The Hound of Rowan

  Like a shot, Tweedy bounded off his bale of hay and began to weave mad zigzags through the snow, chasing a spotted rabbit that had been chewing a stray bit of hay. Tweedy’s bifocals fell to the ground, where Connor promptly smashed them as he stumbled past to plop down on Lucia’s lap. She was now awake and smiled coyly at him, batting her thick eyelashes.

  The song began once more; Nolan grimaced as his fingers danced mechanically over the strings. Cynthia began clapping and singing along with an enthusiasm that far exceeded her musical talents. A furious bark erupted from Frigga, who was angrily eyeing the amorous Fourth Years.

  “What she got that Frigga no have?”

  “No winter coat of blubber, that what!” barked Helga.

  “Quiet, you!” roared Frigga, thumping her sister with an angry head-butt.

  Max’s heart started beating faster, fluttering like a moth in his rib cage. Julie had risen to her feet and was staring at him with a puzzled expression. As Kettlemouth’s voice rose to a fevered pitch, Max took several steps toward Julie and took hold of her hand. She gave his hand a little squeeze in return; her nose was pink, and her breath smelled like peppermint. Max cleared his throat.

  “Julie—”

  Suddenly, she kissed him, throwing her arms around him and almost knocking him over. Her nose was cold against his cheek, and Max felt weightless….

  Old Tom’s chimes sounded clear and cold in the winter air. Max opened his eyes in alarm; Julie backed several feet away, her face a deep scarlet. Kettlemouth had abruptly stopped his singing and hopped off the bale of hay. As though they burned him, Mr. Nolan flung his fiddle and bow into the snow and began shaking his cramped hands. A sheepish Connor apologized profusely while Lucia screamed at him in Italian. The Fourth Year boy stood by with a confused and frightened expression on his face as Frigga briskly informed him that “It not have worked out for us, anyway. You are human and Frigga is selkie.”

  “Not a word, you!” Tweedy snapped at Omar, who was giggling in fits as he tried to piece together Tweedy’s mangled spectacles. Tweedy whirled to face Nolan, thrusting a paw in the direction of Kettlemouth. “I demand that such a creature be removed from this Sanctuary! This is an outrage! That amphibian’s power is disgusting and irresponsible! It’s—it’s not dignified!”

  Nolan shook his head and retrieved his fiddle from the snow, wiping it clean with his sleeve. Cynthia handed him his bow while staring at her boots.

  “Now, now, Tweedy,” cautioned Nolan, “I grant you I didn’t realize Kettlemouth’s songs were so…compelling…but it’s not his fault. Anyway, his songs just eliminate inhibitions; they don’t make you do anything you didn’t already want to do.”

  Max glanced at Julie, who avoided his eyes and gathered up her things.

  Tweedy hopped over to Nolan, his whiskers twitching with incredulous rage.

  “Are you insane or simply ignorant, man? Are you suggesting that I wanted to court some unwashed, uneducated floozy from the wrong side of the meadow? That this is some secret desire I harbor?”

  “Well,” quipped Nolan, giving a casual wave of his hand to slowly extinguish the bonfire, “it’s no secret anymore, is it, Tweedy? But I’ll be sure to speak to the Director to see if there are some precautions we should take with Kettlemouth.”

  A few students snickered while Tweedy stood on his hind legs, bristling and uncharacteristically speechless. Finally, Tweedy hopped after Nolan, who was now walking with several students toward the Sanctuary tunnel. Omar ran after them, erupting in periodic snickers. Lucia had taken Kettlemouth back into the Lodge, slamming the door in Connor’s face. Max shivered, watching it all unfold before running after Julie, who was hurrying up the path with a girlfriend.

  “Julie, Julie, wait up,” huffed Max, slowing to a walk next to her. “I thought maybe you could help me with some homework I have for Strategy—”

  “Sorry,” Julie muttered, avoiding his eyes. “I have a practical in Devices. Gotta run.”

  Max watched the two girls disappear into the tunnel. He sighed and started for the tunnel when he heard Cynthia screech behind him.

