Miss Boon’s bright, mismatched eyes flicked from David to him.

“Not since dawn,” she said. “I’d imagine he’s out scrounging for information. Speaking of which, I’d like to have a brief lesson once you’ve eaten.”

“Where’s Señor Lorca?” asked Max, ignoring the prospect of an impromptu class.

“Looking into rail passes,” said Miss Boon. “We’ll start the lesson in fifteen minutes.”

“Hmmm,” said Max, wandering out the door to a snug den paneled in dark wood and accented with yellow throws. He examined a little bronze statuette and several more photographs before slipping through the door that separated the private rooms from the bookshop.

The blare of horns and crash of cymbals continued to invade the house as they had throughout the night. The room was dark; only a thin slice of daylight slipped between the curtains’ crimson folds. Max walked slowly around the perimeter, stopping at a tall bookcase whose contents were labeled by a brass plate: INDEX LIBRORUM PROHIBITORUM.

“Can you read Latin?” asked a voice behind him. Señor Lorca was standing at the far end of the room, removing a black overcoat. His white hair was swept back off his face, cheeks pink from the November chill.

“Yes, sir,” said Max. “It says these books are forbidden.”

“And so they were,” said the old Agent, arriving next to Max and gazing through the glass case. “Centuries ago, the Church started making a list of books like these, their Index Librorum Prohibitorum. The stuff of heretics—blasphemous! To own one of these one risked much—imprisonment, excommunication . . . and worse. During the Inquisition, anything was possible.”

“But I’ve heard of these writers,” said Max, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. “Kant, Voltaire, Locke . . . what’s so dangerous about them?”

Señor Lorca chuckled; his eyes twinkled like dark coppers.

“Nothing is more dangerous than an idea. Ideas bring change and people fear change very much.” He opened the glass case to retrieve a bound, delicate-looking manuscript entitled De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium. “Do you know what Goethe said about our friend Copernicus? The same Copernicus who concluded that our little earth was not—heaven forbid—the center of the solar system?”

“No,” said Max.

“Mist and smoke,” whispered Señor Lorca, conjuring a hovering orb of white vapor with a cardsharp’s flick of the fingers. He blew into it, a gentle exhale that plucked at its edges until the ball dissipated to nothingness. “ ‘So many things vanished in mist and smoke! What became of our Eden, our world of innocence, piety, and poetry; the testimony of the senses; the conviction of a poetic-religious faith?’ Do you understand what Goethe was saying?”

“I think so,” said Max. “Copernicus challenged the way people viewed the world.”

“And thus themselves,” said Señor Lorca, tapping the manuscript before stowing it back behind the glass. “And that is very frightening, Max. Frightened people become capable of terrible things. Astaroth understands this very well. Ample evidence is in the streets.”

Several knocks and laughter sounded at the front door.

“Ignore it,” whispered Señor Lorca, raising a finger to his lips. “It is more of those idiot children summoning residents to festival. They will go away.”

There were more knocks and a child’s voice called out something in Spanish before Max heard the sound of running footsteps retreating over the din of distant music.

“Is it awful out there?” asked Max.

“It is,” replied Señor Lorca with a grave nod. “My beautiful old university is destroyed—something unspeakable has taken up residence within it. The professors have been arrested. It is always so in such times, and I am old enough to remember others. Fortunately, my errand was worthwhile.” The Agent sighed and produced a thick stack of stamped documents and papers.

“Will those get us to Germany?” asked Max.

“I hope so,” said Señor Lorca. “I called in many favors. If they fail, William will look after you. He is most capable.”

“It’s so funny,” said Max, thinking of Cooper. “I never think of him as having another name or . . .”

“Or another face?” asked Señor Lorca with an understanding smile.

Max nodded.

“I know,” said the old man, sidestepping to another shelf to gaze upon the first editions arranged in neat rows. “It is hard for the young to believe that their elders were once foolish and beautiful, too.” The old man bent down to smooth the fringe on an ornately woven rug. “Our William was the finest young Agent Rowan had seen for some time. He tells me that the Spear of Cúchulain has been entrusted to you.”

“Yes,” said Max. “It’s upstairs.”

