The Second Siege (5 page)

David nodded and scrunched into a warmth-seeking ball once again. Max ducked around the rock and walked farther up the beach, scanning about and stopping periodically to watch the tide fill in his footprints. Plucking up a sharp rock, he skimmed it far out over the waves. He was still watching the glassy swells when a high-pitched cry sent a shiver down Max’s spine.

The cry had come from David.

Max turned and ran up the beach, spraying sand in his wake. He found his roommate sitting bolt upright against the rock, staring straight ahead. Turning, Max saw light streaming from the cabin’s windows, giving it the appearance of a mad jack-o’-lantern on the hillside.

“When did the lights go on?” hissed Max.

David said nothing but pointed straight ahead, positively dumbstruck with terror.

Max forced his attention from the cottage to the gleaming stretch of beach before him.

Something was coming at them—a faint light bobbing across the sand.

Max’s breath turned to mist as cold crept up his toes and tunneled deep. A rising wave of fear almost made him gag. He heard David’s lunch splash on the sand. But as the light bobbed closer, Max saw that it was only a bonneted woman, clutching a basket and carrying a lantern before her.

“It’s just an old woman,” Max muttered.

“Look closer!” hissed David.

Max blinked and caught his breath. On closer inspection, he saw the woman was faintly translucent. Moon-dappled waves gleamed through her old-fashioned nightgown and robe as she came to a stop some twenty feet from them.

The ghost shone her lantern at them with calm curiosity.

“Say something,” hissed David, kicking lamely at Max’s foot.

“Er . . . hello, ma’am,” ventured Max, giving a hesitant wave and remembering Cooper’s instructions. “Can we help you with anything?”

“Hmmm,” said the ghost, her voice crackling with age. “Maybe you can. I’m trying to find my husband, you see. Silly me can’t sleep till he’s all home in his bed. Would you help me look for him?”

“Of course,” said Max politely. He reached down to pull David up, but the small boy made a gurgling noise and waved Max away. “C’mon,” whispered Max, tugging at David’s sleeve. “It’s not so bad, is it?”

David peeped once again at the waiting ghost and scowled at Max before clambering to his feet. The ghost thanked them kindly and adjusted the basket on her arm before continuing along the beach with the boys in her shimmering wake. David was silent and stopped periodically to spit up, but Max was determined to conquer his fear.

“Er, what’s your husband look like?” he asked as the ghost walked several feet ahead of them.

“Oh, he’s about your height,” she replied distractedly, “and he’ll be wearing the blue coat I made him last winter.”

The ghost stopped to inspect a dark shape at the water’s edge, but it turned out only to be an old oar and a shaggy clump of seaweed. She sighed and veered away from the water to search the hollows of some low dunes sprinkled with tall grass. After another ten minutes of fruitless searching, Max felt his nausea subside, only to be replaced by impatience as the ghost plodded on in a meandering path.

“Should we call out his name?” suggested Max.

The ghost stopped and flashed the lantern on his face.

“Why in good heavens would we do that?” she whispered, irritation flashing on her pale features. David nearly fainted.

“No reason,” said Max, putting up his hands defensively. “I just thought, you know, if we called out his name, he might hear us and—”

“Well, of course he’d hear us!” hissed the woman. “Think I want to wake him, do you?”

“What do you mean, wake him?” Max was confused. “Is he nearby?” he asked, ignoring David’s furious gestures to be quiet.

“Oh, I
know
he is,” muttered the woman.

The ghost began to laugh, and David withdrew behind Max. As she laughed, her girlish giggling gradually dropped in pitch until it became a hoarse titter. The lantern’s light shook on the boys’ faces while the ghost fumbled about in her basket. Reaching inside, the ghost took hold of something that seemed rather heavy. She thrust it forward at them.

It was a man’s head, its pale features clenched in silent shock.

Max shrieked. David leapt straight into the air, covering his eyes and flailing his limbs about in a sort of muscular spasm before collapsing on the sand.

“Where’s the rest of you, love?” asked the ghost, now addressing the grisly thing. She succumbed to another fit of laughter and flicked playfully at its nose. “C’mon and give your Mary a hint!”

The head’s eyes suddenly blinked and swiveled to look at her.

