The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

  “You know, that imp will have to steal that tiara,” said David, waving his fork at Connor. “An imp can’t just make a tiara out of thin air—it’s coming from someplace. This isn’t good.”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Davie,” pleaded Connor, reaching for a basket of warm focaccia. “Please? For me? Nobody who owns a bleedin’ tiara is going to go hungry if it turns up missing.”

  Even David had to laugh. Without further ado, the three joined in the feast.

  Lately, Max found that he was always craving food. It went beyond mere hunger and was, instead, an all-consuming need to feed a body whose demands for energy were becoming insatiable. David and Connor watched in silent awe as Max wolfed down plate after plate of tenderloin, chicken, string beans, and barley. When Max finally polished off a heaping mound of pasta shells swimming in Bellagrog’s succulent red sauce, the ravenous hunger faded.

  “Impressive,” said Connor, wiping his mouth. “But you’re wasting valuable time with this whole chewing thing. You should just learn to unhinge your jaw—you know, like a python. Maybe Sir Alistair can teach you. . . .”

  Max made a face at the mention of Sir Alistair Wesley, Rowan’s Etiquette instructor.

  “No more Sir Alistair for me,” replied Max. “I’m out of Etiquette and Diplomacy this year—they changed my schedule. They’ve got me in Advanced Combat Training with the Sixth Years instead.”

  “Lucky you,” said Connor, “but I wouldn’t tell Sarah. She’ll think they’re sending you to the front lines.”

  Max nodded heartily in agreement while slipping a grilled chop onto his plate.

  Dishes were now being cleared and a variety of desserts were set on the table, including Bellagrog’s picture-perfect soufflés. David ordered coffee from a passing faun, ignoring the creature’s disbelieving snort.

  “Since when do you drink coffee?” laughed Connor.

  “I’m tired and I need to stay up,” replied David, stirring a cube of sugar into the porcelain cup. “I’m spending some time in the Archives tonight. Kraken got me access . . . er, authorized access,” he added quickly, after Max raised an eyebrow. “I need to learn whatever I can about the Book of Thoth and Bram’s Oath. The witches will be back in a few weeks, and I want to be ready.”

  “Yeah, but Richter and Kraken didn’t know anything about Bram’s Oath,” said Max. “What makes you think there’s anything on it in the Archives?”

  “It’s worth a look,” said David. “The Archives aren’t a little bookcase—they’re huge, and there are lots of vaults. Nobody at Rowan has seen everything that’s in there, much less understood or analyzed it all.”

  “But you’re planning on it?” asked Connor.

  “I’ve got my ways,” said David lightly. “Ways that don’t require Mr. Sikes . . .”

  David pushed back from the table to wander about the dining hall. He stopped to examine a glistening portrait of a dour-faced burgher, swirling his cup of coffee like an old hand and ignoring the sniggers of several Third Years. Moments later, Max saw Amulya Jain, the visiting Scholar, approach David. The sniggers at the nearby table stopped immediately, with the students now curiously focused on their dessert. David and the Scholar were soon engrossed in conversation; Max could tell David was absorbed by the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “C’mon,” said Connor, tugging at Max’s elbow. “Let’s go say hello to the First Years. Gotta get them to sneak out tonight. It’s tradition, you know,” he said with a wink.

  “Nothing to do with the Kestrel,” insisted Max. The previous year they had been duped into sneaking out and spending the night aboard Rowan’s ancient ship, the Kestrel, only to be thrown into the churning ocean when it was suddenly tossed about by something that screamed and wailed in the water. The experience had been terrifying and earned them an entire day of detention cleaning out the stables.

  “Naw,” said Connor dismissively. “Been done already. I’ve got something better in mind—something harmless.”

  When Max arrived at the rows of First Year tables, he immediately regretted his decision. There, sitting with the First Years, were Anna Lundgren and Sasha Ivanovich—two of three older students who had bullied Max the previous year. The third and worst of the bunch, Alex Muñoz, had been lost the previous spring—buried beneath a mound of stone and earth when Marley Augur’s tomb had collapsed. Max knew Anna and Sasha blamed him for the loss of their friend.

  “Here they are!” crowed Sasha as Max and Connor approached.

