As Ronin disappeared down the hallway, Max frowned. What possible reason did Peter have to visit Connor? Setting Nick down, Max pushed through the open door.
Connor Lynch’s room was a snug cabin crowded with four bunk beds and a single desk that looked out upon a sunlit meadow. When set against the Manse’s many exotic, often magnificent bedrooms, it was a conspicuously humble abode, but Max found it cozy. There was a fire burning, and the room’s pine walls warmed to a rosy glow as the waning sunlight streamed through the open window.
The sun’s rays fell directly onto Connor’s face as he sat on one of the lower bunks in a T-shirt and jeans. Many clothes were strewn about his bed, including his Rowan uniform. Connor was hunched over, staring at his shoes while his fingers clenched the side of his head, their tips buried in his chestnut curls.
“Hey,” said Max, kicking Connor’s foot. “Are you having a fashion show in here?”
Connor gave an obligatory grunt, but Max saw that he was deeply troubled.
“Throw on your uniform,” Max said. “You’re having dinner with my dad and the Tellers.”
“Sorry,” replied Connor. “I don’t think I’m going to the feast, Max. And if I do, I’ve got to sit with my family.”
“They can join us,” said Max. “Or we’ll join you—but let’s get going.”
“Ah,” said Connor, closing his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do, and you’re a good mate. But you and I both know that my family’s not joining the McDaniels duo for supper anytime soon.…”
Max nodded. He had expected that answer. Connor’s family blamed Max for Connor’s troubles the previous year. These troubles had included possession by an imp named Mr. Sikes and his captivity during the Siege. While possessed, Connor had stabbed David Menlo and dispelled the enchantment that had hidden Rowan from the Enemy. These actions, and the still-unspoken horrors he had suffered while being held hostage, had rendered him but a sad echo of the cheerful, jesting boy he had been.
“Well, we didn’t really want you to join us, anyway,” said Max, plopping down on the desk chair and doodling on a pad. “Have you ever seen yourself eat? You’re worse than Nick.”
The lymrill peered up at the mention of his name, a sock dangling from his mouth. Connor managed a wan smile and leaned forward to retrieve his uniform jacket from the floor. He plucked a stray thread from the sleeve and smoothed it on his knee.
“I don’t think I should go.”
“Have you seen Lucia lately?” Max asked brightly. “She’ll be there, and if you come, I promise to sic my dad on Mr. Cavallo. He’ll be stuck talking about Bedford Crispy Soup Wafers all night!”
Lucia Cavallo was a strikingly beautiful classmate whom Connor had pursued since arriving at Rowan. Like Connor, Lucia’s relatives had taken refuge at the school. Most conspicuous among her family was Mr. Cavallo, who watched his daughter like a territorial rooster and had become something of a terror to Lucia’s would-be suitors.
“That is a tempting offer,” said Connor, cocking an eyebrow and regaining a glimmer of his old, mischievous self. He sighed and stood up from the bed, crossing the room to open one of his roommate’s trunks and retrieve clean boxers, dark socks, and a dress shirt. “Tell you what, Max. You iron those trousers and I’m your man.”
“Do you just borrow your roommate’s clothes whenever you feel like it?” asked Max, retrieving an iron from a cupboard while Connor slipped into the clean white shirt.
“Pretty much,” quipped Connor, staring at his tongue in a small mirror. “Stefan’s always good for a clean shirt, and Lord knows he owes me for his snoring.”
“I’m sure he does it just to needle you,” replied Max, squinting with concentration as he ran the iron along the trousers’ faded crease. “By the way, why was Peter Varga in here?”
“Ol’ Blinky?” laughed Connor, peeling his lid back from his eye. “Oh, he visits now and again. Always lurking behind corners and having his say, I guess. He’s been pestering me since last spring.”
“About what?” asked Max, setting the iron down and fixing Connor with a sharp glance.
“That’s my business for the time being,” said Connor. “I’m still turning things over. Let’s just say I hope a fiend in black don’t sail in off the sea.”
Max instantly thought of his readings and the many descriptions of Prusias.
