As the hound approached, something caught Max’s attention. There, hidden behind the trunk of an alder tree, was the small, slim form of Mr. Sikes. Max scowled at the imp’s luminous cat’s eyes.

“Go away,” Max murmured. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Just ignore me,” purred Mr. Sikes, raising a tiny finger to his lips.

Max would have argued, but the hound was almost upon him, bigger than a horse and smelling of wet fur and earth. Its great, panting head loomed above Max. Holding his breath, Max braced himself for the question that he knew would come.

“What are you about? Answer quick or I’ll gobble you up!”

Max hesitated.

True to its word, the hound’s jaws yawned open and Max was swallowed up in one great gulp. He shut his eyes as the hound’s teeth crunched closed behind him. For several dizzying moments his body seemed to slide, limp and languid, down the beast’s gullet and into the soft, spongy bed of its belly.

When Max opened his eyes, he glimpsed that Mr. Sikes was still watching from the safety of the alder tree. A low growl sounded from Max’s throat; he swung his heavy head full round to glower upon the little imp. Mr. Sikes retreated farther into the shadows.

Shifting his weight, Max dug a massive paw into the soft earth.

With a sudden pop Mr. Sikes transformed into a field mouse and fled up the path in a series of zigzagging hops. Max gave a roar and chased after, running with terrible speed on his four legs as the mouse made for the lights of the house.

The intrusive imp was not nearly quick enough.

Mr. Sikes had gained the front steps when Max overtook him, seizing the mouse in his jaws as his momentum brought them both crashing against the door. Scrambling to his feet, Max growled and gave the mouse a sudden shake, tossing its body far out onto the wet grass.

The door opened behind him, and light streamed out onto the lawn, spotlighting the small, still form of the mouse.

“Max, what have you done?”

Max whirled at the sound of his mother’s voice. She stood in the open doorway, hand in hand with his father. She was just as he remembered her. Max felt a sudden stab of longing to come inside the house and join them.

Something in his mother’s features stopped him, however. Her dark eyes widened as she raised a trembling hand and pointed beyond him. Max turned to look again at the lifeless lump of Mr. Sikes, but the mouse was gone.

There, on the grass, lay the curled, broken body of Alex Muñoz.

Max screamed.

He awoke to see David standing by his bed, holding a lamp and looking frightened.

“You were dreaming,” his roommate said. “You’re okay, you know.”

“Sure,” croaked Max, blinking at the twinkling constellations and the lamp’s reflection in the glass dome. He flung the sweat-soaked sheets away from him and propped himself against the headboard. The disturbing details of his dream, so vivid a moment earlier, began to fade. He was almost certain, however, that he had seen Mr. Sikes. Max had no idea why the imp would have been visiting his dreams, but he was strangely loath to share the incident with David.

“It’s past four,” whispered David. “The witches will be here soon. I’m going to watch for them if you want to come.”

Max swung his legs over the bed with a nod and minutes later the two were creeping down the dormitory’s hallway, wrapped in sweaters and blankets to guard against the morning chill. They found a suitable perch in a cozy nook on the third floor where lead-paned windows looked out onto the front lawn and drive. There was no hint of sun outside, just a dull wash of chalky gray that extended to the horizon. Max rested his forehead against the cool window.

“How’s the Riddle coming?” asked Max, fogging the glass while David studied a small slip of paper.

David shrugged.

“Some of it is easy. ‘Beneath where Teuton kings were crowned’ is obviously a reference to Frankfurt, Germany. Frankfurt’s where German rulers were elected and it’s the headquarters for the Workshop. The other stuff is a little trickier.”

“What does the Frankfurt Workshop have to do with it?” asked Max.

“They’re not Rowan,” said David, flicking the paper with his finger. “And I think that’s exactly why Bram would have left a piece of the puzzle with them. He obviously thought the Book of Thoth is dangerous—he’d want to ensure that no one person or group could get it by themselves. By scattering the means of reaching it, he’d ensure it could be obtained only through cooperation, and that’s likely only if the book’s really in danger. It’s pretty smart, actually—”

David cut his sentence short and stood up to gaze out the window as a dozen crows suddenly flew from the direction of the gate. The birds circled and wheeled before skimming over the grounds to perch on Maggie’s roof. Several moments later a team of four black horses emerged from the dark wood, pulling an ornate red coach. The coach eased its way across the gray landscape until it came to a stop near the fountain below them. The horses tossed their heads, rolled their eyes, and breathed great clouds of steam, but the gleaming carriage remained closed and shuttered.

“It’s like a jewelry box,” whispered David, pressing his nose to the glass.

Max saw someone hurry down the Manse’s front steps. It was Miss Boon, wrapped in a blue shawl and looking miserable. She stopped before the coach and gave a low, solemn bow. A red door promptly opened, and four hooded shapes slipped out to follow the young Mystics instructor inside. David turned from the window and stepped quickly down the hall.

“Now that they’re here, we’ll have to hurry,” he said. “Come with me.”

“Where?” asked Max.

“To the clock tower,” David replied, scurrying away. “There’s something I have to do, and I might not get the chance later.”

“But they’ll be coming to get us soon!” hissed Max.

“That’s why we have to hurry!” whispered David, disappearing around the corner.

Minutes later, Max understood why Miss Boon had looked so glum. It was a raw, wet morning, and he shivered as he stamped the morning dew off his slippers and braced himself against the gusts that swirled about Old Tom. Max and David stood on a fenced balcony just outside the clock’s face, obscuring its hands of weathered copper as they clutched the railing some 150 feet above the gray-green lawns below.

“What are we doing up here?” asked Max, his teeth chattering.

