Max turned and ran up the steps, taking them two at a time and sprinting out the front door to practically tackle Ms. Richter, who was posing for a photograph with some alumni.
“Ms. Richter!” Max panted. “Ms. Richter—come quick!”
“What is it?” she asked, turning to Max just before the flash went off.
“In the dining hall. Hurry!” Max wheezed, before racing back inside.
The Director took in the scene at a glance. Max knelt next to David, who was breathing slowly, the familiar funny whistling sound coming from his nose.
“Get away from him,” commanded Ms. Richter in a calm but stern voice. Max leapt to his feet and backed away against a wall.
As she walked briskly toward the unconscious boy, Ms. Richter raised her left hand, and the green and gold cords binding Mum dissipated to fading motes of light. Mum was lowered to the ground, where she slumped in a little limp heap next to her shoe.
Ms. Richter leaned over David, cradling his head in her hands and whispering softly. David moaned slightly and began to stir. She whispered again and David opened his eyes to blink at Ms. Richter.
“Mum attacked me!” he whispered, wide-eyed. “I just wanted to keep her away from me. I didn’t kill her, did I?”
Ms. Richter shook her head and put a finger to her lips.
With another small wave of her hand, Ms. Richter brought the heavy table upright and collected the broken plates and scattered corn muffins into a neat pile by the kitchen doorway. A chair slid across the floor toward her.
At the Director’s bidding, Max helped her lift David off the ground and sit him down. David was blinking distractedly, glancing at Mum, who was still unconscious.
Ms. Richter crouched over Mum and lifted up the hag’s chin. Mum’s leg kicked, and she awoke with a shriek. She spied David and shrieked again, scrambling to her feet to sob behind the pillar.
“That thing is dangerous!” she cried.
“Really?” said Ms. Richter. “He says that you attacked him, and I am totally inclined to believe it.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Mum’s voice could be heard, heavy and desperate.
“I thought you were playing a game with Mum—sending down a tasty little boy on All Hallows’ Eve. I thought he was a party favor!”
“Why on earth would you think that?” snapped Ms. Richter. “Everyone here is off-limits, Mum. You’ve been told a thousand times.”
“Not that one!” Mum cried. “That one is all right for Mum to eat!”
Max suddenly remembered back to the day the First Years had met Mum. David had fled at the sight of Bob and disappeared into a pantry. Max had not seen him come out.
“Ms. Richter! I don’t think David ever went through the sniffing ceremony—I think maybe he was hiding!”
“Dear heavens!” exclaimed Ms. Richter. “David, is that true?”
David just sat there blinking sleepily.
“Mum, come out here and sniff this boy at once,” commanded the Director.
Mum peeked from behind the pillar before shambling out. She paused several feet away from David. Trembling, she lifted David’s arm to her nose, keeping one cautious eye on David as he sniffled. Finally, she croaked, “Done,” and shuffled off dejectedly toward the kitchen. Max heard her cupboard door slam shut.
“Perhaps we just can’t keep her,” muttered Ms. Richter to herself, frowning. She suddenly turned to Max and put a warm hand on his cheek.
“You did the right thing to come and get me, Max,” she said. “David will be fine. I’ll take him to his room; you go back to the celebration. Tell the others he’s taken ill.”
Max nodded and walked back up the stairs.
The celebration was in full force, with people dancing and singing while the quarter moon shone high above them. Max found Sarah and Omar chatting near the dance pavilion. Sarah looked at him curiously.
“Where’s David?” she asked. “Where have you been all this time?”
“David’s really sick,” Max explained. “He’s gone to bed.”
Omar glanced at Sarah’s expression and sidestepped away just as Connor sauntered over.
“Anyone seen Mum?” he asked. “I’m terrified of what she’ll do if she thinks I stood her up!”
“She’s not coming,” Max sighed. “I heard her in her cupboard. She won’t come.”
“Seriously?” said Connor, his face lighting up.
