18
SMUGGLERS ON THE NORTH ATLANTIC
The morning sky beyond the observatory dome was a pale blue. Max frowned with concentration beneath it, flipping through a thick booklet full of glossy charts as David came downstairs to join him at the table.
“What did Ms. Richter say?” asked Max, turning the booklet sideways to read a particularly detailed chart.
“Bad news,” said David. “Two of the four paintings are actually forgeries—the Enemy has already stolen them.”
Max looked up. “Which ones?”
David retrieved two posters from his desk: one was a Vermeer of a girl reading a letter; the other was a Rembrandt depicting Abraham’s sacrifice of his son, Isaac. Max stared at them, abandoning his booklet on the table.
“I don’t get it,” said Max, glancing up. “If they wanted to hide the fact that some paintings were stolen, why wouldn’t they just replace all of them with forgeries? Then we wouldn’t even know they were after paintings.”
David nodded.
“It’s a good point, but the forgeries needed to be real—made by hand, that is. Any traces of enchantment would have aroused suspicion. Not too many people can forge a Rembrandt or a Vermeer, so they would only be able to leave behind forgeries for a few,” said David. He leaned down to read the spine of the booklet Max had been reading earlier. “What does your Course Analysis say?” he asked.
Max shook his head slowly from side to side.
“I’m never sure with these things. I wish they’d write them in English.” Max pushed the slim white booklet full of crisp blue graphs and analyst commentary toward his roommate.
“They say some good things,” David allowed, skimming through it. He selected a paragraph from the summary page. “‘McDaniels continues to demonstrate capabilities well beyond the normal Apprentice spectrum. As illustrated in scenarios MMCD048, MMCD071, and MMCD093, his Amplification abilities are at Agent levels and will continue to be monitored very closely. Relative to peers, McDaniels is among the top four in scenarios involving live adversaries, including four scenarios with random vye generation. Ratings on Strategy Execution continue to be high, and McDaniels’s aggressiveness should prove to be an asset if it can be applied more selectively. Due to exceptional physical abilities, McDaniels currently has the highest Course rating among both First and Second Year Apprentices.’”
“That does sound pretty good!” said Max, perking up considerably. David started giggling.
“What?” said Max, his smile frozen at the sound of David’s sudden laughter.
“Well, you can read the rest,” his roommate said, failing to suppress a smile as he handed the booklet back to Max. “Second paragraph, summary section.”
Max scanned the page, murmuring aloud as David picked up a discarded sock and sniffed it before dropping it in a hamper.
“‘McDaniels’s slide from the top spot is as imminent as it is inevitable. His combination of gutter ratings on Strategy Selection coupled with high marks on Strategy Execution are a disaster waiting to happen; the operational equivalent of running very fast in the wrong direction.
“‘Running very fast in the wrong direction seems to come naturally to McDaniels and has been a common theme in his more amusing scenarios. We can recommend MMCD006, MMCD-052, and MMCD076 as personal favorites, although other colleagues swear by MMCD037 as a candidate for this year’s highlight reel. Unfortunately, these tendencies are a fatal flaw, and we recommend McDaniels’s scenario options be restricted to those emphasizing Issue Identification and Strategy Selection. In his long-term interests, McDaniels should be prohibited from accessing those scenarios that allow raw physical execution to overcome glaring strategic flaws. One can only hope that a steady diet of Strategy scenarios will help him overcome lazy mental tendencies and build a strong foundation for longer-term success.’”
Max blinked twice and flung the booklet on the table. He whirled at David.
“Can they write that?”
“Don’t take it all so personally,” said David, slipping on his running shoes. “What happened with your Strategy midterm?”
“Failed it,” Max replied, casting a final angry glance at his booklet. “But at least Boon passed me on my Mystics midterm—then again, I think that’s just so I’ll talk to her about my vision. Does she ask you about yours?”
David turned toward his wardrobe to change shirts.
“Not really. I told her I forgot mine,” he said.
“I said the same thing, but I don’t think she believes me….”
Max trailed off as he caught a glimpse of David’s chest in the wardrobe’s mirrored door. A long, ugly scar trailed down its center from chest to navel. The small, pale boy pulled on his athletics shirt.