David ignored him and arched his back over the railing to squint up at the tower’s sharp-pitched roof.

“Can you give me a boost up there?” he asked.

Max craned his neck at the steep angle of the roof and its slick, wet shingles, then looked at his clumsy roommate. Even a mountain goat would have difficulty navigating that roof.

“Are you crazy?” he asked. “You’ll slip right off!”

“You’re probably right,” mused David. “Higher is better, but I guess this will have to do.”

“Do for what?” asked Max, pulling his blanket closer as a particularly furious gust came whipping in off the sea.

David did not answer him, but instead leaned far out over the balcony and raised a hand toward the ocean, whose gray waves crashed and sent high plumes of spray into the morning air. To Max’s surprise, his roommate began to sing a soft, lilting song.

It was not like any song Max had heard before. The words were strange, as were the notes that periodically dipped unexpectedly or jumped to another key altogether. Max ignored the wind that howled and raged about him. He felt warm and content, losing himself in the hypnotic song that tempted him to sleep and drift along with the world’s storms and currents until his body would unravel at last and become a bit of stone or sea.

A mist rose slowly from the ocean. Tatters of fog came sweeping over the cliffs to run like swift rivers along the walkways and gardens. Soon, a layer of mist, as soft and white as lamb’s wool, blanketed the grounds and treetops. By the time David’s voice trailed into silence, Max could hear that a crowd had awakened and gathered in front of Old Tom. As though shaken from a trance, David opened his eyes and suddenly raised his arms like a conductor. There was a low roar and the mist swirled clockwise, forming a great funnel at its center that expanded outward like the eye of a hurricane.

Max heard several startled shouts followed by the distant opening and closing of doors and windows. People had been gathering far below, but now they scattered as the mist was pushed out to the edges of the campus, rising higher and higher until it seemed Rowan had been uprooted and set within the clouds, hidden and secret from the world.

The sound of hard, hurried footsteps came from the tower’s stairwell; a moment later Miss Boon’s head burst into view. The young Mystics instructor was out of breath, her short brown hair clinging to her round face. She glanced at Max before narrowing her eyes at David.

“What have you done?” she asked sharply.

“I’ve hidden us,” said David wearily. “The old spells were fading. No enemies will be able to find us now—by map, by road, or by sea. Rowan has disappeared.”

Miss Boon stepped out onto the balcony and gazed out at the grounds and the towering dome of white mist that rose hundreds of feet into the air, filtering the rays of the morning sun that now peeped above the horizon like a sliver of gold.

“Go back down, David,” she sighed, wiping condensation from her glasses. “We’ll talk about this later. You too, Max. You’re both to dress in your formal uniforms and wait in your room until Cooper comes for you. You are to do nothing else until that happens. Lord knows how the witches will seek to profit by this!”

Max and David slinked back inside and crept down the stairs, past the clock’s gears and chimes, which smelled of oil and age. There was a large crowd gathered outside the steps.

“What did you do?” shouted one angry student.

“Make it go away!” called another.

“Make them go away!” screeched Anna Lundgren, stabbing a finger at Max.

“That’s quite enough,” commanded Miss Boon as she shepherded Max and David through the dense throng of bewildered students, scholars, and faculty. Max felt a tug on his sleeve and looked up to see a pretty girl with brown hair and freckles clutching a camera.

Max merely blinked at the unfamiliar girl before he was promptly swept along by Miss Boon and the curious crowd that closed in behind them. They were marched up the broad stairs and down the long hall to their room. Mr. McDaniels was waiting inside.

The knock came sooner than expected. Max answered the door, clean and scrubbed in his pressed Rowan uniform. David and Max’s father came up the steps to find Cooper standing in the doorway.

“It’s time,” said the Agent softly. “The Director requests that you say nothing at all during the proceedings. It is important that you agree to this. Can the Director have your word?”

“Some kind of nerve,” huffed Mr. McDaniels. “We’re supposed to sit still like church mice while a bunch of strangers and witches decide our fate?”

“That’s correct,” said Cooper with a stoic nod. “If you don’t like the terms, you can wait here and someone will inform you of the outcome.”

“No,” said David quickly. “We want to go—we can be quiet.”

“No matter what?” Cooper asked.

“No matter what,” replied Max.

Cooper led David and the McDanielses down many stairs, far below the Manse’s dining hall and kitchens, until they reached a long hallway lined with polished suits of armor from various ages and civilizations. Max was surprised to see government security personnel in black suits standing outside the door along with a handful of Rowan Agents. They stood aside and opened a gleaming wooden door as Cooper approached.

“Remember your promise,” Cooper warned as he ushered them inside.

Max felt his father’s comforting hand on his shoulder as he stood on the threshold of a large room with a high chandeliered ceiling and an enormous circular table of malachite at its center. Some two dozen people sat around the table and many more were seated in chairs at the room’s periphery. All were staring at Max and David. Cooper led them to three seats along the far wall, in between Miss Boon and Nigel Bristow, the man who had recruited Max to Rowan. Max tried to return Nigel’s smile, but he felt numb inside as Ms. Richter stood to commence the proceedings. He soon learned that there were not only representatives of Rowan and the witches in attendance but also members of the Frankfurt Workshop and senior officials from a dozen governments.

“It has been nearly one thousand years since these three Orders have sat at table together,” began Ms. Richter, “and I am grateful to all who have come. This meeting is born of grave necessity, and I hope that today we might transcend old feuds and grievances and unite in common purpose to face the peril before us. From beyond the grave Elias Bram has warned us of this danger, and it is his Riddle that troubles me today—not his Oath, which has brought our sisters on such a long journey.”

