The Second Siege (17 page)

Max only knew the figure was Cooper from the Agent’s distinctive stance—hands clasped patiently with his head tilted in thoughtful repose. Max blinked and looked again. In the photo, there were no scars, no patchwork of shiny skin and ruined features. The young man at Señor Lorca’s side was strong-featured and roughly handsome, with a boxer’s nose and brilliant blue eyes that gazed with pleasure upon Señor Lorca’s medal.

“That is an old photo, Antonio,” said Cooper, taking it gently from Miss Boon and placing it back on the side table. Señor Lorca grunted and rolled up his sleeve. Max leaned forward to peer at a red tattoo, dull and faded as a bruise upon his wrist; he had seen that mark before.

“Wonderful,” sighed Miss Boon, resuming her air of tart skepticism. “
Another
member of the Red Branch. Should I take this as a confirmation that Commander Vilyak is dictating our mission?”

“I know nothing about your mission, Miss Boon,” said Señor Lorca. “But you are not the first visitors I have had today.”

“Who came to see you?” asked Cooper, sitting once again.

“The witches’ representatives here in Spain,” replied the old Agent, pouring himself a coffee. “This morning. I thought it was more of those crazed children and masked fools—
os peliqueiros
—knocking on my door, insisting we join the festival. Ever since the Demon visited the city, they have been wandering in from the countryside, acting as though every day is Carnival. Salamanca has gone mad.”

“Astaroth has been here?” asked David, sitting up straight.

“Yes, my boy. Three weeks ago. He arrived and addressed the people in the Plaza Mayor. It is because he has chosen to ‘bless’ Salamanca that the city has electricity. There are to be a hundred days of festivals.”

David made a curious face and excused himself from the table. He returned with the
Conjurer’s Codex,
laying it out before the wizened Agent.

“Did he look like this?” asked David, pointing to the engraving.

“Yes,” said Señor Lorca, wiping his glasses with a napkin. “Perhaps not so youthful, but this is a very good likeness. Where did you get this book?”

“The Archives,” said David. “In the forbidden section.”

“Clever boy,” said Señor Lorca, peering again at the engraving.

Miss Boon snatched the red book up from under Señor Lorca’s nose and scanned its cover. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“David,” she said. “Please tell me you haven’t . . .
done
anything.”

David remained silent; Max thought of the mysterious knowledge David seemed to have acquired their last night aboard the
Erasmus
.

“David Menlo,” said Miss Boon. “Promise me this instant that you will not attempt any of the summoning spells in this book.”

David said nothing; he merely folded his hands in his lap and stared at a yellow ribbon of wax that had dripped down a candle.

“Promise me, David,” repeated their Mystics teacher, tapping a hard nail on the table.

“I can’t do that, Miss Boon,” said David meekly, avoiding her eyes. “It says that Astaroth is bound to tell the truth and—”

“Then I will keep it safe,” interrupted Miss Boon, snapping it shut and placing it on her lap.

David’s head whipped up. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but slowly closed it once again. Cooper leaned over to glance at the cover before flicking his eyes back at Señor Lorca.

“What did the witches want?” said the Agent, changing the subject.

“These two here,” said Señor Lorca casually, waving his spoon at Max and David. “The witches suspect that Rowan has attempted a clever ruse and is using a disavowed Agent to take custody of these children. I knew nothing of it and said so. They seemed to think you had been in Portugal, but now believe you are in Spain. I’ve been promised the witches’ eternal gratitude if I should keep a lookout for you.” The old man shook his head and sipped his coffee.

Miss Boon shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Max glanced about the old house nervously.

“How do the witches know this address, Antonio?” asked Cooper quietly.

“We have helped each other in the past,” replied Señor Lorca. “They have been useful to me in my old age.”

“Did you let them into the house?” asked Cooper.

“I know what you are thinking, but rest assured there are no witch familiars here—no little spies hiding in the corners,” said Señor Lorca. “I am old, but I am not blind to that silly trick, William.”

Cooper nodded, but stood and paced the room.

“Coming here was a mistake,” he said abruptly. “This house will be watched. I’d hoped to rest here several days, but that is impossible.”

Inwardly, Max sighed. He was tired of walking and sleeping in tents; a few days in a warm bed sounded very appealing, but he knew Cooper was right.

“And where will you go?” asked Señor Lorca.

“Germany,” said Cooper.