There was a knock at the door.
David shuffled up the steps. A moment later, Max heard a bloodcurdling shriek.
“Get it away from me! Get it away from me!” Mum’s voice screeched.
“Max, I think it’s for you,” called David evenly.
Bounding up the stairs, Max saw Mum backed into the hallway, slumped against the wall with her hands over her eyes. A small basket was overturned on the floor; a variety of nutrition bars were scattered around.
Mum stabbed an accusatory finger at Bob, who chuckled softly.
“You knew that Max lived with that thing!” she sobbed. “That’s why you insisted Mum do the knocking! You could have given me a heart attack tricking me into standing face to face with that hideous, wretched thing! A heart attack! Oh, it was so gruesome!”
David rolled his eyes.
“Sorry, Mum,” interjected Max. “Er, what are you guys doing all the way up here?”
Bob started to speak until Mum shushed him with a furious waving of her hands.
“You keep quiet!” she hissed. “Just you wait and see what I can hide in a grilled-cheese sandwich! Ooh! The soup will be even better!”
Mum started giggling and seemed to forget the original purpose of her visit. Bob cleared his throat, causing her to blink several times. Suddenly, the hag launched into a dramatic curtsy.
“Max McDaniels, we have come to nourish your body and provide an honor guard on this blessed day of greatest promise.”
“Excuse me?” asked Max, raising his eyebrows.
“Bob and Mum are here to walk you to your tests,” Bob translated.
Mum glared at Bob for the intrusion.
This was the morning that the First Years would be undergoing their monthly fitness measures—a series of events similar to a modified decathlon. The periodic tests were not normally a matter of great interest except that Max was now very close to breaking several records. He looked down the hallway to see several sleepy Second Years who had poked their heads out their doors, apparently roused from sleep by Mum’s shrill voice. Alex Muñoz’s brooding face was among them.
“Thanks for the…escort!” said Max, ushering David out the door and shutting it behind them. “We’d better get going.”
Mum took a slimy, possessive hold of his arm as the four walked down the hall. She insisted that David stay well ahead, so she could keep an eye on him. Several Second Years wished Max good luck as they passed; Alex merely closed his door. For the past week, the two of them had endured their daily punishment in relative peace, scraping and scrubbing the Kestrel’s hull in tense silence.
As they reached the stairs, Mum fished a nutrition bar from her basket.
“Eat this,” she whispered. There was a sly hint of conspiracy in her voice. “I got them special just for you. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you! They’re very modern!”
Max was hungry and glanced down at the granola bar in its silver wrapper. He unwrapped it and took a bite, causing Mum to swoon with pleasure and flash her fierce crocodile smile.
“Don’t tell anyone I gave you that,” she breathed quickly. “I’m not sure it’s legal.”
“I won’t,” Max promised, ignoring David’s giggle and giving her a nod of reassurance.
Despite the early promise of a clear day, wisps of cool, damp fog blew in off the ocean. David ran back to their room to grab sweatshirts, returning just as Old Tom rang eight o’clock. The four had to hurry toward the athletic fields, which shattered Mum’s hopes for a stately procession. She cursed the entire way.
Seeing YaYa alerted Max that something was unusual. The ki-rin’s great head was visible near the bleachers. Max called ahead to David.
“Is that YaYa? What’s she doing here?”
David just turned and gave a little smile.
They rounded the Field House to see the bleachers filled with several hundred students and faculty, who burst into a cheer as Max arrived. Nick raced toward Max, running tight little circles around him and shaking his tail with a metallic whir. Max bent down and scooped him into his arms. The lymrill promptly hooked his claws into Max’s sweatshirt and relaxed, becoming a considerable dead weight.
Max turned and scanned the chattering crowd. Jason Barrett was there, hollering and clapping with most of the Sixth Years. Sitting on one of the lower seats was Julie, holding her camera and laughing at something said nearby. She snapped a quick photo of Max. Mr. McDaniels was there, too, waving wildly and sitting with Mr. Morrow, who puffed steadily on his pipe.
Hearing a whistle, he turned to see M. Renard impatiently shooing away Hannah, who did not appear at all pleased about it. She waddled toward Max, the goslings in tow.
