“So what are you saying?” asked Max. “That I can’t trust Ms. Richter or Miss Boon?”
“No,” said Bram, staring hard at him. “I’m saying that you cannot trust anyone. Trust is a luxury you can no longer afford, Max McDaniels. When they come for you, they will not come as a stranger in the shadows. The Atropos will be someone you know.”
~ 3 ~
Crofter's Hill
Twilight was falling, the pink sky deepening to periwinkle. One by one, the stars emerged to form their marvelous patterns and shine their soft light on the path. Max’s boots scuffed upon the gravel as he strode alone, scanning the hills.
He spied his destination up ahead, a large house atop a distant rise. Its windows were bright yellow squares set against the manor’s black silhouette. Even from this distance, Max heard laughter and a fiddle’s notes dancing on the breeze. Ten minutes of brisk walking would see him there. Reaching deep into his pocket, he retrieved an apple and flung it far ahead. Breaking into a run, he chased after to see if he could catch it before it fell. He ran faster and faster, but the apple’s trajectory continued to rise. It grew ever smaller until Max feared it would never return to earth but simply drift away like a tiny red balloon. He laughed with disbelief as the object finally reached its impossible zenith and began a slow, arcing descent.
But as he raced to catch it, Max discovered that he was not alone. There were other footsteps on the road. Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpsed a dark figure racing after him. Moonlight flashed on a face as the figure emerged from a shadow. It was Cooper, the man’s pale and ruined face set in grim determination as he flew down the path and closed the gap between them.
Others soon joined in, converging from the surrounding hedges to form a sprinting pack that chased after Max. Among the bobbing blur of faces, Max spied Nolan frothing like a rabid animal. Others soon became clear—Miss Boon, Ms. Richter, and even Mr. Morrow, who tore after him with a look of frenzied, wild-eyed hate. With every panicked swivel of his head, Max spied an old friend among the pack—Cynthia Gilley, Monsieur Renard, even Nigel Bristow. The most disturbing was Julie Teller. Max’s former girlfriend wept as she ran, scratching her pretty face to bloody ribbons.
His pursuers were gaining. No matter how fast Max ran, the pack closed in on him. Panting, predatory grins leered at him in the moonlight as their bare feet churned up gravel and mud. Cooper was almost upon him. Reaching forward, the man slashed a kris at Max’s neck. As the blade grazed the skin, Max tensed and bolted ahead, his attention riveted on the falling apple. If he could just catch it, everything would be okay. His pursuers couldn’t touch him then. They would have to leave him be.
The apple was just ahead, plunging like a tiny meteor.
Max leaped to catch it, stretching forth his hand and feeling it strike his palm. His fingers snapped shut like a trap as he spilled onto the road, rolling and tumbling along the wet gravel. For several seconds, he simply lay panting with his eyes shut tight. But no pack fell upon him; no knives or teeth or fingers tore at his flesh or pried the apple loose from his grasp.
Max opened his eyes. His tumble had left him facing the direction from which he’d come. The road was empty. There were no pursuers, only the peaceful sounds and sights of nightfall. Where had they gone? What had driven them off?
Climbing wearily to his feet, Max opened his hand to gaze at the apple. For several heartbeats, he merely gaped. This was not the apple he’d thrown; this apple was much heavier and made entirely of gold. Within its smooth, mirrorlike surface, Max could even make out his reflection. But as he stared at his distorted, panting image, Max noticed another, darker shape behind him.
It was a wolfhound.
Of course it was. The wolfhound was always here, always waiting for Max on this twilight road. It would never let him inside the house. Within the apple, Max saw its dark jaws hanging open over his shoulder. A rumble sounded in its throat before a blast of hot breath fogged the apple’s surface. The reflections disappeared.
Slowly, Max turned and looked up into the animal’s monstrous face. It loomed above him, more massive than Astaroth’s direwolves and even YaYa. The moonlight gleamed in its huge, wet eyes as it appraised Max like some ancient and terrible god. Pressing its shaggy forehead against his, the wolfhound forced him backward along the road and spoke in its gruff, rasping voice.
“What are you about?” it demanded. “Answer quick or I’ll gobble you up!”