“Ah,” said Señor Lorca, tapping his fingers together. “Be careful, William. They’re no better than the witches. But if you must be off, perhaps I can be of some use.”

Cooper looked at his comrade with an expectant air.

“There are some trains running again,” said Señor Lorca. “Government trains—top officials only. You could be in Germany in two days.”

“Can you get us on one?” asked Cooper.

“My contacts are good. And with your talent for illusion . . . Yes, I think it’s possible,” concluded the old Agent. “Let me make inquiries first thing tomorrow morning. With some luck, you could be on the evening train to Paris, and from there on to Germany. Agreed?”

Cooper glanced at Miss Boon before giving a slow nod to Señor Lorca.

“We must know by noon,” said Cooper. “We’ll be gone otherwise.”

“That gives me nine hours,” said Agent Lorca. “Get some rest while you can, my friend.”

Señor Lorca blew out the candles and led them up the back staircase to the second floor and a richly appointed hallway that gleamed with Spanish paintings. They passed one door and heard Mr. McDaniels’s slow, rumbling snores. Mum’s one shoe rested outside the dark wood of a hallway closet. Max and David were given a spacious room toward the front of the house with a private bath and two small beds stacked with white towels and blue pajamas. While David filled the bath, Max placed the Spear of Cúchulain on his pillow and wandered over to a pair of arched windows. Peeking through the drapes, Max watched masked figures steal down the cobbled lanes and alleys like grinning rats in a great maze of stone and light.

Miss Boon’s bright, mismatched eyes flicked from David to him.

“Not since dawn,” she said. “I’d imagine he’s out scrounging for information. Speaking of which, I’d like to have a brief lesson once you’ve eaten.”

“Where’s Señor Lorca?” asked Max, ignoring the prospect of an impromptu class.

“Looking into rail passes,” said Miss Boon. “We’ll start the lesson in fifteen minutes.”

“Hmmm,” said Max, wandering out the door to a snug den paneled in dark wood and accented with yellow throws. He examined a little bronze statuette and several more photographs before slipping through the door that separated the private rooms from the bookshop.

The blare of horns and crash of cymbals continued to invade the house as they had throughout the night. The room was dark; only a thin slice of daylight slipped between the curtains’ crimson folds. Max walked slowly around the perimeter, stopping at a tall bookcase whose contents were labeled by a brass plate:
INDEX LIBRORUM PROHIBITORUM
.

“Can you read Latin?” asked a voice behind him. Señor Lorca was standing at the far end of the room, removing a black overcoat. His white hair was swept back off his face, cheeks pink from the November chill.

“Yes, sir,” said Max. “It says these books are forbidden.”

“And so they were,” said the old Agent, arriving next to Max and gazing through the glass case. “Centuries ago, the Church started making a list of books like these, their Index Librorum Prohibitorum. The stuff of heretics—blasphemous! To own one of these one risked much—imprisonment, excommunication . . . and worse. During the Inquisition, anything was possible.”

“But I’ve heard of these writers,” said Max, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. “Kant, Voltaire, Locke . . . what’s so dangerous about them?”

Señor Lorca chuckled; his eyes twinkled like dark coppers.

“Nothing is more dangerous than an idea. Ideas bring change and people fear change very much.” He opened the glass case to retrieve a bound, delicate-looking manuscript entitled
De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium
. “Do you know what Goethe said about our friend Copernicus? The same Copernicus who concluded that our little earth was
not
—heaven forbid—the center of the solar system?”

“No,” said Max.

“Mist and smoke,” whispered Señor Lorca, conjuring a hovering orb of white vapor with a cardsharp’s flick of the fingers. He blew into it, a gentle exhale that plucked at its edges until the ball dissipated to nothingness. “ ‘So many things vanished in mist and smoke! What became of our Eden, our world of innocence, piety, and poetry; the testimony of the senses; the conviction of a poetic-religious faith?’ Do you understand what Goethe was saying?”

“I think so,” said Max. “Copernicus challenged the way people viewed the world.”

“And thus themselves,” said Señor Lorca, tapping the manuscript before stowing it back behind the glass. “And that is very frightening, Max. Frightened people become capable of terrible things. Astaroth understands this very well. Ample evidence is in the streets.”

Several knocks and laughter sounded at the front door.

“Ignore it,” whispered Señor Lorca, raising a finger to his lips. “It is more of those idiot children summoning residents to festival. They will go away.”

