Suit yourself." With a hurt look, she whisked away his wet clothes and stomped out.

Max set the broth aside and jumped out of bed, his thoughts turning to the skræk. He wondered where it was now. Had it found anything to eat? He pictured the creature flying through the forest, or hanging upside down in a bat cave, resting after its traumatic ordeal.

He didn't know why he had felt compelled to set it free. It had been an irrational act, utterly insane. Rose had been furious last night when she saw Skræsk #176 flapping away. And what, he wondered, was going to happen to all the skræsks locked up in those boxes?

He stood before his bureau mirror, looking at a thin boy in pajamas with mousy brown hair falling into his eyes. He held up a small hand mirror, examining the dull yellow sun at the back of his neck. Rose was right: it was the same symbol he'd seen on the doors and walls of Cavernstone Hall. But how did the sun tattoo connect him to the skræsk? He was mystified.

If he squinted a certain way, he could see remnants of something else beneath it: the Mark of the Owl! Ancient and profound, this mark, he realized, was his true birthmark.

How could he have been so gullible, believing Mrs. Crumlin when she said the sun mark was lucky? She'd lied about that, too.

***

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"My father says skræks are the High Echelon's new top-secret weapon because they have no-fear genes," said Rose that night, sitting with Max under the owl tree. "The government's setting them loose the day everyone moves to the domes." The air was crisp and cold, and puffs of breath floated out of her mouth.

Max wriggled uncomfortably inside his duffle coat, which was far too small. He had worn it because Mrs. Crumlin was mending his winter jacket. "But won't they go after people and kill them?" he asked.

"That's the point! Those skræks are out of control and nobody will be able to leave the domes--it'll be too dangerous!"

"But if the government made the skræks, it must be able to control them," mused Max, trying not to wake the silver owl, who was asleep on his lap. With her feathers glistening in the moonlight, she looked so peaceful. "What's a no-fear gene, anyway?"

"No-fear genes mean you're not afraid of anything," said Rose, waving her arms around. "Nothing in the whole world scares you! And here's the zinger: no-fear genes are selling on the black market!"

What an amazing invention, thought Max. He wondered if he could save up enough pocket money to buy a no-fear gene. If he had one, he'd never have to worry about being nervous or scared, or kids teasing him, or being afraid to climb to the top of the owl tree. His life would change in a hundred different ways.

"He says they're selling skræk eyes, too!" said Rose excitedly. "Remember those weird eyes we saw? They tried to transplant