The Second Siege (39 page)

“Mr. Sikes,” said Max, stepping further into the room.

“Quite right,” said Connor, bowing his head with a wry smile. “I just need a moment more and I’ll be on my way. Stay where you are unless you wish a glimpse inside David’s pretty little throat.”

“
You
put the letter and talisman in the Archives,” said Max.

“Right again,” said Mr. Sikes. “I’ve had free run of this campus ever since this little cock-a-whoop invited me in. After all, isn’t Mr. Sikes just a harmless imp who brings lemonade and makes one’s essays pretty?” Connor’s possessed body laughed and shook its head. “Ah, and poor Connor thought he’d just blundered upon me out of sheer dumb luck! Poor boy. I almost feel sorry for him.”

“You lied to me,” said Max.

“Guilty as charged,” said Mr. Sikes. “I’d apologize, Max, but we can’t resist our nature—scorpions and frogs and whatnot. Had to keep you up late, though, didn’t I? Gabbing away about your poor dead mother so you wouldn’t dash off . . .”

Max thought back to the previous night. He had poured out his heart to the comforting imp, confiding every fear and misgiving to Mr. Sikes, who merely had been keeping him occupied until the funeral. The betrayal was so devastating and complete, Max almost became sick. He eyed the knife in Connor’s hand.

“Don’t hurt David,” pleaded Max. “Don’t hurt
either
of them.”

“That remains to be seen,” said the imp, placing a pen in David’s hand. “Once your friend writes the word that will break his spell, I’ll be on my merry way.”

“
You
can’t make it work,” scoffed Max.

“Too true,” admitted Mr. Sikes. “As you know, Mr. Sikes is but a humble imp. But his master can speak through his most trusted familiar, and Mr. Sikes’s true master is most capable.”

“And who is that?” asked Max.

“Astaroth himself,” replied the imp. “I am his familiar, you see. And, unlike my fickle brethren, I’ve stayed true for over two millennia—even throughout his long imprisonment! For all his unwavering service, Mr. Sikes shall reap a most handsome reward. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll even keep young Lynch as
my
servant. . . .”

At this, Mr. Sikes whispered again in David’s ear. David blinked dully as though he’d been drugged, and scrawled a single word on the sheet of paper. Connor’s hand snatched it from David’s fingers, and he glanced at it a moment before incinerating the paper in a flash of green flame.

“You’ve got what you want,” said Max. “Take the knife away from David.”

“But there you are, blocking my way,” said Mr. Sikes, a note of reprimand in his voice. “I’m leaving with this Book, Max McDaniels, and if you’re a wise boy, you’ll let me pass.”

“The Book stays here,” said Max.

“Have it your way,” shrugged the imp. He winked at Max and sank the knife into David’s side.

“Oh!” whispered David, sounding little more than mildly surprised, as he slumped against the footboard and slid to the floor. Max blinked, thinking perhaps Mr. Sikes had played a trick. David’s response had been so calm, so quiet. . . .

Max glanced at David’s chest and held his breath.

This was no trick.

A small stain blossomed like a red rose on David’s dress shirt. The rose seemed to bloom and spread its petals, expanding quickly to nearly blanket David’s side, until the blood saturated the fabric and trickled down in little streams to stain his tie and pants. Mr. Sikes leapt away from David, clutching the Book.

“I’ll kill you,” snarled Max, closing the distance between them in two blinks. Before Mr. Sikes could move, Max had seized him by the throat.

“Who would you be killing?
Me,
Connor Lynch, or David Menlo?” wheezed the demon, while Connor’s eyes blazed bright with amusement. Max hesitated a moment.

Pop!

Where Connor had been, there was only empty air. The Book of Origins fell to the floor, and Max watched a gypsy moth flutter out the open door. Max was nearly tempted to chase after it, but then he looked down to see his friend lying in a thickening red pool.

“Help!” cried Max, crouching down and ripping off the fetter as he put pressure on the wound. “Somebody
help
!”

Doors opened in the hallway. Rolf Luger stuck his head in the room.

“What’s go—whoa!” exclaimed the boy, gaping in horror at the bloody scene before him.

“Get the healers,” panted Max. “Hurry!”

Rolf ’s shouts and pounding footsteps receded down the hallway. Glancing about, Max saw David’s pack lying within arm’s reach on the bed. Seizing its strap, he swung it onto the floor and began fishing wildly through its depths for a jar of leftover Moomenhoven balm.