“An ugly thing,” said Señor Lorca, rising with a disapproving frown. “It made our William ugly.”

“What does it have to do with Cooper?” asked Max, walking over.

The old Spaniard’s eyes gazed at Max’s reflection in the glass case.

“That weapon is broken,” said Señor Lorca. “Fearsome, yes, but not at full potency. Cooper sought one who might mend it and make its magic whole.”

“And who was that?” asked Max.

“The Fomorian,” replied Señor Lorca, letting the syllables roll slowly off his tongue. “An ancient giant who hides still on the Isle of Man. It is the last. We hunted the others to extinction. The Fomorian is a great craftsman and of the Old Magic. He understands the secret makings of such a thing.”

“And Cooper took the spear to him?” asked Max quietly.

“He did,” sighed Señor Lorca. “And you have seen the result. It was I who found him—we did not think he would live.” The old man shook his head at the memory.

“Fomorians must be awful,” said Max.

“The most terrifying presence I have ever experienced,” said Señor Lorca, closing his eyes. “I never saw the giant, but I know it saw me. A most peculiar feeling, Max—a sudden realization that Death was very near and my time on this earth had finished. I’ll never know why it let us leave.”

“Did you go back with more Agents?” asked Max.

“No. There are some things that should be left alone.”

Señor Lorca opened his eyes and looked sharply at Max as if suddenly remembering that he was there.

“I want to give you something,” he said abruptly.

The old man crossed the room to another bookcase, opening its glass door and removing an early edition of Don Quixote. He flipped the book open and let his fingers wander the page as though reading Braille. The bookcase slid back into the thick stone wall, revealing a small room behind it.

“What’s in there?” asked Max, his interest piqued by glints of gold and the smell of age.

“Everything but my María,” laughed the old Agent, slipping inside. Max heard the clinking of metal and a sound as if the man was rummaging through boxes. Señor Lorca emerged a moment later holding a long-sleeved shirt of gunmetal gray. Its surface seemed to swallow up the daylight peeking in from the curtains. As Lorca spread it between his fingers, Max perceived slender white runes and symbols woven into the fabric like moonlit cobwebs.

“Is that nanomail?” asked Max, fascinated, as he ran his hand over a surface smoother than soap.

“A singular set,” said Señor Lorca, holding it up against Max’s frame. “It is my second skin and has a very special provenance. Damascus steel and spider’s silk and many holy relics are bound within it. It will protect you, Max. Long ago I claimed it from the Red Branch vault, as was my right. Now I surrender it unto you, as a brother in arms.”

“I’m not in the Red Branch,” said Max.

“But you are meant to be,” said Señor Lorca. “I am old and my service is finished. It was no accident that Cooper brought you to my doorstep, Max McDaniels. You are meant to take my place among the twelve. You were born in March, were you not?”

“How did you know that?” asked Max, narrowing his eyes.

“Because I was, too,” said Señor Lorca. “The twelve members of the Red Branch are all born of different months and their powers wax and wane with the seasons. You are a child of March—the month of storms and war in the old calendars. Those gods will favor you as they did Cúchulain.”

The old man stared down at Max like a cracked and weathered statue. Max felt another presence in the room. Cooper stood in the doorway.

“Should I do it?” asked Max.

Cooper said nothing; he merely stared at them, reading the scenario with a flat expression.

“Would I report to Vilyak?” asked Max.

“We all ultimately report to the Director,” said Señor Lorca. “Our members are wanderers upon this earth—no field office, no true home save Rowan, and it may be long years before one glimpses the solace of its gates. Are you prepared to do your duty?”

Max’s mouth was dry as dust. He nodded. Señor Lorca gripped Max’s wrist with his long, steely fingers.

“In the name of St. Michael and Conchobar mac Nessa do I, Antonio de Lorca, declare Max McDaniels as my heir to the Red Branch and bestow upon him my title, lands, and duties. May he be a true and gracious champion—noble of bearing, fair in judgment, and terrible to the foes of Rowan. Does he accept this honor?”

Max paused. The sounds from the street faded to a hush. His attention zeroed in on the faint ticks of a nearby clock. His voice was strong and solemn.