There were more knocks and a child’s voice called out something in Spanish before Max heard the sound of running footsteps retreating over the din of distant music.

“Is it awful out there?” asked Max.

“It is,” replied Señor Lorca with a grave nod. “My beautiful old university is destroyed—something unspeakable has taken up residence within it. The professors have been arrested. It is always so in such times, and I am old enough to remember others. Fortunately, my errand was worthwhile.” The Agent sighed and produced a thick stack of stamped documents and papers.

“Will those get us to Germany?” asked Max.

“I hope so,” said Señor Lorca. “I called in many favors. If they fail, William will look after you. He is most capable.”

“It’s so funny,” said Max, thinking of Cooper. “I never think of him as having another name or . . .”

“Or another face?” asked Señor Lorca with an understanding smile.

Max nodded.

“I know,” said the old man, sidestepping to another shelf to gaze upon the first editions arranged in neat rows. “It is hard for the young to believe that their elders were once foolish and beautiful, too.” The old man bent down to smooth the fringe on an ornately woven rug. “Our William was the finest young Agent Rowan had seen for some time. He tells me that the Spear of Cúchulain has been entrusted to you.”

“Yes,” said Max. “It’s upstairs.”

“An ugly thing,” said Señor Lorca, rising with a disapproving frown. “It made our William ugly.”

“What does it have to do with Cooper?” asked Max, walking over.

The old Spaniard’s eyes gazed at Max’s reflection in the glass case.

“That weapon is broken,” said Señor Lorca. “Fearsome, yes, but not at full potency. Cooper sought one who might mend it and make its magic whole.”

“And who was that?” asked Max.

“The Fomorian,” replied Señor Lorca, letting the syllables roll slowly off his tongue. “An ancient giant who hides still on the Isle of Man. It is the last. We hunted the others to extinction. The Fomorian is a great craftsman and of the Old Magic. He understands the secret makings of such a thing.”

“And Cooper took the spear to him?” asked Max quietly.

“He did,” sighed Señor Lorca. “And you have seen the result. It was I who found him—we did not think he would live.” The old man shook his head at the memory.

“Fomorians must be awful,” said Max.

“The most terrifying presence I have ever experienced,” said Señor Lorca, closing his eyes. “I never saw the giant, but I
know
it saw me. A most peculiar feeling, Max—a sudden realization that Death was very near and my time on this earth had finished. I’ll never know why it let us leave.”

“Did you go back with more Agents?” asked Max.

“No. There are some things that should be left alone.”

Señor Lorca opened his eyes and looked sharply at Max as if suddenly remembering that he was there.

“I want to give you something,” he said abruptly.

The old man crossed the room to another bookcase, opening its glass door and removing an early edition of
Don Quixote
. He flipped the book open and let his fingers wander the page as though reading Braille. The bookcase slid back into the thick stone wall, revealing a small room behind it.

“What’s in there?” asked Max, his interest piqued by glints of gold and the smell of age.

“Everything but my María,” laughed the old Agent, slipping inside. Max heard the clinking of metal and a sound as if the man was rummaging through boxes. Señor Lorca emerged a moment later holding a long-sleeved shirt of gunmetal gray. Its surface seemed to swallow up the daylight peeking in from the curtains. As Lorca spread it between his fingers, Max perceived slender white runes and symbols woven into the fabric like moonlit cobwebs.

“Is that nanomail?” asked Max, fascinated, as he ran his hand over a surface smoother than soap.

“A singular set,” said Señor Lorca, holding it up against Max’s frame. “It is my second skin and has a very special provenance. Damascus steel and spider’s silk and many holy relics are bound within it. It will protect you, Max. Long ago I claimed it from the Red Branch vault, as was my right. Now I surrender it unto you, as a brother in arms.”

“I’m not in the Red Branch,” said Max.

“But you are meant to be,” said Señor Lorca. “I am old and my service is finished. It was no accident that Cooper brought you to my doorstep, Max McDaniels. You are
meant
to take my place among the twelve. You were born in March, were you not?”

“How did you know that?” asked Max, narrowing his eyes.

“Because I was, too,” said Señor Lorca. “The twelve members of the Red Branch are all born of different months and their powers wax and wane with the seasons. You are a child of March—the month of storms and war in the old calendars. Those gods will favor you as they did Cúchulain.”

The old man stared down at Max like a cracked and weathered statue. Max felt another presence in the room. Cooper stood in the doorway.