An ancient witch in a black frock, her skin covered with those same strange symbols, rose to her feet. She was older than Dame Mala, with steel-gray hair and amethyst eyes that were now narrowed at Ms. Richter.

“What trickery is this?” demanded the witch in a hoarse voice, stabbing a ringed finger at the Director. “We are here for our rightful due and will not have our demands so lightly cast aside!”

“Very well, Dame Mako,” said Ms. Richter. “In order to move this council along to more pressing matters, I am prepared to state our position on the issue.”

Scott McDaniels squeezed his son’s forearm. Max held his breath and leaned forward to listen as the whole room grew still with a crackling air of expectation.

“Having consulted my advisors and having determined the legitimacy of Bram’s Oath, I do hereby honor his pledge and surrender Max McDaniels and David Menlo to the Witches of the Eastern Range.”

The room exploded in commotion.

“What?” Mr. McDaniels thundered, rocketing out of his chair. “Over my dead body!”

Mr. McDaniels was quickly intercepted by Mum, who abandoned her coffee cart to block his way with her short, squat body. She was joined by Nigel and Miss Boon, who managed to ease Max’s father back into his seat. The real commotion, however, was taking place beside Ms. Richter. Commander Vilyak had stood and was leaning close to the Director. His face was crimson, and his massive hands were balled into tight fists. Max could not hear what he was saying, but the Director was unmoved.

“Agents Cooper and Yamato, please remove Commander Vilyak from these proceedings.”

“You don’t have the authority to remove me!” spat Vilyak, smacking the table hard with his hand. “This is an outrage and an utter abuse of your position!”

“Thank you, Commander,” was Ms. Richter’s calm reply. “That will be all.”

Commander Vilyak glanced over his shoulder at Cooper and a female Agent who were standing behind him. Slowly, an icy calm came over him; his eyes became as flat and dead as a doll’s once more. He glanced at Max before turning to face Cooper, his comrade in the Red Branch. To Max, it seemed that a silent conversation was taking place between them. After several moments, Vilyak permitted himself to be led from the room. The door was closed, calm was restored, and for the first time the reality of Ms. Richter’s words dawned upon Max.

They were leaving Rowan.

Max glanced at the cluster of shrouded crones at the table. They whispered to one another with obvious pleasure, beaming at Max and David with sharp-toothed grins and something resembling motherly affection. Max’s father looked clammy and bloodless; even David looked shocked.

“I understand that this comes as a surprise to some,” said Ms. Richter, failing even to glance in Max and David’s direction. “And we are deeply grieved to say farewell to our students. While circumstance dictates that we sever their ties to this school, we hope and trust that Scott McDaniels will also be permitted to live among the witches with his son.”

“Of course,” said Dame Mako with an obliging nod toward Mr. McDaniels. “He will be received with honor.”

“Then they will be free to leave with you as early as tomorrow morning,” said Ms. Richter. “And now we must move on to more pressing business—the escalating evil that plagues the world now that Astaroth is free. . . .”

Max sat in stunned silence while ministers and senators shuffled papers and reported on troubles in their home countries. It was a grim recital of assassinations, plane crashes, train derailments, and crop failures. Angry mobs were gathering outside capital buildings; desperate refugees were stampeding toward the borders of the world’s wealthier nations. Power stations had succumbed to mysterious fires, and it was becoming clear that the Enemy had long been infiltrating a number of governments. The numbers were staggering: a billion people without electricity, two billion without access to television or radio. A short black man in a gray suit reported that more than sixty governments were on the verge of collapse, their countries facing civil war. Miss Kraken spoke Max’s mind when she interrupted an ample-bellied senator with a southern drawl.

“These reports can’t be correct,” she snapped. “As bad as things are, the newspapers haven’t reported anything even approaching these proportions of catastrophe!”

The senator glanced at his watch and cleared his throat. “For the past six weeks, all relevant television programs, newspaper reports, and radio broadcasts have been subject to government approval.”

“You’re censoring the facts?” asked Miss Kraken incredulously.

“We are acting in the best interests of our citizens,” replied the senator. “I’d remind you that the only reason we don’t have blood in the streets in this country is because we are keeping potential misinformation from causing outright panic.”

“We are doing the same,” added an official from Moscow. “There are terrible reports from the countryside. Terrible! No one needs to hear, much less see, such stories and images. An entire village near Lensk was wiped out two days ago. Monstrous shapes have been sighted in the woods—rumors of ogres and werewolves are rampant. Despite our best efforts to calm the public, we have a crisis. Farms and villages are emptying. The people are fleeing to the cities—cities with little electricity or food. And winter is coming. Things have not been so bad for Mother Russia since the Great War.”

Max squirmed in his seat as the tales of horror went on. His problems seemed tiny in light of all that was happening outside Rowan’s gates. Perhaps Bellagrog had been right—now seemed a good time to find a snug, hidden corner and wait out the squalls and storms of the world.

It was Jesper Rasmussen, the bald, skeletal spokesperson for the Frankfurt Workshop, who stood next. His voice was dry and metallic; a nearly colorless tongue flicked out periodically to wet his thin lips.

“Forgive my ignorance,” he said, “but it seems that we are attributing the present, ah, misfortunes to Astaroth. The Workshop still questions whether or not the Demon has returned, much less whether he is to blame for any of this. The current crises seem a bit sudden and dramatic for one known to spin his webs with slow patience.”

“And so he did, Dr. Rasmussen,” said Ms. Richter. “And so he was caught. Astaroth did indeed bide his time, but before his plans were complete, Elias Bram realized that a single mind and malice was orchestrating events to its satisfaction. Once Astaroth was revealed, we were able to frustrate some of his plots. Astaroth will have learned his lesson. He will move quickly if he is able.”

