Thank you,
Robert and Linda Teller
“Good news?” asked Nigel with a hopeful smile.
“Not so much,” said Max. “Julie’s parents don’t want me to see her anymore.” He spoke in a monotone; the reality of the message had not seeped in. With Max’s permission, Nigel read it for himself.
“Are you angry with them?” Nigel asked, once he’d finished the letter.
“No,” Max sighed. “They’re nice people. I know they’re doing what they think is best. But I would never hurt Julie.”
“I know that,” said Nigel. “For whatever it’s worth, I think they know that, too. From their letter, I don’t think they’re afraid that you would ever hurt her. I think they fear that you—by virtue of who you are—are a magnet for dangerous situations.”
“That demon’s lucky they stopped me,” Max seethed. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Hmmm,” said Nigel. “I think it’s a good thing for all concerned that nothing untoward occurred. Rakshasa are exceedingly powerful, Max. You might have been badly hurt. And from what I hear, we need that particular rakshasa.…”
“Vyndra?” Max scoffed. “Why do we need him?”
“Lord Vyndra is very influential among his kind,” replied Nigel. “And he has little love for Prusias. It’s my understanding that Vyndra believes he should be the ruler of Blys. As you can imagine, this makes him exceedingly useful.”
“He’s a murderer,” said Max. “I saw him hunt a human for sport.”
“I never said he’s a pleasant fellow. Merely valuable.”
“I don’t understand why we have to even deal with them,” Max snapped. “This is supposed to be our land. It seems so cowardly to me, all this bowing and scraping.”
“You would prefer that we simply duke it out, eh? Mano a daemona?” asked Nigel.
“Maybe.”
The man smiled and crumpled the empty bag. “Max, as things currently stand, we wouldn’t last a week,” he said matter-of-factly.
Old Tom chimed three o’clock.
“I’m late as usual,” Nigel sighed. “Max, I promised your father I’d drag you outside to join the kiddies on their playdate. It snowed last night, my boy—everything’s all white and sparkling. Striking, really. If you’re game, I’ll join you. It’s been years since my last snowball fight. Tell me, do they throw terribly hard?”
“Nigel, they’re five.”
“Well, those little beasts can still pack a wallop.”
Within minutes, Max had grabbed his coat, tied his boots, and hurried downstairs. He met Nigel in the foyer and pushed open the doors to see the quad white and twinkling.
This was Max’s favorite kind of snow—clean and fluffy, with just enough moisture for packing. It clung in thick clumps to the tree branches, cloaked the fountain sculptures, and even caked the roof of Gràvenmuir, whose eaves hung thick with icicles. The quad was packed with students commiserating over finals. A carriage rolled past with a clop of hooves, dragging a makeshift plow that cleared the walk. Above the rooftops, starlings and gulls rose and fell on the air currents, crying out in shrill, sad voices.
“Are they in the Sanctuary?” asked Max.
“No,” replied Nigel. “Outside somewhere. Your father said you’d know where—some creek or whatnot with a beaver dam.”
They set out, making deep tracks in the smooth snow.
Rowan rarely bothered to close the great gates anymore. David’s carvings upon the door and the myriad of spells now seemed a quaint design to welcome visitors who traveled the cobbled roads from the outlying farms and small settlements. Max and Nigel walked beneath the high stone arch, and Max expressed his frustrations with teaching.
“Everyone tries,” he said. “Ms. Richter, the Agents … everyone gives it their best. But I don’t know. They just can’t do most of the feats. Even when they Amplify, there’s just something missing. I can’t quite pinpoint what’s wrong, so we’re trying to break things down into their component parts.”
“Very sensible,” said Nigel.
“Yeah, but something still gets lost in translation,” said Max, stopping to read the new sign that had been erected where the road diverged. “Cooper can do one or two, but it’s still not as effortless, as natural as it should be.”
As Max led the way, they left the cobbles and veered onto a woodcutter’s trail that curved through the forest and back toward the ocean. The day was growing overcast, the horizon a deepening gray that promised more flurries. As the sun subsided, the landscape took on a stark beauty of snow and shadow, black branches and green needles. The breeze grew colder, but not unpleasant. Far off, a bell rang from the harbor, its chime clear in the wintry air.
