The Owl Keeper

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  "This room must be a side business," he said. "I bet they send all the drones and nerds here."

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  Rose gave a cynical snort. "Just to clue you in, this is more than a chocolate factory. Max, there's something I should tell you. My father has a PhD in toxicology, so he knows all about poisons."

  "Hold on," said Max. "You told me he had a PhD in undercover surveillance."

  "That too. I told you he's an egghead." She threw Max a wide smile. "Anyway, when the High Echelon took over, they sent him to work in a factory like this where he carried out secret experiments."

  Max gulped. "What kind of experiments?"

  "Gene splicing, toxic germs, all sorts of gruesome stuff. Sorry I lied, Max," she added, eyebrows quirked. "I wasn't sure I could trust you--not at first, anyway."

  Max didn't think Rose sounded sorry at all. And there was something in her expression that made him suspect she wasn't telling him everything.

  "You mean your father isn't a secret agent for the High Echelon? He doesn't exterminate people?" Max suddenly felt small and idiotic. "You lied to me about your father going to spy school?"

  Rose shook her head. "He doesn't work for the High Echelon, he's against it! The government never sent him to spy school! My dad works for the Tarian!"

  "The Tarian? What's that?"

  "They're a resistance group! My dad and I are on the run; the Tarian are hiding us in a barn on the other side of town." She focused her huge green eyes on Max. "My dad has night blindness, so I offered to come here and check things out."

  Too furious to say a word, Max stood, hands in his pockets,

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  scowling. Did Rose expect him to believe her father had let her go to Cavernstone Hall in the middle of the night and risk being captured by the Dark Brigade?

  Unperturbed, she pointed to a row of glass jars. "See that purple-colored powder? Chances are that's ground-up deadly purple sphinx--in other words, poison. The government adds tiny amounts to the hot cocoa mix. That way nobody dies when they drink it, 'cause it's only a little bit."

  "Why would they mess around with their bestselling hot chocolate?" sputtered Max, fed up with her nonsensical stories. "Why would the High Echelon want to poison everyone?"

  "My dad says they make two kinds," she went on, ignoring his outburst. "The first is ordinary cocoa, but the second cocoa has trace amounts of poison. If you drink it day after day you become weak, your mind goes murky, you feel drowsy and blah. You get fevers and sore throats and your eyes are always itching."

  Max shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Rose had just described every one of his symptoms. "Why would the High Echelon allow people to drink poison?" he asked, trying not to let his voice quaver. "Tell me that, huh?"

  "It's all about the big picture, Max, don't you see? Mind control!" She slipped a bottle of powdered deadly purple sphinx into her coat pocket. "It's one more way the High Echelon is trying to take control of our thoughts."

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  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  [Image: Cocoa.]

  The next door Rose selected was painted high-gloss red and embossed with a pattern of yellow suns. By now Max was getting a little tired of seeing the High Echelons logo everywhere. She stood scrutinizing it, tapping the smart card against her front teeth, as if contemplating what might be on the other side. Unlike the first door, there were no warning signs or pictures of wolves.

  Even so, Max was a nervous wreck. He kept thinking about what Rose had said about mind control. It worried him, the way his memories kept disappearing, as if a giant eraser were rubbing them out. Was he somehow a victim of mind control?

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  Sliding the card, Rose entered first. Max followed, anxiously gnawing his fingernails. The room was long and narrow, a laboratory that reeked of strong chemicals and cleaning fluids. Max wrinkled his nose and sneezed.

  Heaped up on long benches were glass beakers and flasks, and multiknobbed microscopes that looked, to Max, extremely complicated. Machines buzzed at the edges of the room and the glassware vibrated. He inched down the aisle, running his hand over glass and metal objects, feeling queasier by the minute.

  Something about this room felt wrong. Max's heart thumped against his chest. He sensed something here that didn't belong, something unhealthy. Diseased.

  "Can we go home now?" he called to Rose.

  Rose didn't answer. She was zipping around in full-throttle mode, inspecting everything she could get her hands on. She dismissed a Bunsen burner with a wave of the hand. A collector's item. Totally useless.

