“Is that not the description of a demon?” David asked mildly.
“Those stories are exaggerated,” retorted Max. “Cúchulain was bloodthirsty. I’m not like that. I don’t do those things.”
“No,” David reassured him. “You don’t. But then again, you’re burdened by a modern conscience. To Max McDaniels, killing is a necessary evil. But in Cúchulain’s day, the path to glory was dyed in the blood of one’s enemies. You’re not cut from different cloth; you just live in different times.”
Max brooded in silence, so David continued.
“Do you remember what happened last spring? When you faced the Enemy alone within the Sanctuary?”
“I don’t want to remember,” said Max. The episode seemed like a dream. Within the dark gorge, he had screamed. There had been light—a blinding light, brighter than the sun. Then he had fallen upon the Enemy, and they gave way before him. It was an elusive memory—numbing glimpses of wild, rampant violence. Vyes fleeing, scrabbling madly to climb out of the gorge and escape the predator within it.… Had Max become a monster?
“You can’t have it both ways,” David told him. “You can’t seek truths and then pick and choose among them. If you want to know who and what you are, you must acknowledge the whole.”
“I do,” said Max quietly. “I’m no demon, David. I’m Lugh’s son and Cúchulain’s brother.”
“And where does Lugh come from?” David asked.
“He’s one of the Tuatha Dé Danann,” Max replied. “For a time he was their king.”
“But initially he was an outsider to the Tuatha Dé Danann,” David corrected. “They made him king only after he led them into battle against the Fomorians and slew Balor.”
“Who was Balor?” asked Max.
“The king of the Fomorians,” answered David. “Balor was a giant, a monster so terrible that his single eye killed whatever it looked upon. At the Battle of Magh Tuireadh, Lugh put out the eye and slew him. In fact, the very expression ‘evil eye’ originates with Balor. Isn’t it fascinating how these old tales make their way into the modern vernacular?”
“Gripping,” said Max. “But, David, what does this have to do with me?”
“Well,” said David delicately, “the details of Balor’s death fulfilled an old prophecy. The prophecy foretold that Balor would die at the hands of his own grandson.…”
“Lugh is Balor’s grandson?” Max exclaimed. “That would mean Lugh is part Fomorian … which would mean that I’m part Fomorian!”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said David.
“I’m a monster,” Max moaned. He remembered the grisly eye he’d clutched in Cooper’s room, and the gargantuan exhibit of a Fomorian he’d glimpsed in the Workshop’s museum. “A monster.”
“You’re being dramatic,” said David. “You just come from a very old line. When one goes back that far, bloodlines get muddled. Remember, Max: one man’s god is another man’s monster.…”
David returned to his work and Max understood that he had been dismissed. He made his way past the tables of Scholars, past the gleam of the Red Branch vault, and up the many stairs that led out of the Archives. The campus was dark and quiet; even Gràvenmuir’s windows had been closed and curtained as though everyone and everything was fast asleep.
When he reached his room, he saw that a note had been taped to the door.
Camille said you’d been looking for me. Sorry I missed you. I know you’ve been busy and are probably stressed about the Shrope trial on Saturday. Hang in there! When it’s all over, we can cut loose at the Samhain Feast.
xoxo,
Julie
Max sighed. With everything that had been happening, he’d nearly forgotten about Mum and Bellagrog’s trial. In two short days he’d have to sit on the witness stand and swear to tell the truth. He could only hope his testimony wouldn’t lead to Mum’s exile.
~11~
EX POST FACTO
On Saturday, Max was awoken not by Old Tom’s chimes but by an insistent knocking at his door. Lying downstairs on his bedroll, he debated whether to answer. The Shrope trial was that afternoon, and he did not want the day to begin any earlier than necessary.
But the knocking continued. Tossing aside his pillow, he stalked upstairs and flung open the door.
Max discovered a domovoi waiting in the hallway. The little man was dressed soberly in a suit and tie, with gray hair that appeared to have been slicked back at birth. He stood next to a strongbox on a small dolly. Glancing at his clipboard, the domovoi cleared his throat and twirled one end of a waxed mustache.
“Agent McDaniels, I presume?”
