The other adults ceased talking and looked intently at Max.
“He must be famished,” said an apple-cheeked man with a strong Irish accent. “Use a bite to eat, could you, Max?”
Max’s head felt light. He nodded and let the man steer him to a seat at the table, next to a younger woman with red hair. She smiled and fixed him a plate of roast chicken and wild rice. Max grabbed a large piece of chicken and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Sir Alistair must have his hands full with this one,” chuckled a man with glasses.
“Hush!” said the dark-haired woman. She smiled at Max and pushed the plate of carved chicken closer to him. “Welcome to the Dublin safe house, Max.”
Suddenly aware that he was eating in a strange house with strange people, Max put down his piece of chicken. His eyes searched from face to face.
“I’m Max,” he whispered.
“We know—we know all about you, Max McDaniels.” The apple-cheeked man beamed. “You’re very welcome here.”
Like water through a breaking levee, the memories flooded his mind.
“The Potentials!” he gasped. “Ronin! What happened to them? I tried to save Alex, but I couldn’t. He was pulled away from me. Astaroth is awake!” He almost toppled backward.
The red-haired woman caught his chair and eased him forward. She smoothed back his hair and gently quieted him. Max was still for several moments, studying the little flames on the candlewicks.
Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and in walked three men wearing dark clothes that seemed to shift and blend in with the room. To Max’s surprise, Ms. Richter followed on their heels. She gave a cursory nod to the group before her gaze fell on Max, sitting small and hunched at the table. Her eyes twinkled as she studied his face.
“Well, colleagues, our guest is up and about.” Her voice was soft and serious. “Hello, Max. How are you feeling?”
Max frowned at his arm, where the spongy fabric covered the deep gashes and punctures from Cyrus’s teeth. The memories of their struggle on the hilltop were very vivid.
“Alex Mu?oz,” Max murmured. “He’s gone….”
“Yes, I know,” said Miss Richter gravely. “It was his watch that summoned help. That crypt is being excavated and examined now. In fact, that is where I have just come from with these gentlemen.”
Max looked at the men in the strange clothes who were now helping themselves to the food. He could not take his eyes off the fabric that seemed to swim with grays and blacks and greens and browns. One of the men, blond and handsome with a weathered face, smiled and stepped over to Max. He kneeled down and pinched part of the fabric off his shoulder so Max could feel it. Rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, Max was fascinated. It was slick to the touch, impossibly smooth but utterly flat, allowing no candlelight to reflect from its surface.
“Nanomail,” the man grunted. “New version—in beta. I’m Carl. I was the one who got your call.”
Something in the man’s manner reminded Max of Cooper. They each had the same directness: a calm, clipped way of speaking that suggested an intense, disciplined nature.
“Thank you, Agent Drake,” said Ms. Richter. “That will be all. If the rest of you would please excuse us, I would like to have a word with Max.”
Glasses were raised to Max as he followed Ms. Richter out of the dining room.
They went outside to sit on a porch of weathered stone and knotted wood. The moon had risen high and bright over the trees, and the air was very still. Max looked hard at the Director, who seemed lost in thought as she gazed out over the countryside. There were a thousand stories and secrets in her face, Max thought; they were etched in deep seams across the forehead and in tight little crow’s feet at her eyes. Her pupils looked like drops of mercury in the moonlight.
“How long have I been gone?” Max asked.
“Thirty-seven days,” said the Director.
Max drooped in stunned silence.
“Thirty-seven days lost, but forty-two children gained,” she said, turning to smile at him. “Not a bad bargain. Forty-two children will be reunited with their families because of you, Max. You are a hero.”
“But Alex is gone,” Max said with rising anguish. “They have Astaroth, and he’s awake!”
Ms. Richter patted his hand.
“Shhh. You did what you could do, and that is all a person can ask of himself. You went well above the call of duty for a thirteen-year-old boy, Max.”
“Did Ronin survive?” Max asked quietly.
Ms. Richter wrinkled her nose in curiosity. “Who is Ronin?”
“Peter,” Max blurted. “Peter Varga. He saved me. Is he okay?”
“Ah, I think he will be, Max. I do,” said Ms. Richter, with a small smile. “It’s a curious name Peter chose for himself. Do you know what a ‘ronin’ is?”
Max shook his head.
“A ronin is a samurai—a wandering samurai without a master. Such a notion would appeal to Peter, I suppose. Peter is going to live, but he was very badly injured. Whether or not he walks again remains to be seen. He is here—the moomenhovens are doing their very best.”
Max said nothing; he was not even sure what a “moomenhoven” was. But he was sure that without Ronin, he would still be trapped beneath the earth with Marley Augur. His throat felt tight.
“Try to put Peter out of your mind for the moment,” said Ms. Richter. “No one knows better than you that something very serious has happened and that dark times may be coming. I need to know everything that has happened starting with the day you were taken….”
Max told Ms. Richter about the attack on the dock, his journey across the ocean, and the trials in Marley Augur’s crypt. None of it seemed real to him; he felt as if he were telling someone else’s story.
“What was Marley Augur?” Max asked. “He said he used to be one of us.”
“What he was is certainly different from what he is,” she replied. “He was, by all accounts, a very noble and valued member of our Order. However, it sounds as though his misery has transformed him into a revenant—an unquiet spirit consumed by thoughts of vengeance. Unfortunately, as a blacksmith, Augur’s talents clearly lay in craftsmanship and enchantment—the making and unmaking of things. These are slow, methodical magics well suited to the task of freeing Astaroth.”
Max frowned and tried to blot out the memory of Astaroth’s little smile amidst the smoke and noise of Augur’s crypt. He looked out over the dark countryside.
From the Director, Max learned that the ropes supporting the Kestrel had been cut, resulting in what appeared to be a horrific accident. The ship had crashed down and obliterated half the dock beneath it, causing the Kestrel’s guardian to wail and churn the waters. It was feared that Alex and Max had been crushed, their bodies swept out to sea. These fears were seemingly confirmed as their apples had turned to gold in the orchard. Three days later, it was discovered that the apples had only been coated with gold. The Kestrel’s crash had been nothing but a diversionary tactic to hide the fact that Max and Alex had been kidnapped. Search parties were deployed, but the trail had already gone cold.
As she finished her story, Max asked a question that was troubling him.
“What’s going to happen to Ronin?”
“We shall do our best to heal him and then we shall have to see. I suppose it will depend somewhat on his condition.”
“The vyes couldn’t have gotten to the orchard,” Max said somberly. “They had help. There is a traitor at Rowan, I heard the vyes and Marley Augur talk about it!”
“I know all too well about the traitor at Rowan,” the Director said sadly. “Yesterday, the traitor was taken into custody. Without a struggle, thank God.”
“It’s Miss Boon, isn’t it?” Max asked very quietly. Goose bumps raced up his arms when he thought how dangerous it must have been to be alone with her in Rattlerafters.
“Miss Boon?” exclaimed Ms. Richter, suddenly incredulous. “Why in heaven would you suspect Hazel?”