Dropping the apple, Max drew the gae bolga from its scabbard and plunged the blade into the animal’s chest. The wolfhound gave a shuddering howl, a long-echoing scream that threatened to shatter the very world.…
“WAKE UP!”
Opening his eyes, Max saw David Menlo standing over his bed and shaking him with as much strength as the small boy could muster. His face was pale and panicked as he shook Max again.
“I’m awake,” Max gasped, sucking air like a drowning man. “I’m okay … I’m awake.”
David backed away, giving his roommate space to recover. Max’s heart was pounding unbearably fast, each beat a painful, percussive jolt as sweat coursed down his body. Kicking his soaking covers aside, Max simply lay still for a moment and tried to gather his wits.
“I’ve never heard a scream like that,” David whispered. “That must have been some nightmare.”
“It was the wolfhound,” Max panted. “It’s always that damned wolfhound. What time is it?”
“Almost eight,” David replied. “But you don’t have classes. You can go back to sleep.”
“No,” said Max hurriedly. “No, I should get up. I have things to do.”
“No, you don’t,” said David mildly. “You’ve just returned from a long journey and earned a few days of rest. There will be plenty for you to do, Max, but not today. Let me buy you breakfast.”
“You don’t have to buy me breakfast. Let’s just go to the dining hall. I want to see Bob.”
“Alas,” said David, tossing Max a towel from a nearby hook, “the dining hall is for students and we no longer qualify. Besides, you won’t find Bob down there. He doesn’t work in the kitchens anymore.”
“What do you mean?” asked Max, propping up on his elbows. “Bob lives off the kitchens.”
“Not anymore,” said David sadly. “He retired from cooking and built a cottage on Crofter’s Hill. He spends most of his time up there now. I visited once, but he didn’t seem to like it. I haven’t bothered him since.”
Max was dumbstruck. His mind flashed back to the refugee Tam and the questions she’d posed to him: What’s the name of the sad old brute who lives on Crofter’s Hill? The girl had been talking about Bob! It didn’t make any sense; the ogre had been Rowan’s head chef for generations and loved his job. Something was very wrong.
Swinging his legs out of bed, Max wiped away the sweat with the towel. “Thanks for waking me,” he said, padding down to the lower level of their room to wash his face. Filling a basin, he closed his eyes and sank his face into the cold water. Slowly, the drumming in his temples subsided and the muscles in his neck uncoiled. Breathing deep, he gazed up at the room’s domed ceiling.
The stars beyond the glass were comfortably present. As Max watched, the constellation Orion was outlined in gossamer threads of tiny golden lights. Gradually, the outline dissipated. A moment later, the threads reappeared to illuminate the Little Dipper. It was such a soothing room, always quiet and contemplative. Beds on the upstairs level, a comfortable study below, and the clearest, most spectacular view of the heavens one could wish for.
“So … breakfast?” inquired David from the top of the stairs. “I’m partial to the Hanged Man, but there are some new places we could try near the east end. Lucia seems to like the Pot and Kettle. It’s your choice, of course, but the Hanged Man does have excellent coffee.…”
* * *
In truth, Max had no choice in the matter. As the pair wandered the cobbled streets of Rowan Township, they passed any number of suitable establishments
, but David found fault with each. The Pot and Kettle was too crowded, the Trestle too sterile, the Black Dragon too snooty. When David recounted a recent case of food poisoning at the Cheery Turnip, Max finally gave up and suggested the Hanged Man.
“If you insist,” said David happily. “I’m sure they’ll be able to squeeze us in.”
The cafe stood alone, some thirty yards beyond even the humblest shops on the township’s northwest edge. As they approached, Max saw that the place was little more than a ramshackle bungalow of salvaged pine boards built around a withered ash tree. By way of a sign, a crude scarecrow dangled from a branch, its rickety legs blackened from smoke that billowed from a stovepipe chimney. Within an adjoining pen, a spotted sow sprawled listlessly on her side while a dozen chickens squawked and squabbled over scattered kernels.
“This is great,” Max deadpanned. “Much better than all those other places.”
