The Second Siege (18 page)

“I don’t know,” said Max. “There’s some sort of secret—”

Boom!

The whole house shook and trembled. They froze like frightened mice on the stairs.

“What was that?” screeched Mum.

“Quick, quick!” cried Señora Lorca from far below. “Follow me!”

Max put his father’s hand on Miss Boon’s shoulder and squeezed past them.

“I’m going to see what’s happening,” he said.

“Max!” hissed his father. “Come back here!”

“I’ll be back—keep going,” replied Max, springing up the stairs.

He ran into Cooper in the hallway. The Agent’s face was grim. The unmistakable sounds of a struggle could be heard from the front of the house.

“Turn around,” commanded the Agent.

“Where’s Señor Lorca?” asked Max breathlessly.

“Ensuring our escape,” said Cooper, seizing Max’s wrist and pulling him back toward the kitchen.

“No!”
growled Max, twisting out of Cooper’s grip and dashing toward the front of the house.

He was not prepared for what he saw.

Señor Lorca stood in the center of the bookstore, surrounded by laughing children who clung to his legs and arms while he fought off a mob of grinning
peliqueiro
s
,
who swung their great, heavy batons in wild arcs. A dozen of the masked figures already lay sprawled on the floor, but more were flooding through the front door. Señor Lorca staggered as a baton crashed down on his head from behind. The old Agent roared and a brilliant blue incandescence writhed about him, sending the children scattering away. Blue and purple flames swept up to the ceiling; there was the sound of breaking glass, and several of the heavy bookcases came toppling down. Max saw a great wolf shape back into the foyer as Señor Lorca pressed the throng of
peliqueiros
back in a furious offensive.

An iron grip clamped on Max from behind.

“Obey orders!” seethed Cooper, wrenching Max backward with terrible strength and dragging him toward the kitchen. The smell of smoke permeated the air, and Max heard a chorus of shrieks near the front door. Once in the kitchen, Cooper barricaded the door with the heavy wooden table and a china cabinet in a jarring crash of broken plates and glass and pottery. Pushing Max through the cellar door, Cooper slammed it shut behind them. Whirling around, the Agent ran his hands along the door’s edges, murmuring quietly. What spell Cooper had placed on the door, Max did not know, but its contours began to glow with deep-sea phosphorescence.

Down the steps they ran, to the cool, dry cellar stacked with rows of wine bottles and the accumulated clutter of many generations. Ahead was the dim light of Señora Lorca’s lamp. She blinked past Max and Cooper, staring at the dark staircase from which they emerged. Cooper placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

“He is not coming, María—not this way. He will find you if he can.”

Señora Lorca appeared dazed. A series of emotions flickered across her face while heavy footsteps thudded above them. The ceiling groaned under the weight of something enormous, whose bulk sent a slow, shivering tremor through the house.

“What is that?” asked Mr. McDaniels, clutching Max and David to him.

Cooper ignored him. “Please, María,” the Agent said to the elderly Spanish woman. “Antonio would want you to go.”

Blinking away tears, Señora Lorca nodded hastily and led them to one of the wine racks toward the rear of the cellar. She reached inside its cobwebbed depths. More footsteps and great shrieking yells sounded above them. Smoke began to seep down into the cellar.

“María, are you sure that’s the right one?” asked Cooper, his voice eerily calm.

“I think so,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Antonio made me remember it.”

Mum began to sob. Miss Boon murmured to her quietly while Cooper ran back to peer up the stairs. Señora Lorca strained and thrust her arm deeper into the wine rack. There was a grating noise, and the wine rack slid several feet across the stone floor. An open space was revealed—short, steep steps that led down to a dim tunnel. Max gagged at the smell of sewage.

“You must hurry!” cried Señora Lorca. “It will close again in a minute.”

Cooper ran back, and they squeezed down the narrow opening. Señora Lorca peered at them from above.

“María,” hissed Cooper, beckoning. “Come down here!”

“I’m going to find Antonio,” she said, turning away from them. The mechanical workings of the heavy rack began grinding shut again. Cooper’s face darkened. In a blurry burst of speed, the Agent shot up the steps and enveloped the old woman like a trapdoor spider, dragging her down into the sewer. Señora Lorca gave a howl before subsiding to muffled, shaking sobs as the opening ground to a close.

For nearly an hour, they splashed and staggered along in a dark and nauseating reek. Miss Boon conjured a small orb of shimmering green and gold that floated ahead like a will-o’-the-wisp, revealing smaller tunnels that fed cold water into the main. At length, Cooper stopped at the base of a corroded iron ladder that rose fifteen feet to the street above. Mr. McDaniels retched quietly against the wall; even Nick snorted with disdain at a pair of sewer rats that scurried past. Cooper squinted at a map tucked among their papers and passes.

David broke from a fit of wheezing coughs. “I think so,” said Max’s roommate, peering curiously into his battered backpack.