“Look at me, David,” he said, squeezing his friend, whose eyelids fluttered. “You’ll be fine—help’s coming.”

His fingers closed on a glass jar. Max snatched his hand out from the bag and saw that there was a bit of balm left, caked along the jar’s bottom rim.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, wrestling with the jar’s stubborn lid. A few hard twists and the top clattered off. Max dug his fingers inside and scrabbled for every last bit of medicine. Glancing at his hand, he saw he’d managed a smear of ointment little bigger than a squeeze of toothpaste. Seizing hold of David’s sopping shirt, Max felt for the tear and thrust his fingers inside to search for the wound. He felt it almost immediately—a fleshy gash of torn skin and splintered bone pumping blood thick as syrup. David gave a sudden, sharp intake of breath as Max spread the ointment around and into the wound.

“I know it hurts,” Max muttered. “I’m sorry.”

David wheezed and shut his eyes tight.

The two lay side by side on the floor, Max’s palm pressed against the wound. After several minutes, frantic hoofsteps sounded in the hallway and a half dozen Moomenhovens hurried into the room, accompanied by Rolf. The plump, efficient healers gently pulled Max away while they cut away David’s shirt and worked quickly to stanch the bleeding. Max stood, panting, and gazed down at his body, which was covered with David’s blood. He saw Rolf, utterly white-faced, gaping in the doorway while other students crowded in behind him.

“I can’t explain now,” said Max, ignoring their questions. He wiped his hands on David’s comforter and retrieved the Book of Origins from the floor. Stowing it in David’s pack, he slung the leather strap over his shoulder and glanced down at the Moomenhovens. “Do you need anything?” he asked them. “Can I help you?”

The Moomenhovens shook their heads impatiently and waved Max away. Turning, Max saw yet another horrified face. Mr. McDaniels stood next to Rolf in the doorway.

“My God,” breathed Max’s father, gazing at the blood that spattered Max’s clothes.

“I’m fine,” said Max, hurrying over. “Stay with David, Dad. I’ll come back as soon as I can!”

Clutching David’s pack, Max squeezed past his father and Rolf, ignoring the growing crowd and running down the hallway. Leaping down the flights of the dormitory steps, he raced back to Ms. Richter’s office. The door was open and there were raised voices inside.

Max hurried into the room and saw Vilyak, red-faced, leaning on the desk opposite Dame Mako. On the floor were Lord Aamon’s empty clothes; the demon’s mask had been cleaved cleanly in two.

“What happened?” asked Max, panting.

Vilyak took in Max’s condition at a glance.

“I might ask you the same,” he said, staring at the blood that stained Max’s sleeve.

“David Menlo’s been stabbed,” he said, catching his breath.

“Will he live?” asked Vilyak, glancing at the witch.

“I don’t know,” said Max. “The Moomenhovens are with him now. He’s hurt really bad.”

“This is all Rowan’s fault!” snapped Dame Mako. “If the boy had been sent to us as promised, this never would have happened! Our agreement is off, Director. By the blood and sacred oath of Elias Bram, I declare that Rowan’s sons and daughters will fall stricken at their hour of need. The witches’ curse is invoked!”

Dame Mako gathered up her robes and strode toward the door.

“Restrain her,” growled Vilyak.

The witch spun on her heel and stabbed a sharp finger at him.

“How dare you threaten me!” she hissed. “I came here at your invitation and under your personal guarantee of safety, Director Vilyak. Do you wish to violate
that
sacred oath, too?”

For several moments, Vilyak merely stood and simmered. Suddenly, he swore and smacked his hand on the desk.

“Let her go!” he roared with a disgusted wave of his hand. Dame Mako glanced at Max and hurried past in a sweep of black robes. Vilyak, Max, and the other members of the Red Branch followed her out the front door and watched as she climbed inside the carriage. The team of black horses pulled away, trotting proudly down the long, straight road toward the sea before curving to the right and disappearing into the woods that led to the great gates.

“A discouraging day,” murmured Vilyak quietly. He turned to Max. “Tell me what has happened. And, most importantly, where is the Book?”

“I don’t know where the Book is,” lied Max. “I only know that David’s hidden it someplace safe.”