“Think I’ll ever let you rest, you miserable woman?” it shrieked. “Ha! Keep searching, you murdering trollop . . . .”

A spectral squabble erupted. Max took the opportunity to pull his petrified roommate to his feet. Once set in motion, David took off like a rocket. Max had never seen his friend run so fast, his little legs churning up the sand as he raced screaming back up the beach. The two left the bickering ghosts far behind and dashed past the eerie cottage.

The car had returned and was waiting on the weedy drive. The boys made a beeline toward it, flinging open the back door and diving inside. The engine roared to life as Cooper glanced back at them with a look of private amusement.

“I can see he’s sleeping,” replied Connor, undeterred. “But he’s about to plop into his oatmeal.”

Max slid David’s bowl of oatmeal safely out of harm’s way while his roommate continued snoring, his mouth agape.

“Reckon you’ll be sleeping all day, too,” moped Connor, glancing at Max as Lucia and Sarah sat down to join them.

“Nope,” said Max, finishing his oatmeal and stealing a bite of David’s. “I’m scheduled to do a Course scenario with a couple of Agents.”

Connor nearly dropped his spoon at the mention of Rowan’s high-tech and rigorous training simulator.

“You’re doing scenarios with
Agents
?” he asked. “
Real
Agents? That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard! What level?”

“Six, I think,” said Max, wiping his mouth.

“Our boy is doing Level Six scenarios with Agents, my dear!” said Connor, wiping away a fake tear and taking the opportunity to squeeze Lucia, who scowled and squirmed out of his grasp. While Connor turned and crowed to a nearby table of Fifth Years, Sarah narrowed her eyes and cleared her throat.

“What do they want from you?” she asked pointedly.

“What do you mean?” asked Max, feeling suddenly self-conscious under the combined stares of the three girls.

“Let’s start with Acclimation,” said Sarah, folding her arms in the same imposing manner as Miss Boon, their Mystics instructor. “What’s that all about?”

“Oh,” said Max. “We’re not really supposed to talk about it.”

“There!” she said, snapping her fingers and leaning forward. “That’s
exactly
what I mean! They’ve got you doing things—dangerous things!—and then they get you to keep quiet about them.”

“I don’t think Acclimation’s actually dangerous,” Max assured her. “Supposedly it works better if you don’t know what to expect—that’s why I can’t talk about it. Everyone goes through it by the end of Sixth Year—”

“So why do they have you and David doing it now?” interrupted Cynthia. “We’re just Second Years, if they haven’t noticed.”

“I don’t know,” said Max, shrugging. “They think we’re ready for it, I guess.”

“Ready for what, exactly?” asked Sarah. “You’re
thirteen,
Max!”

“What does that have to do with it?” he snapped. “Why don’t you ask the Sixth Years who trained against me over the summer? I whipped all of them!”

Max found that he’d been speaking louder than he had intended. A number of Sixth Years glanced over from a table underneath the stained-glass windows. Among them was the last student Max had literally chased out of the Sanctuary. The older boy gave Max a sour stare.

“Max,” said Sarah in a pleading voice, “this is what I mean—they’re using you! They’re manipulating you—
sharpening
you like a weapon! Did your father know about Acclimation?”

“No,” said Max warily. “Not that I know of.”

“So, they’ve got you hunting down students, training with Agents, and keeping things from your friends and father. Does that sound okay to you?”

“Nobody’s using me, Sarah,” muttered Max, standing up from the table and stalking off toward the kitchens. Pushing through the swinging doors, he made a beeline for a nearby sink, splashing cold water on his face. From the next room, he heard the sounds of music and singing. His father’s enthusiastic crooning was unmistakable, as was Bob’s rumbling baritone, but the third voice was unfamiliar—a woman, whose deep and playful singing almost managed to rescue the jazzy number.

Peering into the next room, Max saw his father bent beneath an exhaust fan stirring a monster-sized pot of what smelled like tomato sauce while Bob slid meatballs off a cutting board to plop into the sauce with a gurgle. A third person—Max thought it must be Mum—capered between them, mincing some leaves of oregano as she sang along with Ella Fitzgerald, whose vibrant voice issued from an old radio.

