The Hound of Rowan (35 page)

“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.

                  
19                  

T
HE
C
RYPT OF
M
ARLEY
A
UGUR

W
hen Max opened his eyes, all he saw was darkness. He shut them again and tried to conserve his energy. He was being carried; something had been placed over his head.

It was impossible to piece together the rest of his voyage; he was not sure if he had sailed for days or weeks. There were fleeting glimpses of daylight and the soft patter of rain. Periodically they were permitted to relieve themselves in a bucket. The last Max could remember, he had awoken to see Peg hovering over him with a black shroud, muttering in a low, strange language.

And now he was bounced along, slung over the vye's shoulder as he was carried down many stairs. Each step jolted his body. A door opened and Max felt cool, musty air filter through the wrapping around his head.

“You are late, Peg,” said a voice from his right. It was deep and authoritative.

“Couldn't be helped,” mumbled Peg, her mouth frighteningly close to Max's ear.

Max was dumped into a chair, and the cover was removed from his head. Pretending to be unconscious, he let his head fall to the side. Then, like a stain spreading throughout the room, a
presence
approached. It was very cold. The air seemed to vibrate and tingle.

“Which is the one the Traitor spoke of?”

“This one,” said Peg. She tapped the top of his head with a hard-nailed finger. “He's pretending to be asleep.”

Max ignored her. He kept his eyes shut tightly and focused through his fever. An acrid vapor burned his nostrils despite the heavy, wet air. Water dripped from somewhere; the space sounded very large. Max heard something moving somewhere off to his left.

“It is all right, boy,” said the voice, hollow but not unkind. “Open your eyes.”

Max lifted his head as his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. He looked first for the source of the unfamiliar voice but could see only two small lights in the darkness. Alex saw them, too; he sat in a nearby chair, gripping it in terror and staring silently ahead.

They were in a cavernous room of cold stone; the high walls and pillars were wet with moss and shaggy growths. The only light came from oil lamps and a small fire to Max's left. Suspended over the fire was a small cauldron that released foul-smelling fumes in sputtering fits. Beyond the cauldron were long wooden tables covered with beakers and flasks encrusted with black residue. Many books, ancient and tattered like David's grimoires, lay scattered upon the tables. What really caught Max's attention, however, were the paintings. Behind the tables, dozens of paintings were hung on the dark, wet walls like some ghastly mockery of a museum gallery.

Max looked for the way out but saw Cyrus, in wolf form, sitting at the base of stone steps that climbed up into inky blackness.

A voice in Max's ear made him jump.

“Have a nice trip, dear?”

Peg's face grinned at him in the dim light. Her hair was wild, and her cheeks had sunken to cavernous hollows.

“Peg, leave him be.” The voice spoke in calm, commanding tones. “This is a great day for our guest; do not spoil it needlessly.”

Peg scowled and retreated to a high-backed rocking chair near the cauldron. She retrieved two needles and continued work on another shroud.

“Where are we?” said Max, his voice sounding small and young in the cavernous chamber.

“You are in Éire, my son. Ireland. You are among friends in a land of poets and kings.”

“Is that you over there?” Max whispered, staring at the small bright eyes in the dark.

The icy points of light bobbed against the darkness as something came closer. A startling figure loomed into view.

He was almost seven feet tall, Max thought, and his bones creaked as he stood to full height. Steel-gray hair was wound into braids near his temples. A tarnished circlet crowned his head; an open band of thick silver encircled his neck. Frayed linen robes hemmed with intertwining designs in fading green hung loose about a great, gaunt frame. What flesh remained was drawn and decaying. His features tightened into a small smile while two pinpoints of pale green light flickered from within deep eye sockets.

Max writhed and looked away as the figure stood over him.

“I know I am not fair to look upon,” said the creature sadly. “That is to change.”

The creature patted Max's arm and Max almost fainted; the touch was ice and the flesh felt as damp and moist as the surrounding earth.

“That one is strong,” hissed Peg from the corner. “We should bind him.”

“He is a beardless boy.” The creature chuckled softly. “He is our guest, not our prisoner. He will see the wisdom of our words.”

The creature turned to Alex. “And what is your name, my son?”

Alex squirmed under the attention of the creature.

“Alex Muñoz.”

“You are most welcome here, Alex,” the creature said. “I sent Peg for
that
one. How did we have the good fortune to acquire your company, too?”

“They were both on the dock,” Peg giggled. “They were fighting. We saved this one from becoming a
murderer.
Isn't that right?”

The creature cast a stern glance.

“Is this so? Why would you raise your hand against a brother?”

“I
hate
him,” Alex spat suddenly, glancing at Max. “I hate everything about him!”

