The Hound of Rowan (3 page)

         

Max awoke with a start. He was on the couch in the den, his leg no longer numb but tingling as though it had been asleep. Looking down, he saw his shoes had been removed and paired neatly on the floor. He could hear a pleasant whistling approaching from down the hallway. Max had barely managed to sit up when the man with the wire glasses entered the room carrying a plate of cookies and a mug of steaming cocoa.

“Hello, Max! I hope you're feeling a bit better,” the man said cheerfully, placing the plate and mug on the coffee table. “My name is Nigel Bristow, and I'm terribly sorry to have given you such a shock! I hope you don't mind that I rummaged around your kitchen a bit. You should have a biscuit. They always work wonders for me.”

Max felt too drained to be afraid or to protest. He reached for a cookie, keeping his eyes on Nigel as the man settled into his father's leather chair. Max nibbled the cookie.

“It wasn't you that scared me,” he mumbled. “I was being chased.”

Nigel's smile straightened into a tight line; his eyes glittered seriously.

“What exactly do you mean, Max? Who was chasing you?”

“I got a letter…a letter that said I was going to receive a visitor. She came to the house today and…” Max broke off as tears welled into his eyes. He flung his arm over his face, mortified to be in such a state in front of anyone, much less a stranger.

“I see.” Nigel's voice was calm and sympathetic. “Max, I want to help you. Do you think you can share what happened with me?”

Max nodded and took a deep breath before telling Nigel the story of Mrs. Millen's visit.

When Max was finished, Nigel scooted his chair forward and patted him on the shoulder.

“It's all right, my boy. I want you to stay right here. Based on what you've told me, I need to attend to a few things. I won't be far away.”

Nigel unfolded a nearby quilt and draped it over Max before handing him the mug of chocolate. Murmuring words in an unfamiliar language, Nigel left the room, tapping doorways and windows as he went.

To Max's relief, the numbness in his leg faded with every sip of cocoa. He wriggled his feet for good measure. Then, hearing Nigel's footsteps creaking upstairs, Max realized that he was expected at the Raleighs' house for dinner. Nigel returned just as Max was reaching for the phone.

“I'm not here to hurt you, Max. There's no need to call the police.”

“I'm not—I know you're not here to hurt me. I'm calling my dad's friends. He's out of town and I'm supposed to stay with them tonight.”

“I see. Max, I think it would be unwise for you to leave my company this evening. If you like, I can handle the arrangements.”

“Who are you?” asked Max, sitting forward.

“I am a Recruiter,” Nigel said, standing to inspect a photograph on a bookshelf. “I am the visitor that you were
intended
to receive. I am only sorry I did not arrive earlier.”

“Then who was that woman, Mrs. Millen? I thought she was going to kill me.”

Nigel frowned. “I do not yet know who
she
was or how she came to know who
you
are. This is no small matter, and I have already informed my colleagues. I'm no great terrifying Mystic, but my presence should deter any trespassers until our specialists arrive.”

Max was not sure he wanted any more visitors.

“Now,” said Nigel. “Let's fix another cup and I'll see if I can explain everything.”

The two of them wandered into the kitchen. Max heated the kettle while Nigel hummed pleasantly and rummaged about for more cookies. Reaching into the cupboard, he pulled out a box of Bedford Bros. Crispy Soup Wafers.

“Are these any good?”

“According to my dad, they'll save civilization,” muttered Max, looking down to rub the remaining numbness from his leg. A moment later, he heard a loud crunch.

“Well, I don't know about saving civilization,” Nigel crowed, “but they're rather tasty!”

The Recruiter scooped up a handful of snacks and headed for the living room. It was getting dark outside; thunder rumbled in the distance. Max brought two mugs of cocoa from the kitchen and found Nigel standing before the fireplace.

“Seems we've got a storm heading our way. Let's cheer things up a bit!”

Nigel's fingers danced as though manipulating a marionette. The cold logs in the hearth suddenly hissed and popped. Yellow flames flicked along the edges. Within seconds, a bright fire was crackling merrily.