Vilyak said nothing but stared at Max with a disbelieving glower. Max met his gaze and did not blink. At length, the man sighed and gestured wearily at Max’s bloody clothes.

“And what does all this mean?” he asked.

“You can see for yourself,” said Max, pointing toward a sky of bright blue, where the sun shone unseasonably warm. Shielding his eyes, Vilyak squinted toward the horizon while ice melted from the Manse’s roof in a steady patter of drips.

“What?” snapped Vilyak, gesturing impatiently. “I see nothing.”

“That’s the problem,” replied Max. “David’s veil is gone.”

That very day, Rowan began safeguarding its critical supplies and equipment. Classes were cancelled as generators, greenhouses, common foodstuffs, and priceless artworks were painstakingly disassembled or packed and carted away in slow progression through the Orchard and woods into the Sanctuary. Max learned that the Sanctuary extended farther back than he’d ever imagined and that a narrow gorge traversed the low range of snow-capped mountains that he’d always believed to be the Sanctuary’s limits. Beyond this gorge, there was a great valley bisected by a swift river before it concluded at another range of gray mountains. A labyrinthine network of caves had been tunneled into these mountains, carved by Old Magic when Rowan was founded centuries before.

Despite the turn of events, Vilyak had refused to release Ms. Richter, Bob, Cooper, or any of the other captives taken on the day of the coup. Instead, the new Director often locked himself inside Ms. Richter’s office, commiserating with Rasmussen or those Strategy instructors who had not been imprisoned. Since Dame Mako’s departure, there had been no sight of the Enemy and no hint of the witches’ curse. Rowan was faced with a gnawing uncertainty and a mounting sense of dread as days turned to weeks and winter began to subside. Arriving refugees were thoroughly screened, and Max’s association with the Red Branch became common knowledge. He was assigned to long watches, keeping quiet vigil upon Rowan’s gates or the broad, dark expanse of sea.

It was on such an assignment, late one evening in early March, when he heard footsteps approaching his perch on the rocky bluff above the beach. He turned at the sound and saw a pretty girl walking toward him, holding a lantern.

“Hi, Max,” she said tentatively. “They told me you were out here.”

“Hi,” he replied.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.

“No,” he said, moving over a bit on the flat-topped rock.

She placed the lantern on the ground and sat down to face the ocean. For several moments, she did not speak but merely tapped her fingers against the cold rock, while a cool wet breeze whisked in off the water.

“Does it get boring out here?” she asked.

“Not really,” said Max, his eyes drifting to the rocks of Brigit’s Vigil. “I kind of like it. It’s quiet.”

“You’re so different now,” said the girl with a sad smile. “You seem so much older, so much more serious than when you got here.”

It was a curious thing for a stranger to say. Max turned to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t know who you are.”

The girl said nothing for several seconds while a thick bank of clouds passed before the moon, plunging them deeper into darkness.

“It’s one thing to ignore me,” she said. “I understand that you’re probably angry, and you have a right to be. But it’s another to pretend that you don’t even know who I am. That’s just rude.”

“I’m not trying to be,” he said, turning to reexamine her face in the soft yellow light. “I’ve never met you before and I don’t know who you are. I’d remember.”

“I’m Julie Teller,” said the girl incredulously. “From Melbourne? I took your photo last year for the paper? We, er . . . kissed?” Max merely blinked and shook his head. Exasperated, she fumbled in her jacket pocket and retrieved a handful of letters, which she thrust at him. “Do you remember
these
?”

Max took the letters and turned them over. They were addressed to this girl in Max’s own handwriting, postmarked from the previous summer. Reaching inside one of the envelopes, he removed its letter and read it. Several seconds later, he was blushing and his ears burned hot.

“That was the nicest letter I’ve ever received,” the girl sighed. “I miss the boy who wrote it.”

Max folded the letter quickly and stuffed it back in its envelope.

“I don’t understand,” he said quietly. “I don’t remember you and I don’t remember writing that.”

“Something strange has happened,” said Julie. “Last summer, I started having the same dream over and over. A little blue-skinned man with cat’s eyes would appear and tell me that terrible things would happen if I so much as spoke to you. He came so often, I started to believe him.”

“His name is Mr. Sikes,” said Max quietly. “Never listen to him, Julie. He’s very evil.”

“Why would he visit
my
dreams?” she asked. “Why would he want to keep me away from you?”