After weighing the words for several moments, the creature motioned for Peg. She draped a black shroud over Alex's shoulders as if he had just come in from the cold. Max leaned forward.

“What are you going to do with us?” Max demanded. “Where are the others?”

Cyrus bared his teeth from where he sat on the staircase. Ignoring Max, the man walked slowly to one of the tables in a stiff, lumbering gait. “You've done very well, Peg.” He sounded distracted as he stirred something in a caked flask. “This one will most certainly have his uses.”

He returned to tower over Alex.

“And what was your vision, my child?” he commanded. “Be quick. Be truthful.”

“We are wasting time!” she said, her voice low and furious. “This boy is of little value—just like the others! I agree with the Traitor—it is the McDaniels boy we want!”

The creature slowly turned its attention on Peg, and for the first time, Max saw the murderous vye avert her eyes. Peg retrieved a thick book and pen from the table before hurrying back to her chair. The creature's gaze lingered on her.

“I will be sure of that,” he said at last. “Perhaps
you
will explain to our Lord that his suffering was prolonged because of your stupidity. If we waste the cauldron's contents on the wrong child, it will be
your
head that rolls.”

Peg gummed her lips as the creature turned back to Alex.

“Now, my child, share with me your vision,” the creature continued. “How did you awaken to the greatness within you?”

“Alex, don't tell them anything!” Max hissed.

“Shut up, McDaniels.” Alex turned to the creature. “If I tell you my vision, will you let me go?”

“No,” said the creature. “Not yet, anyway. But I can promise other things.”

“Like what?” asked Alex, stirring.

“Power” was the reply. The word saturated the air and echoed rich and heavy throughout the chamber. Alex squirmed and sat up in his seat.

“Command,” the creature continued. “Recognition. Reward. All you desire deep down in your heart. Rowan is in winter; her flowers are few and fading. Why toil as a servant of mankind when you can be its master?”

Alex said nothing. The rotting creature smiled at him.

“Does Peg frighten you?” he asked, pointing at the vye, which sat watching them with narrowed eyes.

Alex nodded.

“Why fear Peg when she could be your
slave
?” asked the creature.

“Alex!” Max whispered. “Don't listen. It's a lie!”

Alex shot Max a dark look.

“No,” intoned the creature, rising to its full height. “It is
not
a lie and he knows it. Don't you, Alex?
You
know I speak the truth.”

Alex nodded slightly. “I'll tell you,” he whispered. “I'll tell you.”

The creature grunted its approval and began pouring a gurgling liquid from a crusted flask into a wooden cup.

Alex told a tale of a day when he spied a giant oyster in his father's swimming pool that had suddenly opened to reveal a black pearl the size of a billiard ball. Throughout the story, Max heard the sound of Peg scribbling the account into the thick book on her lap.

“A glorious vision,” said the man, bending to offer Alex a sip from the cup. “You are
not
whom we seek, but I salute the greatness within you.”

Alex looked doubtful. He sniffed at the liquid and wrinkled his nose.

“Do I have to?” he asked.

“If you truly desire all I have promised,” the creature said, closing Alex's fingers around the cup. “Our Lord shall soon be free to rule and all shall be as I have said. He does not reward cowardice, however—”

“I'm
not
a coward!” insisted Alex, swallowing the concoction. He gagged and retched but managed to force it down. Black liquid dribbled at the corners of his mouth. He dropped the cup to the floor, grinning defiantly at Max. Suddenly, the older boy's eyelids closed and his head fell forward as the shroud began to shimmer and glow. To Max, it looked as though Alex had just drained a cup of tar and died on the spot.

“What did you do to him?”
Max yelled, his words echoing in the large stone space.

Peg started giggling and resumed her knitting.

“He has begun his journey,” said the creature thoughtfully, patting Alex's head and stooping to retrieve the cup. “And now we can turn to you. I've been very anxious to meet you, Max McDaniels.”

The thing turned again and looked down at Max.

“Tell me, child. What was your vision? What did you see that day when you became known to us?” His tone was kindly and inviting.

“I don't remember,” Max said evenly, looking away.

“Do not be difficult,” the creature warned. “You
do
remember! I still remember mine, and it occurred centuries ago.”

“You're one of us?”
Max asked, incredulous.

“I am
not,
” snapped the sharp reply. “I renounced that Order long ago.”

“Who are you?” Max demanded. “Why are you doing this to us?”

The creature turned and placed Alex's cup back on the table, his voice heavy and sad.

“Tell me, boy. Is the name Marley Augur known to you?”

“No,” replied Max, shaking his head.

“Is the name Elias Bram known to you?”

“Yes,” said Max.

The air in the chamber grew colder; the massive figure was very still.