“Hello, dear,” her honey voice cooed. “Good luck today. We’re all rooting for you. And I had a few words with that man to keep it fair.”
“Thanks, Hannah,” Max said, taking another glance at the crowd, not at all sure he wanted an audience. The whistle blew again, and Max trotted to where M. Renard had gathered the class. The instructor had a cold and blew his nose into a handkerchief with a loud honk.
“All right, my little sausages. Today you make me proud, yes?”
The children nodded.
“We will do the tests in alphabetical order, as always, except for the races, which will be paired by your most recent times. Ignore all these people—focus on each task and do your best. Does anyone have anything to say?”
Connor raised his hand.
“Yes, sir.” He leaned across the circle of classmates and jabbed a finger in Max’s chest. “We went through a lot of trouble to drum up this crowd, so don’t you screw it up!”
Everyone burst into laughter; even M. Renard cracked a smile as he brought the whistle to his lips to signal the first task. Max shook his hands loose and took a long look at the stretch of track before him.
An hour later, Max was consumed by assorted cheers, roars, honks, and shouts. Hoisted onto the shoulders of Jason and another Sixth Year, he caught his breath and looked far across the fields to where his javelin’s flag fluttered in victory. YaYa stood to her full height and bowed; David held Nick tightly to keep the lymrill from hurting himself. Mr. McDaniels almost trampled a row of students in his hurry to reach the field, while Mr. Morrow merely doffed his cap and waved from the stands, his expression strangely sad. The Humanities instructor raised a bottle of champagne to Max and took a sip before passing it back to Mr. Watanabe and Miss Boon, who followed suit. Max waved back, trying to ignore Mum’s nearby shrieks that he owed his triumph to her “miracle treats.”
“That’s something, Max,” said Jason, raising Max higher. “Only thirteen and the best in Rowan’s history!”
Jason hosted a celebration party in his room, a timbered Viking hall. Some forty students lounged about, playing cards and darts or simply content to sprawl about in small groups, listening to music or tiptoeing through a minefield of pizza boxes to scavenge for leftovers.
Max was having the time of his life. After weeks of adhering to a strict diet, he now stuffed himself with pizza and sweets. Even better, he sat and talked with Julie, who seemed to have forgotten all about their awkward kiss during Kettlemouth’s song.
In mid-afternoon, the party was interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the door. Max’s spirits sank as Jason opened the door and Miss Boon peered in at him, her face pinched and angry.
“Max,” she called, “please get your things and come with me.”
Max wiped his hands on a paper towel and stood.
“Do I have to go today?” he pleaded. “I thought maybe—”
“You thought what?” she interrupted. “That you’d attained some sort of carefree ‘celebrity’ status this morning? No, no, no. Need I remind you that both your party and punishment were well earned? Alex Muñoz has been down at the dock scrubbing that ship for the last hour. Now get your things.”
Max’s face turned crimson; he bit his tongue. He murmured “Good-bye” and “Thank you” to everyone, avoiding Julie’s eyes in the process. Tugging on his sweatshirt, he followed Miss Boon down the hallway.
Max swung his lantern in wide circles, periodically overcome with great surges of anger and embarrassment. The fog had become so thick that he found himself stumbling into hedges. Old Tom was a hulking block of flat gray; the gas lamps dotting the grounds sprang to life, their lights appearing as will-o’-the-wisps in the gloom.
Storming past Maggie, Max heard the ponderous slap of heavy waves and the shrill cry of seagulls. As he descended the winding stairs to the beach, he began to make out the Kestrel hovering in the air above the dock, tethered by a dozen slender ropes. Miss Kraken had provided the enchanted ropes that had raised the heavy ship as if it were a helium balloon.
Alex stood under the boat, scrubbing up at it halfheartedly with a stiff bristle brush. Clinging to the area of the hull that normally rested beneath the waterline were millions of barnacles whose hard shells made the task an arm-numbing chore. Alex and the miserable weather promised to make it particularly unbearable.
“Surprised you bothered to show up,” huffed Alex, scrubbing vigorously now that Max had arrived. “Must be nice to get away with whatever you want.”
