A low, rumbling laugh came deep from Augur’s belly. The room grew even colder; the flames between Max and the blacksmith drained away into the floor.
“This is Rowan’s army?” the creature rumbled. Within Augur’s eyes, light pulsed with quickening life as he hefted the massive hammer. “I am far greater than you, little whelp. As this child are you to me. Older magic and deeper purpose course through Marley Augur—”
Max Amplified just as the hammer came crashing down. It pulverized the stone tiles where Max had been standing while he sprang away to the alcove where the children stood cocooned in their black shrouds. Augur’s hammer swung over him, sending up a shower of sparks as it collided with the pillar, which cracked and groaned from the impact.
In a flash, not one Ronin but three circled around Augur in a whirl of knives, feinting and attacking. The blacksmith swung his hammer in mad pursuit, shattering wood and stone and glass in a terrifying frenzy. The walls of the crypt shook with great flashes as though in the midst of a thunderstorm.
Max tore the black shrouds away from the children who were conscious and shoved them in the direction of the stairs, screaming at them to come to their senses and hurry. They staggered away in confused groups of two and three, hugging the walls and shuffling toward the cool daylight above.
By the time all the shrouds had been thrown aside, there were still a dozen children left in the alcove, their heads hanging in slumber. Max began trembling as his body absorbed more energy from the fight around him. Hoisting a child onto each shoulder, he dashed across the floor, over Peg, and up the steps, where he tipped them onto the wet grass. Diving back into the crypt, Max froze in horror as he saw Augur’s hammer crash down onto Ronin’s head. But the hammer only slammed into the floor as Ronin’s decoy dissipated and promptly reformed as though made of magnetized smoke.
The real Ronin had maneuvered behind Augur. He raised a double-barreled shotgun from the folds of his overcoat. The blast echoed in the chamber with a great metallic twang.
Augur buckled and stumbled forward, but nothing more. Ronin was forced to leap back as the hammer swung around to crumple the shotgun’s barrel.
By the time Max had spilled the last two children onto the grass, the chamber had begun to collapse. A flash of light erupted from the doorway, and he heard Ronin curse. Max yelled at the conscious children to pull the others back and dashed again into the crypt.
Ronin swayed near the pillar. The false images had disappeared, and he was without a weapon.
“Ronin!” Max screamed, running down to him.
“One more, Max. Get him and go!” Ronin gasped, hugging the pillar and staggering around it as Augur advanced toward him, stepping over a shattered table.
Max looked at Alex slumped in the chair; just beyond, Astaroth’s eyes watched Max intently.
“What about the painting?” Max yelled.
“Get the boy and go!” Ronin bellowed. “Keep them away from the stairs! Augur can’t go aboveground!”
Ronin ducked under a hammer blow that tore a jagged chunk out of the pillar. Reaching into his coat, Ronin flipped what looked to be a dull metal hockey puck into the center of the chamber before dodging another murderous hammer swing.
Max ran down to Alex, tossed him over his shoulder, and glanced at the painting.
Astaroth smiled at him.
As Max wheeled to run for the stairs, something tripped him. He dropped Alex and fell to the floor. Peg was at his feet. Gasping for breath, she pulled herself up to Max’s face. Her features alternated between the slavering monster and the wild-eyed woman who had pursued him in Chicago.
“You’re coming with me,” she gurgled. “Down, down with Peg into the darkness.”
Max stretched his neck away from the searching talons and focused on his uninjured right hand; he felt searing blue flame ignite and writhe around it. Clapping his hand on her face, he shut his eyes through a sudden gasp and horrible smell. Slowly, the vye’s body stiffened and rolled away, its face a smoldering ruin of fur and flesh.
Max got to his feet, then grabbed Alex’s hand and dragged him toward the stairs. Ronin limped after them, but Augur let loose a terrifying howl and swung his hammer. It caught Ronin squarely in his back with a sickening sound.
Ronin tumbled across the chamber and landed in a mangled heap by the stairs. He did not move.
“Stay where you are!” bellowed Augur, stabbing a bony finger at Max.