“I think he wanted me to be alone,” said Max, glancing at the letters. “I think he wanted me to confide in him—depend on him. It worked. I’m sorry for not remembering you . . . I’m sorry for everything.” Max handed the letters back to her.

“I remember the day I’d heard you and David disappeared,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “No one knew where you’d gone. There were so many rumors—that the witches had taken you, that Cooper had murdered you. Anna Lundgren even said you’d gone over to the Enemy—I didn’t know what to believe. And then you came back, and before I could talk to you, off you went—sailing away in the
Kestrel.
I thought I’d never see you again.”

Max thought of the fates that had befallen David, Connor, and his mother.

“Maybe that would have been a good thing,” he said quietly. “I’m to blame for all our problems.”

“What a terrible thing to say, Max McDaniels,” said Julie, placing her hand over his. “You sound like Anna Lundgren and that’s beneath you. There’s greatness in you . . . I can feel it.” She tapped his arm, her breath misting in the night air. “My family’s in the Sanctuary—they’ve heard all about you. From all the stories and rumors, my little brother thinks you’re Achilles reborn!”

Max raised an eyebrow at this and she smiled.

“If we have to start over, then that’s what we’ll do,” she said. “I’m Julie Teller. Pleased to meet you.”

She leaned forward and gave Max’s arm a squeeze, resting her head against his shoulder. Max shut his eyes, listening as Old Tom’s bell chimed midnight with its hollow, soothing notes. Questions flitted through his mind like phantoms. When the last chime sounded, Max opened his eyes and gazed upon the sea once again.

Far out on the ocean, almost lost among the thin bands of fog, Max spied a glimmering light. It almost looked like a distant beacon, but Max had never seen a beacon there before. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Another tiny light appeared next to the first. And then another. More glimmers emerged from the blackening gloom until it seemed that hundreds of tiny stars had spilled from the heavens and scattered like diamonds across the horizon. Max watched them in silence, strangely fascinated, as they twinkled and grew. The moon emerged from behind the clouds and cast the sea in a milky radiance. What Max witnessed made his heart skip a beat. He climbed slowly to his feet.

“Julie,” he muttered, pulling her up. “Hurry back to the Sanctuary.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped as she followed Max’s gaze toward the sea.

Hundreds of ships were sailing toward the beach, torches blazing at every prow.

The siege of Rowan was beginning.

As Julie retraced her steps along the frosted paths, Max raced toward Old Tom. He flung open the doors, dashing up the empty stairwells until he reached the summit of the clock tower. Gripping the thick rope, Max pulled it toward him, causing the heavy bronze bell to swing back and forth against its clapper. Dissatisfied, Max seized a heavy mallet that was propped near some workman’s tools. He swung the mallet against the bronze, over and over, until his eardrums nearly ruptured from the deafening ring. There was a terrible crack and Old Tom’s bell broke from its supporting beam in a spray of broken timbers to embed itself in the floor. Coughing through plumes of dust, Max peered out the observation window and saw the lawns filling with curious onlookers. Among them he saw Vilyak, accompanied by Rasmussen and several members of the Red Branch.

“They’re coming!” shouted Max, pointing out toward the ocean.

Dropping down the broken staircase and squeezing past the wreckage of the bell, Max hurried downstairs and back out to the bluff, where he found Vilyak staring out at the approaching armada in stunned silence. Many more ships had appeared; hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of lights converged on Rowan like a volley of burning arrows. Those in the forefront could now be seen in detail: ships with tall masts and black sails and decks that teemed with malevolent life.

“You did well to raise the warning, McDaniels,” Vilyak muttered. “The Promethean Scholars are coming to mount a defense—everyone else must proceed to the Sanctuary.”

“Fine,” panted Max. “But that should include Ms. Richter and the others—you can’t leave them in the Hollows.”

“We don’t have time,” said Vilyak, shaking his head. “Those ships will land within the hour. We can only do so much to delay the Enemy.”

“I’ll get them,” said Max, holding out his hand. “Give me the keys and tell me where to go.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Vilyak, turning on his heel.

Max spied Rasmussen standing nearby and gazing out at the fleet, which approached with the eerie majesty of an oncoming hurricane. Seizing the engineer by the sleeve, Max spun him around.