  “These are the ones we were telling you about,” said Anna, speaking to the huddling First Years in a conspiratorial tone. “Connor’s the one on the right—he’s just trash and not worth your worry. But Max? I’d stay clear of Max. Max is a murderer—killed our friend in cold blood.”

  Max felt his cheeks burn as the First Years looked at him, dumbfounded.

  “You’re kidding,” laughed a heavyset boy with a mop of red hair.

  “Wish I were,” said Anna, her pretty blue eyes glittering with malice. “But ask anyone here and they’ll tell you that Alex Muñoz is gone and Max McDaniels was the very last person to see him alive.”

  “What a load of bull!” snapped Connor, pinching his nose and waving his hand in the direction of Sasha. Several First Years grinned and giggled. “Don’t listen to these two jokers—worst pair of prats in this whole place! Rowan heaped honors on Max when he got back! You’ll see his name above Beowulf’s Gauntlet—written in fiery script, clear as day.”

  “So it isn’t true?” squeaked a small black boy with glasses.

  “Well,” said Connor, scratching his chestnut curls, “technically, that last bit is true, but they’re leaving out lots of important stuff! Max ain’t a murderer, for God’s sake—that’s crazy!”

  “That’s just the word I was looking for!” said Anna, her smile turning sickly sweet. “Crazy. I think that’s how I heard a Sixth Year describe Max just this morning after breakfast. . . .”

  Max bit off his reply and sighed, realizing that Anna was trying to bait him.

  “Welcome to Rowan,” he said quietly, walking away from the First Years and leaving Connor behind to argue with Anna and Sasha. The cavernous hall seemed stifling. He thought about tracking down Julie again but quickly put the idea out of his mind—that terrible force within him was stirring and now was not the time to ask why she seemed to be avoiding him. Instead Max stopped and leaned against a pillar whose gray stones had been worn smooth by the centuries. He considered the presence lurking within him. Ms. Richter called it Old Magic; Miss Boon and the witch called it Cúchulain. Whatever its proper name, it was a force that had summoned terrible things to Max’s doorstep, and he was determined to keep it under control.

  “I’m my own person,” he whispered, scratching the pillar with his thumbnail as Bob introduced Mum’s sister, Bellagrog Shrope, to enthusiastic applause.

  When the cheers subsided and the students began climbing up the curving steps, Max turned to see if he might catch Julie. Instead, he saw Commander Vilyak standing at his elbow. The man smiled, but his eyes remained dead as he took a long, hard look at Max.

  “You’re Max McDaniels,” he said decisively. “I’m Commander Vilyak.” As Max shook the proffered hand, he saw that the inside of Vilyak’s wrist had some sort of tattoo. Vilyak caught Max staring at it and grinned, removing his cuff link and pulling back his sleeve so Max could get a better look. He saw an image of a red hand, raised in greeting, bound by a slender cord. “That’s the mark of the Red Branch,” Vilyak said proudly. “Ever seen it before?”

  “No,” said Max, strangely fascinated by the simple emblem.

  “They’re very rare,” the man said fondly. “Only the top twelve Agents in the world get one of these. You know one of them, I think.”

  “Cooper?” asked Max.

  “Yes,” said Vilyak, smiling. “William Cooper is a member of the Red Branch. And he has told me a great deal about you, my young friend. Making your acquaintance is the o
nly reason I’m here, what with things as busy as they are. Fortunately, everything Cooper reported has been confirmed.”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” said Max. “We’ve just met.”

  “I took the opportunity to review your scenario from this afternoon,” said Vilyak, shifting to a more businesslike tone. “I watched it several times.”

  “Oh,” said Max, reddening. “That. Well, I guess I should have followed orders. . . .”

  Vilyak leaned forward and spoke, enunciating each word very carefully. “It was brilliant.” The man clapped Max on the arm and gave him a parting wink. “Orders aren’t for everyone, Max. Don’t let them tame you too much—it’s not your nature. I’ll be in touch, eh?”

  “Okay—er, thank you, sir!” said Max, flushing with an unexpected rush of pride. Vilyak joined a passing flock of senior faculty, and they departed in a slow procession of navy robes. Max craned his neck one more time, searching for Julie, before dashing up the stairs and out the Manse’s door. Nick might have awoken by now, and Max felt like running far and wide in the warm summer night.