Setting his lantern down, Max said nothing and merely went to select one of the long-handled brushes lying next to a mop bucket. Alex snorted with contempt and turned his attention to the hull.
Max took a long look at Brigit’s Vigil before setting to work. Its shape could hardly be seen through the fog, and Max wondered if Ronin was indeed there, as he suspected—nestled deep among the rocks and crabs and swirling brine. Despite Max’s now daily visits to Rattlerafters, Ronin had sent no word or signal since the day Max received his letter. And Max had not ventured out to Brigit’s Vigil, wary of the water since the campout on the Kestrel. Picking a spot away from Alex, he began scrubbing in a sudden fit of energy.
They had worked in silence for almost an hour—Alex in disdainful stabs, Max in busy arcs—when Old Tom’s chimes sounded from over the ridge. Alex turned and tossed his brush past Max, where it clattered against the metal bucket.
The Second Year hissed, “Keep scrubbing, Maxine—keep scrubbing or I’ll tell Miss Boon that Rowan’s little hero is neglecting his duties!”
“Whatever, Muñoz,” Max snapped. “I probably got twice as much done in the last hour as you have all week.”
Alex just smiled and shook his head incredulously.
“You really are an idiot. Did you know that? An idiot,” he said again, stretching each syllable. “Our punishment isn’t about scrubbing the Kestrel clean! Hell, Miss Boon could do that in five minutes with a bit of Mystics. It’s about standing out here as punishment. Scrub till you break your back, Maxine. No one cares, you moron. Man, wait till Daddy’s blubber catches up with your brain—they probably won’t even admit you ever went here!”
Max stopped scrubbing. His words were soft.
“Don’t you say a thing about my father.”
“I don’t have to.” Alex shrugged with a laugh. “You should hear what everyone says about him! You think it’s a coincidence he ‘helps out’ in the kitchens? I don’t. Personally, I think Daddy’s just trying to snag some extra meals…. No wonder I hear Mommy took a hike, huh?”
The words slapped Max across the face. Alex suddenly became vividly clear despite the tatters of fog blowing across the dock. Max dropped his brush off to the side. Alex’s smile faltered a moment—a flicker of doubt—before he resumed.
“What?” he asked. “You want to fight me? Aren’t you scared without Bob or Miss Boon? They’re not here to save you this time….”
Max shook his head and took a step forward, grinding his toe into the dock to test his footing. A hoarse quake rose in his voice.
“I’d worry about myself if I were you.”
Alex frowned and took a small step backward. Suddenly, his face contorted with shame and disgust.
“Fine!” he muttered as if to himself. “Fine. Let’s do this. One condition, though.”
“Name ten,” whispered Max. “They won’t help you.”
Alex’s eyes glittered as he smiled.
“No watches,” he said. “I don’t want you crying for help in the middle of this!”
Max glanced down at his security watch, its small screen fogged by mist. He had been explicitly warned never to remove it. But Alex slipped his own watch off and snickered at Max’s hesitation.
Unclasping his watch, Max placed it on the dock.
As he expected, Alex’s foot shot out just as Max stood back up. Stepping to the side, Max caught it and swept under the boy’s other leg, spilling him hard.
Alex scowled and scrambled quickly to his feet; Max stood completely still, trying very hard to control the rage that flooded every inch of his being. Alex advanced at him, breathing heavily and circling around to try to position Max against a heavy wooden post. Feigning a rush, he suddenly stopped and raised his hands.
The wet dock turned slick with ice beneath Max’s feet.
Max tried to jump, but the lack of friction caused his feet to shoot out from under him. He fell heavily, hitting his head against the post. In a moment, Alex was on him, pinning an elbow against his throat and throwing wild punches.
Anger erupted within Max. He seized Alex’s wrists, causing the older boy to gasp in pain. With a violent heave, Max flung Alex off of him.
Max sprang up in a heartbeat. Alex was sprawled on the dock, and before he could even move, Max was upon him.
“Let’s hear it, Muñoz,” Max panted. “Let’s hear everything you want to say. Let’s hear all about my family!”
With a sharp crack, Max’s fist tore through the wooden plank immediately to the right of Alex’s head. Smoke rose from the deck. The Second Year shrieked and writhed in terror but could do nothing to break Max’s grip.