“There we go!” Nigel clapped. “A storm on the way, fuel on the fire, and a sip of chocolate to soothe the soul! Come on over here, Max.”

Max gaped at the fire.

“But how did you…?”

“All in due time,” said Nigel, spreading the quilt on the hardwood floor so the two could sit down. “Now, Max, before we begin I need you to promise you won't tell Mum and Bob that I ate so many of these whatchacallums.”

“Um…okay,” said Max, confused.

“Excellent!” Nigel stuffed a pair of Bedford wafers into his mouth. “These recruiting trips are the only chance I get to sneak a bit of decent comfort food!” He smacked the crumbs from his hands before continuing.

“Max, as frustrating as it might be to hold off on your questions, I'd like you to begin by sharing a bit of yesterday's experience with me.”

As the fire crackled and the storm approached, Max recounted the previous day to Nigel. Unlike Mrs. Millen, however, Nigel simply listened and did not press for details as Max spoke.

“I don't know what it all means,” said Max when he brought his tale to a close.

“Ah, it seems someone needs an introduction to Celtic mythology! That's a most unusual vision, Max, involving the Cattle Raid of Cooley. It speaks very highly of your capabilities as a Potential.”

“What
is
a Potential? That word was used that way in the letter I received.”

“Why, Max,
you
are a Potential, and that is why I'm here! You are one of a handful of people on our wondrous little planet with the
potential
to become one of us. When you found that room and discovered that tapestry, we were made aware of you. I'm here to see if you have enough of that special something to merit making you an offer.”

“Who is ‘we'? An offer for what?”

“All in due time, all in due time. First, I need to administer a few tests.”

Rain pattered on the windowpanes. Max thought he saw a shadow dart across one of the windows.

“Somebody's out there!”

Nigel smiled.

“It's quite natural to be a bit jumpy. But we are quite safe. This house is being watched by friendly eyes.”

Max shivered, uncertain if he wanted to be watched by anything, friendly or not.

“What happens if I fail?”

“Then I clean up the kitchen and go on my merry way, happy to have made your remarkable acquaintance. Within a few days, you'll have forgotten all about me and this afternoon's unpleasantness. You won't remember a thing.”

“But—”

“I know what you're thinking, but don't worry. I've placed this house under priority watch. Given what's happened, it will continue to be under surveillance for some time—even if the tests elude you. There may well be more than one Agent standing guard outside this house, Max.”

It was clear that Nigel thought that this explanation was weighty and sufficient. It was not. Max went to look out the window.

“You won't see an Agent,” Nigel said as Max peered out the curtains. “Even I might not see them. That's part of an Agent's job—to be as slippery as smoke.”

Max frowned and closed the curtains; the storm was now directly overhead.

Nigel stood and motioned for Max to follow him back into the kitchen.

The Recruiter set his briefcase on the kitchen table. Opening the clasps, Nigel reached in the case and removed a digital voice recorder and what appeared to be a large silver tennis racket without any strings. Max could not see how the racket had ever fit within the slender case.

“Come over here, Max—we may as well get started. If you don't mind, hop up on the counter there and forgive me for the formalities.” Nigel activated the recorder and leaned against a cupboard.

“Senior Recruiter Nigel Bristow initiating Standard Series of Potential Tests on Mr. Max McDaniels, age twelve, of Chicago, Illinois, United States of America.”

Holding the recorder toward Max, Nigel continued to speak in a clipped monotone.

“Mr. McDaniels, please indicate that you have been fully briefed and agree to participate in the following trials with full knowledge that they are highly experimental and likely to result in severe disfigurement….”

“Hey! Wait a minute!” shrieked Max, jumping off the counter.

Nigel chortled. “Just a bit of humor. Couldn't help myself.” He waved Max back up onto the counter. “All right, then. First test to be administered: physical aptitude. Max, you've been to the doctor before, haven't you? Well, this is similar to when he taps your knee with a rubber mallet. Only instead of a mallet, I'm going to hold this little contraption. It can't hurt you, I promise.”

