The Second Siege (28 page)

Later that evening, while Max flipped through his notes on summoning, he registered a peculiar pause in the ticking of David’s clock, as though the silent interval between ticks had been stretched a fraction longer. He glanced up at his roommate’s dresser, its drawers still half-open from the night they had been forced to leave at gunpoint. It was a sharp reminder of David’s absence, and Max stood to close them, one by one, sweeping the surface free of dust. Turning back to the table, he found himself staring into the pale yellow eyes of Mr. Sikes.

“How did you get in here?” asked Max, narrowing his eyes.

“You called me,” said the imp simply, polishing its small gold pocket watch.

“No, I didn’t,” said Max.

“With apologies, I must beg to differ,” replied the imp. “You were thinking of poor Master Menlo and your adventures in the Workshop and whether Agent Cooper knows the fate of your mother. Those are many burdens for one so young. It’s only natural that you would wish for a companion who might listen to your troubles, and thus . . . here I am.”

“I’ve got lots of people to talk to,” snapped Max defensively.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said the imp. “But surely you don’t mean your poor father. I can’t imagine you would wish to inform him that Agent Cooper—a man he has trusted with his life—might be concealing information about his long-lost love.”

“No,” said Max, frowning. “I would never—”

“And surely not my own esteemed Master Lynch,” interrupted the imp, guessing Max’s next choice. “The master has many fine qualities, but I think we’d agree that discretion is—how shall we put it?—a ‘development opportunity’?”

Max sighed and nodded in agreement. Mr. Sikes paced about the tabletop, tapping his chin as he considered other possibilities that were quickly discarded.

“Ms. Richter!” exclaimed Max, a note of triumph in his voice.

The imp nodded politely, but Max could sense its disappointment. He reddened.

“An excellent thought,” intoned Mr. Sikes unconvincingly, “but I might have a number of reservations, not the least of which is that the Director has a full plate herself and might find her patience sorely tested if asked to put the world’s concerns aside for the wants of a thirteen-year-old boy. And we must face the unpleasant truth, Max, that she has never really confided in you. . . .”

“Yes, she has,” said Max defensively. “Last year—she showed me top secret maps and everything.”

“She showed
you
?” asked Mr. Sikes slowly. “Or she showed David Menlo?”

Max fell silent and considered the imp’s words. It was true that Ms. Richter often solicited David’s opinion while Max was relegated to the role of silent spectator. His frustration must have registered with Mr. Sikes, for the imp quickly moved on.

“It’s no matter,” he said. “Besides, if we are agreed that Agent Cooper is concealing information about your mother, it only follows that the Director would be part of the cover-up.” Mr. Sikes’s voice became soft with sympathy as he studied the pain evident on Max’s face. “Don’t put all your faith in adults, Max—no adult ever
really
listens to a child. It’s not their nature.”

Max sat at the table and drummed his fingers.

“If no one ever listens to a child, why should
you
listen to me?” he suddenly snapped.

“Ah,” said Mr. Sikes, “I said that no adult—no
human
adult—ever really listens to a child. But I am an imp. It is my nature to listen, young Max. It is what I do—I listen and serve.”

“You can’t do anything for me,” muttered Max.

“Really?” asked Mr. Sikes, his eyes burning bright at the challenge. “What if I told you that I could save your life this very evening?”

“You think I’m going to die tonight?” asked Max, straightening.

“I’m quite sure of it,” replied Mr. Sikes with a solemn nod. “Unless you listen to me . . .”

“Go on,” said Max, unnerved by the calm assuredness in the little creature.

“You plan to try where David failed and summon Astaroth,” continued the imp. “The summoning will be imperfect, but the demon will come of his own free will. And when he does, he will kill you, Max McDaniels. He will slay you where you stand and run wild through this school. Do you not think he is hoping for this very opportunity?”

“But how do you know this?” asked Max quietly.

“Max,” sighed the imp. “The evidence is before me: a young man with difficult questions, hasty notes on summoning, and the seductive promise of a Spirit Perilous who knows many secrets and is bound to speak the truth. Do my instincts fail me?”

“No,” said Max heavily, glancing at his scribbled notes with shame.