Emotions flooded Max’s heart; he shook and tears streamed down his face.
“I don’t hear anything. Is that even possible with you?”
Crack!
“All out of insults for my dad? Why don’t you tell me how stupid I am?”
Crack!
“No? Then tell me something about my mom! Why don’t you tell me where she went? Sounds like you might know! Go ahead and tell me!”
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Three more holes were punched in the surrounding dock, which was now smoking heavily and hot to the touch. Max raised his bleeding hand again, and then froze. Alex had stopped struggling and lay very still, a cool drizzle falling on his blank face.
For a moment, Max thought he had killed him, that he had throttled the boy to death in his rage. But then Alex suddenly focused his eyes and gave Max a look of mute horror. Max blinked. His anger dissipated into the fog. He released Alex and rose slowly to his feet.
“You’re not worth it,” he sighed.
Alex lay there for several moments, breathing heavily. He groped at his face, apparently feeling for any damage that might have been done. Blindly, he sought out the holes in the dock, tracing their splintered edges with his fingers. Climbing sluggishly to his feet, he coughed and stumbled past Max, who watched in confused silence. Alex became sick, throwing up over the side of the dock. Wiping his mouth and coughing again, Alex reached out with a trembling hand and flung Max’s watch far out into the gray swells. The Second Year watched it sink and stared at the water for several moments. When Alex at last turned around, he held a long, thin knife—the same ugly weapon Cooper often carried. He was crying.
“Alex,” Max said with measured calm. “You’re not supposed to have those things outside the Training Rooms.”
Alex said nothing; his face contorted in a silent scream of rage, fear, and humiliation. His shoulders shook as he switched the knife to his left hand.
“Alex!” Max hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The answer was a murderous sweep with the knife, its tip swooshing past Max’s chest as the younger boy jumped backward, gaping in disbelief. Sobbing, Alex shifted the knife to his right hand and stabbed upward. Max leapt backward out of range, almost slipping off the pier and into the water.
“Alex—stop it!” Max said. “The fight is over!”
Then, over Alex’s shoulder and through the fog, Max caught sight of a figure approaching quickly from the beach.
“Help!” Max shouted. “Miss Boon? Over here—help!”
Alex stopped and turned, squinting into the fog. He bent down and let the knife slip through one of the jagged holes Max had made in the dock. He rose and stumbled toward the figure.
“Miss Boon?” Alex called. “Thank God you’re here! McDaniels tried to kill me!”
Max was about to raise his voice in protest when he froze; the approaching figure did not move like Miss Boon, and it was far too tall. Bile rose in Max’s mouth as he recognized what it was.
“Alex!” Max cried. “Get away from it! That’s not Miss Boon!”
A vye was loping up the dock.
Alex’s hands fell limply to his sides, and in a flash, the vye swept the boy up and crushed him to its hip.
“Let him go!” Max shrieked, running down the dock toward the creature.
A deep-throated growl rumbled from the vye, ending in a high-pitched whine. It clutched Alex closer and stooped to seize Max. But Max was too fast, launching himself at the vye like a missile. The top of his head smashed into its snout. The vye gave a startled yelp and dropped Alex, giving Max time to land an off-balance kick that caused the bony leg to buckle.
Alex was unconscious. The vye was between them and the beach. While the older boy’s watch was only some twenty feet away, Max could not get it without momentarily abandoning him. Seizing Alex’s limp hand, Max dragged him backward away from the vye, which now scrambled after them on all fours.
The shock and horror of his sudden realization almost made Max laugh: Nigel’s voice practically screamed inside his head.
“Always look for the second vye, Max. Always!”
The blow to the back of his skull was so hard that Max was unconscious before he could feel the taloned hands take hold of him.
Max groaned and forced open his eyes. It was dark. His neck was clammy, and his joints ached as a fever coursed through his body. Some sort of fur was piled on him, and it stank—a nauseating reek of animal fat and musky hair. He gagged and retched only to find that his limbs were bound tightly to a hard surface. Tossing his head from side to side, he tried to nuzzle the revolting fur away from his face, knocking over several glass objects in the process. His body rose and fell in a smooth roll that made his stomach queasy. Timbers creaked and strained nearby.
