11
ALL HALLOWS’ EVE
By the weekend of All Hallows’ Eve, Rowan was bustling with alumni who had returned for the celebration. They had arrived from all over the world: ancient crones in wheelchairs, well-dressed men and women, and handfuls of college students wearing the sweatshirts of their respective universities. Max was surprised to see some familiar faces: several politicians, a world-famous scientist, even a movie actress who was a favorite of Mr. McDaniels’s.
Max slipped past several alumni in the great hall and ducked down a back stairway. Tomorrow, the First and Second Years would play one another in a Euclidean soccer match, with the rest of the school and alumni as spectators. The First Years were convening on one of the Manse’s sublevels to choose their team.
The scene was a nightmare, and Max soon had a headache. The First Years were permitted to have twenty players on the team, but each of the five sections seemed to think they had ten worthy candidates. Max and David sat off to the side while the arguments persisted, leaving the negotiations for their section to Rolf, Sarah, and Connor. Rolf and another boy were in the midst of arguing when David quietly got up and walked to the front of the room.
“Excuse me—” said David.
The arguments persisted and David began coughing.
“Excuse me—” he repeated.
Max breathed a sigh of relief when Cynthia stepped in to rescue him.
“Everybody shut up!” Cynthia bellowed, clamping a hand over Connor’s mouth to interrupt an unintelligible stream of Dublin slang. “David’s got something to say,” she concluded.
David turned bright red as all eyes focused on him.
“Well,” he said, his voice barely audible in the large room, “we’ll never get anywhere this way…. We have twenty spots and five sections. Each section should choose their best four players and that will be the team.”
“But that might not be the best twenty players,” scoffed a boy from Brazil.
“Well, you can argue for as long as you want,” said David. “The game starts tomorrow at nine and I want to have a team to cheer.”
David sat back down next to Max while the debate continued.
“Remind me never to do that again,” David groaned.
That night, Max could hardly sleep. He paced the room in anticipation of the match against the Second Years. Rolf, who had been chosen captain for the First Years, decided on a lineup that would emphasize the First Years’ strengths, one of which was Max’s rapidly blossoming speed.
“Get to bed early, Max,” Rolf had urged at dinner. “I’m counting on your legs. You may be playing most of the game.”
Max had promised and hurried through his visit with Nick, who was visibly annoyed. Getting to bed early made no difference, however, and Max tossed and turned for an hour before finally creeping downstairs to fetch one of his Mystics texts. He spent the next few hours conjuring small orbs of dark blue flame and concentrating on making a pencil roll back and forth on his book. Near dawn, he caught his image reflected in a dark glass pane of the observatory dome. A small sphere of blue flame still flickered about his hand before disappearing altogether.
“You’re changing,” he whispered, and collapsed into bed.
David was already dressed in his navy Rowan uniform when he shook Max awake. Max bolted upright, knocking the Mystics text off his bed onto the floor.
“You have to be at the field in ten minutes for warm-up!” said David, running to get Max’s soccer shoes.
Max leapt out of bed and threw on his navy jersey. A minute later, he raced to the athletic fields, passing by the Second Years’ team as they ran through drills in their white uniforms. The First Year players were all stretching at the far end of the field—except for Rolf, who stood with his arms crossed. Max tried to ignore his captain’s purple face, focusing instead on his stretches and a pair of scarecrows that had been placed as spectators in the stands.
David brought him some toast.
“Here you go. Better to be late this morning than tonight…,” he said with a smile.
Max narrowed his eyes as David started giggling and ran off to the stands. His roommate had enjoyed teasing him ever since Sarah had finally accepted Max’s invitation to the festival.
It was a crisp autumn day with a pleasant breeze scattering fallen leaves into golden drifts. Students and alumni were already filling the stands, settling down with thermoses and spreading cotton throws on their laps. After the stretches, Sarah tapped Max on the arm, pointing over his shoulder with a giggle: Nolan was leading the players’ charges across the grounds from the Sanctuary. The enormous shedu, Orion, clopped out in front; a white sheet painted with victory slogans had been thrown over his back. Max wondered how Rolf had managed to cajole the proud shedu into serving as a billboard.
Max sighed as he saw Nolan abruptly scoop up Nick to prevent the lymrill from running out on the field. Nick was entrusted to a somewhat nervous-looking pair of alums, and Nolan assembled the other charges to watch from the grass.
