The Hound of Rowan (4 page)

Max shut his eyes and focused his entire being on the glowing logs and embers. He clenched his fists, imagining the heat being drawn into the surrounding brick and diffusing throughout the house. His body shuddered; he felt utterly drained. Opening his eyes, he saw Nigel smiling at him.

“Bravo, Max. Well done, indeed.” Nigel swept his arm up and restored the lights. Max winced as Nigel grasped a log that had been burning only moments before. He tossed it to Max, who instinctively backed away and let it fall to the floor in a small puff of ash and soot. Crouching down, Max flicked at it with a finger. It was cool to the touch. Beaming at Nigel, he placed it back in the hearth.

Nigel tipped an imaginary cap as he activated the recorder.

“Test two completed. Subject extinguished a confined stage-two fire from a distance of seven paces. Subject successfully eliminated flames and further sapped residual heat from logs. Test completed in one minute and forty-seven seconds.”

Max's chest expanded as Nigel shut off the recorder.

“One minute and forty-seven seconds is pretty good, isn't it?”

“Well, Max, not to burst your bubble, but the modern record is under five seconds by our very own Miss Hazel Boon. Your score was, well,
average
among Potentials. Not to worry! It took this poor Recruiter over three minutes to squelch his first flame, and even then you could roast marshmallows over the logs!”

Max smiled at the thought of a miniature Nigel frowning in his blue suit while a Recruiter roasted marshmallows and reported the disappointing result.

“So, what's next?”

“Oh, the last test isn't so bad—you've already had the biggies! It's just a bit of a puzzle. I've got it in my case in the kit—”

Before Nigel could finish his sentence, there was a deafening boom of thunder and the house went black. Squinting in the dark, Max saw Nigel sprawled on the floor. The back door had been smashed to pieces. To Max's horror, Mrs. Millen eyed them from the kitchen.

Her hair was matted from the rain; her makeup was smeared into dark streaks on her fleshy face. She shambled toward them, bent and furious. Her cane smacked the floor at rapid and regular beats.

“Hoo-hoo-hoo! Thought I'd just gone away? Thought your friend's little charms could keep me out?”

Max started to scream but no sound emerged. At his feet, Nigel moaned and struggled to stand, but his arms buckled beneath him and he collapsed back to the ground.

“Better run, Max!” Mrs. Millen warned. “Better run while you can! Leave that scrawny thing to me and I'll let you go!”

She was just ten feet away when Max finally bolted.

He wrenched the front door open to the summer rain. Whipping around, he saw Mrs. Millen chuckling and crouching low over Nigel, whose foot thumped dully against the floorboards.

A blind rage came over Max. “Get away from him!
Get away from him!
” He dashed back into the living room only to see Nigel sitting, comfortable and composed, by the rekindled fire. Max stalked down the hall, adrenaline now racing through his body. There was no sign of Mrs. Millen. The kitchen door was whole, solid and secure on its hinges.

Nigel smiled and spoke softly into his recorder. “Test three complete. After a brief moment of initial hesitation and retreat, Mr. McDaniels responded to phantasm with a frontal assault, exhibiting extraordinary determination and—oh dear, how should I put this—ferocity! Given that phantasm was generated from a mind cache recently exposed to the Enemy, this is particularly remarkable. It is with great pride and personal satisfaction that this Recruiter may report that Mr. Max McDaniels has passed the Standard Series of Potential Tests.”

Max stared in disbelief at Nigel. “So that was all just a…
test
?”

“Yes, I am sorry about that,” said Nigel with a sigh. “It's the only way we know of to test a Potential's courage and loyalty. Unfortunately, it's the test most Potentials ultimately fail, but we've refused to compromise our standards. You were willing to help me at great danger to your person, my boy, and I am indeed touched.”

Nigel smiled and rose to place a hand on Max's shoulder.

Max glanced at the hand. He let it slip off his shoulder as he walked wearily toward the kitchen. Nigel followed.

“Don't be too angry with me!” he pleaded. “It's not so easy being on my side of it, either—what with all the screaming, the crying, the irretrievably soiled pants….”

“I'm not mad anymore,” sighed Max. “Just promise that you won't conjure up Mrs. Millen again. I don't think I could handle her three times in one day.”

“It's a deal,” chuckled Nigel. “Now, let's see if we can't find some more of those Crispy Sons Snack—
whatever
you call them.”

                  
3                  

T
HE
T
IME TO
C
HOOSE

M
ax awoke earlier than usual as Nigel's whistling and the smell of coffee wafted upstairs. It was light outside; sprinklers were hard at work. He yawned and rolled out of bed, throwing on a T-shirt and shuffling down the stairs.