“Put embarrassment aside,” said Mr. Sikes with an understanding smile. “It was a noble impulse, if dangerous. If I may, let me steer you from such a course and put our immediate energies into Mr. Menlo’s recovery.”

Mr. Sikes procured a cup of cocoa, and Max sipped it quietly while the imp drew close and spoke of moons and runes and mandrake.

For several weeks, Max sat at David’s side and administered the slow healing spell he had crafted with Mr. Sikes. He kept to himself for much of that time, attending classes sporadically and focusing almost all of his attention on the slim ribbon of silk on which he inked one rune after another while standing under the moonlight atop Old Tom. The ink was a noxious blend of foul ingredients that Max prepared by hand under the watchful tutelage of Mr. Sikes. Each morning Max tied the ribbon about David’s injured arm, and each evening he removed it once again and added to its potency high above the campus. The Moomenhovens paid little attention to Max on his visits, concerned as they were with David’s condition, which had not improved despite their very best efforts.

“What does this say?” he finally asked Max, frowning and flipping the book around.

“Wenceslas,” yawned Max, glancing at the old book of carols.

“Oh,” said Bob, studiously finding his place once again on the page.

There was a soft rustle of sheets and David sat up, blinking curiously at the feeding tube inserted in his arm and the ribbon tied about the protective wrap.

“Cinnamon toast,” he blurted. “Do you think I could have some?”

“David,” said Max, sitting straight up in his chair.

Bob dropped the book; the ogre’s toothless mouth fell open. He leaned close to David and patted the smiling boy’s cheek with his tough, leathery hand.

“Toast? Bob will make all the cinnamon toast you can eat!”

With a clap, Bob lurched to his feet and strode over to a Moomenhoven, who was dozing beneath a woolly throw and a plate of goodies squirreled from the feast. The plump creature opened an eye and followed Bob’s long, pointing finger toward David, who was now wriggling his legs and examining his hospital pajamas. Springing up from the chair, the Moomenhoven fumbled for a thermometer and hurried over.

“I’m pretty sure that’s the wrong kind,” said David gently, pointing at the silvery probe.

The Moomenhoven blushed furiously and scurried off to find another.

“How do you feel?” asked Max.

David glanced at the space where his right hand used to be.

“I’m okay,” he said after a moment. “I needed some time to recover. That spell almost finished me, you know.” David smiled and began fiddling with the wrap on his hand. Round and round he spun his finger clockwise until the material and Max’s ribbon both fell away, revealing a smooth, shiny stump.

“Not much to look at,” he murmured, taking the proper thermometer from the hovering, apologetic Moomenhoven. He thanked her and promised to take his temperature momentarily.

“Does it hurt?” asked Max.

“No,” said David. “But my body still thinks it’s there . . . I can feel my fingers itching.” He sighed and cupped the puckered skin with his remaining hand. “What’s been happening here?”

“A lot,” said Max. “Cooper’s gone; he stayed behind to clear the way for us. I don’t know what happened to him, but it didn’t look good. I tried to find his apple in the orchard, but it isn’t there. A Sixth Year told me once you’re assigned to DarkMatter operations, they remove your apple—so no one else knows whether you’re dead or alive.” Max frowned and wondered which of the many orchard apples belonged to his mother.

“Rasmussen’s here,” Max went on. “He’s taken up a room in the south wing near my dad’s. You can see him sometimes sulking in his window or hear him yelling for his meals. I wish Cooper were here to shut him up—”

David hugged his knees and cut him off.

“Bram’s Key—the Book of Origins. That’s all that matters.”

Max glowered at David.

“Cooper—”

“Did what he was trained to do,” interrupted David. “No one was more focused on our objective than Cooper, Max. He would want us to finish the job. Where’s the Key now?”

“In the Archives,” replied Max heavily. “I talked to Miss Boon last night—they still don’t know what it’s for.”

David nodded. “Any sign of the witches?”

“No. No one shows up here but refugees and whatever Agents have escaped from the field offices,” said Max darkly. “Richter’s spent most of our resources bringing people here. Vilyak’s furious—says she’s responsible for the fall of half our field offices. He’s called for a vote of no confidence. Vilyak wants to be Director.”