M. Renard strode out on the field and raised his arms to quiet the crowd. Max’s stomach felt queasy. Several thousand spectators clapped and chattered with one another as they perused little programs and matched names and numbers to faces. Max’s attention shifted as M. Renard’s voice boomed out, magically amplified.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year’s All Hallows’ Eve match between Rowan’s young Apprentices!”
The crowd erupted in enthusiastic cheers. Max saw that Nick was shaking so wildly that Nolan had to retrieve him from the alumni couple. The man scowled and removed his camel’s-hair coat, holding it up to examine its shredded sleeves. Wincing, Max turned back to M. Renard, who seemed to enjoy the crowd’s attention as he gestured at the First Years with a dramatic flourish.
“It was only two months ago that these little globules arrived here, fat and squishy like little pats of butter!” said the Games instructor.
The crowd chuckled as Max blushed with his teammates.
“You should not laugh!” scolded M. Renard. “I see several pats of butter in the crowd. Remedial training may be in order for some of you,” he deadpanned, wagging a finger in the direction of several plump women sharing a tartan blanket. One of them stood and shook her fist, shouting, “Never again!” to the delight of the alumni.
The instructor continued. “Yes, only two months ago did they arrive, but as you shall see, they have learned a thing or two. Please give them a warm Rowan welcome.”
Max squinted in the morning sun, trying to make out more faces as the crowd issued a friendly round of applause.
“And our Second Years,” said M. Renard, trotting over to the other team. “Who can forget them? Ah, the ‘middle children’ of Rowan. I sympathize with them in this match—always cast as the scoundrels, the villains, the bullies, as they compete against our poor, innocent First Years…. It’s not fair, is it?”
The Second Years laughed and shook their heads.
“Yes, well, while it is not fair, it is life, is it not?” M. Renard sniffed. “Good luck to both teams. Play hard and be good sportsmen. And, eh, Happy Halloween!”
The crowd cheered as trumpets sounded, blown by a quartet of satyrs stationed at the far end of the stands. Max took a deep breath and trotted onto the field, adding his hand to the huddle as Rolf rallied the troops. Rolf mentioned something about “pride” and “they’re only a year older,” but Max’s main focus was on trying to overcome his nerves. He saw Alex Muñoz take the field with the Second Years, chatting with his teammates as he leaned to the side and stretched. Alex caught Max looking and shook his head, as if with pity.
The field buckled as soon as M. Renard blew the whistle. Max was jostled off balance as a Second Year raced by with the ball, passing it quickly to a wing. The wing knocked the ball down and began to pass it around, probing for a seam in the defense. Alex Muñoz ran up from midfield in time to catch a sharp pass and line up a shot on goal before Rolf came hurtling in to knock the ball away.
Once the game had begun, Max forgot his jitters and watched the action. He was playing midfield, but Rolf asked him to focus on the defensive side of things, anticipating that the Second Years would seek to demoralize them early.
Rolf was right. The Second Years struck twice in quick succession on a visibly frustrated Cynthia, who was an excellent goalie but unaccustomed to such sudden, speedy shots. The First Years, however, rallied when one of their forwards scored an improbable goal due to a sudden shock wave in the field that knocked the opposing goalie off his feet. The crowd roared its support when the First Years threatened again, but Alex stole the ball away from Sarah and launched a long pass downfield that quickly resulted in another score. Before play resumed, Alex jogged over to whisper something to Sarah with a nasty look on his face. Max thought she might lose her composure and go after him, but Rolf quickly substituted another player for her.
Despite their lead, the Second Years began squabbling with one another as the half progressed. Max got the impression that a margin of 3–1 was embarrassing. They sniped at one another or cursed whenever the First Years managed a steal or controlled the ball for any length of time, drawing cheers from the crowd. Max noticed a definite change when he converged on the ball with two Second Years and was elbowed hard to the side by one as the other dribbled away, hurdling a series of uphill bumps that tilted to the right. Max chased after the girl with the ball when M. Renard’s whistle sounded and the half came to an end.
“You can’t get pushed out of the way like that,” panted Rolf, running up to Max as they herded with the rest toward one goal. “You have to be more aggressive or I’m going to pull you.”
“It’s soccer!” snapped Max. “It’s not even a contact sport!”
“Tell them that,” retorted Rolf.
