The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

  “Oh,” said Mr. McDaniels, releasing David at once. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” said David with a weak laugh. “Just a little tight.”

  “Nobody’s going off alone to live with any witches,” said Mr. McDaniels, gripping both boys fiercely by the shoulder. “The three of us are a package deal—it’s all or none, or else there’ll be hell to pay!”

  “I wonder what it’d be like living with the witches,” mused Max in an effort to lighten the mood. He went to his bookcase to retrieve his Rowan Compendium of Known Enemies. “Probably lots of newts and black cats and gingerbread houses. Bet they don’t have anything like the Course—Richter said they’re afraid of machines.”

  He scrolled through the index but failed to find anything between werewolf and wraith.

  “You won’t find them in there,” said David. “I don’t think Rowan technically classifies the witches as enemies—just something to be avoided. And I don’t think they’re like witches from fairy tales. Did you see those markings on her face?”

  “You should have seen her, Dad,” Max said as he put the book away. “She looked like a headhunter!”

  “Those markings were spells,” said David, ignoring Max’s sarcasm. “Weird spells—primitive—tattooed right into her skin. They’re some kind of protection. . . . I think the witches are frightened of something.”

  Just then someone else rapped at the door, the knock as loud and impatient as before.

  “Open the bleedin’ door, you bogtrotters! I’m back for me edgemacation!” bellowed a loud voice with a thick Irish accent.

  Max grinned and bounded away up the stairs.

  There, in the hallway, stood Connor Lynch, Max and David’s best friend. Fresh from Dublin, Connor was sporting a wild crown of chestnut curls that framed a pink-cheeked face so flush with good humor he might have been the Ghost of Christmas Present. He handed Max a battered set of golf clubs.

  “Look after these like a good lad, eh?” he said, clapping Max on the shoulder as he dragged his enormous duffel in behind him.

  “Hey, Connor,” said Max, closing the door while Connor hurried downstairs to hurl hellos at David and Mr. McDaniels. “Don’t you want to drop your stuff in your room?”

  “Nah,” called up Connor, settling into one of the lower level’s cozy nooks and rummaging through his duffel like a badger. “My fine roommates are already gushing about how they spent their summer vacations milking yaks or building latrines or knitting booties for underprivileged kittens. Insufferable weenies,” he concluded with a sad shake of his head. “I was hoping to crash here for a bit until—”

  More knocks sounded at the door. Max heard giggling outside.

  “Until the girls get here!” crowed Connor, retrieving a shiny bag from his duffel and tossing it to Mr. McDaniels, who caught it with a snort of pleasant surprise. David looked unsettled by the sudden prospect of more visitors, much less girls. He sniffed his armpit before quickly changing shirts behind the door of his armoire.

  Max stood aside as Cynthia Gilley, Sarah Amankwe, and Lucia Cavallo streamed into the room in a swarming chorus of greetings and hugs. Within minutes, the six classmates and Mr. McDaniels were huddled downstairs and enjoying an impromptu party fueled by Connor’s bags of Bedford Bros. Colossal Cookies, a new product introduced by one of Mr. McDaniels’s former clients.

  “Whatcha think?” Connor asked Mr. McDaniels as Max’s father closed his eyes and sampled a thick, ridged cookie as if it were a canapé. “I saw ’em at the airport and thought of you.”

  Mr. McDaniels signaled for a moment of quiet while he thoughtfully chewed the cookie.

  “That’s a quality product,” he said at length, giving the bag a brisk nod of approval. “Two jabs of light and flaky with an uppercut of chocolate. I should give the head honchos over there a call—suggest a slogan or two.”

  “Dad,” said Max, shaking his head at his obsessively loyal father. “They’re not your client anymore. Those cookies could taste like mothballs and you’d say they were great.”

  “Oh no,” said Mr. McDaniels, smiling as he patted his enormous stomach. “You can lie to a man’s face, but you can’t lie to his belly, son. The belly knows. Remember that.”

  “Is that supposed to be some pearl of wisdom?” asked Max, burying his head as the others burst into laughter. Mr. McDaniels just gave a contented smile and passed along the bag.