“Yeah,” confirmed Max, giving Connor a look to drop the subject.
“Great! Maybe now I can get that Second Year cutie to dance with me,” Connor said, scanning the crowd.
“You boys are ridiculous,” hissed Sarah, walking quickly away. Max gave Connor a helpless look and trotted after her.
“Sarah,” he called, “wait up. What’s the matter?”
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter.” She whirled around, her eyes glistening. “I’ve been standing over there for half an hour feeling like a fool at my very first dance. If you didn’t want to take me, you shouldn’t have asked!”
“What?” asked Max. “I was just taking care of David—he was sick.”
“Please,” Sarah sniffed. “I know you only asked me because the other girls made you. I know you’d rather have taken Julie Teller.” She mocked Julie’s wide smile and occasional hair-flip.
“Sarah—”
“Leave me alone! I should have gone with John Buckley. He has manners!”
Max’s face reddened.
“Maybe you should have!” snapped Max.
He stormed away, circling around the Manse and heading toward the orchard and the paths that would take him to the Sanctuary. Nick could use an early feeding, he reasoned. He unknotted his tie and thought about booting aside a jack-o’-lantern.
The light and laughter from the party faded steadily. He turned back to see if Sarah was following; there was no one except for hundreds of grinning jack-o’-lanterns. Crunching leaves beneath his feet, Max paused as he saw a strange light glowing from the side path where David had buried the coin on their very first day. The light ebbed to a soft twinkle before flaring up again in a quick flash of white.
Max heard faint sounds of laughter, like children singing far away. He whipped his head back toward the Manse. The music was not coming from the party.
Brushing aside a low-hanging branch, Max stepped onto the side path. He began to follow the light that now danced deeper into the woods.
“I would not do that if I were you,” hissed a nearby voice.
Max stifled a cry as a figure stepped out of the shadows, its dead white eye gleaming bright in a shaft of moonlight.
By all appearances, the man’s body might have been a shadow, shifting and blending into the background. But his face was clearly visible now, appearing even more worn and haggard than when Max had last seen him at the airport. It looked like he had not slept in days; his face bore heavy stubble. His expression was grim and menacing. He stood taller and stepped forward, slipping a small pack off his shoulder.
“Hello, Max,” he whispered in the same strange accent Max had heard at the museum. “I have something for you.”
Max turned and bolted down the path toward the Manse, but was lifted off the ground before he had taken three steps. A hand was clamped tightly over his mouth, and the man’s voice whispered urgently in his ear.
“Shhh! I am not the Enemy! I am here to help. Will you listen to me? Will you listen to me and not cry out?”
Max nodded and ceased struggling. As soon as he was lowered to the ground and felt the man’s grip loosen, Max elbowed hard into his stomach and went berserk trying to wriggle free. The man wheezed, but his hold was iron. Max was hoisted off the ground again and held by a grip now so numbingly strong that any resistance was utterly futile.
“I understand you’re frightened,” the man hissed. “But if I really wanted to harm you, it would already be over and done with. Agreed?”
Max nodded at the white eye inches away and let his arms go s
lack. The man paused and then lowered him to the ground.
“You’re a fighter,” the man grunted. “But then again, I guess we knew that.”
Max said nothing but eyed the man warily. The light and laughter from the woods were gone.
“What was in there?” demanded Max, pointing at the woods.
“I don’t know,” said the man simply, motioning for Max to lower his voice. “I do know that Rowan is strange and that it’s best for foolish Apprentices not to follow mysterious laughter on All Hallows’ Eve.”
Max shivered, peering into the woods, which were now dark and quiet.
“How do you know about Rowan?” asked Max suspiciously. “How did you get on the campus?”
“The answers are one and the same. I was a student here. Like most curious students, I know a few of its secrets.”
Max shot a look back at the Manse.
“I am not going to harm you,” hissed the man impatiently.
“No,” said Max, “I know. It’s just…I was warned about you. No one told me you were a student.”