As the second half started, Max was sure M. Renard had changed the field settings. Its movements became more extreme and the patterns less predictable. Entire sections rose and fell in seamed ridges. Tracking a ball that arced over his head, Max turned and suddenly found himself face to face with a six-foot wall. He hoisted himself over only to see a Second Year defender reach the ball before him. The ball was passed back over his head, where it was caught on the chest by John Buckley, the Second Years’ captain, who made a nice move around the sweeper and launched the ball past Cynthia into the net. The crowd cheered as John was mobbed by his teammates.
Five minutes later, Max found himself dribbling the ball and looking for Sarah upfield when he was suddenly slide-tackled hard from behind by Alex, who stole the ball and raced toward Cynthia. Alex feinted convincingly to the right before shifting his weight and sending the ball into the opposite corner, completely bewildering Cynthia. Max watched miserably as it trickled past her; the goal had been his fault. M. Renard’s voice rose to announce the new score to the cheering crowd as Alex pumped his fist and shouted something to Cynthia.
Despite Rolf ’s frantic shouts of encouragement, Max thought the First Years were beginning to droop. These thoughts vanished from his mind as a Second Year suddenly launched a long pass in the direction of John. Max sprang into action. He overtook the older boy and was about to chip the ball to Rolf when his legs were taken out hard from under him and he crashed to the turf. Pain shot through his knee. He saw Alex run laughing after John, who was now dribbling the ball toward Cynthia.
Max watched them for a moment.
Then, the simmering presence within him snapped and roared to life with terrible force. Jumping up from the turf, he set his jaw and raced after them.
Faster and faster his legs churned, the wind strong and fierce in his face as the jerseys he chased grew larger. The gap closed with startling swiftness; Max had never run so fast. The blood pounded in his head.
Alex looked shocked as Max elbowed past him and snaked around John to steal the ball and reverse field. The crowd jumped to their feet in a colorful jumble of clapping hands and waving caps, but the shouts and cheers sounded far away. Max focused on the ball and the turf in front of him, taking instantaneous note of his teammates, his opponents, and their relative positions.
The other players now appeared sluggish; he easily outpaced a Second Year boy who badly misjudged his angle of pursuit and was left gaping as Max flew past him, leaping like a deer high over a mound that had risen before him. Seconds later, he changed directions so abruptly that the opposing sweeper fell to the ground, clutching his own ankle. His legs a blur, Max rifled a shot past the goalkeeper that exploded into the upper reaches of the net.
Immediately after the ball left his foot, Max turned and sprinted back down the field. He ran past his teammates, who tried to congratulate him, making directly for Alex, sullen and scowling as Max approached. Sticking a finger hard in Alex’s chest, Max panted, “All day long, Alex. I’m going to do this to you all day long.”
Alex pushed him and was restrained by his captain as M. Renard blew his whistle in rapid chirps. Max ignored the cheers of the crowd and his teammates, running back to his position so play could resume.
For the remainder of the game, he was unstoppable.
He hounded the Second Years on both sides of the field; his heart beat furiously as he scrambled up ridges, leapt over sizable gaps in the turf, and nimbly changed directions at astonishing speeds. He had scored another goal almost immediately after his first, forcing the Second Years to assign multiple players to guard him. This allowed Max to deliver consecutive beautiful passes to Sarah and the other forward, each of whom victimized the isolated goalkeeper and scored easy goals.
The game was tied 5–5 in the waning minutes when Max ran down a terrified-looking Second Year boy and stole the ball. He ignored the fire in his lungs and reversed field, dodging past a Second Year who crashed in from his left. Dribbling upfield, he lofted the ball over the head of Alex and onto a ridge, some ten feet above. A distant roar from the crowd sounded in his head as he dashed past Alex and leapt up onto the ridge without breaking stride.
His teammates simply stopped playing and watched.
Bounding over the ridge, Max beat a nearby defender to the ball and sped down the sideline. He managed to launch a shot just as he was slide-tackled by John Buckley. Collapsing onto the turf, Max followed the ball as it screamed past the goalkeeper into the net.
John was panting hard on the grass next to him. “You’re a one-man army, Max! Oh my God,” he breathed, coughing as he rolled onto his back.
Max pulled him to his feet just as M. Renard blew a long whistle. The game was over. Max was mobbed by his teammates, Rolf driving him to the ground as the others piled on top. M. Renard ran forward to rescue Max from the heap, hoisting him out and appraising him with a small smile.