Dr. Rasmussen shook his head as Ms. Richter spoke.

“If he is able. That is no small consideration. We have no proof that the Demon is even capable of assuming a physical form.”

“Of that we do have proof,” interrupted Dame Mako, rapping a sharp nail on the table and drawing Rasmussen’s attention. “I have seen him.”

Stunned silence filled the room. Max heard the crack of Dame Mako’s fingers as she clasped her bony hands together in a supplicating gesture.

“He came to see us a fortnight ago,” said the witch. “Perhaps we should have sent messages, but we thought it wiser to wait until Rowan proved true and honored Bram’s Oath. The Demon came to us when we were gathered by the council fires.”

“What did he want?” asked Ms. Richter softly. Her face was ashen and grave.

“He gave greetings,” said Dame Mako. “He reminded us that he had once honored our ancestors and wished to rekindle the truce that had existed between us. His servants brought many gifts—jewels and hides and oil for the winter.”

“I trust you did not accept them,” said Ms. Richter.

“Ha! We are not so rich as you,” laughed the witch. “Of course we took them! And we’ll take more, too, as long as it’s given freely and the Demon leaves us be!”

“He gives nothing freely,” said Ms. Richter. “To visit the esteemed witches is a long journey. Astaroth did not seek you merely to lavish gifts and praise.”

Dame Mako listened carefully to Ms. Richter’s words and consulted briefly with the wizened crones who had accompanied her. Her wild eyes burned brightly as she gazed from face to face among the assembled politicians, Agents, and Mystics.

“The Demon covets the book he sought long ago,” the witch rumbled. “The very book that Bram took from us and for which he delivered these Blessed Children to our keeping. He seeks the Book of Thoth.”

“And why should the Demon seek this book?” asked Dr. Rasmussen.

Dame Mako glared at the Workshop representative. “All things have a truename,” she rasped. “Every human, every bird and beast and flower, has such a name. This name is secret—it is what gives a thing shape and spirit and binds it to this world. According to legend, the Book of Thoth is a living record of all truenames since the world was birthed.”

Jesper Rasmussen scoffed loudly and snapped at Mum for more coffee.

“So it is a phone book? A list of all the truenames of history? Of what possible value is that?”

Dame Mako scowled at the tall, gaunt man who smirked from behind his steel spectacles.

“It is priceless to the one who can decipher it,” replied the witch calmly. “With the proper spells, the knowledge of an entity’s truename conveys absolute mastery of that thing. A mountain, a person, even an idea can be reshaped, enslaved, or utterly stricken from this world as though it had never existed. Within the Book of Thoth lie the very blueprints to this world’s past, present, and future.”

“Ah, so it is DNA, is it?” asked Rasmussen, his eyes twinkling. “A bit of this, a bit of that, and we can rearrange the world how we choose? How delightful.”

“Foolish man,” snapped the witch. “With the Book, Astaroth would have us at his mercy.”

“So it is a weapon,” probed Rasmussen.

“It is whatever you wish it to be,” replied Dame Mako quietly. “It holds the secrets to life and death and time, Dr. Rasmussen. Can you understand that?”

Max tried to imagine such a thing but found it hard. He looked at David, who seemed to be following the conversation very closely as he drained a second coffee. Dr. Rasmussen offered the witch a sour stare and seemed to mull several possible responses.

“Bah!” he said at length, removing his glasses to clean them with a cloth. “Who has seen or tested this book? No one can decipher it, and yet it holds the power to snuff our lives and shape our fates? What a convenient thing to possess—all one must do is brandish the book before one’s enemies, and they will flock to your banner lest they be stricken from the record. No wonder Astaroth seeks its whereabouts! This book is a bogeyman capable of frightening even the high and mighty! Surely, Director Richter, you do not believe such an artifact exists.”

Ms. Richter sat quietly while Mum refilled Rasmussen’s coffee cup. When she spoke, her words were measured.

“I am confident that the book exists, that it is to be feared, and that it is in danger. For the first two, I rely upon history and the warnings of Elias Bram. For the third, I rely upon Dame Mako and the discoveries of our own David Menlo. Dr. Rasmussen, you have heard the tales of Prince Neferkeptah?”

“I can’t say that I have,” sighed Rasmussen, rubbing his temples.

“He was the last mortal to truly possess the book, and it destroyed him. Astaroth, however, is not mortal, and I am convinced that we must do everything possible to ensure that the book never falls into his hands.”

“So where precisely is the god-awful thing?” asked a British minister.

“Just the question on my mind,” echoed a senator.

“I don’t know,” said Ms. Richter simply.

“Then what is the point of wasting our time on this?” snapped the Russian official. “I have airplanes grounded with no fuel! Someone or something has ripped up a thousand miles of railroad track, and yet I’m supposed to focus my attention on a book? A book that we don’t even know how to find?”

“I recognize that we all have pressing concerns,” said Ms. Richter, “but if Astaroth gains possession of this book, our present worries will seem trivial indeed.”

“Well,” said Dr. Rasmussen, “it seems highly unlikely that Astaroth will find the book. After all, your people were the last to possess it, and even you do not know where it is.”

Rasmussen looked pleased with himself until Ms. Richter beckoned for David to come forward. Hundreds of eyes followed Max’s roommate as he walked, unhurried, to stand next to the Director.