“Are you a wagering man, Max?” asked Nigel.
“Sure,” said Max. “What’s the wager?”
“That bell means a ship, as I daresay you know. Well, if the ship is a Blyssian xebec, I’ll buy you a pound of Mr. Babel’s finest chocolate. If it’s a Zenuvian clipper, you buy Emily the same.”
“Done!” said Max, shaking his hand. “Blyssian xebecs are twice as common as Zenuvian clippers. Ha! Someone made a sucker’s bet!”
“Was it the someone who read this morning’s shipping news?” inquired Nigel casually.
“Oh no,” said Max, sliding between a pair of fir trees to reach a vantage point. He soon found one, a granite ledge that provided a panoramic view of Rowan’s crenellated walls and a peep of Gràvenmuir’s black spires. Far below, the harbor seemed tiny, a child’s play set.
Sure enough, there was a ship. At first, they spied its lanterns—tiny pinpricks of light against the charcoal sea. The black hull was long and narrow, the tall masts built for an enormous spread of sail. Every line and curve suggested a ship built for carrying exotic cargo at speed—a Zenuvian clipper.
“Victory is sweet!” crowed Nigel. “I’ll be sure to have Emily send a thank-you note. Incidentally, she prefers dark chocolate.”
“Mr. Babel’s,” Max confirmed.
“Indeed,” said Nigel. “We all need a bit of chocolate to fend off the chill, although apparently not that fellow. Who’d be sailing for pleasure in these conditions?”
“Where?” asked Max, gazing out at the ocean.
“Down there,” said Nigel, pointing south at a hazy vessel that was bobbing within the shelter of a small cove. Waves crashed upon the nearby rocks, sending up a misting spray that obscured much of the ship. A swell finally pushed the boat higher, allowing them to see it clearly. Max caught sight of gleaming teak and a serpentlike prow. He’d seen that ship before.
It was Lord Vyndra’s yacht.
“What’s he still doing here?” Max muttered.
“Who?” asked Nigel pleasantly.
As though in answer, they heard the sound of the demon’s horn. It came from the south—from land. The long, hoarse call froze the blood and sent birds fleeing from the trees.
“Do you have a weapon?” Max asked urgently.
Nigel’s smile evaporated. “What? Of course not—Max, what’s wrong?”
“Come on!” Max cried, running along the coast toward the sound. Nigel quickly fell behind, but Max could not stop to wait.
“Dad!” he yelled, scanning the woods ahead. No one answered. The daylight was starting to fade as Max hurdled a fallen tree and dashed along a snowy trail that wound toward the narrow creek where the children liked to play.
“Dad!”
No response—just the sighing of the wind and the percussive thump-thump-thump of his beating heart. Ahead, a snowman had been built. Two dark, uneven eyes peered from its white head. Max ran past it, following the many footprints down the slope that terminated at the creek.
He could hear a sound up ahead—a child crying.
“Dad!”
And then he saw them.
The child sat in a pile of cold, wet leaves, while the snow-swollen creek ran over her boots. She was sobbing, her hand clutching Mr. McDaniels’s coat as he
lay slumped against a tangle of roots that poked from the creek bank.
“Oh no,” Max gasped, lifting the girl free of the cold water and setting her on the blood-tinged snow. “Dad, can you hear me? Please tell me you can hear me.”
There was a mild splash as his father’s leg gave a sudden kick.
“It’s going to be okay,” Max whispered. “I’m here now.”
Glancing down, he saw a tear in his father’s sweater just below the breast. At first, Max thought it was just a tear in the fabric, until he saw the blood that seeped from it like syrup. Carefully, Max tore the hole wide and quickly unbuttoned the shirt beneath so he could examine the wound.
What he saw made him gasp.
His father held two arrows tightly in his hand—he must have made the hideous wound in his chest when he had wrenched them out.