“That was…something,” he said quietly with a short nod.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said M. Renard. “I think we can all agree that this was an unexpected show. For the first time in Rowan’s history, the First Years have emerged victorious. Who knew these little monsters could play a match like that, eh? Our Player of the Game is Max McDaniels!”
Max was still panting as the crowd roared and rose to its feet. Sarah and Cynthia hugged him tightly while the rest of the class patted his back and messed up his hair.
As Max walked toward the stands, he was nearly upended by Nick, who came barreling into him. Scooping the lymrill into his arms, Max grimaced, imploring his charge to pull in his claws. Nick did so while vibrating his tail like a maraca.
Julie Teller grinned as she stood by the end of the stands holding her camera.
“That was awesome, Max! Really awesome,” she gushed. “Got lots of pictures, too! Hurry back and watch the alumni game!”
Max nodded and waved, trotting off back toward the Manse to shower. He stooped to let Nick spill out onto the grass and clamber after him.
The alumni game was about to begin when Max returned to the stands, wearing his school uniform and shaking the water out of his hair. He brought a thick blanket so he could be at ease around Nick’s claws while they watched the game. He settled into the second row of the bleachers with Rolf and Connor just as a persistent chant of “Coop, Coop, Coop” worked its way through the crowd. Max craned his neck and saw Cooper sitting up and over in the bleachers, bundled in his peacoat and hat. Several of the alumni players and surrounding spectators were trying to entice him out of the stands to play. Cooper gave a thin smile and shook his head.
“I heard he was an awesome player,” said Rolf, munching on a hot dog. “Made the All-Rowan Team as a Third Year. Scored two goals against the alumni.”
“I said hey to him one day outside Maggie,” muttered Connor. “He just sort of looked at me like I was touched.”
“It’s not his job to be friendly,” said Rolf. “In fact, I heard he’s so tough he’s not even assigned to a particular field office. Just goes where he’s needed.”
“What’s a field office?” asked Max, feeling uninformed.
“We’ve got them all over,” explained Rolf, “in most of the major cities in the world. Keep an eye on the Enemy—”
“Here he is!” sang a loud voice to his left.
Max looked down to see Hannah at the edge of the bleachers, helping the goslings up onto Max’s row.
“Max! How are you, darling?” crowed Hannah. “Word around town is that you’re a star! A star! Well, the goslings absolutely insisted on seeing you. Do you mind if they join you? Oh, you’re such a dear.”
The goslings hopped up and down at his feet, pecking everything in sight until Max gently lifted them up. He carefully shifted Nick over and nestled the goslings in a little row along Nick’s warm back. Meanwhile, Hannah had waddled over to the fence near where M. Renard was set to begin the game.
“Hey, Renard!” the goose bellowed. “Gonna call a clean game this year? Huh? Or are you on the alumni payroll again?”
Max and the others giggled as M. Renard fixed Hannah with an acid glare and cleared his throat. Throughout his introduction, Hannah’s taunts and obscenities could be heard during his pauses. The crowd cheered her on, and M. Renard hurried through the pregame ceremonies.
The game itself was stunning. The All-Rowan Team fought valiantly, particularly Jason Barrett. The alumni team, however, was simply unstoppable: their casual speed, strength, and agility far outstripped the students’.
As the outcome was never in doubt, Max found himself hoping for spectacular plays, and he was not disappointed. Two alumni clasped hands and hurtled a sprinting teammate up and over a thirty-foot ridge that rose suddenly at midfield. Another play had the alumni scoring a goal after the ball had traveled the entire field, player to player, without ever touching the ground.
“How can they do that?” whispered Max in awe as one alumnus hurdled a forty-foot chasm without breaking stride.
“Body Amplification,” said Julie Teller matter-of-factly from off to his left. She snapped a photo of Max with Nick and the goslings, and smiled as she peered out from behind the camera.
“What?” said Max. Connor glanced at her and almost choked on his hot dog, scooting over quickly to make room.
“Body Amplification,” she repeated. “Using your Mystic energy to Amplify your body’s capabilities.” She took a seat next to Max and let one of the goslings waddle onto her. “They start teaching it Third Year. It’s pretty hard. You’re obviously a natural, though.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
She laughed and squeezed his arm. He felt light-headed.
“Because, whether you realize it or not, it’s pretty clear you were Amplifying during your match!” Julie explained. “Most Apprentices can’t outrun Olympic sprinters. You should talk to Miss Boon about it.”