“Oh, I know it doesn’t look like much,” said David, “but it’s got character! You can keep your Black Dragon with its polished brass and working bathrooms—I’ll choose the Hanged Man every time. Marta takes good care of me, and I daresay I’m her best customer.…”
Following his friend inside, Max concluded that David was not merely the Hanged Man’s best customer but its sole source of revenue. The cafe was empty, most of its chairs standing atop a half-dozen small tables arranged around the tree trunk. Coughing into his sleeve, Max peered through the oily haze and spied an enormous figure half sprawled and asleep at the farthest table. Reaching past Max, David rang a little triangle hanging from a hook.
“There he is, there he is,” the figure murmured, still unmoving.
“Take your time, Marta,” said David. “I’ve brought a friend today.”
“Have you?” replied the woman, her massive head rotating up from the crook of her forearm to blink at Max. “He’s pretty,” she muttered. “Tall. Lashes like a doe.”
“Um … thanks?” said Max as Marta rose heavily to her feet.
“Ain’t nothing,” she replied, tucking a wad of tobacco under a rubbery lip and tying back her mop of stringy red hair. “If I’d known David was bringing a lordling, I’d have washed up.”
“You look fine,” Max assured her.
“Ax,” she grunted, spitting a brown gob into a tin cup.
“Excuse me?” said Max, thoroughly confused.
The woman hooked her thumb at an appalling scar that stretched from her temple across what remained of her nose.
“Oh,” said Max, now wishing he were somewhere, anywhere else. “I’d hate to see the other guy,” he added with a weak laugh.
“That some kinda joke?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Ain’t no other guy,” she muttered, hefting up a sack of coffee beans. “Slipped while slaughtering a hog. The usual, David?”
“If you would,” David replied, arranging a pair of chairs around a nearby table.
“What about you?” rumbled Marta, pouring the beans into a long-handled roasting basket. “We got eggs, bacon, ham, chops, chicken, toast, and a bit o’ cream,” she added, nodding toward a stone jug. “Apples too.”
“Eggs and coffee sound great,” said Max. “Bacon, too, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble,” Marta grunted, seizing up a dented ax and lumbering toward the sow’s pen.
“Let’s skip the bacon,” uttered Max quickly.
Marta merely shrugged. While she set to preparing their meal, Max and David sat and talked, as they hadn’t in many months. Throughout breakfast, a great weight seemed to lift slowly from Max’s shoulders. There were no other customers, no one to stare at the famous pair and debate whether they were Rowan’s blessing or curse. Marta didn’t even seem to know who he was.
As they ate, Max shared stories from Zenuvia. He described its teeming bazaars and spice markets, the crystalline spires of maridian sealords, and the strange townships found throughout its archipelagos. When he shared an anecdote about a fox-faced kitsune in a Khoreshi opium den, David raised an eyebrow.
“What were you doing in a place like that?”
“Smuggler owned it,” Max replied, attacking his eggs. “The kitsune hung around the shop. She tried to teach me a song on her belyaël. Turns out you really need six fingers to play that thing.”
“Guess I’ll stick to whistling,” quipped David, glancing at the stump where his right hand used to be.
The pair dissolved into laughter. Marta glanced up from kneading a mound of dough. “You two are worse’n a sewing circle,” she griped. “Giggle, giggle, snort, snort. Liked it better when David sat quiet with his coffee ’n’ toast.”
“I’m sorry, Marta,” said David, wiping a tear from his eye. “We’re not laughing at you. We just haven’t had a chance to catch up in a long time.”
“Not since I left for Zenuvia,” Max observed, tearing a hunk off the warm black bread.
“No,” said David thoughtfully. “Longer than that. In truth, it’s been years, Max. I couldn’t really afford to have friends while I was trying to rescue my family. I accepted it as part of the job, but until now I don’t think I really realized just how lonely I’ve been.”
“Well,” said Max, “thanks to you, your family’s back together. No need to be lonely anymore.”
“True,” said David. “But my family’s … unusual. I love them, of course, but what I’ve really missed is my friend.”
“Me too,” replied Max. “I don’t even know when the last time was that I had a good laugh. Works wonders. Wish we had Connor back—he was always good for a laugh or three.”