Upon second glance, Max saw that the third singer did indeed resemble Mum but was bigger by a foot in every direction. Five feet tall with patchy gray skin, this hag boasted a belly so taut and swollen she was reduced to wearing her apron like a smock, its untied strings wagging at her sides as she shook her formidable bottom in time to the music. Adding the oregano to the sauce, she clapped her hands as the song came to a close.

“Ah, that’s the good stuff,” said the hag. “Ella was brimmin’ with soul, she was! Oi! Bob, you handsome devil, put this old girl to work—what’s next on the menu for the young lovelies? Soufflé? Or how ’bout I whip up my triple chocolate layer cake?”

“You can make soufflé?” asked Bob, impressed. “Mum tries, but she peeks too soon.”

“I do not!”
cried Mum’s voice, screeching from a side pantry. A potato came hurtling from beyond Max’s view to thud dully against Bob’s chest. The ogre sighed and reached for a clove of garlic, spying Max in the process.

“Max,” croaked the ogre as another song crackled from the radio, “come in and taste the sauce.”

Max’s father spooned some of the bubbling red sauce onto a small slice of sourdough and Max nibbled at it. It was far and away the best sauce Max had ever tasted: rich with tomatoes and a dash of wine, and deliciously peppery.

“That’s good,” he concluded, his stomach rumbling once again. “That’s, like,
incredibly
good!”

“Hooray, hooray!” The enormous hag clapped. “You’ve got good taste, my boy—no doubt a gentleman and scholar, too.”

“Max,” said Mr. McDaniels, “I’d like you to meet Mum’s sister, Bellagrog—she arrived this morning. Bellagrog, this is my son, Max.”

The hag’s little red eyes peered intently at Max before she scuttled forward to seize him by both hands. Like Mum, her grip was soft and clammy but tight as a vise.

“Bellagrog Shrope at your service, my love—but call me Auntie Mum!” she crowed, looking him up and down. “Well, you’re a handsome lad, ain’t ya?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Max, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out of her grip. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The hag patted Max’s hand as she glanced sideways at Mr. McDaniels.

“Father and son as good-lookin’ a pair as I’ve set eyes on this past age,” she said. “And, eh, where’s the missus, if I might be so bold?”

Max looked with interest at his father to see how he would answer. Bryn McDaniels had been missing for more than three years and Mr. McDaniels refused to acknowledge that she was probably dead. Mr. McDaniels cleared his throat.

“Can’t find her,” he said with a sad shrug and a crooked smile. “If you see her, you be sure to let me know.”

“Not on your life!” said Bellagrog with a bawdy laugh, smacking Mr. McDaniels on the behind with a wooden spoon. “You’re on the market again, honey.”

Max grinned as Mr. McDaniels flushed pink and managed a chuckle.

Mum came hurtling out of the side pantry, looking panicked.

Hurrying over, Mum wedged herself between Mr. McDaniels and Bellagrog, standing on her tiptoes in a futile attempt to look the larger hag in the eye.

“You’ve had a long trip, Bel,” panted Mum. “Very long, and you must be tired. Take a nap in my cupboard, why don’t you?”

“Aren’t you a sweet one, Bea?” said Bellagrog, pinching Mum’s cheek. “I don’t reckon I could fit, love. Imagine this great big place, and you’re holed up in a little cupboard! Bwahahahaha! I wish Nan were still alive to see it!”

“What’s wrong with my cupboard?” sniffed Mum, sinking back on her heels.

“Nothing, Bea,” chortled Bellagrog. “Fits your personality, it does. Had no idea my baby sis was livin’ so high this side of the pond or I’d have looked her up a long time ago!”

“So you had no trouble finding Rowan?” asked Max, mindful of David’s concerns.

“Nah,” said Bellagrog with a dismissive wave. “Jumped ship in Boston and made my way up. Had to nose around the woods a bit, but I found the place sure as Sunday.”

“What brought you here?” asked Bob as he rummaged through a freezer.

“Things gettin’ awful bleak out in the wild, Bob,” said the hag with a sober nod. “Right smart of you to get out when you did! Humans just don’t let their wee ones wander about and play the way they used to, and, well . . . a girl’s got to eat!”

The bloated hag gnashed her teeth and gave a mischievous chuckle. Mr. McDaniels turned green and placed a protective arm around Max, causing the hag to roar with laughter.