  “Enough of cookies!” snapped Lucia, a no-nonsense Italian beauty whose flashing eyes and indifference to Connor’s charms had left the Irish boy smitten. “Out with it, you two!” she said, snapping her fingers at Max and David. “What is happening here?”

  “What Lucia means,” said Cynthia, swatting away Lucia’s hand as she snatched up another cookie, “is that since the two of you were here over the summer, you must know what’s going on.” The ample-bottomed English girl bit into her cookie and fixed David with an expectant, maternal stare.

  “With what?” asked David.

  “Oh, like the fact that the charming little gatehouse has been replaced with a fortress,” said Sarah, looking regal and splendid in a scarlet wrap from her native Nigeria.

  “Whose walls are fifty feet high,” said Lucia.

  “And covered with thorns,” added Cynthia.

  “And crawling with Agents,” finished Sarah.

  “Mystics, too,” chimed in Connor. “I saw them peering down at me from the windows. Two blinky old codgers! Gave me the creeps . . .”

  “David knows more about it,” said Max. “He’s been helping Ms. Richter.”

  “Well, they haven’t let me help with the design,” said David, sounding a bit peeved. “They just use me for the grunt work—raising the walls and stuff.”

  “You raised the walls?” asked Sarah, wide-eyed. “They must be twenty feet thick!”

  David nodded and nibbled a cookie. Ever since his arrival at Rowan, Max’s roommate had exhibited a freakishly intuitive grasp of Mystics.

  “Now that Astaroth’s free, Ms. Richter thinks we need stronger defenses. Of all the banished demons, Astaroth was reputed to have been the greatest scholar and Sorcerer,” said David with a shrug.

  “But isn’t Rowan already hidden away from outsiders?” asked Cynthia, sitting up with a look of real concern. “Even if he’s free, no outsider—not even Astaroth—should be able to find us here. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to work,” said David, frowning, “but I have my doubts.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Max, glancing at Sarah, who looked frightened.

  “How did that witch find Rowan?” asked David, his pale eyes boring into Max. “Of course Ms. Richter was shocked by what Dame Mala wanted, but couldn’t you tell how surprised she was that a witch was even here?”

  “Maybe they should let you run this place, David,” said Scott McDaniels with a grunt as he waved off the circling bag. “You’d have my vote.”

  “Please don’t even joke about that, Mr. McDaniels,” said David quietly, reaching for another cookie. “I’m afraid Rowan has another traitor, or else we’re not as hidden as we’d like to think.”

  Connor raised his hand in sarcastic schoolboy fashion.

  “And just who are these witches?” he asked.

  “That’s my cue,” said Mr. McDaniels, brushing crumbs from his hands and pushing back from his chair. “I’ll let you kids catch up on all that. I’ve had enough of witches for one day. Besides, I told Bob I’d set up the ol’ Beefmeister 2000 in the kitchen. Got quite a feast in store for tomorrow—lots of grilled meats on the menu. Save your appetites!”

  The group said good-bye to Mr. McDaniels, who lumbered up the stairs like a sleepy bear. Max stretched and flicked on the lights, transforming the dark room into a two-tiered circle of golden wood crowned now by a sky of midnight blue. While the constellations twinkled above, Max and David shared the tale of Dame Mala’s visit, interrupted periodically by Connor’s incredulous questions until he was finally
shushed by Lucia. When Max described Dame Mala’s parting promise that the witches would return, Lucia crumpled the empty bag of cookies and uttered a string of what sounded to be some choice Italian phrases.

  “Do you actually think you’d have to go away?” asked Sarah, looking hard at Max.

  “David thinks there’s probably something to their claim,” said Max, avoiding her gaze and shrugging. “It’s hard to believe it could happen, though.”

  “There’s no way, mate,” said Connor. “That’s like—that’s like slavery! Things like that can’t happen anymore.”

  “We’ll see,” said David, glancing at Max. “There’s no point in anybody worrying about it right now, though. Please don’t tell everyone—they think I’m weird enough.”

  “Done,” said Connor, “but I heard some Sixth Years gossiping in the foyer about how they saw Cooper marching some woman out the gate. That must have been your witch, eh?”

  Max nodded.