The girl’s crying became a scream of pitched hysteria. Max tried to block it out while he focused on what to do.
“Okay,” he said, steadying himself. “Okay, okay … we’re going to do this.”
He felt his father’s pulse—weak, but certainly present. He was cold, however … terribly, terribly cold. Max needed to keep him warm while he stopped the bleeding. Pulling off his coat and sweater, Max piled them upon his father, then wrapped his scarf around his own hands so that he could apply pressure to the wound. His father inhaled sharply, stiffening from the pain.
“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I’m so sorry.”
Mr. McDaniels let go of the arrows and fumbled blindly for Max’s hand.
“You’re going to be okay,” Max insisted, seizing the hand and holding it fiercely. “The bleeding’s already slowing. It’ll stop soon. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
Max heard rapid footsteps along the creek. Nigel finally arrived, panting beside him. “Is he alive?” he gasped.
Max nodded.
“Where are the others?”
“I don’t know,” replied Max, trying to maintain steady pressure. “I only found her. I think the bleeding’s stopped, but I can’t carry him like this.”
Raising his hand, Nigel shot a screaming flare of distress sparks into the sky. Their burst reflected in the dark creek, a bizarrely festive light. Nigel sent two more—emphatic bursts that trailed like a funnel cloud down to their location. Crouching, Nigel felt Scott McDaniels’s pulse.
“I’m not getting much,” he said, his face pale with worry.
“But it isn’t bleeding anymore,” Max insisted, peering beneath the scarf. “It’s stopped.”
Nigel’s eyes darted down to the creek. Slowly, he dipped his hands into the water by Mr. McDaniels’s side.
They came up red.
Max stopped breathing.
Clearing his throat, Nigel spoke with unnerving calm. “Max, I think there’s another wound.”
Gently rolling Mr. McDaniels onto his side, Nigel lifted up his shirt to examine his lower back. He went as white as a sheet. Forgoing tourniquets altogether, Nigel immediately placed both hands directly against the injury.
“Do you know a spell?” asked Max, growing frantic.
“Not for anything like this.”
Scott McDaniels’s body shuddered. He had reached some tipping point. Leaning close, Max pressed his cheek against his father’s. “Don’t go,” he whispered. “I’ll be all alone. Please, please stay with me.”
Max repeated the plea over and over. It became a kind of incantation. As long as Max said those words, his father could not go.
There was no little girl crying.
No Nigel.
No creek.
There was only his father’s cold cheek against his warm one.
There were only the words that would keep him here.
~14~
FAREWELLS
The incantation failed.
The words had cheated him.
Two days later, Max sat alone at the foot of his father’s bed. The room was so very quiet. The curtains were drawn to reveal a gray brooding sky.
Opening the armoire, Max checked his tie once again in the mirror. It was fine. His shoes were fine. The suit was, too. Scott McDaniels’s clothes were arranged throughout the armoire, and Max stared at them. There were flannel shirts and dress shirts, charcoal trousers, and a basket of dark socks. One of the shirts had almost slipped from its hanger. Max fixed it and slowly closed the door. The armoire’s faint scent of aftershave and cedar was a bitter reminder that his father had lived here, had inhabited this space.
Old Tom chimed three o’clock. There was a tentative knock and a deep, rumbling inquiry. Opening the door, Max nodded to Bob and the Bristows. Bob and Nigel wore black suits; Mrs. Bristow wore a gray dress that showed the round, promising lump of her unborn baby.
The walk to Rose Chapel was a silent dream, a blur of corridors, the sting of daylight, the resin scent of fir trees as they plodded through the damp chill. The chapel was located northwest of the Manse, past the last rows of the orchard. It was a humble, elegant building of white stone set within a clearing of spruce and ash and fir. Many mourners had already arrived, milling clusters of black suits and dresses like so many starlings. The priest arranged his notes and motioned for Bob, the Bristows, and Max to be seated in the front pew.
Max stared at the coffin.