Cooper stuffed their packs into the backpack one by one, zipping it shut and slinging it over his shoulder. Climbing silently up the rusted ladder, he lifted its heavy covering and peered out. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features and he held up a finger for them to stay put. The Agent crawled out of the sewer on his belly until he had disappeared from view. Ten seconds later, his face appeared in the opening.

“You can come up.”

They climbed the ladder, sputtering and gagging, into the bright afternoon. They were in an alleyway; two
peliqueiros
were sprawled in the street, unconscious. Cooper held one of their stout wooden batons under his arm. He pointed to a nearby spigot while he riffled through the bundle of documents.

“Wash off as best you can,” he commanded, glancing down the alley.

Distant music floated in the air while they took turns at the spigot, splashing cold water over their shoes and pant legs until even Mum was satisfied that the odor had faded. Poor Nick huddled under the spigot, cold and miserable, while Max combed the water through his thick quills. He was careful to keep the red mark on his wrist concealed beneath his sleeve.

“These are your papers and passports,” Cooper said. “Memorize your name and likeness. You are with the German ambassador. You are his aides and you are returning from a diplomatic conference. I will be the ambassador and speak for the group. Do you understand?”

They nodded as Cooper distributed the documents. He paused when he reached Señora Lorca. “We need to get you out of Salamanca, María.”

“I will do no such thing,” muttered Señora Lorca, squeezing the water from the hem of her skirt. “I am not leaving.”

“Please, María,” said Cooper.

The old woman shook her head defiantly.

“Where will you go?” asked Cooper quietly.

“My sister’s.”

Cooper glanced down at the motionless man lying at his boot. He said nothing for several moments. Señora Lorca gently took his hand.

“Go,” she urged. “I do not blame you, William.”

“I will try to come back and find you,” said Cooper, kissing her on the forehead. Walking among them, Cooper spoke quickly in Latin, tapping each of them on the shoulder. The illusion complete, he shouldered David’s bag and strode quickly down the alley.

“Vaya con Dios,”
whispered Señora Lorca, waving farewell as they hurried away.

Twenty minutes later, Max sat in a luxurious compartment on a private train for public officials. He gaped out its clean glass window. Black-cowled witches wove through the crowds milling about the station. Workers in red armbands swarmed like ants over tall scaffolding that enclosed the beginnings of a towering statue. Thin-lipped officials surveyed the work, fedoras pulled low while they scribbled on their clipboards. Small blue-faced goblins with long beaks and red gums scurried past on urgent errands. Squat, swaddled hags examined the goods in a street vendor’s cart. From the top floor of an apartment building, something with white, larval eyes peered out from a broken window. Trumpets blared, voices sang, and drums boomed while they sat in silence.

The Agent sat across the compartment. His face was stone.

“The Book, Miss Boon,” he said quietly. “All that matters is the Book.”

The train picked up speed and glided like a silver snake into the east.

“Militaries and governments are only as strong as the people who run them,” said Miss Boon. “The Enemy has always infiltrated such organizations, but we severely underestimated the extent.”

“Do you think they’ve infiltrated the Workshop?” asked Max.

“It’s possible,” said Miss Boon. “They infiltrated Rowan, after all, when they got to Mr. Morrow. I don’t think much of Jesper Rasmussen, but I doubt he’s working with the Enemy.”

“Whatever happened with Rowan and the Workshop?” asked Max. “Didn’t we used to be part of one Order?”

“Long ago, there was no Rowan, no Workshop or witch clans,” explained Miss Boon. “Together, we numbered in the thousands—tens of thousands, according to the histories and YaYa’s accounts. During the Middle Ages, bitter disputes arose over our direction. And the inventions kept coming—water mills, clocks, compasses, cannons. . . .”

Max nodded, noticing that the opportunity to teach seemed to relax Miss Boon. She sighed and plucked a stray hair from her sleeve before continuing.

“Some feared it was only a matter of time until science and technology eclipsed our arts and we risked enslavement to those who mastered them. We must embrace technology, they argued, devote ourselves to its study lest we fall into ruin. There were others who viewed such ideas as heresy, outraged over the notion that we might turn away from the Old Magic that distinguished us among humankind. Factions developed and bloody power struggles ensued. The extremists from both sides were driven off to pursue their passions in other corners of the world. The technologists built their Workshop, and the witches fled to the mountains. Neither has wholly forgiven us for choosing the middle road. They hate each other with a passion.”

“Have you ever been to the Workshop?” asked Max.

“No, but I was offered an internship,” answered Miss Boon. “They offer one periodically to Rowan’s top student, but I declined. I don’t mean to boast, but I
was
valedictorian that year. . . .”

“Have you ever been, Cooper?” asked Max.

The Agent nodded. Miss Boon’s head swiveled.

“Dear God, please tell me you weren’t a valedictorian, too.”

“No, Miss Boon,” said Cooper, scratching at a shiny patch of scalp. “Far from it, I’m afraid. You’re the only valedictorian here.”

“Thank the Lord!” said Miss Boon, folding her arms and settling back contentedly.