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce David Menlo. It is David whom we have to thank for finding and deciphering several of Bram’s papers that concern this matter. When Bram hid the book, he confided the secret of its location to one other person. This person was Marley Augur, a member of the ruling council at our former school. It grieves me to say that Augur betrayed our Order and was instrumental in freeing Astaroth this past year. We must assume that Astaroth is privy to any secrets that Augur possessed. Within Bram’s papers, David has discovered further proof that the book is in danger.”

Ms. Richter motioned for an aide to dim the lights as David unbuttoned his collar and reached inside his shirt to retrieve the talisman that hung on a chain around his neck. In the darkened room, the talisman shone like a fiery coin, noticeably brighter than when Max had last seen it.

“Before he became a traitor, Marley Augur fashioned this talisman to warn Bram if the Book was in danger. Since we have discovered the talisman, it has burned brighter each day.”

Max watched the talisman swinging gently back and forth on David’s finger. The room was utterly quiet.

“We are in gravest peril,” said Ms. Richter softly. “Not merely the organizations and countries represented here, but every man, woman, and child on this earth. We must marshal all our resources and we must do so immediately. I would now ask all who are not seated at this table to please withdraw so that the senior members of this council can decide upon an appropriate course of action.”

Max felt very insignificant indeed as he was swept out of the room alongside his father and David amidst a crush of aides, Agents, scholars, and minor dignitaries. His senses swam with the smell of damp coats, the sober chatter of shocked officials, and the gleaming eyes of the witches who followed him out the door. Nigel was waiting for them when they emerged into the hallway. The Recruiter looked on the verge of tears.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said, flapping his arms helplessly. “I honestly never thought it would come to this. I am so terribly sorry, Scott.”

Mr. McDaniels nodded and shook Nigel’s hand. The frail blond man retrieved a silk handkerchief from his jacket and blew his nose. He gave a guilty laugh and dabbed at his eyes.

“Can I at least help you pack?” asked Nigel. “Share a laugh or two? I could send an Agent out for some Bedford Bros. thingies. . . .”

“That would be nice,” said Max, smiling at the memory of that strange and wonderful night when Nigel’s tests had confirmed the special spark within him. “My dad and I will meet you there. We’re going to get Nick.”

“Max, I don’t think you’ll be able to do that,” said Miss Boon from behind them. “Nick and Maya are extremely rare—perhaps the last of their kind. We can’t let them go.”

Max whirled at the young instructor, who met his furious stare with calm reserve.

“I thought we were rare, too,” he seethed.

Several nearby scholars and diplomats ceased their conversations at the commotion. Miss Boon gave a sad smile.

“Max, I am heartbroken at the Director’s decision,” she said soothingly, “but I also helped research the curse that would have befallen us. We have no choice but to honor Bram’s Oath. I am sorry.”

“That’s fine,” snapped Max, ignoring Nigel’s gentle tug at his elbow. “But we’re not leaving without Nick and Maya. We took an oath, too, you know.”

“I’ll speak to the Director,” promised Miss Boon. “Meanwhile, I’ll leave you to organize your things. Unfortunately, you are not to speak to any student about today’s council—including your departure tomorrow morning.”

“You mean we can’t say good-bye to our friends?” asked David.

“I’m so sorry,” replied Miss Boon, avoiding his gaze. “Given the situation’s sensitivity, it’s out of the question.”

“Sensitivity?” scoffed Mr. McDaniels. “You’ve got some nerve using that word.”

Miss Boon straightened and gave a curt nod to the group.

“Nigel, I trust you will escort Max and David to their room. Good-bye and good luck.”

“Good-bye, Miss Boon,” said Max quietly, dipping his head as his anger was replaced by a sudden pang of sorrow. The young Mystics instructor swept down the hallway, scattering scholars and bull-necked security personnel in her wake.

It was well past midnight when David returned, looking drawn and sad. He ignored Nigel’s efforts to cheer him up and instead went about folding his clothes and packing his medication into plastic bags.

An hour later, Max was sitting by the fire, listening to Mr. McDaniels explain each and every photo in the McDaniels family photo album to Nigel with painstaking detail. The Recruiter’s eyelids were fluttering when Max thought he heard the sound of their door opening upstairs. Max glanced at David, but his roommate was now fretting over which remaining books to take, having already stuffed his enchanted pack with nearly all of his worldly possessions.

“Did you hear the door open?” asked Max quietly.

Nigel blinked and looked up gratefully from the photo album. “Come again?” he asked.

“I think someone’s upstairs,” Max whispered.

Nigel frowned and scooted off the couch, walking to the foot of the stairs.

“What on earth are you doing here?” asked the Recruiter, addressing someone on the landing above.

Max gaped as the tall, skeletal figure of Jesper Rasmussen descended the stairs.

“Answer my question, man,” said Nigel sternly.

From his coat pocket, Dr. Rasmussen produced a slim gun and pointed it at Nigel. The gun hardly made a sound, but Max heard Nigel mutter a surprised “Oh!” before collapsing to the floor. With silent horror, the group watched a pinprick of blood expand into a small crimson stain above Nigel’s heart.

Max leapt to his feet.

“Don’t be foolish,” warned Dr. Rasmussen in a quiet, calm voice. Max followed the man’s gaze to where a small dot of red light now danced on Scott McDaniels’s forehead. “As quick as you are, Max, I can shoot your father before you can lay a finger on me. If you and David fail to do exactly as I say, he will die. Do you understand?”

David nodded; his mouth was agape with shock. Max merely stared at Dr. Rasmussen, his anger bringing the man’s features into sharp relief. Turning from Rasmussen’s triumphant smirk, Max glanced again at Nigel’s slumped form. His hands began to shake.

“Max,” pleaded his father, “don’t.”

“Very wise of you, Mr. McDaniels,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “For the moment, you have saved the life of your son. If you wish to continue living, however, you must come closer.”

