The Hound of Rowan (22 page)

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.”