Max heard a thin wheeze followed by another. Cooper was laughing. His shoulders shook. Miss Boon turned red but managed to look mildly amused. Mr. McDaniels started chuckling, too. A moment later, the four of them were laughing together. Mum cracked her crocodile eye and glared at them, but David went right on sleeping.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Mum, scrambling to her feet. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No, Mum,” said Miss Boon. “We’re laughing at
me
.”

“And I was having a nice dream, too,” said Mum crossly. “Bellagrog and I were making a big vat of our holiday eggnog. Three parts bourbon to one part nog, just the way she likes it. . . .”

“Sounds like you miss her, Mum,” teased Max, poking the hag playfully in the ribs.

“She’s a beast!” protested Mum, swatting weakly at Max’s hand. “But I do miss my cupboard and my cooking and the oven that works just so.”

“And Bob?” chided Max.

“Yes, yes, and Bob too . . . the stupid clumsy oaf,” grumbled the hag. “Half the school’s probably starved to death! He can’t do anything without me, you know.”

“We know,” they said in unison.

Cooper fished through David’s pack and produced a large bar of chocolate that he’d taken from the
Erasmus
.

“I thought those were all gone!” said Mr. McDaniels, now very much awake.

“Had to hide one from you,” replied Cooper. “For emergencies.”

The Agent broke the bar into pieces and doled them out—even Nick received a small wedge, which he sniffed gingerly before swallowing.

“What about you, Miss Boon?” asked Cooper, chewing his chocolate thoughtfully. “What do you miss?”

“What
don’t
I miss?” said the Mystics instructor with a sigh. “I miss teaching. Fires in the great hall. Reading on Maggie’s steps. And, dear Lord, a regular bath!”

“I miss my friends,” said Max. “And Hannah and the goslings. Geez, I wouldn’t even mind seeing Renard!”

“
Monsieur
Renard,” corrected Miss Boon.

“I miss Maya and the Archives,” David said, peeping from beneath the arm flung over his face.

“What about you, Dad?” asked Max.

Mr. McDaniels flushed. He drummed his fingers on his barrel chest.

“The Beefmeister 2000.”

Max and David howled with laughter.

“I wonder if I’m still receiving monthly shipments of meat,” said Max.

“Well, you
should
be,” huffed Scott McDaniels indignantly. “I paid for them in advance.”

“Sorry, Mr. McDaniels,” giggled David. “I don’t think the deliverymen can find Rowan anymore.”

Max envisioned the great veil of mist David had conjured from the sea. He tried to imagine what was happening at Rowan Academy, whether classes were continuing and the students were safe. He wondered how his own country was coping with the sudden changes in the world. Real news was so hard to come by—he did not even know if a president occupied the White House.

A knock sounded at the door; a dark shape filled its small window.

A vye was peering into the compartment. Yellow, feral eyes wandered from face to face.

“Dear God!” gasped Mr. McDaniels, gripping his seat.

“It doesn’t see you, Scott,” said Cooper evenly. “It sees six German diplomats. Just be still.”

Cooper strode to the door and opened it.

“Gute Nacht,”
said Cooper, staring up at the vye.

“Gute Nacht,”
replied the blue-black vye. It ducked under the doorway, clutching a clipboard against its trench coat. Its matted fur was damp; one clawed hand was bandaged and bloodied. Max held his breath. He felt utterly exposed, as though he were hiding in plain sight. It seemed impossible that the vye would not see him for what he was—a thirteen-year-old boy clutching a lymrill that had instinctively balled into a defensive mass of bristling quills.

Max felt for the spearhead that he now kept in his sleeve. It was warm to the touch and hummed ever so slightly. The vye glanced at him; Max fidgeted and coughed. Snapping his fingers under the vye’s nose, Cooper reclaimed its attention with an authoritative stream of rapid-fire words. The vye bared black-gummed fangs and glared at the Agent for several long seconds. Affecting boredom, Cooper crossed his arms and tapped his shoe impatiently. A nearly subsonic growl rumbled in the vye’s throat as it fumbled for something in its coat. Their documents were stamped and returned to them. The vye muttered something to Cooper before stalking out of the compartment, shutting the door firmly behind it.

“Is it really gone?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

“It is,” said Cooper, slipping the documents back into his coat.

“That’s the most god-awful thing I’ve ever seen,” sputtered Mr. McDaniels.

“Why wasn’t it disguised?” asked Max.

“Because they’re getting cocky,” said Cooper. “Vyes don’t like human form—makes their eyes itch. I told him we didn’t appreciate the sudden scare and that I’d speak to his superiors.”

“You’re kidding,” said Mr. McDaniels.

“No,” said Cooper, peering outside the window. “That was a good reminder to be on our toes. We’ve just passed Strasbourg and are crossing into Germany. We’ll be in Frankfurt by dawn.”

The Agent spied the empty chocolate wrapper on the floor and stooped to snatch it up, thrusting it deep within his pocket before taking the seat nearest the door.