They spent the rest of the match chatting. Julie told Max a funny story about her little brother learning to surf back in Melbourne; Max shared with her a bit about Chicago and his dad. When she asked about his mom, Max simply murmured, “She’s gone,” and turned back to the field as M. Renard blew the closing whistle. The alumni had won 11–3, although Max suspected it could have been by whatever margin they chose. The two teams shook hands as spectators began to gather their things and exit the stands.
Max waved at Sarah and the rest of the girls in his section as they approached. Sarah waved back absentmindedly; her attention was on Julie.
“Hi, guys,” said Sarah. “We’re going to rest up and then get ready for tonight. Max, will you meet me by the girls’ staircase at seven?”
“Sure,” said Max, letting two of the goslings nibble at his fingertips.
“Great. See you then,” said Sarah. She shot Julie a quick glance before leaving with the others.
“Hmmm,” said Julie. “I don’t think she likes me sitting with you.”
“Oh. Sarah’s really nice,” said Max quickly.
“I didn’t say she wasn’t,” said Julie, lifting the gosling off her lap and placing it back with Max. “See you tonight.” Julie trotted back up toward the Manse, just as Hannah walloped the fence angrily to conclude her discussion with M. Renard.
“Well, same to you!” she screeched as the instructor stalked away muttering. The goslings jumped down off Max’s lap and waddled to the end of the row to greet their mother.
Sarah really did look pretty, Max thought as she came down the staircase with the other girls, giggling and whispering in their formal uniforms. Sarah had adorned hers with some colorful accessories from home: a copper coil around her wrist, a cowry-shell necklace, and a small colorful pin of a lion on her lapel.
“Hi, Max,” she said, smiling, arriving at the last stair.
“Hi, Sarah. Er, you look really nice,” Max said quietly, certain that Sir Wesley would be mortified by his delivery.
“You do, too,” she said.
“I really like your pin,” he said, acting upon his father’s stern directive to compliment his date on something specific.
Max blushed as she thanked him and took his arm, suddenly aware of the many adults in the foyer who had taken notice and were smiling at them.
Outside, the grounds of the Manse had been transformed. Two enormous pavilions had been erected: white canvas swooped down in graceful arcs from tall, sturdy tent poles. Underneath one pavilion were row upon row of covered serving trays. Max looked longingly at a set of life-size gravestones fashioned of white and dark chocolate that must have come from Mr. Babel’s patisserie. Barrels and enormous woven baskets were stuffed with breads, apples, and sheaves of wheat or tall stalks of corn. Hundreds of jack-o’-lanterns dotted the grounds, crowded together in bunches or hovering above to illuminate the paths and gardens. Out on the lawn, several older students and alumni created eerie phantasms of ghosts and goblins, headless horsemen, and wailing banshees that galloped and loomed against the night sky before dissipating to wispy shreds of smoke.
On the parquet floor beneath the second pavilion, alumni danced to music played by an orchestra whose members were drawn from both the student body and the Sanctuary. A particularly delicate faun strummed a lute while a small man with green skin puffed his cheeks to astounding dimensions while playing the bagpipes. Kettlemouth was there, too, wearing a little pumpkin hat and sitting sleepily on an embroidered pillow, ignoring Lucia’s exasperated pleas to sing.
“Why is Lucia doing that?” asked Max. “He’s a frog.”
Sarah laughed.
“Lucia’s booklet said that his kind have been known to sing,” she explained. “And that his songs can inspire passionate love….”
Max cleared his throat and quickly spied out Connor, who was munching on a turkey leg and giggling whenever a student hit a wrong note or an alumnus attempted a particularly ambitious dance move. Max and Sarah strolled over.
“Hey, Connor,” said Max. “Where’s, er, Mum?”
Connor shrugged.
“I knocked on her cupboard and she started screaming that she wasn’t ready. Apparently her girdle was giving her some trouble.”
Max and Connor snickered; Sarah frowned.
David walked up, conspicuously not wearing the tie that he been wrestling with when Max had left to meet Sarah. The students chatted and waved hello to Bob, who ambled by in an enormous tuxedo, his few hairs combed carefully back.
Ms. Richter swept up, wearing a beautiful shawl of warm colors woven with Celtic borders.
“Don’t let Sir Wesley see you standing in the corner like this,” she said with a smile. “You’ll be practicing ‘mingling’ scenarios for weeks!”