Max’s father nodded and walked stiffly toward the heavy-lidded, skeletal man. His round face was shiny with sweat; he raised his hand in a steadying gesture.

“Just don’t hurt anyone,” pleaded Mr. McDaniels. “There’s no need to hurt anyone.”

“I will determine what is needed,” replied Dr. Rasmussen coolly. “Ingest this, if you would.”

From his breast pocket, Dr. Rasmussen produced a silver sphere the size of a pinball. He tossed it to Mr. McDaniels, who caught it with a puzzled expression.

“What is it?” said Mr. McDaniels suspiciously, inspecting the silver sphere.

“Your medicine,” replied Dr. Rasmussen. “Take it like a good boy. You have three seconds.”

“Dad, don’t!” exclaimed Max. “It’s poison!”

The red laser centered on Mr. McDaniels’s forehead. Dr. Rasmussen began to count.

“Three . . . two . . .”

“Dad!”

Mr. McDaniels closed his eyes and swallowed the metallic ball. He grimaced as he strained to force it down. After several seconds, he gasped. “It’s doing something to me!”

“Yes,” said Dr. Rasmussen with a slow nod. “The discomfort will be over shortly. Listen very carefully to what I have to say. You have ingested an explosive, Mr. McDaniels. It is, as we speak, affixing itself to the lining of your stomach so that it cannot be removed or expelled without killing you in the process. It is programmed to detonate every two minutes unless it receives a coded transmission from the computer in my brain. If I am unable or unwilling to transmit this code, you will die. Fortunately for you, I am a reasonable man. I will continue to spare your life provided you, Max, and David follow my instructions to the letter. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Mr. McDaniels. Sweat poured off his body, and he gave a sudden gag. “What about Nigel?” he asked, glancing at the Recruiter’s crumpled form.

“He is already gone,” muttered Dr. Rasmussen. “And we have little time. Max and David, you are to bring only as much as you can carry on your backs. Pack warm clothes and be quick. We are leaving in five minutes’ time.”

“What about my father?” Max growled. “He’ll need things, too.”

“We shall see,” replied Dr. Rasmussen with a shrug. “The clock is ticking, my young friend.”

Three minutes later, Max and David stood breathing heavily with hiking packs stuffed full of woolen sweaters and socks and flannel underwear. Rasmussen nodded toward Nick, who was crouched and bristling behind a potted palm.

“Most interesting,” said Dr. Rasmussen, as though peering through a microscope. “Bring the lymrill, too,” he added casually while reaching inside his jacket.

From his pocket, he produced a folded square of a strange, shimmering gauzy material. With a deft flick of his wrist, the cloth unfolded until it was the size of an enormous bedsheet. Almost instantly, the sheet disappeared as though it were completely transparent.

“This device bends the visible light spectrum,” explained Dr. Rasmussen. “It will hide us as we exit the dormitories. Once we have descended to the foyer, I will make myself visible and depart as usual. When my driver opens the door to my car, you will hurry inside before me. The cloaking device is also sound-dampening, but please believe that I will know if you try to call out, signal, or deviate from my plan in any way. The consequences will be swift.”

Minutes later, they were all moving quickly down the hallway, clinging to the opposite wall while a pair of Third Years chatted in a doorway. Nick’s claws dug into Max’s chest while the confused lymrill trembled and clung to his body. Max grimaced and held on fiercely to the base of Nick’s tail as it strained to shake and rattle. The awkward procession continued in terrified, gasping steps until they reached the bottom of the stairs. Dr. Rasmussen held a warning finger to his lips as he slipped outside the cloth and strode forward into the foyer, where Mum was muttering to herself and dragging a mop unevenly across the tiles. She glanced up as Rasmussen crossed toward the door.

“Oh, hello, sir,” she said, giving a brief curtsy.

Rasmussen glanced down at her as though she were something he might flick off his shoe.

“You’re the serving hag, aren’t you?” he asked dryly as he pushed open the double doors.

“Yes, sir. Me and my sister,” said Mum, sniffing suddenly as though she had a cold. She paused a moment. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rasmussen, pausing by the open door while Max, David, and his father scurried past him. “Learn to make proper coffee.”

With that, Rasmussen closed the door behind him and moved quickly down the steps, passing Max and the others in the process. A sleek limousine was already waiting with a uniformed driver standing at attention by one of the doors. Max held his breath as a pair of Agents casually approached from behind the Manse.

“Leaving already, Dr. Rasmussen?” asked one.

“Can’t be helped,” replied Dr. Rasmussen, motioning for his driver to open the door.

“Would you like to see the Director?” asked the other. “I don’t believe she was aware that you planned to depart this evening.”

Dr. Rasmussen offered the pair an icy smile and paused before the open door. Max, David, and Mr. McDaniels scuttled inside the limousine, practically toppling onto one another as they collapsed onto its deep leather seats.

“Do not disturb the Director,” said Dr. Rasmussen with a dismissive air of authority. “She is a busy lady, I am a busy man, and these are busy times. I will contact her tomorrow. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

Dr. Rasmussen slipped inside, and the driver closed the door. Sitting up, Max caught a glimpse of Mum standing on the front steps, leaning against her mop with a puzzled expression as the limousine pulled away.

Mum knows we’re here, Max realized. He thought of the hag’s sudden sniff in the foyer; Mum’s sense of smell was sharper than a bloodhound’s. Max glanced at his father, who sat rigid against the backrest as the two Agents approached the hag. Oh my God, pleaded Max as his pulse began to pound. Don’t set off an alarm, Mum! He squirmed for a better look, but the limousine eased around the fountain and he lost sight of the hag.