  “Whatever, Connor!”

  As David looked on, Connor was doing a funny, albeit cruel, impersonation of Cynthia applauding Nolan’s efforts on the fiddle. He jumped up and down, clapping wildly before clasping his hands in a sudden swoon.

  Cynthia looked furious and near tears. “You shouldn’t talk, Connor! You were just as big an idiot as any of us!”

  “Please,” dismissed Connor. “Boys, are we going to let Cynthia off the hook so easily?”

  Without a word, David took Julie’s digital camera out from his pocket. Scrolling through several photos, he stopped at one and thrust the camera before Connor’s eyes.

  Connor’s smirk vanished. He swallowed and blinked.

  “Right, then,” he said. “Well—we’re late for dinner, and I’m starving.”

  Connor crunched through the snow for the tunnel. David slipped the camera back into his pocket and sauntered after, whistling “Daisy Bell.” Squealing with delight, Cynthia rushed past Max.

  “David Menlo! Let me see that photograph!”

  The foyer was wet with small puddles of melted snow and boots that had been cast aside. Sounds of laughter and the smell of meat loaf issued from the stairwell to the dining hall. Just as the four children tossed their boots into a corner, Ms. Richter appeared from the hallway leading to her office. With a small frown, she looked at the mess. Suddenly, the icy puddles evaporated from the tiles while the boots arranged themselves in neat pairs against the wall. Then Ms. Richter’s attention abruptly shifted to them.

  “You four come with me. Now.” It was not a long walk to her office. Max shuffled along in his socks, ignoring Connor’s attempts to get his attention and keeping his eyes locked on the floor ahead of him. Pushing open the door, the Director motioned them inside.

  Max looked up. He intended to scream but found instead that his mouth merely opened and closed as if he were a goldfish scooped from the water.

  Inside the office was Cooper. Tethered to Cooper was a vye.

  14

  MEETING THE VYES

  Towering over Cooper, the vye fixed each of the children with a dark, feral stare. Its snout was wet, and its thick tongue rolled in its mouth as it shifted its weight from one hind leg to the other. Max, Connor, and Cynthia huddled together in the doorway, while David took one look at the vye and fainted, slumping to his knees and toppling over almost casually. Sighing, Ms. Richter reached down to lift David and settle him into her desk chair, stroking his hair and cupping his chin.

  “Cooper,” she said, “please lead that thing away from the children.” Cooper nodded and tugged gently on a silver tether that was fastened around the vye’s neck. Responding with a display of jagged yellow teeth, the vye followed him slowly to a yellow settee near the French doors. Max noticed four dark streaks of dried blood on Cooper’s cheek.

  “Why isn’t it attacking?” breathed Cynthia.

  “Because Cooper’s caught it in a Passive Fetter; you’ll learn to make them by your Sixth Year. Very effective on vyes, but tough to get on them. Shorts out their aggression and makes them susceptible to your command. That’s why the Enemy’s never wholly relied on them, despite their uses.”

  “Where did Cooper catch it?” whispered Connor, letting go of Max’s shoulder.

  “Prowling near the highway into town, disguised as a salesman,” replied the Director. “We think this one may have infiltrated our campus several months ago.”

  David stirred and sat up, and Max saw the vye shift its attention from him to David. Ms. Richter stepped away from her desk to the middle of the room.

  “While Cooper’s capture is relevant, it’s not the sole reason I’ve asked you here,” the Director continued. “It’s my understanding that the four of you have had a very confusing ordeal—that you’ve been frightened by stories of vyes, missing Potentials, and the incompetent Director who’s endangering you
all.”

  Max said nothing; he didn’t want to get Mr. Morrow into trouble. Furthermore, he found the monstrous vye that sat watching him quietly from the yellow settee to be a considerable distraction. As if sensing his discomfort, the Director raised her hand and addressed the vye in a commanding voice.

  “Assume your false form and do not speak.”