She glanced at Max before addressing them all.
“Congratulations on the First Years’ victory today. I only caught the first half, but heard it had quite a finish. The alumni won’t stop talking about it!”
She stood upright and tapped her head a moment.
“Oh! As long as you’re standing here, would one of you mind running down to the kitchens and getting some more cornbread? It’s disappearing fast and I know Mum had a last batch baking.”
Ms. Richter was off again, confiscating a bottle of champagne from some scowling Fourth Years.
“Connor, why don’t you go?” said Sarah. “Maybe Mum’s ready.”
“Oh no!” pleaded Connor. “She said she’d find me! I don’t want to catch a glimpse of her in her girdle!”
“You’re impossible,” scolded Sarah, turning her back to watch the faun begin an intricate number on his lute.
“I’ll go,” volunteered David.
“See?” said Connor pointedly to Sarah. “David will go. Thanks, Davie—you’ve saved me from an awful sight!”
David smiled as Connor gave him an exaggerated pat on the arm, then he coughed suddenly and slipped through the crowd. The others went to examine the buffet. Just then, the grounds filled with light. A great bonfire had been lit on the ridge overlooking the beach; logs were piled thirty feet high and flames roared up into the night sky. The party cheered and glasses clinked as the orchestra began an upbeat melody.
Twenty minutes later, Max was savoring the lamb and talking to Sarah about the morning’s match when he stopped suddenly.
“Where’s David?” asked Max.
He turned to Omar, who shrugged, looking bored as he nibbled at a baby carrot while his date, Cynthia, trailed Nolan around the party.
“I’ll be right back,” Max said to Sarah. “I’m going to see where he is.”
Sarah nodded but said nothing as the orchestra began another song.
The foyer was empty. Max made his way down to the dining hall. He rounded the pillar and stopped dead in his tracks.
David was lying unconscious on the floor near several battered trays. Squares of cornbread were scattered around him like yellow sponges. His cheek was scratched and bleeding. One of the enormous oak tables was overturned on its side; the dishes and glassware that had been stacked upon it were shattered into thousands of little pieces.
Max looked up and gasped.
There was Mum. She was bound tightly to a stone pillar, pinned some ten feet off the ground, by writhing coils of green and gold fire. Her head hung limply to the side. One of her broad little dancing shoes had fallen off and lay at the base of the pillar.
Max turned and ran up the steps, taking them two at a time and sprinting out the front door to practically tackle Ms. Richter, who was posing for a photograph with some alumni.
“Ms. Richter!” Max panted. “Ms. Richter—come quick!”
“What is it?” she asked, turning to Max just before the flash went off.
“In the dining hall. Hurry!” Max wheezed, before racing back inside.
The Director took in the scene at a glance. Max knelt next to David, who was breathing slowly, the familiar funny whistling sound coming from his nose.
“Get away from him,” commanded Ms. Richter in a calm but stern voice. Max leapt to his feet and backed away against a wall.
As she walked briskly toward the unconscious boy, Ms. Richter raised her left hand, and the green and gold cords binding Mum dissipated to fading motes of light. Mum was lowered to the ground, where she slumped in a little limp heap next to her shoe.
Ms. Richter leaned over David, cradling his head in her hands and whispering softly. David moaned slightly and began to stir. She whispered again and David opened his eyes to blink at Ms. Richter.
“Mum attacked me!” he whispered, wide-eyed. “I just wanted to keep her away from me. I didn’t kill her, did I?”
Ms. Richter shook her head and put a finger to her lips.
With another small wave of her hand, Ms. Richter brought the heavy table upright and collected the broken plates and scattered corn muffins into a neat pile by the kitchen doorway. A chair slid across the floor toward her.
At the Director’s bidding, Max helped her lift David off the ground and sit him down. David was blinking distractedly, glancing at Mum, who was still unconscious.
Ms. Richter crouched over Mum and lifted up the hag’s chin. Mum’s leg kicked, and she awoke with a shriek. She spied David and shrieked again, scrambling to her feet to sob behind the pillar.
“That thing is dangerous!” she cried.
“Really?” said Ms. Richter. “He says that you attacked him, and I am totally inclined to believe it.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Mum’s voice could be heard, heavy and desperate.
“I thought you were playing a game with Mum—sending down a tasty little boy on All Hallows’ Eve. I thought he was a party favor!”