“Stay beneath the cloth until we are outside the gates,” muttered Dr. Rasmussen, glancing at his watch with a satisfied smile. “We are precisely on time . . . good, good.”

The car wound about the drive and out toward the ocean, where the mist David had conjured hung in the air like a spectral curtain. Max craned his neck around to see the yellow lights of the Manse, Old Tom, and Maggie twinkle out of sight as the limousine bent to the right, plunging into the wood and through the thick walls of stone to where the great gates opened to let them pass.

“Where are you taking us?” asked Max, glaring at Rasmussen.

“Be silent,” muttered Rasmussen while he typed swift keystrokes into a handheld computer.

Several minutes later, the limousine came to a halt outside a white clapboard church on the outskirts of Rowan Township. Rasmussen motioned for them to get out; Max noticed that the driver had turned the lights off but kept the engine running.

“Hurry,” said Dr. Rasmussen curtly. “There may be spies nearby.”

The man led them around the church to a small cemetery in back. Reaching into his overcoat, he placed a small metal disk at the base of a weathered headstone.

“You will wait here,” he ordered. “This device is a trigger whose global position has just been set to this precise location. If Mr. McDaniels strays more than ten meters, the explosive he has ingested will detonate. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Max, stepping between Rasmussen and his father. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Wait here,” replied the man, casting a long glance at Nick. “Someone will come for you. Now I must go. Give me the lymrill.”

Max retreated a step as the man approached; Nick squirmed in Max’s arms, and his quills stiffened.

“Don’t touch him,” warned Max.

“You’re in no position to argue,” muttered Rasmussen distractedly, extending a gloved hand.

Nick writhed; moonlight flashed on his claws, and Rasmussen cursed as blood spattered onto the grass. Rasmussen clutched an arm that had been slashed from wrist to elbow.

“Stupid animal!” hissed Rasmussen. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a slim device that hummed as he waved it over the wound. The flow of blood promptly stopped.

“It’s not his fault,” whispered Max. “Don’t hurt him.”

Dr. Rasmussen’s features contorted briefly into a taut scowl. Slowly, he regained his composure while the wound on his forearm knitted itself whole like a closing zipper. He drew himself up and gave Nick a loathing glance.

“Don’t wander off,” he said icily, backing slowly out of the cemetery and slipping around the church. Max heard the car door close, followed by the low purr of its engine receding into the night. They were alone.

“Dad,” said Max, turning at once. “Stand right next to that thing!”

Mr. McDaniels did as he was told, cradling a hand against his belly as he slumped against the gravestone. Max handed Nick to David and hurried over to his father.

“It’s going to be okay,” said Max soothingly, mopping away the beads of sweat that dotted his father’s forehead. “We’ll figure out how to get that thing out of you.”

Mr. McDaniels groaned and squeezed Max’s hand.

“Poor Nigel,” muttered David, stroking Nick and setting him down onto the ground, where he curled into a ball and nibbled his tail.

Max tried to ignore David; it was all too overwhelming, and he could not focus on anything but the issue at hand. David sniffled and leaned close to inspect the slim, circular device resting on the gravestone.

“Don’t touch it,” hissed Max, shooing David away.

“I won’t,” said David. “But—”

A snapping twig cut David short.

Max whirled to stare at the stand of birch trees just beyond the cemetery’s low fence. Something peeped from behind a tree and shuffled back deeper into the wood.

“David, stay with my dad,” breathed Max, easing his father behind the shelter of the gravestone. He straightened and began walking slowly toward the trees.

“Who’s there?” he called, scanning the trees for movement.

Nothing answered.

Max reached the fence and peered into the darkness; he locked onto a pair of startled blinking eyes. Quick as a flash, Max hopped the fence and darted into the forest to tackle the bulky figure, which shrieked and collapsed beneath him.

“Don’t hurt me!” squealed a familiar voice.

Max rolled the figure over and squinted at the creature squirming helplessly beneath him.

It was Mum.

“What are you doing here?” breathed Max, helping the roly-poly hag to her feet. Mum brushed several leaves out of her hair and plucked a crushed wicker basket from the ground.

“I wanted to know what you were doing,” she sniffed, flinging the ruined basket into a bush. “I smelled you, your yummy father, and that awful thing sneaking off with that mean man. Mum wanted to see what was so secret.”

Max stooped to Mum’s height.

“Does anyone else know that you’re here?” he asked, taking hold of her shoulders.

“The gate guards,” she muttered hesitantly, “but they think I’m out collecting mushrooms.”

“Do you usually leave Rowan to collect mushrooms?” asked Max in a panic.

“Not just for mushrooms,” she explained, examining her fingernails. “I also like to hide and sniff the tourists. Every year they’re a little fatter, you know. . . .”

Max groaned and released her.

“Mum, go back home and keep this to yourself,” he sighed, walking back toward the cemetery. “Promise me.”

“I will not!” cried the hag, hurrying after. “I saw that you’ve got packs. You’re going on a camping trip, and Mum’s coming, too!”

Max ignored her, casually hopping the fence. Mum grunted and threw herself over, rolling like a barrel over the top and spilling with a crash into a clump of weeds.

“Who is that?” asked David, peering from around the gravestone.

“It’s me, you hideous awful thing,” hissed Mum, falling in step behind Max, who ignored her. “I need a vacation and I’m coming on your camping trip.”

“We’re not going on a camping trip,” Max stated firmly.

“Oh no?” asked Mum, toeing David’s pack with her blocky shoe. “Then what are you doing?”