Nigel was seated at the dining-room table, already dressed in a suit and tie. He perused the
Tribune
and sipped at a mug of coffee. Steam rose from a covered basket arranged on the table along with a crock of butter, several types of jam, and a glass of juice.

“And the sleepyhead emerges from his burrow! Can't say I blame you, though—you had quite a day yesterday.”

“Nigel, it's six fifteen in the morning….”

“Exactly. Time to rise and shine! I've got to be on my way shortly, so I thought we'd first enjoy a proper breakfast. Max, have you ever had popovers?”

Nigel peeled back the basket's cover to reveal a dozen of what looked like steaming hot biscuits.

“Are they anything like Pop-Tarts?” asked Max.

“I should say
not,
” said Nigel with a shudder. “My wife's would shame these sorry creations, but I still think you're in for a treat! Here's to new discoveries!”

Max raised his glass, then spent the next several minutes attacking the hot, flaky popovers.

“Mneez uhn illy guuh!” he said at last.

Nigel looked up from his paper.

“Come again?”

“These are really good!” Max repeated, reaching for another.

“Are you admitting they compare favorably to the almighty Pop-Tart? I believe that's four you've managed already….”

Max narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, well, now that we've fed the monster, perhaps we should give him a present.”

Max wiped his mouth as Nigel presented him with an envelope of the same heavy cream-colored paper as the mysterious letter that had appeared in his pocket. This envelope was larger, but it, too, had Max's name scripted on the front. Max slid his hand under the sealing wax and opened the flap to remove a sheaf of papers and a glossy brochure.

“Save the brochure for later,” said Nigel. “Have a peek at the rest.”

Max turned the papers over and scanned the cover page.

Dear Mr. McDaniels,

It is our understanding that you passed the Standard Series of Tests for Potentials. As Mr. Bristow no doubt informed you, this is a tremendous achievement. On behalf of Rowan Academy, please allow me to extend our most sincere congratulations.

Based on your results, Rowan Academy hereby extends you an offer to join our organization as an Apprentice, First Year.

We are hopeful that you will begin the fall term at the new student orientation one week from today. Details are enclosed, and we trust you will find the attached scholarship offer attractive.

A representative will visit you and your father this evening to discuss this unique opportunity and, we hope, celebrate your decision to accept. Given the unusual circumstances of your initial contact, we have taken additional precautions. You can rest assured that Miss Awolowo is indeed a legitimate representative. She will arrive at precisely eight o'clock.

Warmest regards,
Gabrielle Richter
Executive Director

“Who is she?” asked Max. “She signed my first letter.”

“Ms. Richter? Oh, well, she's the boss, for lack of a better term. Quite a lady, I might add.”

“Oh. And the academy—what's that?”

“Hmmm. Well, I might not be the best person to explain it to you. That falls under Miss Awolowo's responsibilities. I can say, however, that it is an extraordinary place for extraordinary people just like you, Max.”

“I don't understand. Would I have to go away?”

“Well, yes. The academy is located in New England.”

Max put the letter down and shook his head.

“Forget it—I can't just leave. Not after everything that's happened.”

“I understand your feelings, Max—” Nigel began.

“No you don't. My dad would be all alone without me.”

Nigel closed his eyes and nodded.

“My mom's been gone two years,” Max blurted suddenly, his face growing hot. “My dad talks about her like she's alive, but she isn't. They never even found her.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Nigel quietly, wiping up some crumbs and refilling Max's juice.

“There isn't much to talk about,” Max said. He felt tired again. “They found her car on the side of the road. It was still running. She was gone.”

Max glowered and flicked a crumb off the table.

“Anyway,” he mumbled, “I don't think moving away is a good idea.”

“I see.” Nigel pushed the popovers back in his direction. “I won't try to convince you, Max. All I'll ask is that you keep an open mind and listen to what Miss Awolowo has to say. In the meantime, I would encourage you to study the materials in your packet.”

Nigel straightened the papers and brochure, handing them to Max before rising with his briefcase.

“I realize the timing is dreadful, but I must be going. Yesterday's events have raised questions that need answers, and I've been ordered away. Don't worry about your father and the Raleighs—I've taken care of everything.”

Max was incredulous.

“Nigel! You can't leave me here by myself. My dad doesn't get back until this afternoon! What if Mrs. Millen comes back?”

“Max, this house is under priority watch. You should be just fine.”

Max stood up from the table and began pacing the room.