“Yes,” said Max, stretching his arms with a pointed yawn.
“I’m Mr. Thaler,” replied the domovoi with a brisk, efficient air. “I am here to deliver your salary. It’s been accruing while you’ve been away.”
Mr. Thaler produced an ornate key and unlocked the strongbox. His legs trembled as he hefted up a large sack that fairly sloshed and clinked with bullion.
“That can’t be right,” said Max. “That’s a lot more than four weeks’ pay.”
Mr. Thaler’s lips tightened as though he’d been insulted. “It is correct to the milligram, Mr. McDaniels,” he said stiffly. “Five ounces of gold per week as per your teaching agreement, plus twenty-five ounces per week as a member of the Red Branch.” The domovoi’s pompous manner cracked as the strain began to tell. “Dear me … perhaps I can deposit this inside and explain?”
Marching into Max’s room, the domovoi slung the bag upon the central table and explained that Rowan’s economy was now tied to gold.
“For one of your wealth, the gold may not be practical,” Mr. Thaler considered, stroking his chin. “In fact, my colleagues and I would like to discuss several investment opportunities with you. There’s considerable wealth to be made in merchant shipping, imports, or the more promising township businesses. Unlike our competitors, my bank has excellent contacts in all four kingdoms, including Zenuvia.”
“What’s Zenuvia?” asked Max.
“Lady Lilith’s realm,” Mr. Thaler explained. “The easternmost kingdom. A most promising economy, and the lady’s advisers understand trade far better than Lord Rashaverak. He fails to grasp that one’s partners must also make a profit.”
“Your bank trades with demons?” Max asked. “You’ve met with Rashaverak?”
“Not directly,” said the domovoi wistfully. “But his senior emissaries, certainly.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Thaler,” said Max, shaking his small hand and ushering him back up the stairs.
“Shall we set up a time to discuss the aforementioned opportunities?” inquired the domovoi.
“I don’t think so,” said Max. “I’m happy to keep it all under my bed.”
This elicited a somewhat surprised glance from Mr. Thaler, but nothing more.
By the time Max had returned to the downstairs table, Connor was already stacking the coins into gleaming towers of gold and silver.
“Would ya look at that?” he said. “You’re bleedin’ rich! All this gold just for a month’s salary?” He whistled. “In a year or two, you’ll be sitting on a downright hoard.”
“Eavesdropping, for shame,” said Max, knocking down a tower of silver coins and shoveling them into Mr. Thaler’s red velvet sack. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Connor allowed, still gazing greedily at the coins. “But swapping your soul ain’t no picnic. I feel like Sir Olaf sat on me.”
The previous day, Connor had given his consent to David, who had removed his soul and exchanged it for another of unknown origins. Max had been banned from the observatory for the duration. Thus, he knew almost nothing of the process other than Connor’s cryptic account that it had been the most terrifying ordeal of his sixteen years.
Given Connor’s past experiences with the Enemy, this was a disturbing statement.
Max had never attended, much less participated in a trial before. An undeniable
excitement permeated the orchard and the low hill known as Idunn Grove. The humid air practically buzzed with hushed conversation as lucky observers found seats and the unlucky formed crowded, jostling galleries.
As a witness, Max was seated in the front row, sandwiched between his father and Bob. Although the ogre was dressed in his best suit, he appeared gaunt and grim. Gumming his lips, he looked stoically at the table for the defense, where Mum was seated alongside the haglings and Bellagrog, who had elected to don an enormous barrister’s wig for the occasion. From the plaintiff’s table, Jesper Rasmussen was eyeing the absurd thing, but quickly looked away, once the haglings had taken notice and returned his stare from behind their leather muzzles.
Dressed in a judge’s robes, Ms. Richter sat behind a dais that had been placed at the foot of a tree planted by Rowan’s first class. A dozen jurors occupied a box to her left, selected from a pool of faculty and adult refugees. With a bang of her gavel, Ms. Richter began the proceedings and read from a prepared statement.
