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
THE CRYPT OF MARLEY AUGUR
When 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.