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! T
hey’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.
There was Miss Boon, sitting upright in a chair, staring out at him with a dull, blank gaze. Her intelligent eyes were dim; no recognition flashed across her face as Max stood just beyond the bars.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Max.
“Don’tcha see the baka?” asked Jimmy. “There, at her shoulder.”
Max looked again and saw a little creature, like a pale-skinned imp, naked and shriveled, that sat upon the back of her chair like a hideous gargoyle. It was hunched forward, its mouth moving ever so slightly as it whispered in the young teacher’s ear.
“The prisoners are all bewitched by those miserable creatures,” said Jimmy, shaking his head. “It’s an old practice I never approved of. The baka keep ’em dreaming—horrible dreams, I’d guess. I don’t even know why we bother with bars. I never saw a prisoner move as much as a finger.”
The sight of the hideous thing clinging to his teacher like a parasite revolted Max. When Jimmy opened the door, Max hurried inside and flung the small creature away. It gave a squeal and spread its arms to flap like a heavy, crippled bat up toward a ledge some ten feet up the rock face. Once there, it settled onto its haunches and hissed at Max through small, sharp teeth. Max ignored it and shook Miss Boon gently. She blinked several times.
“Where am I?” she asked, gazing about the cell.
“The Hollows,” said Max. “You have to help me—there’s no time to lose.”
With Jimmy’s help, Max and Miss Boon went from cell to cell until Ms. Richter, Cooper, Bob, and a dozen other faculty members were released from their delusional state. While the released prisoners recovered their senses, Jimmy and Max continued to free the others. Coming upon one of the last cells, Max gasped as he looked upon Mr. Morrow.
The traitorous Humanities instructor sat unblinking in his chair while a baka clung to the white, tangled beard that had grown during his imprisonment. Conflicting emotions surged through Max as he gazed at the man who was responsible for so many crimes the previous year. Arriving beside Max, Cooper took the keys from Max’s hands and unlocked the cell.
“We should leave him,” muttered Max, recognizing that Astaroth might still be imprisoned if not for the treachery of the broken man before him.
“No,” said Cooper, stepping inside the cell. “That would be murder.”
The Agent led the bent, confused Mr. Morrow from his cell. The old man clung to Cooper like a child. His eyes widened when he saw Max.
“Thank God,” muttered Mr. Morrow. “Thank God no harm came to you. . . .”
Max ignored him and spoke to Bob instead.
“Can you take Mr. Morrow and the others to the Sanctuary?” asked Max, despite the murderous glint in Bob’s eye as the ogre glared at Mr. Morrow. Upon hearing the request, Bob stood to his full height and looked down his chest at Max.
“Bob will fight.”
“No!” pleaded Max. “We need Mystics, not muscle. If those ships land . . .”
Bob frowned as he considered Max’s words. With a slow, reluctant nod, he herded the older, non-Mystic prisoners up the steps. Max turned to Jimmy.
“I need you to do one more thing,” he said.
“Another quest?” asked Jimmy hopefully.
“Another quest,” said Max, shouldering David’s pack. “We need you to call out for Connor Lynch. He’s hiding somewhere on campus, and we need to get him in the Sanctuary. He isn’t safe out here.”
“On the double!” said J
immy with a snappy salute, waddling up the stairs after the others.
“We have to hurry,” said Max, leading Ms. Richter, Miss Boon, and Agent Cooper up the stairs as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them.
As they reached the ground floor of the Manse, they could hear the keening wail of the spirit that lurked in the waters off Rowan’s beach. The four hurried through the deserted Manse and out the front doors, which had been left open to the rising storm.
Outside, a cold rain fell in stinging fits while moaning gusts rushed in from the ocean. Max shouted to Ms. Richter, but his voice was lost in the howling wind and he merely pointed toward the sea. Together, the four ran over the lawns toward the bluff where the Promethean Scholars stood in a line against the horizon. As they arrived, Max heard the sound of distant drums, followed by a sudden roar that might have been the crashing sea or the call of a thousand voices.
Looking past the chanting Scholars, Max gazed in horror upon the tossing ocean. Hundreds of tall-masted galleons stretched as far as he could see, some whole, others wracked and broken as though summoned from a long slumber in the deep. They lay at anchor offshore, their torches sputtering in the wind, while deep drums boomed and a thousand landing boats were rowed toward shore by vyes and goblins, ogres and men. The Promethean Scholars cast their spells, raising great breakers from the waves and churning the sea in an effort to capsize the approaching boats.
“Don’t interfere,” warned Vilyak, eyeing Ms. Richter. He stopped and gave the Scholars a shout of encouragement as one of the Enemy’s landing vessels was dashed against Brigit’s Vigil by a great black wave.
Vilyak’s enthusiasm moved others to cheers, but not Max. He watched in silence, noting that wherever a boat was sunk, three more arrived to take its place, cleaving the broken spars and rowing swiftly past those who flailed in the sea and sank beneath the water. Overhead, the sky rumbled, slow and ominous. Hints of lightning flashed from deep within the thick, pluming thunderheads, and Max felt the air grow still.
The Second Siege Page 37