“He does—he does accept this honor.”

As soon as he finished speaking, Max felt a searing sensation in his right wrist, as though a hot brand had been pressed against it. Despite the pain, he made no sound for the long minute that followed. When Señor Lorca released him, Max saw his skin marked with the dull red symbol of the Red Branch—a red hand surrounded by a slender cord. Señor Lorca smiled at him and removed his glasses to wipe a tear from his eye.

“I have worn that mark so long, I feel almost naked without it,” he said, lifting his sleeve to reveal a blank, bony wrist. “You have done me a great favor, Max. I am old and ready to meet my fate.”

“I don’t understand,” said Max.

“Now that the mark has left him, Señor Lorca will pass on,” said Cooper. “He is over two hundred years old. It is his time.”

Max gaped at Señor Lorca, who merely smiled and nodded at him.

“I was born the very year Napoleon marched into my country—born into war and that is how I shall go. For over one hundred and sixty years I have been a member of the Red Branch. Those who bear that mark must make many sacrifices, Max, but it brings pleasure, too. Without that mark, I never would have met my María, no?”

Max thought of the plump, kindly woman making sandwiches in the kitchen. If what Señor Lorca was implying was true, she would soon be a widow. His stomach felt empty.

“I—I didn’t know,” he stammered, scratching at his wrist.

“No regrets, eh?” said Señor Lorca, handing Max the shirt of nanomail. “Put this on. You can wear your sweater over it.”

Max did as he was told, pulling the long shirt of nanomail over his strong, wiry frame. It shrank and clung to him, as warm and taut as though he’d been encased in a living membrane. He twisted his torso, and the nanomail bent with him, smooth and supple. Moments later, Max pulled his black sweater over his head; only a thin sliver of gunmetal peeked out from beneath.

“You are now an Agent of Rowan and a member of the Red Branch,” said Señor Lorca, looking Max up and down. “I embrace you as a brother.”

The old man creaked down and hugged him, smoothing the black, curling hair away from Max’s forehead the way his mother had when he was younger.

“Go retrieve your weapon, boy,” said Señor Lorca, turning to close the door to his secret cache. “It has been waiting a long time for its true keeper. Tell the others to wait in the cellar—there is a secret passage there. Ask María to open it while I have a word with William.”

Max hurried back through the den and up the stairs to the room where the spear was waiting. Arriving back in the kitchen, he found Miss Boon looking snappish.

“I thought I said fifteen minutes,” she said.

“Sorry,” said Max. “Got caught up. Señor Lorca’s back. Cooper, too. We’ve got rail passes,” he added, evading her stern glance. “Señora Lorca?”

The elderly Spanish woman was bustling back and forth from the kitchen to the pantry. She stopped abruptly, holding an armful of bread.

“¿Sí?” she asked with an expectant smile.

“Señor Lorca asked for the cellar passage to be opened,” said Max. “We’re to wait down there.”

She blinked, but the smile remained frozen on her elegant face.

“You are sure?” she asked slowly. “My Antonio told you this?”

“Yes,” said Max, puzzled at her reaction. A queasy feeling rose in his stomach as he watched her smile grow taut. Señora Lorca crossed herself before splashing cold water on her face.

“Come quickly,” she murmured, taking a kerosene lantern from the pantry.

“What’s this all about?” whispered Miss Boon as Max helped his father carry their bags down the dark cellar steps. David, Mum, and Nick had already curved around a bend in the steps, their footsteps sounding heavy and hollow on the old stone.

“I don’t know,” said Max. “There’s some sort of secret—”

Boom!

The whole house shook and trembled. They froze like frightened mice on the stairs.

“What was that?” screeched Mum.

“Quick, quick!” cried Señora Lorca from far below. “Follow me!”

Max put his father’s hand on Miss Boon’s shoulder and squeezed past them.

“I’m going to see what’s happening,” he said.

“Max!” hissed his father. “Come back here!”

“I’ll be back—keep going,” replied Max, springing up the stairs.

He ran into Cooper in the hallway. The Agent’s face was grim. The unmistakable sounds of a struggle could be heard from the front of the house.

“Turn around,” commanded the Agent.

