“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!”