“I’m not welcome here anymore,” said the man with finality, slipping something out of his pack. “But I wish to return something to you.”
The man handed him the small black sketchbook Max had left behind at the Art Institute. Max ran his hands over the cover, flipping it open to see the sketch he had abandoned when this man had entered the gallery. Max tucked the book under his arm.
“Why did you follow me that day?” asked Max.
The man looked around quickly and motioned again for Max to be quieter.
“I am a half-prescient,” said the man, gesturing casually at the white eye that Max found so unsettling. “I knew to be in Chicago and to board that train, but I did not know why. Then I saw you.”
Max remembered the awful way the man’s eye had locked onto him.
“You have a very powerful aura about you, Max. I followed you because you were clearly one of our young ones, and our young ones have been disappearing.”
Max whipped his head around as he heard a distant burst of cheers from the party.
“You and your father were in greater peril that day than you know. The Enemy has been active at art museums. They are looking for special paintings and special children, and they might have found both that day.”
Max was stunned.
“Were you in my house?” Max stammered. “Was that you upstairs?”
The shadowy man shook his head.
“When I arrived, I saw the Enemy fleeing through the alleys. I thought they might have abducted you and gave chase,” said the man. “But they eluded me. By the time I could return, your home was closely watched. I’m sorry I could not get there sooner—I can seldom take the fastest way.”
“What about the airport?” Max hissed impatiently, a strange mix of emotions starting to well up within him.
“The Enemy was waiting for you outside those doors. I knew if you saw me, you would find another way.”
“So what are you saying? That you saved me that day?” Max whispered.
The man smiled for the first time, his sharp features softening momentarily into a kindly expression.
“You’ll do the same for me one day, eh?”
The man suddenly frowned and crouched low.
“I have to go,” he hissed. “They’re coming.”
The man withdrew silently into the shadows; camouflaging hues spread over his body until only his face was visible.
“Will I see you again?” whispered Max. “What’s your name?”
The man nodded and gave a wry smirk. “Call me Ronin.”
The face disappeared.
A moment later, Max yelped with fright as Cooper appeared next to him. The Agent held a long, cruel-looking knife of dull gray metal. Max started to speak, but Cooper raised his hand quickly to silence him. He never took his eyes off the woods. They waited in silence for several moments before Cooper slipped the knife back into his sleeve. He towered over Max. Cooper’s voice was low and calm with a touch of a cockney accent.
“You were talking just now. Who were you talking to?”
“N-nobody,” stammered Max; he had not even been sure if Cooper could speak.
Cooper’s response was flat and immediate. “You’re lying.”
“What? I got in an argument and I came out here to blow off some steam!”
Cooper stared at Max for several moments. He slowly drew his knife from his sleeve and stepped off the path to the very spot where Ronin had been only minutes earlier.
“Get inside.”
The Agent issued the command in a soft, even voice just before he disappeared entirely.
12
SECRET PRISONS
Max tensed his calves for a moment and scanned the room. A bright green circle appeared on the floor some six feet away. He leapt and landed on it, careful to keep his feet within its boundaries. A heavy ball the size of a cantaloupe whizzed toward his head; he glimpsed it in his peripheral vision and ducked just in time. A smaller green circle appeared off to his right; Max jumped sideways and landed on his tiptoes, deflecting another ball out of the air with a slap of his hand. Instantly, another circle appeared ahead; this one was moving and smaller than a Frisbee. Max sprang forward, landed lightly within the circle on one foot, and promptly pivoted to boot aside the small, hard ball that came rocketing at him from behind.
Once Max had finished the scenario, he wiped the sweat from his brow and went to the door. Mr. Vincenti stood just outside, studying the display. “Hmmm,” he mused, running a hand over his trim white beard. “I see you’ve scored over a forty on your last six scenarios.”
Max grinned and grabbed the towel that he had left on the doorknob.