  "This thing's vintage," she muttered, peering into a microscope with dozens of dials and knobs.

  Max wandered over to a workbench, trying to imagine his mom and dad working here. Somehow the image wouldn't compute. Along the bench delicate instruments were arranged in tidy rows; he stared at them with wonder and suspicion. Small and sharp and shiny, they looked like tools that elves might use. Lined up next to them were spools of thick brown thread and sewing needles stuck into pincushions. Was this some kind of repair shop?

  A kind of fizziness started up behind his eyes, which he recognized as the start of a headache. He found the tiny suns on the

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  pincushions somehow repugnant. What in the world were all those things for?

  "Surgical instruments," Rose said matter-of-factly, reaching past him to touch what looked like a miniature bed. It was upholstered in red vinyl with small yellow straps attached to the sides. "Look at this tiny operating table! My dad said there were secret experiments going on!"

  Feeling squeamish, Max turned away. He didn't want to imagine what type of animal would fit onto that operating table. A small dog? A raven? An owl?

  From behind him came a gurgling noise and he felt the hairs go up on the back of his neck. Turning, he saw a maze of thin glass tubes branching out in all directions. Inside the tubes bubbled a thick frothy liquid, dark purple in color, with flecks of red glitter. He breathed in a harsh, metallic smell. Something lurched in the pit of his stomach.

  There was no mistaking what was in the tubes: it was the medicine Dr. Tredegar injected Max with every week. He had no idea what it was called--the doctor always brushed off his questions with a joke--yet he knew beyond any doubt that this was it.

  "Ugh! What's that goopy-looking stuff?" asked Rose, flitting over. "It looks vile! Must be for one of their genetic experiments."

  "It's medicine," said Max. One thing he knew for sure was that Dr. Tredegar would never dream of giving kids poison shots. "I get injections for my condition and this is what they give me."

  Rose's eyebrows shot up, but she didn't say a word.

  They hurried down the red-carpeted staircase to the first floor, where Max noted with satisfaction that everything looked

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  completely normal. He mentally checked off the offices, the mail room, coat hooks, mirrors, an umbrella stand, a punch clock. Even the employee bulletin board looked drab and ordinary.

  They followed the burnt chocolate smell to a door at the end of the hall. Ignoring the sign marked authorized personnel only, Rose pushed open the door and strode inside.

  Max followed her into a vast kitchen of marble counters, gleaming sinks and sparkling chrome fixtures. The windows were covered with louvered shutters painted in creamy reds and yellows. A kitchen like this, he thought, might be featured on the cover of his mother's Homes and Domes magazine.

  Rose skidded across the tile floor and disappeared through an archway. Wandering around, Max felt relieved to see how old-fashioned everything looked. Pots and pans hung from suspended steel racks, the floor was waxed to a high gloss, a refrigerator rumbled in the corner. He clambered onto the counter and opened a cupboard. Inside he found dozens of familiar yellow boxes.

  Rose skidded back in. "There's a pantry in there, stuffed to the gills with hot cocoa."

  "See, Rose, the real thing." Max held up a box. "I call this lady on the box Wavy Gray." He tapped the illus
tration. "I bet my mom and dad take all their breaks here and fix themselves hot cocoa."

  "You better hope not. That box is yellow."

  "So what?"

  "Food shops sell red boxes--that's the ordinary cocoa," she said. "The yellow ones are laced with poison."

  Max teetered at the edge of the countertop. "That's not funny, Rose." Feeling a bit unsteady, he sat down and slid onto the floor.

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  "My dad's a pharmacologist, he should know." Rose tugged open the refrigerator door. "That cocoa makes you feel woozy, right? And you can't remember things sometimes?"

  "It's a bedtime drink, it's supposed to make you sleepy." Tired of arguing, Max suddenly felt ravenous. "Do you see anything to eat?"

  He peered over Rose's shoulder. The refrigerator shelves were empty, except for one. On the middle shelf thin corked bottles, filled with a viscous liquid, were organized in tidy rows.