“Why on earth would you think that?” snapped Ms. Richter. “Everyone here is off-limits, Mum. You’ve been told a thousand times.”
“Not that one!” Mum cried. “That one is all right for Mum to eat!”
Max suddenly remembered back to the day the First Years had met Mum. David had fled at the sight of Bob and disappeared into a pantry. Max had not seen him come out.
“Ms. Richter! I don’t think David ever went through the sniffing ceremony—I think maybe he was hiding!”
“Dear heavens!” exclaimed Ms. Richter. “David, is that true?”
David just sat there blinking sleepily.
“Mum, come out here and sniff this boy at once,” commanded the Director.
Mum peeked from behind the pillar before shambling out. She paused several feet away from David. Trembling, she lifted David’s arm to her nose, keeping one cautious eye on David as he sniffled. Finally, she croaked, “Done,” and shuffled off dejectedly toward the kitchen. Max heard her cupboard door slam shut.
“Perhaps we just can’t keep her,” muttered Ms. Richter to herself, frowning. She suddenly turned to Max and put a warm hand on his cheek.
“You did the right thing to come and get me, Max,” she said. “David will be fine. I’ll take him to his room; you go back to the celebration. Tell the others he’s taken ill.”
Max nodded and walked back up the stairs.
The celebration was in full force, with people dancing and singing while the quarter moon shone high above them. Max found Sarah and Omar chatting near the dance pavilion. Sarah looked at him curiously.
“Where’s David?” she asked. “Where have you been all this time?”
“David’s really sick,” Max explained. “He’s gone to bed.”
Omar glanced at Sarah’s expression and sidestepped away just as Connor sauntered over.
“Anyone seen Mum?” he asked. “I’m terrified of what she’ll do if she thinks I stood her up!”
“She’s not coming,” Max sighed. “I heard her in her cupboard. She won’t come.”
“Seriously?” said Connor, his face lighting up.
“Yeah,” confirmed Max, giving Connor a look to drop the subject.
“Great! Maybe now I can get that Second Year cutie to dance with me,” Connor said, scanning the crowd.
“You boys are ridiculous,” hissed Sarah, walking quickly away. Max gave Connor a helpless look and trotted after her.
“Sarah,” he called, “wait up. What’s the matter?”
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter.” She whirled around, her eyes glistening. “I’ve been standing over there for half an hour feeling like a fool at my very first dance. If you didn’t want to take me, you shouldn’t have asked!”
“What?” asked Max. “I was just taking care of David—he was sick.”
“Please,” Sarah sniffed. “I know you only asked me because the other girls made you. I know you’d rather have taken Julie Teller.” She mocked Julie’s wide smile and occasional hair-flip.
“Sarah—”
“Leave me alone! I should have gone with John Buckley. He has manners!”
Max’s face reddened.
“Maybe you should have!” snapped Max.
He stormed away, circling around the Manse and heading toward the orchard and the paths that would take him to the Sanctuary. Nick could use an early feeding, he reasoned. He unknotted his tie and thought about booting aside a jack-o’-lantern.
The light and laughter from the party faded steadily. He turned back to see if Sarah was following; there was no one except for hundreds of grinning jack-o’-lanterns. Crunching leaves beneath his feet, Max paused as he saw a strange light glowing from the side path where David had buried the coin on their very first day. The light ebbed to a soft twinkle before flaring up again in a quick flash of white.
Max heard faint sounds of laughter, like children singing far away. He whipped his head back toward the Manse. The music was not coming from the party.
Brushing aside a low-hanging branch, Max stepped onto the side path. He began to follow the light that now danced deeper into the woods.
“I would not do that if I were you,” hissed a nearby voice.
Max stifled a cry as a figure stepped out of the shadows, its dead white eye gleaming bright in a shaft of moonlight.
By all appearances, the man’s body might have been a shadow, shifting and blending into the background. But his face was clearly visible now, appearing even more worn and haggard than when Max had last seen him at the airport. It looked like he had not slept in days; his face bore heavy stubble. His expression was grim and menacing. He stood taller and stepped forward, slipping a small pack off his shoulder.
“Hello, Max,” he whispered in the same strange accent Max had heard at the museum. “I have something for you.”
Max turned and bolted down the path toward the Manse, but was lifted off the ground before he had taken three steps. A hand was clamped tightly over his mouth, and the man’s voice whispered urgently in his ear.