“This trial shall address allegations made by Mr. Jesper Rasmussen of the Frankfurt Workshop against the Shrope family, consisting of Bellagrog Shrope, Bea Shrope, and Bellagrog’s children, who shall be known as Haglings One, Two, Four, Five, Six, and Seven.”
Bellagrog cleared her throat and said, “If it pleases the court, you may strike Hagling Six from the proceedings, Your Honor.”
“And where is Hagling Six?” asked Ms. Richter, peering over her glasses.
“Er, Hagling Six is in-dis-po-sé,” replied Bellagrog, easing back in her chair and shrugging amiably.
“Indisposed, my beak,” Hannah shrieked from the stands. “You ate her!”
“Order,” said Ms. Richter, banging her gavel to stifle the subsequent chatter. “Hannah, must we remove you from these proceedings?”
Hannah said nothing, but merely shook her head and reclaimed her seat with a dissatisfied grimace.
Bellagrog stood and gestured angrily at the goose. “The defense moves to disqualify this jury on the grounds that they’ve heard damaging hearsay regarding hags and haglings.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ex post facto, Your Honor,” exclaimed Bellagrog, pounding the table.
“How does ‘after the fact’ apply here?” inquired Ms. Richter.
“Habeas corpus, then!”
“Bellagrog,” said Ms. Richter, rubbing her eyes. “If your defense will consist of random legal terms presented in nonsensical fashion, the court will appoint an advocate for the Shropes.”
Bellagrog scowled and settled back into her chair. “I talk for the Shropes.”
“Very well,” said Ms. Richter. “Then let’s have the plaintiff’s allegations.”
Mr. Rasmussen’s advocate—an imposing man in a gray suit—stood before the jury and pointedly glanced at his pocket watch. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said in a tone that suggested they were all old friends. “This trial is one of courtesy, not contentious deliberation. It should require little of your valuable time, for the facts of the case ring as clear as Old Tom’s chimes. Five weeks ago, my client was abducted, assaulted, and on the verge of consumption by the defendants. We have motive, we have eyewitnesses, and we have the ignominious and well-documented history of hags.…”
“They’re finished,” Max whispered, gazing at Bellagrog and Mum, who appeared small and almost shrunken at the defendants’ table. When the man had finished his statement, Max half expected applause. But he did not expect it from Bellagrog.
“Bravo, bravo!” said the hag, smacking her hands together. “Ain’t you a pretty talker? That was a fine little story you just told. But that’s what it is, ladies and gents, a story. Now, we all likes our stories, and I might not be such a slick talker as this prancing gent, but I’m here to tell the truth about a man what drank too much wine and fell into a wee bit of trouble. We got witnesses, too, so don’t you all rush to judgment like you’ve been rushing to Mum’s cooking the last forty years.…”
Bellagrog stepped aside so each juror could have a clear view of Mum, who was sprawled pitifully across the table. “That’s right,” she continued. “A hag what gave over forty years of service shouldn’t be exiled just ’cause some drunk outsider gets the creeps from ‘scary old hags.’ Heck, I get the shivers every time I get a gander of his shiny bald melon, but you don’t see me pressing charges!”
At this, several jurors actually stifled laughter. Max realized that Dr. Rasmussen might have a greater battle on his hands than he had anticipated.
When called to the stand, Jesper Rasmussen delivered his account in full. Every word was true, but Rasmussen spoke with such unmistakable arrogance and self-righteous indignation that several jurors actually frowned. Seeming to sense this, Bellagrog pounced during the cross-examination.
“You don’t really like Rowan, do ya?” she inquired.
“Of course I do,” Rasmussen retorted. “And I fail to see what that has to do with my abduction.”
“Really?” said Bellagrog, consulting her notes. “Did you or did you not refer to Rowan as a ‘magical petting zoo’ in Ms. Richter’s very own office?”
Dr. Rasmussen glared at her and gave a reluctant nod. “I may have said that … but I didn’t mean it,” he added pointedly to the jury. “I was upset.”
“Do you always say things you don’t mean when you’re upset?” asked Bellagrog.
“No,” said Rasmussen. “Again, I fail to see the relevance—”
But Bellagrog smelled blood in the water. She cut off the engineer with a cheerful shrug. “Let’s move on, then,” she said. “Let’s talk about the Workshop, eh?”