“No, no, no! You said Mrs. Millen
shouldn't
have known I was a Potential and shown up here to begin with! Can't I come with you?”

“I'm afraid that's impossible, Max. However, I do think I can procure some company so that you're not alone.”

Max paused.

“An Agent?”

Nigel shook his head. “No, not an Agent. They're under strict orders to stand guard outside. You wouldn't like their company anyway—too serious!”

Nigel placed his briefcase on the table.

“This may take a minute, depending on whether she's within call.”

The Recruiter unfastened the case's clasps and buried his entire head within it. Max heard his muffled voice cooing.

“There's my girl. Oh, you're getting so big and gorgeous! No, no, I don't think you look fat. Don't tell Mrs. Bristow, but I think you're holding your shape quite nicely! Oh, well, thank you very much, indeed. Don't mean to sound immodest, but I
have
been trying to train up a bit.”

Nigel pinched his rather flimsy biceps while his head remained in the case.

“Yes, well, I've got a little favor to ask. Would you mind looking after a friend for a few hours? You wouldn't? Bless you, my dear—he will be most relieved.”

Max took a step back as Nigel thrust his arms into the case and strained forward to hoist something out of the bag. He withdrew and turned, cradling a pink piglet as if she were a newborn.

Max rubbed his temples and shook his head. “You've got to be kidding me.”

The piglet sniffed the air and focused her drowsy eyes on Max. She blinked several times and promptly burrowed her snout into Nigel's armpit.

“Max, I'd like you to meet Lucy!” said Nigel cheerfully.

Max's voice was steady and measured.

“Nigel, you are not leaving me in the care of a
pig.
”

Nigel smiled. “I'm
not
leaving you in her care; I'm leaving you in her company. You should consider yourself lucky—Lucy's the best company there is!”

Lucy wriggled to gaze lovingly up at Nigel, releasing a wheezing burst of gas in the process.

“But…!”

Nigel ignored Max and gently lowered Lucy to the floor. She trotted toward the kitchen, snorting happily.

“She's a snap, really—just let her have a bite, or three, of whatever you're eating. When your dad gets home, slip her out the back door and she'll find me.”

Defeated, Max looked at the floor and nodded. Something fell in the kitchen. He turned to see Lucy perched precariously on a chair, nosing through the leftover batter.

“Well,” said Nigel with a glance at his watch. “I am now running quite late and really must be on my way. I know it's all been a whirl, but don't let it get the best of you. Things will sort themselves out sooner than you think! It's been my pleasure.”

Nigel smiled and extended his hand.

“Will I see you again?” Max asked.

“I'd like to think so—I certainly hope to see you at your orientation!” He smiled and patted Max firmly on the shoulder. “I hope you'll join the new class, Max. I think Rowan's just the place for you.”

A moment later, Nigel had gone. Max watched him walk briskly down the sidewalk, briefcase in hand, before he turned off Max's street. Feeling very alone, Max locked the door and gathered up the plates and glasses. On his way to the kitchen, he passed Lucy, who trotted past him into the den. Stepping over the rather large mess she'd made, Max sighed and piled the dishes in the sink. He left Lucy in the den, where she seemed content to snort and roll.

         

Max was vaguely aware that the Chicago Cubs were losing to the San Francisco Giants when he heard the front door open. Bolting upright in his father's chair, he switched off the radio and skidded to the back door clutching Lucy, who had been curled up on his lap. The piglet shook herself awake with a series of startled grunts.

Setting her down outside, Max scratched her ears and whispered, “Thanks for staying with me, Lucy. Sorry I doubted you. Can you find Nigel?”

Lucy nuzzled his leg and, with a jaunty turn, trotted out into the yard, disappearing behind the fort. Locking the door, Max padded barefoot to the front hall, where his father had just let his bag thump to the floor.

“Hey, Max. How were the Raleighs?”

“Er, fine,” Max said, avoiding his father's eyes. “I'm glad you're home, though.”

“Yeah, well, so am I. Had a chance to cool off a bit in KC, and I think we'll ground you for one week rather than two. Cooped up for two weeks is too much during the summer. Sound fair?”

“Sure,” Max said. “Um, Dad, we're going to have someone coming by the house tonight to talk with us.”

“Who's that? You're not in trouble, are you?”

“No, nothing like that. I won some kind of scholarship.”

Scott McDaniels glanced from the mail to Max. “Really? A scholarship? What kind of scholarship?”

“I don't know exactly, but they're offering me full tuition at some school.”

“What school?” asked his father, giving an inquisitive smile.

“Rowan Academy—in New England.”