“They’re all outside!” Max cried out, locking eyes with Augur while feeling for Ronin’s hand. “You can’t get them!”
“It matters not,” said Augur, lowering his hammer and walking slowly across the room. “Astaroth is awakened, and we still have you. Your worth is far greater than those little souls.”
Max tried to Amplify, but he was spent. Gritting his teeth, he struggled furiously to drag Ronin and Alex up the stairs. His arm was bleeding badly and it throbbed; Ronin was so heavy. Suddenly, three clear beeps sounded in the chamber. Ronin squeezed Max’s hand very hard.
“Go,” Ronin whispered.
Gripping Ronin’s hand tighter, Max heaved himself backward just as the metal puck exploded.
Max had a sensation of floating. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, but the fog felt very cool and soothing on his face. He lay still, breathing deeply. To his surprise, he realized that there was still a hand clasped in each of his. He glanced down from where he lay against the top stair. Half-submerged in a chalky soup of stone and soil were Ronin and Alex. Alex was unconscious; Ronin’s eyelids fluttered as he stared blankly up.
“I’m broken,” he murmured. “My legs—”
“Shhh,” whispered Max, letting go of Alex and gripping Ronin’s wrist with both hands. Ignoring Ronin’s sharp, sudden intakes of breath, Max pulled him from the rubble to lie on the pearly grass.
Max staggered back to Alex and took hold of his wrist. Suddenly, Max heard something deep within the earth that made him gasp and let go.
A muffled cry of rage and despair shook the ground.
With a gathering trickle of pebbles and masonry, Alex began to sink. Panicked, Max seized his hand and strained with all his might. It was no use. Something far stronger than Max McDaniels had hold of Alex and was pulling him slowly, inexorably, back into the tomb. Despite Max’s gasps and pleas, Alex was wrenched from his grasp and swallowed by the earth.
The shivering children had gathered around Ronin. He was blinking and looking up at the sky, very calm and pale. Making his way through the other children, Max knelt down and took his hand.
“You’re always saving me,” Max whispered.
“You’re worth saving.” Ronin smiled. His green eye was tired but very bright as it blinked at Max. The prescient eye was going dark, its milky whites fading to dead gray.
“We have to get you to a hospital.”
Ronin shook his head and smiled, squeezing Max’s hand.
“Pocket…,” he gasped, closing his eyes.
Deep within his coat, Max found what Ronin had intended. It was a security watch. Max pressed its face as hard as he could again and again until a message suddenly flashed on its small screen.
COMING. ETA 27 MIN.
Max fought off his exhaustion and cradled Ronin’s head to his chest, rocking back and forth as his mother had done with him long ago. The other children sat around them silently, gaunt little ghosts staring mutely into the fog. When the Agents arrived, he thought they must be angels.
20
FATHER AND SON
Max awoke to the smell of something roasting, something delicious. A breeze of lilac skimmed across his cheek from a nearby window, and he stirred in a bed of smooth sheets. His forearm ached. He touched it and found it was wrapped in thin layers of a spongy material. Max slid upright, resting his back against the headboard. It was twilight, and the room was in shadow: deep purples and blues except for a sliver of yellow light under the door.
Walking slowly out the door and into a hallway, Max hear
d a chorus of laughter. He steadied himself against the wall with his bandaged hand, ignoring the buzzing in his head and stumbling forward. A number of adults were having dinner around a large table. A dark-haired woman saw him first, glimpsing him in the doorway during a sip of wine.
“Well, hello there,” she cooed, as though to a lost puppy.
The other adults ceased talking and looked intently at Max.
“He must be famished,” said an apple-cheeked man with a strong Irish accent. “Use a bite to eat, could you, Max?”
Max’s head felt light. He nodded and let the man steer him to a seat at the table, next to a younger woman with red hair. She smiled and fixed him a plate of roast chicken and wild rice. Max grabbed a large piece of chicken and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Sir Alistair must have his hands full with this one,” chuckled a man with glasses.
“Hush!” said the dark-haired woman. She smiled at Max and pushed the plate of carved chicken closer to him. “Welcome to the Dublin safe house, Max.”