“We don’t know,” replied Max angrily. “We’re supposed to wait here and we can’t leave or my dad will get hurt. And since when do you take vacations?”

Mum paused a moment. Her beady eyes began to fill with tears.

“I never needed a vacation,” she said in a trembling voice, “but she’s made a shambles of my life!”

Mum began to cry, great quivering sobs that soon escalated into outright bawling. She flung herself across Scott McDaniels’s mountainous form, burying her wet snout in his chest.

“Who’s made a shambles of your life?” croaked Mr. McDaniels, straining weakly to lift his head away from the greasy topknot that now tickled his nose.

“Bellagrog!” shrieked the hag, scratching at her tear-streaked cheeks. “She’s ruined everything!” The hag sobbed again and practically tunneled into Mr. McDaniels, burying her face in his armpit.

“Have you tried to talk to her?” asked David.

“Talk?” asked Mum, lifting her head and swiveling her eye around to look at David. “You can’t talk to Bellagrog—she don’t listen. And you can’t get rid of her, neither! Sniffs out all my little traps and poisons, she does!”

“Mum, you tried to poison your sister?” asked Max incredulously.

“They were very humane poisons,” replied Mum with an indignant sniff. “With her out of the way, things could return to normal. Just Bob and me and your pa, happy as clams, and no more ‘Let’s make Bea a laughingstock’!”

Mum dissolved into more quivering sobs, punctuated by a sudden explosion of flatulence.

“Dear Lord,” wheezed Mr. McDaniels, trying to loosen her grip upon him.

“Hmmm,” said Mum, sniffing the air with interest. “I might need to duck in the woods for a bitsy.”

“You do that,” said Max, peeling the hag off his father, careful not to upset the detonation device Dr. Rasmussen had left behind. Once Mum had waddled off out of earshot, Max leaned close to David and his father.

“We have to get rid of her,” he whispered. “She could put you in danger, Dad.”

Mr. McDaniels nodded.

“I feel bad for her,” said David decisively.

“Get over it,” said a man’s voice.

Max whirled at the sound; Cooper was standing next to the church, dressed all in black with a heavy pack on his back. Next to him stood Miss Boon, wrapped in a dark shawl. The two approached cautiously, glancing periodically in the direction of the road.

“What are you doing here?” asked Max, flushing with a strange mix of shock and relief.

“Rescuing you,” replied Miss Boon dryly. She knelt down to examine Rasmussen’s device.

“Don’t touch that,” said Max. “It’s—”

“I know what it is,” said Miss Boon, “and your father will be just fine.”

Before Max could say another word, Miss Boon depressed the device’s glowing display, which then faded to black. Mr. McDaniels heaved a sigh of relief.

“Is it over?” he asked. “Or can this thing in me still go off?”

Cooper knelt over Mr. McDaniels.

“You only swallowed a casing,” explained the Agent quietly. “Its core was hollow. It’ll stay in you, but it’s harmless.”

“But what about Nigel?” asked Mr. McDaniels with visible relief on his face.

“Nigel’s fine,” replied Miss Boon with a small smile. “Unconscious and probably in for a headache, but nothing more.”

“What was Rasmussen doing, then?” asked Max, hoisting Nick into his arms.

“Kidnapping you,” replied Cooper.

“Ah,” said David, rubbing his arms. “Brilliant.”

“What’s so brilliant?” croaked Mr. McDaniels.

“Rasmussen isn’t associated with Rowan,” said David, an admiring glint in his eye. “If he took us off Rowan’s campus against our will, then Richter can’t be held responsible for violating the terms of Bram’s Oath. It’s a clever way of avoiding the curse.”

“So we hope,” confirmed Miss Boon, crossing her fingers.

Just then, a hideous scream sounded in the distance, sending a primal chill down Max’s spine. The cry trailed off into a note of despair. With a shriek, Mum came fleeing out of the woods, hoisting her bloomers up under her flowered dress.

“What’s that terrible noise?” she cried, her eyes white and round with terror.

“The witches,” replied Cooper quietly, tightening the straps of his pack. “They know Max and David are gone. Wait here till daylight, Mum. Then find your way back to campus.”

“I’m not staying out here with witches about!” protested Mum. “I’m coming with you or I’ll tell everyone what you’ve done!”

The hag crossed her meaty arms while Cooper paused to consider her.

“We don’t have time for this,” concluded the Agent in a flat voice. The shift in Cooper’s tone alarmed Max. Clearly, the Agent had concluded that Mum was an obstacle to the success of his mission; obstacles were to be removed with brutal efficiency. The hag gave a stubborn snort, apparently oblivious to her danger.

“She’s coming with us,” said Max quickly, putting himself between Cooper and the hag.

“That’s right,” said Mum with a snort. “I’m camping, too!”

“This is no camping trip,” spat Cooper, glancing at Max. “This is a DarkMatter operation.”

“Ooh!” said Mum excitedly, clapping her hands. “Even better!”

Just then, a bird cawed loudly above them. Max’s head swiveled up and he gasped.

Perched on the church’s pitched roof were hundreds of black crows, crowded together in row upon row of glittering eyes and sharp, steely beaks. Their heads bobbed and their talons clacked as more birds arrived to join them.

“Max and David, get your packs,” whispered Miss Boon. “Quickly now.”

Max did as he was told, keeping his attention riveted on the birds while Cooper helped his father to his feet. One of the birds hopped to the edge of the roof and cocked its head inquisitively at them. Max winced as it began to caw. Moments later, others began to join in, by twos and threes, until their shrill voices split the night in a frantic chorus.

A cold wind bent the trees low. Max froze as another bloodcurdling scream sounded from the direction of Rowan.

The witches were coming.