  Nick was indeed waiting as Max emerged from the Sanctuary tunnel. The lymrill crouched in the tall grass, swishing his coppery tail and finishing the remains of a particularly large and juicy rat. Nick’s eyes peered up as Max stepped into the clearing, two points of reflected moonlight shining bright among the deep greens of the darkening field. Giving the rat a final nudge, the lymrill licked its muzzle clean and stood to dig at the thick turf with its lethal, curling claws. With a sudden happy mewl, Nick bolted away, kicking up clumps of grass as he ran, and Max chased after.

  By the time Max trudged back to the Manse, the campus was dark. A conspicuous exception, however, were the windows of Ms. Richter’s office. Light streamed from a slim gap in the drawn curtains, spilling onto the flagged patio. Shapes moved across the opening—apparently there were several people in the Director’s office. The drapes parted momentarily and Max saw Dr. Rasmussen standing at the window, surveying the orchard while speaking rapidly. With a scowl, the leader of the Frankfurt Workshop pulled the drapes shut once again. Max glanced at his watch; it was well past midnight. He wondered what would necessitate such a late meeting.

  Max soon discovered the reason. In a wood-paneled room off the Manse’s foyer, some two dozen pajama-clad students were gathered in stunned silence before a large television. Julie Teller was among the group, wedged into a leather couch and looking horror-stricken as she stared at the screen. A bleary-eyed anchorman was speaking, his tone eerily calm.

  “Today’s events are an unprecedented tragedy. For those viewers just joining us, five world leaders are dead and several others are missing under highly suspicious circumstances. While few details are available at this time, authorities believe the incidents to be linked and are acting accordingly. All domestic and international air travel has been temporarily suspended, as has trading across most global exchanges. The president has been moved to an undisclosed location and will address the American people later today . . . .”

  Max stood speechless as the report went on to detail the ministers, presidents, and premiers who were dead or missing. There did not seem to be any pattern of wealth, politics, or popularity of the leaders. They were scattered across continents and regions, representing nations rich and poor. When the anchorman began to repeat his report, Max crossed quickly over to Julie and knelt next to the sofa.

  “When did they start reporting this?” he asked her quietly.

  She glanced at him as though gazing through a ghost. Her face blanched, and she scooted off the couch to hurry from the room. Utterly perplexed, Max followed and called after her, but she ignored him, scampering quickly across the foyer and up the staircase toward the girls’ dormitories. Max stood in the foyer, staring at the gleaming floor, while Julie’s steps pattered away.

  Other footsteps—quick and purposeful—sounded from the corridor that led to Ms. Richter’s office. Cooper emerged into the foyer. Without so much as a glance at Max, the Agent strode out into the night.

  4

  THE RIDDLE AND THE

  RED BRANCH VAULT

  Two weeks later, Bellagrog was holding court, as she was wont to do in the late afternoon. Max could hear her contagious laugh rumbling in the distance as he walked toward the Manse on a day when wood smoke was in the air and the leaves were tinged with orange and yellow. A splendid white goose waddled alongside him, pausing periodically to ensure that the dozen goslings behind them were keeping up and staying out of mischief.

  “So, no words of wisdom?” asked Max. “I mean, we wrote each other all summer and now she won’t even look at me. . . .”

  “I won’t pretend to understand teenage girls,” sighed the goose. “I’ve seen over two hundred classes come through this school, and while times change, the teenage girl remains a fickle, mysterious beast. You should find yourself a nice selkie.”

  Max smiled as Hannah buffeted him playfully with her wing.

  “You’re too young to be heartbroken,” she continued. “That job’s been taken by this gorgeous goose who was left high and dry with twelve mouths to feed! Forget all about her, honey.”

  “I’ll try,” sighed Max as Hannah began veering off the path toward her nest on the edge of the orchard. He was reluctant to leave her company. “Do you want to sit on the patio?” he asked hopefully.

  “Why?” asked Hannah, her voice becoming shrill. “To fawn over that revolting hag while she spins her lies and stories? Not on your life! That one’s always nosing around the nest and cooing after the goslings. Like I don’t know she’d toss ’em back like popcorn first chance she got!”