“Shhh! I am not the Enemy! I am here to help. Will you listen to me? Will you listen to me and not cry out?”
Max nodded and ceased struggling. As soon as he was lowered to the ground and felt the man’s grip loosen, Max elbowed hard into his stomach and went berserk trying to wriggle free. The man wheezed, but his hold was iron. Max was hoisted off the ground again and held by a grip now so numbingly strong that any resistance was utterly futile.
“I understand you’re frightened,” the man hissed. “But if I really wanted to harm you, it would already be over and done with. Agreed?”
Max nodded at the white eye inches away and let his arms go slack. The man paused and then lowered him to the ground.
“You’re a fighter,” the man grunted. “But then again, I guess we knew that.”
Max said nothing but eyed the man warily. The light and laughter from the woods were gone.
“What was in there?” demanded Max, pointing at the woods.
“I don’t know,” said the man simply, motioning for Max to lower his voice. “I do know that Rowan is strange and that it’s best for foolish Apprentices not to follow mysterious laughter on All Hallows’ Eve.”
Max shivered, peering into the woods, which were now dark and quiet.
“How do you know about Rowan?” asked Max suspiciously. “How did you get on the campus?”
“The answers are one and the same. I was a student here. Like most curious students, I know a few of its secrets.”
Max shot a look back at the Manse.
“I am not going to harm you,” hissed the man impatiently.
“No,” said Max, “I know. It’s just…I was warned about you. No one told me you were a student.”
“I’m not welcome here anymore,” said the man with finality, slipping something out of his pack. “But I wish to return something to you.”
The man handed him the small black sketchbook Max had left behind at the Art Institute. Max ran his hands over the cover, flipping it open to see the sketch he had abandoned when this man had entered the gallery. Max tucked the book under his arm.
“Why did you follow me that day?” asked Max.
The man looked around quickly and motioned again for Max to be quieter.
“I am a half-prescient,” said the man, gesturing casually at the white eye that Max found so unsettling. “I knew to be in Chicago and to board that train, but I did not know why. Then I saw you.”
Max remembered the awful way the man’s eye had locked onto him.
“You have a very powerful aura about you, Max. I followed you because you were clearly one of our young ones, and our young ones have been disappearing.”
Max whipped his head around as he heard a distant burst of cheers from the party.
“You and your father were in greater peril that day than you know. The Enemy has been active at art museums. They are looking for special paintings and special children, and they might have found both that day.”
Max was stunned.
“Were you in my house?” Max stammered. “Was that you upstairs?”
The shadowy man shook his head.
“When I arrived, I saw the Enemy fleeing through the alleys. I thought they might have abducted you and gave chase,” said the man. “But they eluded me. By the time I could return, your home was closely watched. I’m sorry I could not get there sooner—I can seldom take the fastest way.”
“What about the airport?” Max hissed impatiently, a strange mix of emotions starting to well up within him.
“The Enemy was waiting for you outside those doors. I knew if you saw me, you would find another way.”
“So what are you saying? That you saved me that day?” Max whispered.
The man smiled for the first time, his sharp features softening momentarily into a kindly expression.
“You’ll do the same for me one day, eh?”
The man suddenly frowned and crouched low.
“I have to go,” he hissed. “They’re coming.”
The man withdrew silently into the shadows; camouflaging hues spread over his body until only his face was visible.
“Will I see you again?” whispered Max. “What’s your name?”
The man nodded and gave a wry smirk. “Call me Ronin.”
The face disappeared.
A moment later, Max yelped with fright as Cooper appeared next to him. The Agent held a long, cruel-looking knife of dull gray metal. Max started to speak, but Cooper raised his hand quickly to silence him. He never took his eyes off the woods. They waited in silence for several moments before Cooper slipped the knife back into his sleeve. He towered over Max. Cooper’s voice was low and calm with a touch of a cockney accent.
“You were talking just now. Who were you talking to?”
“N-nobody,” stammered Max; he had not even been sure if Cooper could speak.
Cooper’s response was flat and immediate. “You’re lying.”
“What? I got in an argument and I came out here to blow off some steam!”
Cooper stared at Max for several moments. He slowly drew his knife from his sleeve and stepped off the path to the very spot where Ronin had been only minutes earlier.
“Get inside.”
The Agent issued the command in a soft, even voice just before he disappeared entirely.