I’m on a ship, he realized.
He heard footsteps above; a doorway clattered open, and a shaft of moonlight streamed into the room at an angle.
“I think one is awake,” said a man’s voice. Tentative. Older.
“Which one?” came the familiar voice of a woman. Max squirmed and felt the sweat roll off him in smooth little beads.
“The feisty one,” said the man. “It is time for his shot.”
Something blocked the moonlight; a terrifying silhouette was projected on the wall.
Max heard stairs strain under slow footsteps. He struggled with all his might against his bonds, but they held fast. A face peered into the cabin. Max felt a wave of primal horror as he met its eyes: cold, animal eyes—appraising eyes—with a distinct gleam of human intelligence. The moonlit cabin only hinted at its features: the sharp glint of a tooth, the wetness of its snout, a glittering eye, its wolfish ears. Max held his breath as they gazed at each other for several moments. The vye carried an unlit lamp that began to glow as the monster’s contours and features danced and shifted. By the time the cabin had filled with a dim yellow light, Max looked upon an older, gaunt man with small black eyes and wearing a loose, dirty overcoat. The man hooked the lamp to a small chain that hung from the cabin roof.
“Good evening,” he said, inclining his head in greeting and making his way to a cooler wedged within a large coil of rope. Max watched in silence. After rummaging through the cooler’s contents, the man wheeled around and displayed an enormous syringe, far larger than any needle Max had ever seen. He steadied himself as the ship rolled before shuffling over to Max.
“Time for your shot,” the man explained, squeezing a bit of clear liquid out of the syringe.
“Keep away from me!” Max pleaded, straining against his bonds. His head was burning.
“Tut, tut,” cautioned the man, rolling back the filthy fur cover. “You need this medicine—unless you want these.” The man opened his mouth wide to reveal jagged fangs poking through his gums. “You see, Peg scratched you—didn’t mean to, but it couldn’t be helped with you struggling and all.”
“It was you on the dock,” Max murmured, searching the man’s face. “I kicked you.”
The man smiled and dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
“You were frightened,” he said. “It was a natural thing to do.”
“I’m hungry. I don’t know what day it is.”
“Your fever was very bad,” the man said sympathetically. “You’ve been asleep for three days now. I can get you something to eat in just a minute, after your medicine. You see, we don’t want another mean old ugly vye. No, sir, got enough of us running around as it is. We want you just the way you are. Now hold still. This might pinch a bit.”
The man pulled up Max’s sweatshirt to expose his stomach. Max clamped his eyes shut, trying desperately to ignore every instinct that screamed at him to buck, flail, and protect the vulnerable spot. The needle stabbed like a flame as it entered; tears streamed down Max’s face while his hands flopped and clawed against the wooden plank. Then suddenly, the pain was gone.
“There, there,” soothed the man, slipping the needle out of sight. “All done. You may call me Cyrus.”
The cabin seemed suddenly very small; Max broke out in a sweat.
“I need air, Cyrus,” he croaked.
The man frowned at that request. He stepped over to the cooler and stowed the syringe before starting up the stairs.
“I’ll check with Peg,” he muttered, disappearing out the hatch.
Max heard a series of whispers from up on deck. A moment later, Cyrus crept back down and hovered over Max, deftly loosening the complex knots and cords that bound him. Shaking in fits, Max rose to his feet.
“It’s cold up there,” Cyrus said. “Keep this over your shoulders. It’ll keep you warm.”
Max fought his gag reflex as the man wrapped the strange fur over his shoulders; bits of dry skin and fat still clung to it as though some great animal had been skinned in haste.
“Where’s Alex?” he mumbled as the events from the dock started to seep back into his memory.
Cyrus grunted and pointed to the bunk above, where Alex lay similarly bound and fast asleep. His face had an unhealthy pallor.
“He’s fine,” Cyrus whispered, ushering Max toward the steps. “Just sleeping. Here—eat this.”
A biscuit was pressed into Max’s hand; it was coarse and damp and smelled of mold. Despite his hunger, Max balked.