  Rose picked up a bottle and inspected it. "Definitely not drinkable." She gave it a shake.

  Max watched as tiny yellow bubbles floated up to the surface, corkscrewing up and down, each with a black dot at the center. Mystified, he leaned closer--and his stomach caved in.

  They weren't bubbles. They were eyes. Panic shot through him, like an electric jolt.

  "Rose?" he whispered.

  He saw her swallow, unable to look away from the floating eyes. "I'm out of here," she rasped, thrusting the bottle back onto the shelf.

  She slammed the refrigerator door. Without warning, lights flashed overhead. A siren began to wail.

  Max's heart fell to his knees.

  "Run!" cried Rose, sprinting across the room.

  Clamping his hands over his ears, Max took off. Sirens blared and lights flashed as he raced down the hall. He hated the way loud noises always clanged and echoed inside his head.

  Rose screeched to a halt. "A guard!"

  Through the sun-shaped window, Max saw a blurred figure. His heart racketed against his ribs.

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  "Head for the pantry!" shouted Rose, and they charged back down the hall. In the kitchen she flew across the tile floor, Max skidding behind her.

  The kitchen door banged open and he froze. A tall skeletal figure rushed in: a woman in frightening night goggles and a crepe mouth mask, blue-dyed hair streaming down her back. She wore lizard-skin boots and a high-collared cape the color of blood.

  Slinking beside her was a huge animal with red eyes and black spiky fur. Dirty white foam dripped from its mouth. Max's stomach did a double flip. Plague wolves were real!

  The creature snarled. Terror surged through Max. Paralyzed with fear, he gazed at the wolf's sharp curved teeth. Then, out of nowhere, Rose appeared; she pulled him behind her into the pantry and they tumbled through a door.

  With a bang, it slammed shut behind them and they clattered down a ladder, into a vast cellar lit by flare lamps. Once they'd reached the bottom, Rose pushed the ladder and sent it crashing down. Max blundered ahead, disoriented by the shadows, knocking over a stack of wooden crates. Heart thudding, he pushed aside old machinery as he and Rose stumbled over broken desks and filing cabinets, dented freezers, smashed computers heaped in piles. Overhead he could hear the woman running.

  The wolf howled.

  Rose clutched his hand and they ran wildly down a stone passage, into complete and utter darkness. Terror gripped Max's chest, squeezing his lungs so he could hardly breathe. His only hope was that the guard wouldn't follow. The ladder was gone and night goggles, he'd been told, only worked properly out-of-doors.

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  The passage twisted and stretched, winding deeper into the earth. Max raced on, gripping Rose's hand, boots pounding over wet stone. The tunnel narrowed, its dripping walls closing in around them. He could see a faint light ahead. Huffing and wheezing, he lurched toward it.

  Moments later they stood before a wooden door. There was no handle, no smart-card machine, just a door of ancient pitted wood that Max guessed hadn't been opened in at least a century. He scratched his head, trying to think what to do next.

  Rose didn't hesitate. She swung her leg back and kicked. To Max's surprise, the bottom half of the door fell in. "Dry rot," she said, and kicked again.

  The door splintered and collapsed. A dreamy light flooded over them.

  Max gazed up a flight of stone steps that wound upward, vanishing into the light, and a million scary thoughts crowded into his mind. What if the Dark Brigadier knew a shortcut and was up there with the wolf, waiting to attack?

  Rose scrabbled up the steps, coat swirling around her. "I don't believe this!" she shouted down to Max. "Come here, quick!"

  Heart banging, Max scrambled after her, wishing he had his owl with him, to give him a boost of courage. At the top of the steps stood Rose, framed beneath an elaborate curved doorway. He looked about, bewildered, at the endless arching spaces around him.

  "What is this place?" he whispered.

  "Don't you know?" Rose's eyes glowed with feverish excitement. "We're in The Ruins!"

  97.

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  [Image: The pillars.]

  The grainy air trembled. Pillars arched above them, and Max stared at the worn carvings, the high stone walls, the thick candles that dripped from suspended iron wheels. His skin went cold and clammy.