Suddenly aware that he was eating in a strange house with strange people, Max put down his piece of chicken. His eyes searched from face to face.
“I’m Max,” he whispered.
“We know—we know all about you, Max McDaniels.” The apple-cheeked man beamed. “You’re very welcome here.”
Like water through a breaking levee, the memories flooded his mind.
“The Potentials!” he gasped. “Ronin! What happened to them? I tried to save Alex, but I couldn’t. He was pulled away from me. Astaroth is awake!” He almost toppled backward.
The red-haired woman caught his chair and eased him forward. She smoothed back his hair and gently quieted him. Max was still for several moments, studying the little flames on the candlewicks.
Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and in walked three men wearing dark clothes that seemed to shift and blend in with the room. To Max’s surprise, Ms. Richter followed on their heels. She gave a cursory nod to the group before her gaze fell on Max, sitting small and hunched at the table. Her eyes twinkled as she studied his face.
“Well, colleagues, our guest is up and about.” Her voice was soft and serious. “Hello, Max. How are you feeling?”
Max frowned at his arm, where the spongy fabric covered the deep gashes and punctures from Cyrus’s teeth. The memories of their struggle on the hilltop were very vivid.
“Alex Muñoz,” Max murmured. “He’s gone….”
“Yes, I know,” said Miss Richter gravely. “It was his watch that summoned help. That crypt is being excavated and examined now. In fact, that is where I have just come from with these gentlemen.”
Max looked at the men in the strange clothes who were now helping themselves to the food. He could not take his eyes off the fabric that seemed to swim with grays and blacks and greens and browns. One of the men, blond and handsome with a weathered face, smiled and stepped over to Max. He kneeled down and pinched part of the fabric off his shoulder so Max could feel it. Rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, Max was fascinated. It was slick to the touch, impossibly smooth but utterly flat, allowing no candlelight to reflect from its surface.
“Nanomail,” the man grunted. “New version—in beta. I’m Carl. I was the one who got your call.”
Something in the man’s manner reminded Max of Cooper. They each had the same directness: a calm, clipped way of speaking that suggested an intense, disciplined nature.
“Thank you, Agent Drake,” said Ms. Richter. “That will be all. If the rest of you would please excuse us, I would like to have a word with Max.”
Glasses were raised to Max as he followed Ms. Richter out of the dining room.
They went outside to sit on a porch of weathered stone and knotted wood. The moon had risen high and bright over the trees, and the air was very still. Max looked hard at the Director, who seemed lost in thought as she gazed out over the countryside. There were a thousand stories and secrets in her face, Max thought; they were etched in deep seams across the forehead and in tight little crow’s feet at her eyes. Her pupils looked like drops of mercury in the moonlight.
“How long have I been gone?” Max asked.
“Thirty-seven days,” said the Director.
Max drooped in stunned silence.
“Thirty-seven days lost, but forty-two children gained,” she said, turning to smile at him. “Not a bad bargain. Forty-two children will be reunited with their families because of you, Max. You are a hero.”
“But Alex is gone,” Max said with rising anguish. “They have Astaroth, and he’s awake!”
Ms. Richter patted his hand.
“Shhh. You did what you could do, and that is all a person can ask of himself. You went well above the call of duty for a thirteen-year-old boy, Max.”
“Did Ronin survive?” Max asked quietly.
Ms. Richter wrinkled her nose in curiosity. “Who is Ronin?”
“Peter,” Max blurted. “Peter Varga. He saved me. Is he okay?”
“Ah, I think he will be, Max. I do,” said Ms. Richter, with a small smile. “It’s a curious name Peter chose for himself. Do you know what a ‘ronin’ is?”
Max shook his head.
“A ronin is a samurai—a wandering samurai without a master. Such a notion would appeal to Peter, I suppose. Peter is going to live, but he was very badly injured. Whether or not he walks again remains to be seen. He is here—the moomenhovens are doing their very best.”
Max said nothing; he was not even sure what a “moomenhoven” was. But he was sure that without Ronin, he would still be trapped beneath the earth with Marley Augur. His throat felt tight.