“There’s nothing better till we land unless you want to share our rations,” said Cyrus. “We’ve got plenty of meat. Fresh meat. Say the word and I’ll share some—just don’t tell Peg!”
Max did not want to guess what kind of meat a vye would have. He forced himself to chew the mealy biscuit, which had the consistency of carpet.
It was cold on deck but not unbearably so. The cloudless sky was sprinkled with stars that looked impossibly sharp and bright. The moon bathed the surrounding sea in shimmering waves of light, spotlighting chunks of ice that bobbed in the water. Ghostly icebergs loomed in the distance as the ship made smooth, swift progress over the gentle swells.
Cyrus led Max toward a red glow, steering him across a deck cluttered with wooden crates and ropes that lay strewn about the deck. The red glow was revealed to be an iron kettle suspended over hot coals. Near the kettle sat a woman knitting.
That woman was Mrs. Millen.
She looked up at Max, her eyes two unnatural pinpricks of cold light gleaming in the darkness. Her throaty chuckle came flooding back like a nightmare.
“Hoo-hoo-hoo! How are you, Max McDaniels? Didn’t know if I’d ever get to see you again! Come have a seat next to Peg—I won’t bite!”
Max tried to resist as Cyrus moved him nearer, but he had no strength. He was close enough now to see her face clearly. She wore no makeup and looked much older. Her mouth was sunken, and she gummed her lips as she rocked, knitting swift loops of black wool into a shroud.
“You’ve grown,” she muttered.
Max collapsed heavily onto a crate next to her, helped by Cyrus, who took his own seat at the opposite end. Max’s head swam with fever, and for several minutes he simply watched his breath waft away in little billows of mist. The night was silent except for the occasional click of knitting needles and the soft crashing of coals as they were consumed.
“Where are we going?” Max asked in a small, weak voice.
“A secret place,” she tittered, gumming her lips.
“Where?” Max breathed.
The needles stopped and Cyrus began to fidget. Peg’s hand suddenly shot out. She seized Max’s wrist and jerked his arm out over the shroud.
A knife flashed.
Max gave a shrill cry of pain as the blade sliced across his palm.
Drops of his blood pattered softly onto the cloth, which began to glow with a dull green light as it absorbed them. She tossed his hand back at him with disdain. The knife disappeared into her robes, and the green glow faded from the shroud.
“Peg asks the questions,” she spat, “not bad little boys who make her go a-chasing for many months and many miles.”
With a sudden lurch, her face hovered inches from his. Flecks of spittle sprayed from her mouth, and long fangs extended from her lower jaw as her anger quickened. Max almost toppled backward off the crate.
“If I had my way, you’d be in my meat locker, you little maggot!” Peg spat. “You’re lucky that you’re worth something and Peg’s got her orders.” The vye panted for several moments, examining every detail of Max’s terrified face as her anger receded into smug composure. Millimeter by millimeter, the teeth slid back into her gums and her mouth sank again into a soft mass.
“Yes, yes, big plans for this one,” she muttered, taking up her needles once more. “Marley and the Traitor say so…. As long as he’s the one we want. If not—hoo-hoo-hoo! He belongs to Peg!”
Max was taken back down to the rank cabin, where Cyrus dressed the fresh wound.
“You mustn’t upset Peg,” the old man cautioned, tightening the labyrinth of ropes and knots around Max, whose eyelids fluttered with pain and exhaustion. “You mustn’t do that. There’d be nothing I could do to help you.”
Cyrus forced another biscuit and some water into Max’s mouth before taking the lantern and disappearing upstairs. The cabin went black. Max heard Alex breathing. He knew that soon his father would be waking up and helping Mum and Bob prepare breakfast in the kitchens. Charges would be fast asleep in the Warming Lodge. David would have their observatory all to himself. Max did not think David would like that and hoped that Connor would move in.
The ship shuddered as it pressed through heavier seas.
What would Ms. Richter tell his father?
How had the vyes gotten onto Rowan’s campus?
Was Cooper looking for them?
Would YaYa look after Nick? Or would it be Nolan?
The thoughts passed like street signs—some profound, some vain and silly—as Max tried to contemplate a world without him. With a sigh, he wished that Nick and the goslings could be there with him, and then fell into a dreamless sleep.