“Connor, a fiend in black is coming to Rowan. Tonight. A demon named Prusias.”
For a moment, Connor said nothing, but Max saw the blood drain clear away from his round, ruddy face. Chewing his lip, Connor beckoned at Max to toss over the ironed trousers.
“They’re not quite finished,” said Max, eyeing his sorry attempt.
“No matter,” said Connor. With a deep, steadying breath, he expanded his chest like a bodybuilder. Appraising his mirrored profile with an approving air, he smacked his stout belly and exhaled. “Tonight I am a man of wit, warmth, and charming disarray. The wrinkled pants are a stroke of genius, but a cunning detail in my master plan—”
Max hurled the wadded pants at Connor, who abandoned his monologue and fell back onto his bed. Minutes later, the two were hurrying down the hallway.
Outside, Rowan glittered like a city of the Sidh, all gleaming stone and light beneath deepening bands of twilight blue. Old Tom’s scaffolding had been removed, and the building’s clean stone façade stood exposed, much like a patient freed from gauze and plaster.
“Poor fellow looks almost naked, no?” joked Connor.
Max had to agree. Without its ivy, the stately academic hall looked somehow younger—its gray stones lacking the marks of age and the twining leaves that had draped its shoulders like a shawl. What it had lost in character, however, it had gained in brilliance. The building appeared nearly luminescent, lit from beneath by floodlights the size of kettledrums. Thousands of students and refugees laughed and chattered among the gardens, strolled among the shells, and clustered upon the steps of Old Tom and Maggie. Connor tugged on his arm and pointed toward Julie, who was beaming at them and squeezing past a pack of bearded scholars.
“Finally here!” she exclaimed as she bounded up the Manse steps. She gave Max a kiss and embraced Connor. “Your dad sent me to look for you. We’ve got a table in the orchard—a bit too close to those Workshop stiffs, but at least we’re by Hannah’s nest. Where’s David?”
“Not coming,” said Max with curt finality. “Are we supposed to sit down?”
“In a minute,” said Julie. “Everyone’s supposed to gather here for a special announcement. By the way, Connor, what look are you going for? Casual transient?”
“Charming disarray,” said Connor, shooting his cuffs. “Nailed it, didn’t I?”
“Well done,” said Julie.
The three stood on the steps, pressed against the railing while more people streamed out of the Manse and from the woods, out onto the paths that led to the Sanctuary. Among the crowds of people, Max saw domovoi; fauns; red-capped lutins, tiny elfin creatures wearing long knit caps; and even Orion, a Syrian shedu, clopping along with several children on his back. Fluttering his tail, Nick left them and waddled out among the partygoers, falling into step with a Himalayan münchel. As the stars began to peek from the evening sky, everyone gathered on the quad, which was ringed by the tall white statues of past luminaries. Max felt a pinch on his elbow and saw Julie pointing up at Old Tom’s tower. A figure stood on the small balcony outside its gears and clockworks. It was Ms. Richter.
Rowan’s Director raised her arm, and a single white light rose from her outstretched hand like a tiny star. The light grew and grew, bathing the campus in brilliance, until all conversation ceased and all eyes were focused on the balcony. When she spoke, her amplified voice rang clear and true across the campus.
“Ladies and gentlemen, children, and Sanctuary residents, I welcome you as we celebrate the reopening of Rowan Academy and acknowledge the tireless efforts you have made on our behalf.”
Max cheered and clapped
along with thousands of others as he scanned the multitude for a glimpse of his father.
When the crowd had quieted once again, Ms. Richter continued. “On this evening, we also wish to welcome representatives of the Frankfurt Workshop and those representatives from Blys who will be arriving shortly. I know you will treat them with the utmost courtesy, as is due and proper.”
This announcement was greeted with scattered applause, quizzical looks, and a buzz of muttered questions.
“What the heck is Blys?” asked Connor, but Julie shushed him as Ms. Richter resumed.
“As much as we honor these emissaries, however, this evening is not about them. It is about us. For six months, we have been confined to this campus while we repaired, rebuilt, and rehabilitated. I am happy to say that within the week, the gates shall be opened once again and you may come and go as you choose.”