  The creature’s eyes glistened darkly as Cooper draped a blanket over its still form. It looked at Max, its twisted wolf-face smiling in a chillingly human manner. Max shuddered as the creature’s form began to tremble, shrink, and contort; its features melted away to reveal a balding, middle-aged man with watery eyes now sitting naked beneath the blanket.

  “Revolting, counterfeit things,” muttered the Director. “Now we can focus on the topic at hand. Mr. Morrow is a wonderful man, but he is very ill. He said some things I am sure he now regrets, and well he should. And he is not the only one. I am a bit disappointed that some of you would discuss topics you have been specifically instructed not to.”

  Max shrunk before Ms. Richter’s gaze. Her expression was grave, but not angry.

  “Now that you’ve been given certain information, I’d like to set the record straight. The first and foremost question is ‘Are children missing?’ Specifically, Potentials. The answer, as Max apparently overheard, is yes. There are currently forty-two children whom we believe have been intercepted and captured by the Enemy shortly after becoming known to us. Mickey Lees is unique—the only child taken by the Enemy after passing the tests.

  “Despite what you may have heard, however,” Ms. Richter said, walking over to a large antique map of the world, “we have not been idle.”

  Ms. Richter placed her palm on a scanner, and the antique map slid soundlessly into the adjoining wall. A digital map of the world was revealed with numbered codes in different colors scattered across its surface. The majority, Max noticed, were clustered in New England, North Africa, and Eastern Europe.

  “Each of these numbers represents a different mission involving our operatives. As Director of Rowan, I am privy to all of these missions. There are currently three hundred and twelve nonclassified missions in various stages of completion. Forty-two of these initiatives involve our missing Potentials—one mission for each child. Master Agents have been called out of retirement, the Prescients Council has been convened, and we have initiated a number of DarkMatter—er, classified—operations concerning this situation. Mr. Morrow—and he represents only one among many—is aggravated because he does not have access to all the facts. Incomplete data leads to incomplete conclusions. I am willing to suffer their frustrations because I must keep certain information and initiatives secret. That is the grim necessity of these times.”

  There was a knock on the door. Mum scurried into the room carrying an elaborate silver coffee service. The hag recoiled when she saw David, averting her eyes as she gave him a wide berth.

  “Another late night, eh, Director?” inquired Mum in an anxious voice.

  “Yes, Mum,” Ms. Richter said, smiling. “Thank you for bringing this to me.”

  “It’s my pleasure, love,” Mum gushed. “I’m sorry I’m a bit late, but Bob abandoned me in the kitchens. I was able to manage as I always do,” she sighed, “but I think we may have to let him go….”

  “Yes, Mum,” Ms. Richter said patiently. “I’ll be sure to speak to Bob. Now, if you’ll please close the door on your way out.”

  Mum bowed, then suddenly stopped and sniffed the air with a quizzical expression on her face. She shot a panicked glance at the vye on the settee and gave Ms. Richter a horrified stare. Cupping her hands to her mouth, Mum spoke in a whisper heard by everyone in the room.

  “Director,” she hissed, “there’s a V-Y-E in the corner!”

  With a spastic jerk of her head in the vye’s direction, Mum fixed the Director with a knowing look.

  “Yes, Mum, we are quite aware of the vye,” said Ms. Richter, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “Would you like me to eat it? It’s no trouble at all!” offered Mum, a hopeful note in her voice.

  “That’s very sweet of you, but no—not just at this moment. Now, if you please, Mum.”

  With an indignant flip of her lank hair, Mum turned on her heel and marched to the door. Stopping in the doorway, she whirled and grinned at the vye, peeling back her lips to reveal rows of smooth crocodile teeth. With a sudden giggle, she slammed the door and was gone.

  The vye looked ill.

  “Ms. Richter,” asked Cynthia, “would you really feed that vye to Mum?”

  “Absolutely not,” she replied, shaking her head. “Mum’s been putting on too much weight and vyes are enormous. Now, back to business.”

  Sipping her coffee, Ms. Richter walked over to the digital map. With a brisk tap of the screen, she zoomed in on a satellite image of a large city.