“Aw, a good father you are, Scott, but not to worry, love. I know these young ones ain’t for eating. Wouldn’t dream of insulting me hosts! I’ll catch my dinner in that cute little town outside the gates—lots of tourists, by the looks of it!”

Mr. McDaniels groaned.

“Perhaps we can have a second sniffing ceremony,” volunteered Bob. “I’ll ask the Director.”

“What the blazes is a ‘sniffing ceremony’?” asked Bellagrog, glancing at Mum.

“It’s so we . . . don’t
bother
anyone here,” mumbled Mum, failing to meet her sister’s eye.

“And you do this, do you?” asked Bellagrog.

“Yes,” said Mum meekly.

“Should be ashamed of yourself, you should!” scolded Bellagrog, wagging a sharp, stubby finger under Mum’s nose. “Imagine a Shrope submittin’ to something like that!”

“If you want to stay, you’ll have to do it, too,” said Mum quietly.

“Pshaw!” said Bellagrog, stalking away to shake the radio, which now issued only static. She squinted at the dial and adjusted it, but no stations came through. “Well,” she said, “that’s it for Ella, I guess. So, Bob, how ’bout I get cracking on those soufflés?”

“That would be very nice,” said Bob, directing Bellagrog to a refrigerator stocked with eggs, milk, and cream. Bellagrog immediately set to laying out bowls and pans, whisks and spoons in an efficient array.

“But I can make a soufflé,” protested Mum, tilting a tear-streaked face up toward Bob.

“I know,” said Bob gently. “But I need you on the roasts. Nothing’s more important than the main course, Mum.”

“Yes,” said Mum, practically shouting in the direction of her sister. “The main course is terribly important! Much more vital than dessert! Children
never
forget a good roast!”

Mum snatched up a cleaver and shambled off into the meat locker, her cheeks pink with pleasure. Max took advantage of the momentary quiet.

“Dad,” he said, “I want to tell you something that I did last night, so you hear it from me and not anyone else.”

Mr. McDaniels nodded quizzically and reduced the level of flame on the range.

“Would you like me to go?” asked Bob.

“No,” said Max. “It’s not a big secret or anything—I just wanted to tell my dad that I got Acclimated last night.”

Mr. McDaniels raised his eyebrows and glanced at Bob, who gave a sputtering sigh.

“What is that?” asked Mr. McDaniels. “Is that slang for getting high? Did you try a cigarette or get into the wine cellars, Max?”

Mr. McDaniels smiled uncertainly as Bob began to laugh, nearly subsonic chuckles that vibrated the glass panes of the dish cabinets.

“No, Dad,” said Max. “Nothing like that. Ms. Richter had Cooper take David and me to an empty beach last night—a couple hours from Rowan.”

“Yeah?” said Mr. McDaniels, the smile disappearing from his face as Max told him the story. He kept the tale brief, omitting the gruesome details of the husband’s head in the basket. Max’s father listened attentively, his expression alternating between anger and shivering curiosity.

“And what was the point of all this?” asked Mr. McDaniels when Max had concluded.

“Cooper said it’s to get students used to being near the supernatural,” explained Max. “David got sick because he’s never been exposed. It didn’t affect me as much, because of what I went through last spring.”

Actually, Max thought his experience in Marley Augur’s crypt was enough for a hundred Acclimations. The aura radiated by the undead blacksmith had been a far more malevolent force than the nausea-inducing presence of the woman’s ghost.

“Bob, did you know about this?” asked Mr. McDaniels, turning to the craggy-faced ogre.

“No,” said Bob. “I have never heard of one being Acclimated so young.”

“Yeah,” said Max hastily. “Most students do this when they’re eighteen.”

“Just before they’re assigned,” added Bob, frowning now as he diced another basket of tomatoes.

“Assigned to what?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

“Official duty,” said Bob ominously, with an anxious glance at Max.

“Over my dead body,” breathed Mr. McDaniels, removing his apron and heading for the door.

“Dad,” cried Max. “Where are you going?”

“To find Ms. Richter,” huffed his father, disappearing out the swinging doors.

Max groaned and buried his head, listening to the static that now hissed from the radio.