“Should I do it?” asked Max.

Cooper said nothing; he merely stared at them, reading the scenario with a flat expression.

“Would I report to Vilyak?” asked Max.

“We all ultimately report to the Director,” said Señor Lorca. “Our members are wanderers upon this earth—no field office, no true home save Rowan, and it may be long years before one glimpses the solace of its gates. Are you prepared to do your duty?”

Max’s mouth was dry as dust. He nodded. Señor Lorca gripped Max’s wrist with his long, steely fingers.

“In the name of St. Michael and Conchobar mac Nessa do I, Antonio de Lorca, declare Max McDaniels as my heir to the Red Branch and bestow upon him my title, lands, and duties. May he be a true and gracious champion—noble of bearing, fair in judgment, and terrible to the foes of Rowan. Does he accept this honor?”

Max paused. The sounds from the street faded to a hush. His attention zeroed in on the faint ticks of a nearby clock. His voice was strong and solemn.

“He does—he does accept this honor.”

As soon as he finished speaking, Max felt a searing sensation in his right wrist, as though a hot brand had been pressed against it. Despite the pain, he made no sound for the long minute that followed. When Señor Lorca released him, Max saw his skin marked with the dull red symbol of the Red Branch—a red hand surrounded by a slender cord. Señor Lorca smiled at him and removed his glasses to wipe a tear from his eye.

“I have worn that mark so long, I feel almost naked without it,” he said, lifting his sleeve to reveal a blank, bony wrist. “You have done me a great favor, Max. I am old and ready to meet my fate.”

“I don’t understand,” said Max.

“Now that the mark has left him, Señor Lorca will pass on,” said Cooper. “He is over two hundred years old. It is his time.”

Max gaped at Señor Lorca, who merely smiled and nodded at him.

“I was born the very year Napoleon marched into my country—born into war and that is how I shall go. For over one hundred and sixty years I have been a member of the Red Branch. Those who bear that mark must make many sacrifices, Max, but it brings pleasure, too. Without that mark, I never would have met my María, no?”

Max thought of the plump, kindly woman making sandwiches in the kitchen. If what Señor Lorca was implying was true, she would soon be a widow. His stomach felt empty.

“I—I didn’t know,” he stammered, scratching at his wrist.

“No regrets, eh?” said Señor Lorca, handing Max the shirt of nanomail. “Put this on. You can wear your sweater over it.”

Max did as he was told, pulling the long shirt of nanomail over his strong, wiry frame. It shrank and clung to him, as warm and taut as though he’d been encased in a living membrane. He twisted his torso, and the nanomail bent with him, smooth and supple. Moments later, Max pulled his black sweater over his head; only a thin sliver of gunmetal peeked out from beneath.

“You are now an Agent of Rowan and a member of the Red Branch,” said Señor Lorca, looking Max up and down. “I embrace you as a brother.”

The old man creaked down and hugged him, smoothing the black, curling hair away from Max’s forehead the way his mother had when he was younger.

“Go retrieve your weapon, boy,” said Señor Lorca, turning to close the door to his secret cache. “It has been waiting a long time for its true keeper. Tell the others to wait in the cellar—there is a secret passage there. Ask María to open it while I have a word with William.”

Max hurried back through the den and up the stairs to the room where the spear was waiting. Arriving back in the kitchen, he found Miss Boon looking snappish.

“I thought I said fifteen minutes,” she said.

“Sorry,” said Max. “Got caught up. Señor Lorca’s back. Cooper, too. We’ve got rail passes,” he added, evading her stern glance. “Señora Lorca?”

The elderly Spanish woman was bustling back and forth from the kitchen to the pantry. She stopped abruptly, holding an armful of bread.

“¿Sí?”
she asked with an expectant smile.

“Señor Lorca asked for the cellar passage to be opened,” said Max. “We’re to wait down there.”

She blinked, but the smile remained frozen on her elegant face.

“You are sure?” she asked slowly. “My Antonio told you this?”

“Yes,” said Max, puzzled at her reaction. A queasy feeling rose in his stomach as he watched her smile grow taut. Señora Lorca crossed herself before splashing cold water on her face.

“Come quickly,” she murmured, taking a kerosene lantern from the pantry.

“What’s this all about?” whispered Miss Boon as Max helped his father carry their bags down the dark cellar steps. David, Mum, and Nick had already curved around a bend in the steps, their footsteps sounding heavy and hollow on the old stone.