Dr. Rasmussen pursed his lips but said nothing.
“Were you, until recently, the director of the Frankfurt Workshop?” inquired Bellagrog.
“Yes,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “And I’m proud to say that I have been reinstated.”
“Congratulations,” drawled Bellagrog, rolling her eyes at the jury. “And as the head of this organization, can you testify whether or not it displays live creatures as museum exhibits?”
“Well, yes,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “They’re either humanely euthanized or placed into suspended animation. This is really a service of the first biological importance. For example, we might clone a specimen whose species is threatened by extinction.”
“Oh, I see,” said Bellagrog. “So you’re doin’ it for them, is ya? Does they come willin’?”
“Of course not,” replied Rasmussen, glancing at his fingernails. “Even a flea possesses an instinct for self-preservation.”
“Is you comparing hags to fleas?” asked Bellagrog.
“No,” said Rasmussen quickly. “What I meant was—”
“Oh,” interrupted Bellagrog. “So this is just another case where ya don’t mean what ya say?”
“No!” shouted Rasmussen, smacking the podium in frustration.
“Temper, temper,” cooed Bellagrog. She consulted her notes as though reading a transcript. “I believe you were telling the jury how ya kidnap or kill living creatures and display ’em against their will.…”
Once Dr. Rasmussen had been excused from the witness stand, Bellagrog strolled back to the defendants’ table and idly sipped an iced tea while the haglings climbed up on Mum, clinging to her patchy gray suit like so many bats. Catching Max’s eye, Bellagrog winked as though victory was just around the corner. While Bellagrog returned to her notes, Max arrived at a painful realization: With Rasmussen discredited, Max’s testimony might well determine the verdict.
“Bellagrog’s too crafty,” whispered Mr. McDaniels. “Stick to simple answers or she’ll twist you up in knots.”
Overhearing this, Bob gazed down at the McDanielses and fixed Max with a sad blue eye. “Stick to the truth,” he said. “The truth leads to justice.”
Max nearly flinched as his name was called. Making his way to the witness stand, he became painfully aware that hundreds of observers had flocked to Idunn Grove and that even t
he Manse’s slate roof and balconies were crowded with onlookers. Taking his seat, he saw Julie sitting in the front row with a press pass. She seemed to look through him; every aspect of her posture and expression suggested a professional reporter attending to her beat. As he was sworn in, Max took a deep, steadying breath.
“I know this can’t be easy for you,” said Rasmussen’s attorney with a sympathetic smile. “You’re very close to the hags, aren’t you? I’d wager this trial has pulled you in two very different directions.”
Max nodded, glancing at the defendants’ table. Bellagrog was eyeing him curiously while Mum had nearly disappeared beneath the table, succumbing to either anxiety or the weight of her clinging, glaring nieces.
“Mr. McDaniels, you will have to speak up so the quills can transcribe your response.”
“Yes,” said Max, speaking into a magicked brass contraption that amplified his hoarse whisper.
“Which is why, ladies and gentlemen, this young man’s testimony is all the more devastating to the defendants,” the attorney continued with dramatic flourish, launching into a series of questions that painted the hags in a horrific light.
What was the purpose of the hags’ Sniffing Ceremony? To ensure that they don’t eat the students. Had Mum, in spite of this, attacked students in the past? Yes. Prior to the night in question, had Mr. McDaniels ever feared for Dr. Rasmussen’s safety among the hags? Yes. Why was this? Because the Workshop had their cousin Gertie on display and they’d sworn revenge. Had the witness found Dr. Rasmussen in an enormous kettle far off campus? Yes. Did it appear the hags were going to eat him? Yes.
The next question, however, stumped Max.
“Had the hags been singing a song?” asked the attorney.
“Uh … yes?” said Max, wrinkling his nose at the memory.
“Do you remember its lyrics?” asked the lawyer coolly.
“Not really,” said Max. “I was focused on trying to put out the fire and get Dr. Rasmussen out of the pot. I remember something about ‘Rasmussen stew’ and ‘revenge is a dish that’s best served hot.’ It rhymed.”