Thunderous applause. Many in the audience were anxious to search for family or, like Max, were consumed by curiosity regarding the state of the outside world.
Ms. Richter raised a hand of caution. “We would urge you, however, to be patient just a little longer until we have had an opportunity to scout our new borders and assess the safety within them. As we all know, things have changed.”
Max had never seen so many people stand in morbid silence. He could only imagine the myriad of thoughts and emotions that surged through the crowd. Their governments were gone, their homes had been abandoned, and their loved ones were lost to fates unknown.
“But some things,” continued the Director, “some things remain the same. Tonight, Old Tom’s bell shall ring once more to open this school and remind us of our sacred duty to kindle a light—however small—on this beloved earth. Like others before us, we shall be a city on a hill, a beacon to those requiring shelter from the storm. We are no longer students, faculty, refugees, or guests—we are citizens of Rowan. At this time, I would like to invite one of our own to strike Old Tom’s bell and bless this new chapter of our history.”
Max gaped as an enormous head poked out of the dark opening that led to Old Tom’s clock tower.
It was Bob.
Even at a distance, Max could see the Russian ogre’s craggy grin as the crowd burst into cheers. A bandage still covered his knotted head, but Bob had managed to dress suitably for the occasion. Straightening to his full height, he dwarfed the Director. He offered the crowd a shy, awkward wave before stooping low to whisper something to Ms. Richter. The Director kissed the ogre on the cheek, and the two turned to gaze up at the enormous clock face above them.
When the hands were nearly poised to strike six o’clock, Bob ducked beneath the arched doorway and disappeared inside the dark clockworks. The crowd hushed and drew a great, collective breath. With smooth precision, the clock’s slender hand closed over the twelve and it was officially six o’clock.
Old Tom rang.
Max’s eyes filled with tears as the chimes resonated across the broad campus. The sudden clamor startled a pair of birds from their nest beneath the tower’s weather vane and, as the rich sounds reverberated in Max’s ears, he had a sudden desire to be a student again. It seemed very important that he read in little nooks, discover the world’s secrets, and shape his life into something of beautiful purpose. He relished the thought of chalk and blackboards and worn wooden seats and the crack of a new book’s spine. Schoolwork, which Max had always regarded as a tedious chore, now seemed a monumental privilege. He glanced at Julie, whose eyes were also wet and shining. The moment, the campus, and the world seemed to brim with possibilities.
The feasting tables also brimmed with possibilities. As Connor went off to find his family, Max and Julie joined the slow procession of those whose tables were situated behind the Manse. These tables were arrayed amid the orchard trees, which for reasons unknown, had not been touched by the Enemy during the Siege.
These sacred trees, their boughs heavy with golden apples, were awash in light supplied by hundreds of lanterns and candles placed on stout barrels or set within twisted wreaths of autumn leaves. Max inhaled the fragrance of apples and candle smoke while the music from a satyr’s reed pipes and a domovoi’s fiddle soothed his soul like a warm bath. Julie waved to her family, who were seated at a table with Mr. McDaniels, Hazel Boon, Cooper, and the Bristows. As Max greeted everyone and claimed a seat on the end, he noticed that Nolan, Rowan’s chief caretaker in the Sanctuary, was kneeling by Hannah’s nearby nest. The man was engaged in conversation with the goose, whose every feather trembled with indignation.
“So, I have it on your word that those things—those hideous, godforsaken things—understand that they are not to get within a stone’s throw of my nest?”
“Yes,” replied Nolan wearily. “They’ve been muzzled and Bellagrog has promised—”
“Ha!” shrieked Hannah, stretching her neck. “As if her word counts for anything! That hag would be first in line to gobble up my babies.” The goose’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “For heaven’s sake, Nolan, she gobbles up her own! My goslings are practically defenseless, and poor Honk’s still glowing. He can’t even hide in the dark!”