  “They’re bound to blabber,” said Connor. “But we can take care of that if you like.” He grinned and burrowed in his duffel once again, retrieving a slim book of red leather and a small bag of black felt. He placed them on the table with a triumphant gleam in his eye.

  “What’s that?” asked Cynthia, hovering close to peer at the book’s unmarked cover.

  “That, Cynthia my dear, is how we’re going to keep Max and David’s secret safe!” crowed Connor, untying the felt bag’s drawstring and spilling six small stones onto the table. “It’s also why I had my best summer ever—don’t know how I ever got along without it!”

  “What’s it do?” asked Max, pulling his seat closer.

  “What doesn’t it do is the real question,” cackled Connor, arranging the stones in a rough circle. Each of the stones had a slightly different shape and color, and Connor appeared very particular about which went where. “This one’s the best by far,” he said eagerly, motioning them closer as he opened the book and thumbed through several pages.

  When chores do stack to sap my strength

  And wee small wants do plague my heart,

  I call upon a friend so true, a friend who grants my soul’s delight.

  Upon this eve I summon you, the mild-mannered Mr. Sikes.

  The stones began to glow, flickering to life as reluctantly as an old lightbulb. There was the distant sound of a clock chime and a sudden flash of light. A moment later, Max found himself blinking at an elfin creature no taller than a candle.

  The tiny being stood within the circle of stones, dressed neatly in a banker’s suit and radiating an air of polite reserve. It had curling silver hair, bluish skin, an imposing Roman nose, and the attentive yellow eyes of a cat. Pivoting on a well-polished shoe, it took a long look at each of them. When its gaze reached Connor, the creature bowed low and spoke in a voice as smooth and flowing as a ribbon of silk.

  “With proper stones and incantations Master Lynch does call and Mr. Sikes does answer. What ails the young gentleman? How may Mr. Sikes be of service?”

  Max peered closer as the little figure held its pose like an obedient doll. Glancing at David, Max saw his roommate lean back, his expression wary.

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Sikes,” said Connor conversationally. “I’ve got a little favor to ask, but first I’d like you to meet my friends and, er, maybe whip up a round of lemonades?”

  “Mr. Sikes is pleased to meet the master’s friends,” said the creature, clasping its hands and bowing low to Cynthia, who nodded back in slack-jawed astonishment. “Iced lemonades may be found before you.”

  Max looked down and saw a tall glass of lemonade resting on a coaster at his right hand.

  “Bottoms up!” said Connor, raising his glass in a cheerful toast.

  “Stop!” exclaimed David, reaching for Connor’s hand and almost knocking the glass onto the table. “Nobody touch those drinks.”

  “Easy, Davie,” said Connor. “It’s all right! Mr. Sikes has brought me loads of lemonades before, isn’t that right?”

  “The master does enjoy his lemonade,” said the little being, smoothing his pocket square.

  David ignored Connor and looked skeptically at the creature.

  “Who are you, Mr. Sikes?” asked David, his voice quiet and serious.

  “I am the summoned servant of Master Lynch,” said the creature simply.

  “What are you, Mr. Sikes?” asked Max.

  “Max,” said Connor, shooting an angry glance, “don’t be rude!”

  “Mr. Sikes takes no offense,” said the creature smoothly. “Mr. Sikes is but a humble imp and begs pardon if he has insulted Master Lynch’s friend.”

  “See?” said Connor. “He’s an imp. Happy, Max?”

  Max shrugged, but David clucked his tongue impatiently and looked at Connor.

  “Do you know what an imp is?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do,” said Connor proudly. “He’s a capital little fellow who comes when you call and gets what you ask. Why are you being such a pain? I called Mr. Sikes for you guys and now you’ve got the cheek to talk to me like I’m three years old! And—What are you doing now?”

  “Mr. Sikes knows,” said David calmly, using his finger to trace a faintly shimmering circle of light around the stones. “This circle will ensure Mr. Sikes stays right where he is. An imp is a demon, Connor.”

  Connor scoffed in disbelief and looked to Max and the girls for support. Mr. Sikes smiled and shrugged apologetically.

  “The young man speaks the truth, I’m sorry to say. Technically, imps are demons.”