  Rain wept against the stained glass windows. The space around him was vast and terrifying; thick gnarled columns trailed off into the gloom. In the hushed silence nothing moved.

  "This is a cathedral!" said Rose, her voice filled with awe. "That tunnel we were running in? That was a crypt, Max, it had to be!"

  Max looked around in wonder. Gran had told him about cathedrals, and how many of them dated back to medieval times. She'd been furious with the government for pulling them down.

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  "My dad said the High Echelon turned some of the cathedrals into prisons," murmured Rose, "but this doesn't look like a prison to me." She wandered off, looking strangely enchanted by everything. "Who lit all these candles, do you think? Monks?"

  Max knew very little about monks. The High Echelon had branded them superstitious outcasts, but Gran said many monks supported the Silver Prophecies. He wondered if there were monks living here now.

  But all he could think was, whoever was here--monks, prisoners, wolves--he didn't want to meet any of them. What he really wanted was to go home.

  "I've got a bad feeling," he said, catching up with Rose. "Listen to me!" He grabbed her arm. "Something's not right here. This place is even creepier than Cavernstone Hall!"

  "Hey, Max, this is an opportunity with a capital O." Shaking him off, she strode away. "If I can tell my father any little thing about The Ruins, he'll be so grateful and happy."

  Max frowned. He somehow doubted her father would be pleased to know she was inside The Ruins.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. "You're not scared, are you?"

  "Of course not," he muttered. But naturally he was. He was petrified. "Okay, five minutes."

  Max knew she wasn't listening. Rose never listened. Growing more anxious by the minute, he trailed behind her, noticing how everything in the cathedral was covered in dust and cobwebs, and coated with layers of grime. They should call in Mrs. Crumlin, he thought wryly, she can clean this place up with her extra-large feather duster.

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  Candles sputtered, shadows crouched and leapt. From high overhead, strange serpentine creatures stared down. Along the walls, he could see coffins tucked into marble niches, engraved with skulls and angels, their inscriptions so faded they were impossible to read. A statue of a winged lady gazed at him with a mournful expression, its paint flaking away.

  "They're hiding something here, don't you think?" said Rose, checking under a bench of rotted wood. "My dad says the government's experimenting with exotic bugs. They've created germs that can wipe out entire cities."

  Max hoped she was exaggerating, but he had a feeling she wasn't. He wished
he could remember what Gran had said about the High Echelon's secret experiments.

  Boldly, Rose drew back a curtain of tattered brocade. Dust billowed around them. Max caught a whiff of mold and something else that set his teeth on edge. He peered into a deep alcove, its concave ceiling painted in shades of gold and cornflower blue.

  Without warning his sun mark went cold, pressing like an ice shard into his neck. Startled, he jumped. This had never happened before.

  "What do you think is in those boxes?" Oblivious to Max, Rose was pointing at the stacks of metal boxes, arranged in rows along the wall.

  There were at least a hundred, guessed Max. He stepped forward bravely and lifted off the top box. It looked eerily familiar, like something he'd once seen in a dream. Etched into the lid were the words skræk #176.

  "What does that mean?" he wondered aloud. "It must be imported from some foreign country."

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  "Maybe it's a new brand of minicomputer," suggested Rose, "or a machine that scans fingerprints. Hey, I bet they're smuggling stuff across the border! Or what if--" Her voice fell to a tremulous whisper. "What if it's a box of exotic bugs? Or something even weirder?" She nodded at the box. "Open it."

  As Max started to open the latch, he heard a faint scratching sound. Alarmed, he almost dropped the box. Then he saw the tiny holes punched into its sides. His legs wobbled and his heart beat fast. Whatever was in there, he thought, needed air.

  "Give me that." Rose snatched the box away, fingers scrabbling at the latch.

  Before Max could stop her, the lid to the box sprang open. An acrid odor filled the air. A wire mesh screen stretched across the box's top, attached to the edges with tiny copper nails, forming a cage. Beneath it stirred a pale indeterminate shape.