Max watched Nigel adjust a number of tiny dials on the handle. A small screen flickered on, and a ring of white light appeared within the empty oval head. The contraption began to whine.

Max squirmed.

“Nigel, are you sure that thing is safe? It doesn't
sound
safe!”

“Perfectly safe, perfectly safe,” muttered Nigel, carefully guiding the contraption around Max's dangling foot and up toward his knee. “Now, in a moment you're going to feel a bit of a shock—nothing painful, but it will make you want to kick your leg out. I want you to resist that temptation and keep your knee within the boundaries.
Do not touch the device!
Ready…and begin.”

The machine's whine rose to a fevered pitch, and Max felt a sudden jolt to his knee. He shut his eyes and focused all of his will on controlling the powerful impulse to kick. Sweat beaded on his face and trickled down his back. Glancing down, he saw his knee moving in a blur of tiny circles that approached but never touched the instrument. Finally, the machine's pitch descended to a steady hum before slowing to a halt. Nigel studied the device's screen and reached for his recorder.

“Lactic production rate: eighty-two. Lactic dispersion rate: eighty-four. Twitch speed: ninety-five. Muscular density, current: sixty-four. Muscular density, projected: eighty-seven. Synaptic bypass: eighty-four. Mental stress fatigue: fifty-two.”

Nigel frowned as he read the last number.

“Hmmm. Stress fatigue's surprisingly low. Score is likely result of subject exhaustion following preemptive Enemy intercept. Recruiter recommends retesting at later date if applicable.”

Brightening, he looked up at Max, who was mopping his brow. Nigel switched off the recorder.

“Good show, my boy! Acceptable ratings across the board
and
you managed to keep from hitting the device. You're a talented devil. I've only been recruiting for seven years, but I've never tested anyone who registered a ninety-five for twitch speed. Never even heard of it, actually.”

“What do those numbers mean?” Max asked.

“Oh, a lot of hogwash, really,” replied Nigel, seemingly distracted as he switched off the contraption. “They're supposed to give us an understanding of your physical capabilities and, more importantly, your ability to control your actions in a stressful environment. I'm sure someone will explain all the numbers to you later if you're really interested.”

Max glanced at the strange, silvery instrument.

“Is that thing
magical
?”

“Magical? Heavens, no! In fact, don't let any of the Device people hear you say that! They take a lot of pride—too much, if you ask me—in making all kinds of useful
non-mystic
things. I'm just happy this new model works. The last one was—”

He coughed and glanced at Max, who raised his eyebrows.

“Well, needless to say, it wasn't as
reliable
as this model. This one, however, is a peach!”

Nigel patted the device affectionately before letting it slip from his fingers into his case. It fell in without making an appreciable sound or dent within the smooth calfskin sides. Plucking up the recorder, he beckoned Max back into the living room.

“Right. One test down, and possibly two to go. Now, I'd like you to stand across the room and face the fireplace.”

With a sweep of his arm, Nigel extinguished the lamps. The fire was now the room's only source of light.

“Wow,” said Max.

Nigel smiled and placed several more logs in the hearth. Firelight danced on the walls. Max waited nervously, his eyes adjusting to the darkened room. The fire burned much brighter when Nigel finally stood and turned to him.

“Max, the first test was not so unusual—bit of an elaborate physical. This next test will be a tad strange for you. I'm going to ask you to try something that you don't currently believe you can do. I want you to extinguish this fire from where you stand.”

“Are you kidding?” said Max, shaking his head and laughing with disbelief.

“You have what it takes to do this, Max. Relax your mind. Imagine this fire ebbing to a low flame, then to a trickle of smoke, and finally to a cold hearth.”

Max's eyes followed the brilliant oranges and yellows that writhed about the logs. He heard the wood crackling, watched the heat rise in steady waves. A log collapsed in a shower of sparks. Max flexed his fingers. He pictured the flames slowing to a halt, losing their intensity, and leaving the space cold and dark.

To Max's utter amazement, the fire began to die. It was unmistakable, as if the wood was slowly but steadily absorbing the flames.

“Very good,” said Nigel. “Now finish the job and put it out….”