“Not while Bob is here,” growled the ogre, towering over them. He bore a silver tray piled high with warm, buttery cinnamon toast. This he set on David’s lap before easing himself into a seat. David began devouring the toast, speaking with a full mouth.

“Did you tell anyone—”

“Not yet,” said Bob with a wink. “Little one needs rest, not visitors.”

“Bob, please don’t tell anyone I’ve woken up until tomorrow,” David pleaded.

The ogre frowned.

“Is it mischief that you make?” he asked cautiously.

“No,” said David. “I just need a bit of time without everyone pestering me. The first thing they’ll do is stick me down with the scholars studying that sphere.”

“But I thought you said that’s all that matters,” said Max.

“It is,” said David, glancing sharply at him. “But the answers we need aren’t in the Archives. . . .”

The ogre shook his head and pushed up from his seat.

“The less Bob knows, the better. I tell the Director at breakfast tomorrow.”

David thanked Bob and watched the ogre lumber out, ducking beneath the archway and letting the doors swing shut behind him. Then his eyes returned to Max; his whispered words were urgent.

“Do you have my pack?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Max cautiously. “It’s in our room.”

“Good,” said David. “Fill it with enough clothes for both of us—enough for a long time. Bring your spear and the shirt Señor Lorca gave you and meet me on the main path between the orchard and the Smithy. Will you do it?”

“Of course,” said Max, his weariness evaporating. He felt a sudden urgency to consult with Mr. Sikes. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” said David. “But I’ll know soon enough. Just meet me on the path!”

David dutifully slipped the thermometer beneath his tongue as Max hurried from the room.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when Max stole from the Manse and crept down the salted steps, sticking to the shadows as he clutched David’s enchanted pack. The campus was awash in moonlight, bands of bright snow and ice fringed by dark and fragrant pine. Far off Max heard the faint, cheery notes of Nolan’s fiddle. Creeping off the path, Max stole for the cover of the orchard, weaving his way silently among the class trees until he had disappeared beneath the frail, sighing canopy that marked the border of the orchard and the wooded paths beyond. Max saw a white puff of breath billow out from behind a tree. David was waiting.

“I think so,” whispered Max, patting the bag. “I threw almost everything you own in here.”

“Good,” said David, peering up the path. “Now help me look for something—I’m sure it’s right around here.”

“What are we looking for?” asked Max.

“A coin,” replied David. “I buried it around here last year.”

“I remember,” said Max, thinking back to his first day at Rowan, when he’d spied his strange new roommate inexplicably burying a coin where a small side path diverged into the wood. He scanned the ground where David was poking about the snow and hard, cold soil. “Didn’t you bury it by a side path?” Max asked, seeing an overgrown path some twenty feet ahead.

“I did,” said David. “But the paths move. That’s why I buried the coin. There’s Old Magic in these woods, Max—can’t you feel it?”

Max shook his head and ran his fingers along an ancient beech. He felt nothing, but he knew there was something peculiar in these woods—he himself had once encountered strange lights and faint laughter. Ever since that incident, he’d been content to keep his feet firmly planted on well-trodden ways.

“Help me look,” huffed David. “I know it’s close.”

Max crouched low near his roommate and plunged his hands into the cold snow, digging through frost and leaves and dirt in a wide sweep. For ten minutes they crouched in the cold, while their fingers scrabbled numbly at the hard ground.

“Can’t you do a spell or something?” muttered Max in frustration.

“Not yet,” coughed David. “I need to save everything I can.”

“For what?” asked Max. “You haven’t even told me what we’re doing.”

“I know,” said David, grinning. “If I had, you might not have come. . . . Aha! Here it is!”

David produced a gritty coin in his remaining palm. He rubbed it clean of dirt between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the moonlight and peering closely at its date. Satisfied, he pulled the quilt closer about him and plunged into the woods at the exact spot where the coin had been unearthed. Max hurried after.

The woods closed behind them and the air grew colder. David said nothing, walking resolutely forward while Max crunched behind, pushing tree branches aside until it seemed they must have traveled quite far indeed. Max had no idea how far these woods extended. He imagined they should have reached the main road to town by now, but spaces at Rowan could be deceiving.