David nodded sympathetically. Their friend Connor Lynch had left Rowan and was living in Blys, having swapped a soul in exchange for a barony and the chance to fulfill a vendetta. Ever impulsive and mischievous, Connor had been the quickest wit in their class before he sailed off on Prusias’s galleon. Max missed him dearly. “Anyway,” he sighed. “I’m not complaining. It’s nice to sit still for five minutes and not have to look over my shoulder.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” said David, declining the bread’s heel. “After you and my grandfather left, Ms. Richter and I talked strategy for the rest of the afternoon. The Director agrees with me that the Workshop’s activities are a priority. And given this development with the Atropos, she doesn’t want your whereabouts known for very long. I think it’s safe to say that a DarkMatter assignment is imminent. Probably this week.”
Max’s smile faded. He stared down at the Red Branch tattoo, hating it.
“Fair enough,” he muttered. “Better sooner than later, I guess.”
“Soon,” said David. “But not immediately. We’ll need a few days to prepare, and I have some things to do before we leave.”
Max almost choked on his coffee. “W-we?” he sputtered, wiping his mouth. “You’re coming along?”
“Yes,” said David, smiling. “It’s not official yet, but Ms. Richter seems in favor of it. I think she just wants to get rid of me. Expulsion wasn’t enough.”
“Please,” said Max. “She probably wishes she had ten more David Menlos.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that,” said his roommate. “In any case, at the moment there’s only one David Menlo and he’ll be accompanying you to Blys. Cloak-and-dagger stuff, Max. Very exciting. Assuming we survive, I’m confident the Red Branch will have no choice but to make me an honorary member.”
“We might have vacancies,” Max reflected grimly. “Any word on Cooper?”
“Sadly no,” said David, gratefully accepting more coffee. “I ran into Miss Boon in the Archives last night, and she said there’d been no word from him. Or Ben Polk …”
Max sat up straight. “I should go after them. You said yourself that we have a week before our mission. I could be back in plenty of time.”
David shook his head. “You are the absolute last person the Director would send. Others will go.”
“She thinks the Atropos are trying to lure me out?”
�
�She thinks it’s a distinct possibility,” replied David, frowning. “And so do I. It is well known that you have no remaining family. Cooper’s the Red Branch commander and your good friend. He’s a natural target for anyone trying to hurt you.”
Max frowned and considered the situation. “If anyone’s dumb enough to kidnap William Cooper, I almost feel sorry for them,” he muttered. “Talk about catching a tiger by the tail. First mistake they make, he’ll escape and have their heads. And Ben Polk? He gives me nightmares and he’s on our side.”
“Exactly,” said David. “Those two can look after themselves. And if Ms. Richter doesn’t hear from them very soon, rest assured that she’ll launch the biggest search-and-rescue operation since those Potentials went missing.”
“But can’t you find them?” Max wondered aloud. David could utilize their observatory like an enormous crystal ball and often referred to it as his little window on the world. But the sorcerer merely shrugged.
“I’ve tried,” he said. “Scrying has become impossible. Either I’m losing my touch or they’re being held in some place with special protections.”
“But then that means they’re in danger,” exclaimed Max. “Even more reason for me—”
“To do your job and let others do theirs,” interjected David. “Cooper would want you focused on the Workshop.”
Max nodded. Deep down he knew David was right, but it did not sit well. It was Cooper who had come to his rescue many times. Without him, Max would still be festering and going mad in Prusias’s dungeons. And now when the man might be hurt or need his help, Max was being told to look away and concentrate on the bigger picture. But what’s more important than a friend in need?
“I know what you’re thinking,” said David quietly. “I can see it in your face. Your instinct is to race off and help your friends. But if the Atropos are involved, that’s just what they want you to do.”
Breathing deep, Max drummed his fingers and looked about. Marta had shaped the dough into a dozen loaves that had been baking in the brick oven. Given the empty cafe, it seemed a trifle optimistic. Still, they did look good, as Marta removed them and set them on racks to cool. Max fished in his pockets.
The Maelstrom t-4 Page 6