  “I am happy to report that progress has been made. Nine separate operations have independently converged on the city of Istanbul in Turkey. We have long suspected that there exists a honeycomb of chambers deep beneath Topkapi Palace that may have been tunneled long ago by the Enemy. A number of our Agents believe the Potentials may be there; other teams suspect a site in northern Hungary.”

  “So why don’t they just go in and get them?” asked Connor.

  “I wish it were that simple,” replied the Director. “Can any of you see why that might not be the wisest course of action?”

  “Well,” said Cynthia, “if it’s a palace, there are probably lots of people around—tourists and such. They could get hurt, or at the very least, there would be a lot of explaining to do if they saw a bunch of vyes and Agents running around.”

  The Director smiled and nodded, glancing from face to face for more answers.

  “You said the underground chambers are secret—or supposed to be,” Max added suddenly. “If that’s the case, I would want to spy them out. Even if the Potentials aren’t there, the Enemy might be using the place for something else important. If so, I wouldn’t want them to know that I’d found them. I’d wait to pick my moment.”

  Ms. Richter raised her eyebrows and turned to Max.

  “I’ll have to inform Mr. Watanabe that you’re holding back in Strategy,” she said. “Any other suggestions?”

  “It could all be a trap,” murmured David, his eyes wandering over the map before locking on to Ms. Richter’s.

  “Indeed,” replied Ms. Richter, searching David’s face for several moments. “Well done—all of you.”

  Max flushed with pride; Ms. Richter was notoriously spare with her compliments. Looking at her watch, she frowned.

  “I need to have a word in private with David and Max. Cynthia, you and Connor may go. I hope this little chat has reassured you that many forces are at work to resolve this situation. And lest you think that you children will be the only ones privy to such terrible secrets, we will be sharing this information with the rest of the school. Now, I suggest you hurry off to the kitchens and see if there’s anything left to eat.”

  Connor gave Max and David a curious look as he and Cynthia made their exit.

  “Cooper, you may go as well,” said the Director. “Please be sure to get treated for that scratch immediately. We don’t need any complications.”

  Cooper nodded and opened the French doors that looked out onto the orchard. Closing the doors quietly behind him, Cooper led the vye out into the night. Ms. Richter turned her attention back to Max and David.

  “I have asked the two of you to stay because I would like to hear precisely why over four dozen books on art history and a pair of forbidden grimoires are missing from the libraries.”

  David’s eyes widened and he shot a glance at Max, but Max only dropped his head, certain of imminent expulsion.

  “Cooper was quite impressed with your disappearing act,” the Director said with a small smile. “Rowan has had rumors of a back door to the Archives for some time.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Richter,” said
David. “I got curious—I’ll return the books tonight.”

  Ms. Richter shook her head.

  “I’d prefer it if you did not, David,” said the Director. “As far as I am aware, you are the only person on this campus capable of using those grimoires without peril. As such, I am more interested in hearing what you have learned than devising some sort of punishment. Would you care to share your thoughts?”

  David stood. “Astaroth was never destroyed,” he said abruptly. “I knew from the stars in our room.”

  Max was amazed at the change that had come over his roommate. David’s downcast eyes kindled with energy and assumed a darting intensity that seemed to gather and process information continuously. Ms. Richter said nothing but gestured for David to continue.

  “I knew Astaroth was alive,” continued David. “Everything suggested he was imprisoned somehow. My first guess was that the paintings might be clues to where he was imprisoned…but the grimoires told me something else.”

  Ms. Richter sipped at her coffee and listened intently.

  “Because Astaroth was so strong, I was curious what kind of prison could hold him,” said David, pacing about the room. “I kept imagining a mountain or something huge. The answer was actually the opposite. Interwoven spells of Old Magic were used to bind him within something small and precious—a painting.”

  “Why a painting?” asked the Director.

  David nodded. “That was my question, too, but it’s not random. Paintings are perfect prisons for things like this; secret symbols and guardians can be infused into the materials, images, composition, everything….”

  “Do you know in which painting Astaroth is hidden?” asked Ms. Richter pointedly.

  “No,” said David, shaking his head.