As they walked on, Max sensed a change in the woods. The air was getting warmer. The trees seemed framed in moonlight despite the dark, interlacing roof of dense branches above them. The unexpected fragrance of rose petals filled the air. Max stopped and gazed upon a broad clearing ringed by summer flowers. He kicked snow from his boots, gaping at thick green grass and fireflies that hovered lazily in the moonlight. Ancient-looking stones, cracked and weathered, were arranged in a circle. They towered above David, who walked gingerly among them with his quilt trailing like a king’s robe in the grass.

“What is this place?” breathed Max, stepping out into the clearing.

“What time is it?” asked David, ignoring Max’s question as he counted his paces across the circle of stones. Max glanced at his watch.

“Almost midnight,” he said.

“We have to hurry,” said David, letting the quilt slip from his shoulders. Max now saw that David was walking upon a smooth stone circle. It was some ten feet across, centered among the standing stones and fringed with toadstools and moss. David swept away bits of grass and dirt until the surface was clean, then stepped off the circle and pointed his small index finger at its perimeter.

A green flame, thin as a laser, burst through the stone and traced a slow, precise circle that glowed along the stone’s perimeter. This done, several additional green flames seeped through the stone in a slow dance, carving powerful runes of warding. Max watched the summoner’s circle form, slow and beautiful, as green and gold tracery flickered on the dark surface. This was no Solomon’s Circle, Max could see readily enough; this circle was for other things.

“Step inside,” said David, beckoning Max over. The two stepped over the circle’s glowing threshold. The night was terribly still; even the trees seemed to be listening in breathless silence. A gleam caught Max’s eye; he now saw a silver ring on David’s finger.

“David,” said Max, realizing his roommate’s intent. “It’s too soon. He’ll hurt you again.”

“Not here,” whispered David, seizing Max’s wrist in a sudden, fierce grip. “He’ll have to come this time.” Clearing his throat and shutting his eyes, David called out into the dark. “Noble Astaroth, pray favor your petitioner with wisdom from under hill, beyond the stars, and beneath the deepest sea.”

From far, far away Max heard Old Tom’s chimes strike midnight. A warm breeze rose up in the clearing; branches shook in fits as the wind rose to a moan. Max swallowed hard as David’s fingers dug deeper into his wrist. He felt horribly exposed. His heartbeat began to patter. As he swiveled his head about in a panic, a swaying branch suddenly caught his eye.

“Connor?” Max croaked, seeing his friend’s astonished face peering at them from behind a tree.

“What are you doing?” asked Connor, his features alight with wonder. There was more movement and Max saw Cynthia, Sarah, and Lucia peek out from behind Connor.

“What are
you
doing?” Max hissed.

“We followed you,” said Connor proudly. “I knew you were up to something—digging around your room like a badger and all.”

“Get out of here—all of you!” pleaded Max, glancing at David’s trancelike expression. “Something terrible is coming!”

Max whirled about to scan the woods as Old Tom struck the last chime and faded to silence. The air became deathly still once again and a noxious smell seeped into the clearing. The odor was sickly sweet—a smell of corpses and brimstone and syrupy perfume. Terrified, Max shook David. His roommate’s eyes shot open. He blinked at Max, distracted, until he suddenly caught sight of their friends.

“Get in the circle,” David said softly.

From the nearby woods, a branch snapped. Max saw a faint, shimmering light bob toward them from among the trees.

“Get in the circle!”
David screamed.

Sarah bolted past Connor toward the safety of the magic circle. Her decisiveness seemed to drive the others into action. They burst from the woods, running in wide-eyed terror toward the protective ring.

Something else leapt into the clearing from the other end. Max’s heart froze as he saw a grinning, masked
peliqueiro,
such as he had seen in Salamanca. It was dressed in scarlet, its dead eyes carved in crescent moons of merriment as it crossed the clearing quickly in pursuit.

Sarah leapt over the circle’s flickering threshold, almost crashing into Max and David. Connor came next, followed by Lucia. Cynthia lagged behind as the masked figure hurtled across the clearing, inhumanly swift. She shrieked and leapt. A gloved hand snatched at her hair, tearing out several long red strands, but she landed with a thud at Max and David’s feet. The summoner’s circle burst into bright flame, illuminating the clearing in a sudden blaze of golden light. Trembling, the six children clustered together and turned to face Astaroth.