Within it was his father’s body, pale and suited. What a strange job, Max thought—to comb a corpse’s hair and knot its tie. But it was just a vessel, he consoled himself, just flesh and blood, bones and teeth. Someone, some well-intended soul, had tried to beautify the deceased, but no makeup could mimic the life that had departed. Despite the effort at tranquil realism, the face looked off. It was a waxy counterfeit; it bore none of the spark or personality that had defined the man.
While the priest spoke, Max fixated upon his father’s hands. There was much more of him present in his hands than in the waxy veneer of his face. There was his treasured wedding band and a class ring from a Boston university that no longer existed. Calluses and scars from his kitchen duties. The bent forefinger from a childhood basketball injury. The hands were folded upon his broad chest in a gesture suggestive of modesty or piety or both. It seemed a silly pose, such a meek and apologetic sign. His father had never carried himself that way. Max wondered if he would have approved. Is that how one was supposed to bid the world farewell, with crossed hands in a pine box?
Turning away from the coffin, Max half stood and peered past Bob’s shoulders at the other mourners. Some dabbed at eyes and blew into handkerchiefs, while others sat in bowed, respectful silence. There were the Tellers, Julie’s appalled and tear-streaked face staring into his own. There was Ms. Richter, flanked by Miss Awolowo and Ms. Kraken. The Director’s expression was hard and thoughtful, her jawline sharp as scissors as she sat with her hands folded upon her black shawl.
David Menlo stood in the chapel doorway like a ghost, but this ghost had put on a suit. Even at a distance, Max could see tears shining on David’s cheeks. He stood alone in the doorway and shook, sobbing silently as the priest read from an old Bible.
Max listened to the priest’s consoling words, but they only made him angry. The Old Magic stirred from its deep slumber. Bob made a curious sound in his throat, twisting his old frame to gaze at Max with a watchful eye. The ogre must have sensed something, some subtle change in Max that the human mourners could not feel.
“We go outside now,” he whispered.
Panting, Max nodded and felt the ogre’s warm hand close over his own. There was a gentle pull on his arm, and he stumbled out of the chapel, ignoring the blur of faces and even David, who stepped aside to let them pass.
The cold air was a relief. Once outside, Max found that he was sweating profusely; he had soaked through his shirt and even the outer suit. Bob led him to a tree stump and lay his overcoat upon it so Max could sit and catch his breath. For several minutes, Max merely hunched over and panted, his mind reeling with so many thoughts it was impossible to order them.
“When did you
decide to leave?” he finally asked Bob, clutching the ogre’s hand.
“Bob does not understand,” replied the ogre.
“Your homeland,” Max muttered. “What made you come to Rowan?”
“Hmmm,” said Bob, rumbling in his throat as though the memory were buried deep within his history. In the gathering twilight, it began to snow—tiny, crystalline flakes that settled upon his bald, knobby head. “Long ago, in Russia, I hear of place where old creatures can go. During the Great War, I come here and learn to cook. It is what Bob was meant to do.”
“Meant to do …,” muttered Max, musing on these words as the chapel’s bell began to toll.
Mourners began to stream out of the doorway, holding hands and speaking quietly while the bell’s clear note rang through the dark clearing.
Bob patted Max’s hand. “Do you want to see your papa one more time?”
Max stood and gazed at the open church door. “No,” he said. “He’s gone, Bob. He’s someplace else.”
The ogre nodded and shifted his weight, flexing his fingers to drive off the cold.
“Bob will see to details,” he said. “You go do what you must. Bob just asks one thing, malyenki?”
“What’s that?”
“Visit Bob one last time before you go,” rumbled the ogre. “He misses his little Mum. He will miss his fierce Max, too.”
“Who says I’m going anywhere?” Max protested.
The ogre merely smiled and shook his head.
“Before Bob was cook, Bob was ogre. Little ones not so hard to read.…”
Draping his overcoat over his shoulders, the stooped ogre lumbered back toward the chapel, stepping gingerly over the icy patches in the snow. As he did so, he waved absently at Julie, who stood upon the walkway some distance from her waiting family. Nodding politely to her parents, Max came and took her hand.
The Fiend and the Forge Page 21