Max felt a twinge of guilt at this and glanced sheepishly at the downy lightbulb peering from Hannah’s nest. He tried to focus on Julie’s six-year-old brother Bill’s latest masterpiece: a crayon drawing of Max fighting a vye. Max found the drawing’s crude labels indispensable, for he had been depicted with red skin, and he absolutely dwarfed the vye, which looked like a black bunny sporting enormous teeth. Nevertheless, Max proclaimed the drawing a great success and the boy positively beamed.
Max turned his attention to Miss Boon, the Tellers, and his father, who was regaling Cooper with stories from his college football days. Throughout the meal, however, he could not help but crane his head about.
“You want to find Bob, don’t you?” asked Julie.
“Yes, I do,” said Max, stealing a sip of his father’s wine and wiping his mouth.
“Well, go on, then,” whispered Julie. “My mom’s complaining about my aunt, and I’ve got to nod and agree for the next half hour. Try to make it back by dessert!”
Max grinned and excused himself, swinging his legs over the bench and striding past a low table where four red-capped lutins were absorbed in a game of poker. Ducking beneath a branch, Max made his way past several more tables before he saw the Workshop members arranged around a large, circular table on the patio near the French doors that led to the Director’s office.
Rasmussen appeared pleased and sleepy as he held court at the Workshop table. While Bellagrog refilled Rasmussen’s wineglass, Mum scurried about, clearing plates and scraping crumbs off the white tablecloth. Spaced about the table’s periphery were the haglings, standing at attention like tiny soldiers. Each of the little monsters wore old-fashioned maid costumes that had been starched to near immobility. Max heard Bellagrog chortle.
“Right you are, sir,” she said in reply to a pudding-faced engineer. “They are indeed an obedient lot. Hags and their haglings are happiest when serving their betters. Why, me sis and I were over the moon to learn we’d be waiting on Your Excellencies this evening. Over the moon!”
Max paused a moment. Bellagrog was refilling glasses rather quickly, and her statement that she was tickled to “learn” that they’d be waiting on the Workshop was pure nonsense—Bellagrog had assigned the jobs. Max changed course and approached the table, bending close to whisper in Rasmussen’s ear. The man was giggling about an optics experiment he’d conducted as a teenager.
“Can I have a word?” Max hissed.
“What is it, boy?” asked Rasmussen, not even bothering to look up. Max glanced behind and saw a muzzled hagling glaring at him. Bellagrog had also paused midpour and swiveled her crocodile eye toward them.
“It’s private,” said Max. “I insist.”
Rasmussen’s smile glazed over. “Very well,” he said, dabbing at his mouth and rising from the table. “Colleagues, excuse me for but a moment. This
young man ‘insists’ on a word.”
Max ignored the laughter and marched Rasmussen past the watchful haglings and onto the grass. Rasmussen glared impatiently at Max and tapped his watch face.
“Stop drinking,” Max ordered.
The man blinked and refocused, staring at Max with a bleary mixture of annoyance and incredulity.
“The hags are trying to get you drunk,” Max continued. “They’re up to something. Do you honestly think they’ve forgotten that their cousin Gertie is on display as a specimen in your museum?”
“Drivel!” retorted Rasmussen, shaking his head. Gazing at Max with a knowing, indulgent smile, he wagged a sticklike finger. “You are sentimental, Max McDaniels, and thus you overestimate their sentimentality. You’d make a very poor engineer, I’m afraid. They are hags, boy. Pedivore terribilis is no more sentimental than a lizard.”
At this, a small gray hand reached up to tug at the man’s dinner jacket. Max and Dr. Rasmussen looked down to see one of the haglings peering up at them. A hoarse voice rasped through the leather stitching that covered her sharp, solitary tooth.
“Does the kind sir wish Number Three to fetch an afterdinner drink?”
“No, my good hagling,” said Rasmussen magnanimously. “Lead me to it. I’m in the mood for a fine, velvety cognac … just the thing before one meets a demon face to face!”
The man laughed, but Max saw a very real tinge of fear pluck at his features, and his smile concluded in a nervous tic. Without a word of farewell, Dr. Rasmussen allowed Number Three to lead him back to the table, where his colleagues were making loud, unsteady toasts to each other’s good health and fortune.
The Fiend and the Forge Page 6