“I also see you’re avoiding the strategy-based scenarios,” murmured Mr. Vincenti, scrolling through several screens. “That will have to change.”
“They’re not as fun,” panted Max.
“They’re not as fun? Or you’re not as good at them?” said Mr. Vincenti, raising an eyebrow and clearing the screen. “Come along, Max. I’d like a word.”
Several older students waved good-bye and wished them a happy holiday as Max and Mr. Vincenti walked up the forest path back toward the Manse, making pleasant chitchat. The cold air made Max’s nose tingle. Once they were in the clearing, he thought how different Rowan looked in winter: Old Tom and Maggie under blankets of snow, the dark leafless forest, and the ocean rolling cold and gray. Max glanced at the gunmetal sky that promised more snow and the small white holiday lights twined about the Manse’s hedges and windows.
“How’d your finals go?” asked Mr. Vincenti as they climbed the outer steps.
“Okay, I think,” said Max, waving good-bye to the departing students. Except for David, all of Max’s friends had already gone. “Mystics and math were tough. Strategy was all right, but I think I got the logic sections wrong….”
“How was Etiquette?” asked Mr. Vincenti, leading Max into a little sitting room off the great hall.
“Who knows? That stuff seems kind of stupid.”
“It’s not,” said Mr. Vincenti, shaking his head and gesturing for Max to take a seat. “Oh, I know Sir Wesley can be over the top, but knowing how to act in a given situation is a very valuable skill. You’ll need it if you ever decide to become an Agent—and I’m sure they’ll be clamoring for you to become one someday. Anyway, I asked all the instructors to inform me if one of my advisees was in danger of failing a course. You’re safe for now.”
Mr. Vincenti eased himself into a deep armchair and tapped his fingers against his knee. He seemed uncharacteristically somber and hesitant. Max listened to the small clock on the mantel tick until his advisor finally spoke.
“Max, I don’t entirely know how to say this….”
An icy calm came over Max. He glanced down at his wet shoes. The conversation that informed him of his mother’s disappearance had begun in much the same way.
“What is it?” he murmu
red. “Please, just say what it is. I already know it’s bad.”
“We don’t believe you should travel home for the holidays,” said Mr. Vincenti with a sigh. “We think it’s best if you stay here at Rowan.”
Max did not speak for several seconds, but simply stared at Mr. Vincenti.
“Why?” he finally asked, trying to control his temper.
“You know why,” said Mr. Vincenti. “We think it could be dangerous. It’s for your own good.”
“What about the others?” snapped Max, standing up. “They get to go home!”
“They are not you,” said Mr. Vincenti gently. “They have not been targeted by the Enemy. The Enemy does not know where they live….”
“Did you make this decision?” asked Max evenly.
“No, Max. This comes straight from the Director—”
Max scowled and bolted from the room. In the foyer, he glared at the luggage piling up near the doors, then thudded down the hallway toward Ms. Richter’s office. His face burning, Max flung the door open.
“How can you keep me here?” he yelled.
Ms. Richter sat at her desk, gazing at him with her hands folded under her chin.
“Please lower your voice and sit down,” she said quietly.
Max stood in the doorway several moments, breathing hard and watching the steam curl from a cup of tea on Ms. Richter’s desk. Snow was falling again outside.
“You can’t keep me here,” Max said at last, managing to smother most of the rage out of his voice.
Ms. Richter’s face looked very tired and downcast. “Please sit down, Max,” she said. “I would like to discuss this with you.”
“Why’d you send Mr. Vincenti, then?” asked Max, his anger rising once again.
“Because I had a very important meeting that could not be moved. Please sit.”
Max glanced at a bit of melting snow on the room’s cream-colored rug; there were shallow footprints in the snow outside the Director’s office.
“Why couldn’t they come by the front door?” he demanded. “What’s so secret?” He nearly yielded to the temptation to tell her that he knew all about the missing Potentials, that she was not nearly as clever as she liked to appear.
The Hound of Rowan Page 19