“Try to put Peter out of your mind for the moment,” said Ms. Richter. “No one knows better than you that something very serious has happened and that dark times may be coming. I need to know everything that has happened starting with the day you were taken….”
Max told Ms. Richter about the attack on the dock, his journey across the ocean, and the trials in Marley Augur’s crypt. None of it seemed real to him; he felt as if he were telling someone else’s story.
“What was Marley Augur?” Max asked. “He said he used to be one of us.”
“What he was is certainly different from what he is,” she replied. “He was, by all accounts, a very noble and valued member of our Order. However, it sounds as though his misery has transformed him into a revenant—an unquiet spirit consumed by thoughts of vengeance. Unfortunately, as a blacksmith, Augur’s talents clearly lay in craftsmanship and enchantment—the making and unmaking of things. These are slow, methodical magics well suited to the task of freeing Astaroth.”
Max frowned and tried to blot out the memory of Astaroth’s little smile amidst the smoke and noise of Augur’s crypt. He looked out over the dark countryside.
From the Director, Max learned that the ropes supporting the Kestrel had been cut, resulting in what appeared to be a horrific accident. The ship had crashed down and obliterated half the dock beneath it, causing the Kestrel’s guardian to wail and churn the waters. It was feared that Alex and Max had been crushed, their bodies swept out to sea. These fears were seemingly confirmed as their apples had turned to gold in the orchard. Three days later, it was discovered that the apples had only been coated with gold. The Kestrel’s crash had been nothing but a diversionary tactic to hide the fact that Max and Alex had been kidnapped. Search parties were deployed, but the trail had already gone cold.
As she finished her story, Max asked a question that was troubling him.
“What’s going to happen to Ronin?”
“We shall do our best to heal him and then we shall have to see. I suppose it will depend somewhat on his condition.”
“The vyes couldn’t have gotten to the orchard,” Max said somberly. “They had help. There is a traitor at Rowan, I heard the vyes and Marley Augur talk about it!”
“I know all too well about the traitor at Rowan,” the Director said sadly. “Yesterday, the traitor was taken i
nto custody. Without a struggle, thank God.”
“It’s Miss Boon, isn’t it?” Max asked very quietly. Goose bumps raced up his arms when he thought how dangerous it must have been to be alone with her in Rattlerafters.
“Miss Boon?” exclaimed Ms. Richter, suddenly incredulous. “Why in heaven would you suspect Hazel?”
Max’s face reddened in the dark; he felt very stupid.
“She…she was so curious about my vision; she kept asking me about it and asking me not to tell anyone. She assigned my punishment for fighting with Alex. She made me go down to the water where the vyes were waiting.”
“Ah, I see,” said Ms. Richter, nodding sympathetically. “I expect Hazel wanted to keep your conversations secret because she knew I would not approve; she was pursuing a branch of analysis that I had discouraged. And the whole school knew about your punishment.”
It looked as though the Director was trying very hard to control her emotions.
“It was Mr. Morrow,” she said at last. “He was the traitor among us.”
Max sat in stunned silence. His mind swam with thoughts of the gravel-voiced lessons, the rivulets of pipe smoke, and the little cottage beyond the dunes.
“It can’t be Mr. Morrow,” Max snapped. “He didn’t think you were doing enough to catch the traitor! How can it be him?”
“He said those things because he realized full well that Bob would report your conversation back to me,” she replied. “And in some ways, I think he was speaking the truth. Deep down, I believe he wanted the traitor to be identified and apprehended.”
“But why would he do it?” pleaded Max. “Are you absolutely sure it’s him?”
“We’re sure,” said Ms. Richter, reaching over and patting his hand. “He was very sick and lonely. And he was never quite the same after his wife died. Apparently, the Enemy claimed to have his son—a son Mr. Morrow thought was lost over thirty years ago. In addition, the Enemy promised him long life free from the pain and pills that had come to dominate his existence. I think the prospect of many healthy years reunited with his son gnawed at his mind until he succumbed at last.”
The Hound of Rowan Page 32