The Demon said nothing for some time as he stood just beyond the circle’s perimeter. The mask’s black eyes looked coldly upon them; he twined Cynthia’s hairs about a finger. Pacing slowly about the circle, Astaroth patiently examined its every detail. Runes and symbols flared and hissed at his approach.

“Bene,”
said the Demon with an acknowledging nod. He pivoted on his heel to survey the tall stones. “A bit of a cheat, really, but I suppose it worked. Here I am. Do you know where these stones come from, David?”

“No,” said David quietly.

“Orkney,” said Astaroth, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. He thumped his fist affectionately against the megalith. “Old stones. They have old voices. But it was the very young voice that caught my attention. . . .” Removing the
peliqueiro
mask, Astaroth turned to gaze at them with his malevolent white face. He glanced at David’s arm. “What does the young one require of me?” he asked sweetly. “I’ll confess I’m a bit surprised, David. After our last conversation, I didn’t think I’d hear from you again. Have you called to make amends for the murder of my servants?”

“No,” said David, trembling next to Max.

“Pity,” said the Demon, pacing slowly about the perimeter again. The reek of Astaroth’s presence was overpowering. Lucia gagged into her sleeve. Astaroth smiled. “You’re a poor host, David. You should have brought silver rings for all. Max can bear it, I think, but the others are not made of such stern stuff.”

“They’re not supposed to be here,” said David, glancing worriedly at his friends.

“But here they are,” said Astaroth. “And now I have seen them. I know their faces. I know their names. And I even have a token of the young lady, have I not? Mischief can be mine, you know.”

Cynthia gasped suddenly as the Demon unwound one of her hairs to stretch it taut between his delicate fingers. Crumpling to the ground, Cynthia writhed in a spasm of pain.

“Stop it,” said David, seething.

“She must ask me,” insisted the Demon, stretching the hair tighter.

“Please stop,” gasped Cynthia, fighting off tears.

“Of course,” said Astaroth, letting the hairs fall from his grasp. “Oh, don’t be angry with me,” said the Demon as Cynthia struggled to her feet. “It’s your friend here who should bear the brunt of your wrath. He has endangered you, Cynthia. It’s lucky for you that mere curiosity overwhelms me. . . .”

“Promise that you’ll never hurt her again,” commanded David, thrusting a finger at the smiling face. “Promise or I’ll hurt you.”

“My, my,” said the Demon, with a cold glitter in his dark eyes. “My lesson has turned you cruel indeed. I had hoped that little incident at the Workshop might have sated your bloodlust, but apparently I was mistaken. A cruel, conniving thing you are, David Menlo! Very well . . . your summons compels three reasonable services from me. Shall a promise to Miss Gilley be one of them?”

David hesitated. Long seconds passed while Astaroth strolled about the perimeter, looking bored. The flames about the circle began to sputter and pulse. Max looked at it doubtfully.

“How long will the circle last?” whispered Max.

“One hour,” replied his roommate.

“Don’t forget what the
Codex
said,” hissed Max. “Astaroth will try to stall—to distract us. He’s already doing it, David!”

David blinked and glanced at Max. Astaroth was smiling patiently, holding a delicate black scepter fashioned in the form of a viper.

“Come, David,” he chided. “You know how busy I am. This very country is poised to hoist my flag, and I’d hate to miss the ceremony. Shall Miss Gilley be spared my attentions?”

“Yes,” blurted David. “Promise never to hurt Cynthia or permit her to be hurt by any power under your control. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Astaroth, yawning.

“How do we use Bram’s Key to reach the Book of Origins?” asked David.

“Ah,” said Astaroth, pacing once again. “Now we come to it, do we not?”

The Demon chanted Bram’s Riddle in a lilting, amused voice. “Not much of a poet, the esteemed Elias Bram, but it seems his purpose was served. Do you know what the notches are, David?”

“Yes,” said David. “I think so.”

“And?” said the Demon, beckoning playfully.