  “Really?” asked Connor, wrinkling his nose and leaning close to peer at Mr. Sikes, who bore the inspection with a patient smile.

  “Yes, it’s true,” said Mr. Sikes, “but I have to differ with the young gentleman, who seems to believe I pose some sort of danger. There are many kinds of demons, my friends, and we are just as varied in our types and temperaments as humans. Do monstrous and horrible demons exist? Of course. Are there also monstrous and horrible humans? I daresay yes again. Would you recoil from a garden lizard simply because its distant cousin is the crocodile? Some demons exist to destroy; Mr. Sikes exists to serve.”

  “Those are good points,” said Connor, nodding. “Davie, even you have to admit that those are some very good points the little guy’s making.”

  David nodded, but his frown remained.

  “Is that your only shape?” asked David.

  “I beg pardon?” asked the imp.

  “Can the harmless lizard become a crocodile? I’ve read that imps are shape-shifters.”

  “Of course I can take alternative forms,” said Mr. Sikes, “but I hardly think the two available to me are cause for alarm.”

  “What are they?” asked Lucia, scooting forward with interest.

  Mr. Sikes smiled at her and cleared his throat.

  “For my first act, I give you . . . the terrifying field mouse!”

  With a snap of his fingers, there was an audible pop and Mr. Sikes disappeared, replaced by a gray mouse with a pink tail that poked its nose along the edges of David’s glowing perimeter. The mouse stood on its hind legs to look at them, its whiskers aquiver. A moment later there was another pop and the mouse was transformed into a small gypsy moth, hovering on a pair of tiny wings. The moth fluttered up, rising in tight little spirals.

  Zbbbt!

  A sudden jolt of blue electricity zapped the moth, making Max jump. The moth fell like a stone to writhe on the tabletop.

  “Oh!” cried Cynthia. “He’s hurt!”

  “He hit the barrier,” said David, folding his arms. “That’s why it’s there.”

  “That’s uncalled for, David,” fumed Connor. “He’d better be okay.”

  Max saw Lucia glare at David; even Sarah shot David a glance before returning to the moth with a concerned expression. Reduced to one functioning wing, the moth now fluttered about in a shaky little circle. Max watched the moth carefully; Mr. Sikes seemed very clever and Max knew it might just be a ploy to
gain their sympathy. Still, he had to admit that the tip of its wing was badly singed and the moth’s flutters seemed sporadic and distressed.

  Pop!

  Mr. Sikes reappeared, his face contorted in anguish as he clutched his arm. Against his better judgment, Max felt a pang of compassion for the small creature.

  “I’m so sorry,” cried Lucia.

  “Are you hurt?” asked Sarah, reaching her hand out to the little imp. Mr. Sikes reached out his left arm to take her hand, but then he glanced at the nearby barrier and recoiled.

  “I’ll be all right,” he gasped through gritted teeth. “It was my fault to begin with. The young master drew a circle for all to see.” The imp gave a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I was showing off and got my comeuppance. I’ll be all right—don’t worry about me.”

  David rolled his eyes.

  “What’s that for?” asked Connor, his eyes flashing. “Are you saying you didn’t hurt him?”

  “No,” said David quietly. “I’m saying I think you should say good-bye to Mr. Sikes, scatter those stones, and burn that book.”

  Connor looked in disbelief at David and gave a short laugh.

  “You’re kidding, right?” he said. “Didn’t you steal a forbidden grimoire last year—one that even Ms. Richter won’t touch?”

  David paused a moment before nodding.

  “And,” continued Connor, “don’t you go wandering around the campus at all hours—even down paths we’ve all been told are off-limits?”

  David blinked at Connor and gave another hesitant nod.

  “And now you’ve got the nerve to tell me that I can’t manage an imp?” exclaimed Connor. “Why, because I’m not David Menlo, Sorcerer supreme? How arrogant are you, mate?”

  “Connor!” said Sarah. “That’s enough.”

  David’s face turned beet red.

  “I just . . .” David choked off the sentence and bowed his head, pushing away from the table. He scampered upstairs, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “So much for the party,” said Connor, looking guilty and miserable.