“
You
tell him,” Max seethed. “Tell him that we need Ms. Richter—we need Cooper and Miss Boon.” Rasmussen opened his mouth but said nothing. Max shook him. “Cooper saved your neck back at the Workshop. You owe it to him! They’ll be helpless if we leave them here!”

Rasmussen blinked and nodded.

“Yuri,” he called. Vilyak stopped and looked at the two of them as they hurried over. “Max is right,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “Besides, we will need every resource you can muster.”

Vilyak’s face darkened; his lips twisted into a scowl.

“Sentimental nonsense,” he said, reaching into his pocket and procuring a ring of worn iron keys. He tossed them at Max. “I have no time to spare—you’ll have to find your way.”

“Where should I look?” asked Max.

“Ask the
domovoi,
” muttered Vilyak. “He was once the jailer, if I recall.”

“Who?” asked Max.

“The jabbering loon who tidies the bathrooms,” replied Vilyak.

“Jimmy?” asked Max, thinking of the strange little man who mopped the third-floor bathroom and terrorized those who forgot to bring him presents. “You mean
Jimmy
used to be the jailer?”

“I don’t know what he calls himself,” said Vilyak over his shoulder before he trotted away, barking orders to the Agents and minor Mystics who were assembling.

Max turned back to Rasmussen.

“Make sure my dad and David are taken to the Sanctuary,” Max said. “Can you do that?”

“Why are you asking me?” asked Rasmussen.

“Because you owe them, too,” said Max pointedly.

“I will,” said Rasmussen, looking strangely moved. “I will look after them.”

Max thanked him and tightened the strap of David’s pack on his shoulder. Clutching the ring of keys, he dashed across the lawns toward the Manse, which was in a state of bedlam as panicked families and students streamed out the doors and hurried toward the Sanctuary. From out of Maggie’s doors came the Promethean Scholars, twelve wizened Mystics clutching ancient books against their chests. They were led by Amulya Jain, who looked pale and downcast as the group headed toward the ocean overlook.

Arriving in the Manse’s foyer, Max swam against a surging tide of bodies, pushing his way up the stairs until he arrived at the luxurious third-floor bathroom. Jimmy was perched on the marble sink, humming while he polished the belly of his porcelain Buddha.

“Max!” he exclaimed, upon seeing him. “Come in for a haircut? You look like a hippie.”

“No time, Jimmy,” said Max, shaking the keys at him. “We’re under attack. I need you to show me the way down to the Hollows. We need to free the prisoners.”

“You mean it’s an emergency?” asked Jimmy, massaging his muttonchops.

“ Yes, Jimmy, it’s an emergency!”
bellowed Max.

“Hot diggety!” exclaimed the strange little man, snapping his fingers and scooting off the counter. He snatched the keys from Max and waddled out the door, whistling happily.

Max fought the urge to throttle Jimmy while the little man offered a running commentary on various elements of the Manse’s history.

“Of course, no one ever thought to ask me,” said Jimmy as they hurried through an empty drawing room, “but I think the scheme in this wing is all wrong—what it needs is a dash of peach and cream. That’ll put a smile on the girls’ faces! None of this dark wood and—”

“Jimmy,
please,
” said Max, trying to think.

“Well, it’s true,” insisted the little man, sounding hurt.

When they came to the end of a long hallway, Jimmy snapped his fingers and a Persian rug rolled back to reveal a trapdoor set in the floor.

“Long time since I’ve been down here,” he sniffed, seizing the ring and pulling it open.

The two descended a steep staircase, winding farther and farther down until stonework gave way to bare rock.

“
Hurry,
Jimmy,” said Max as the man picked his way carefully down the stairs.

“I
am
hurrying!” Jimmy snapped. “I’m three foot two, you twit!”

The carved steps finally opened into a cold, moist grotto whose walls were covered in gray-green fungi. Set into the rock was a stout iron door. Waddling forward, Jimmy selected a key and stood on tiptoe to insert it in the lock. As soon as he heard a click, Max wrenched the door open, almost toppling Jimmy in the process. Grumbling, the little man hurried after Max into the Hollows.

On either side of the long, dark corridor, Max saw rough-hewn cells carved into the rock like primitive zoo exhibits. Each of the cells was secured with thick iron bars that appeared badly corroded with age. Max wondered how these would hold someone as powerful as Ms. Richter or an ogre, until he came upon the first prisoner.