  The goose waddled off, calling after her children, who came scurrying back to join their mother. Max strolled through the orchard, peering up at row upon row of apple trees, whose golden fruit signified graduates of Rowan who had passed away. More laughter sounded ahead as he emerged from the orchard to find Bellagrog sitting on one of the flagstone patio’s benches, swirling a generous glass of brandy while she entertained some twenty students. Max’s stomach made a funny flip as he spied Julie Teller sitting on a stone bench, flanked by a pair of girlfriends. The smile evaporated from her face the moment she saw Max, and she took a sudden interest in her sandals. Max’s heart sank and he skirted the group, passing Mum, who was briskly sweeping fallen petals into little piles on the flagstones. The hag’s face was curdled with indignation.

  “Bel,” she hissed, “I need you to hold the dustpan.”

  “Not now, Bea,” rumbled Bellagrog, shooing away her sister. “You’re interrupting me stories—”

  Bellagrog cocked an eyebrow and caught Max reaching for the French doors.

  “Max!” the hag sang. “Max, Max, handsome Max—pull up a seat or I’ll crack yer back! Bwahahahaha! Was just breakin’ out me stories before supper. Have a seat while Bea fetches her sis another splash of brandy.”

  “That’s your fourth!” commented Mum acidly, propping up her broom and scurrying inside.

  “When’d she get so clever with numbers?” laughed Bellagrog, gulping down the last amber drop. “Now, Max, plenty of room right next to yer ol’ Auntie Mum.”

  Max did his best to smile as he squeezed onto the bench next to the swollen gray hag, who smelled like a nauseating mix of meat and mold. The other students giggled, but Julie looked mortified and merely stared at the ground. Bellagrog patted his knee and took a deep whiff of Max’s upper arm, looking oddly distant as drool pooled behind her lower lip. A moment later, the hag blinked and fumbled for a pouch of tobacco, pinching off an enormous wad and stuffing it in her mouth just as Mum arrived with a crystal decanter.

  “That’s it, Bea,” said Bellagrog, holding out her glass. “A little more . . . and a little more . . . and that’s a proper glass!” The hag almost began to purr as she tipped back her drink. “As I was saying,” she continued, “it wasn’t no Sunday shower what made yer Auntie Mum pack her bags and hop the pond. Big things are afoot! Remind
s me o’ the summer of ’40, when Nan sniffed trouble and moved us up to Shropshire before the bombs started fallin’. Mum was still in diapers yet!”

  “Oh,” cooed a Third Year girl, “I’ll bet you were an adorable baby, Mum!”

  Mum blushed and smiled appreciatively.

  “Who said anything about a baby?” chortled Bellagrog. “She was a bloody teenager!”

  Mum’s lip trembled as the students burst into laughter.

  “I never wore diapers in my teens!” she thundered.

  “Have it your way, Bea,” said Bellagrog with a wink. “Let’s just call ’em ‘training bloomers’ if it’ll make you happy. . . .”

  More howls of laughter sent Mum gathering up her things with frantic gasps and mutters. Max felt a pang of sympathy for Mum as she gave her sister a murderous stare and stormed inside, slamming the French doors shut.

  “Always had a thin skin, Bea did,” said Bellagrog with an indulgent smile. “Anyway, it was right pretty country near Shropshire. Plenty to eat, too, with all the men off fighting the war and . . . er . . . leaving their families. . . .”

  Bellagrog gave Max a sheepish shrug as her audience began whispering to one another and scooting away. She snapped her fingers to reclaim their attention, leaning forward to continue in a throaty whisper.

  “Let’s just say it was easy living for the Shropes, while those hags what stayed near London had an awful hard time of it. The moral of me little tale is that any blubbering fool will go arunnin’ once it rains, but it takes a smart old bird to find a cozy nook soon as the wind goes still and quiet. And it’s quiet in the world, my lovelies—radio ain’t singing me tunes, telephone’s out half the time. Soon, dark nasties will be digging into cellars. . . .”

  “Dark nasties . . . like hags?” quipped Connor, poking his head out from the French doors.

  This brought a laugh from the group, but none laughed louder than Bellagrog, whose whole body shook with mirth while she wiped a tear from her crocodile eye.

  “Aye, nasties like hags,” she allowed with a final, convulsive chuckle. “But other things, too—vyes and hobgoblins and older things much too terrible to mention.”