“Where’s Señor Lorca?” asked Max breathlessly.

“Ensuring our escape,” said Cooper, seizing Max’s wrist and pulling him back toward the kitchen.

“No!” growled Max, twisting out of Cooper’s grip and dashing toward the front of the house.

He was not prepared for what he saw.

Señor Lorca stood in the center of the bookstore, surrounded by laughing children who clung to his legs and arms while he fought off a mob of grinning peliqueiros, who swung their great, heavy batons in wild arcs. A dozen of the masked figures already lay sprawled on the floor, but more were flooding through the front door. Señor Lorca staggered as a baton crashed down on his head from behind. The old Agent roared and a brilliant blue incandescence writhed about him, sending the children scattering away. Blue and purple flames swept up to the ceiling; there was the sound of breaking glass, and several of the heavy bookcases came toppling down. Max saw a great wolf shape back into the foyer as Señor Lorca pressed the throng of peliqueiros back in a furious offensive.

An iron grip clamped on Max from behind.

“Obey orders!” seethed Cooper, wrenching Max backward with terrible strength and dragging him toward the kitchen. The smell of smoke permeated the air, and Max heard a chorus of shrieks near the front door. Once in the kitchen, Cooper barricaded the door with the heavy wooden table and a china cabinet in a jarring crash of broken plates and glass and pottery. Pushing Max through the cellar door, Cooper slammed it shut behind them. Whirling around, the Agent ran his hands along the door’s edges, murmuring quietly. What spell Cooper had placed on the door, Max did not know, but its contours began to glow with deep-sea phosphorescence.

Down the steps they ran, to the cool, dry cellar stacked with rows of wine bottles and the accumulated clutter of many generations. Ahead was the dim light of Señora Lorca’s lamp. She blinked past Max and Cooper, staring at the dark staircase from which they emerged. Cooper placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

“He is not coming, María—not this way. He will find you if he can.”

Señora Lorca appeared dazed. A series of emotions flickered across her face while heavy footsteps thudded above them. The ceiling groaned under the weight of something enormous, whose bulk sent a slow, shivering tremor through the house.

“What is that?” asked Mr. McDaniels, clutching Max and David to him.

Cooper ignored him. “Please, María,” the Agent said to the elderly Spanish woman. “Antonio would want you to go.”

Blinking away tears, Señora Lorca nodded hastily and led them to one of the wine racks toward the rear of the cellar. She reached inside its cobwebbed depths. More footsteps and great shrieking yells sounded above them. Smoke began to seep down into the cellar.

“María, are you sure that’s the right one?” asked Cooper, his voice eerily calm.

“I think so,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Antonio made me remember it.”

Mum began to sob. Miss Boon murmured to her quietly while Cooper ran back to peer up the stairs. Señora Lorca strained and thrust her arm deeper into the wine rack. There was a grating noise, and the wine rack slid several feet across the stone floor. An open space was revealed—short, steep steps that led down to a dim tunnel. Max gagged at the smell of sewage.

“You must hurry!” cried Señora Lorca. “It will close again in a minute.”

Cooper ran back, and they squeezed down the narrow opening. Señora Lorca peered at them from above.

“María,” hissed Cooper, beckoning. “Come down here!”

“I’m going to find Antonio,” she said, turning away from them. The mechanical workings of the heavy rack began grinding shut again. Cooper’s face darkened. In a blurry burst of speed, the Agent shot up the steps and enveloped the old woman like a trapdoor spider, dragging her down into the sewer. Señora Lorca gave a howl before subsiding to muffled, shaking sobs as the opening ground to a close.

David broke from a fit of wheezing coughs. “I think so,” said Max’s roommate, peering curiously into his battered backpack.

Cooper stuffed their packs into the backpack one by one, zipping it shut and slinging it over his shoulder. Climbing silently up the rusted ladder, he lifted its heavy covering and peered out. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features and he held up a finger for them to stay put. The Agent crawled out of the sewer on his belly until he had disappeared from view. Ten seconds later, his face appeared in the opening.

“You can come up.”

They climbed the ladder, sputtering and gagging, into the bright afternoon. They were in an alleyway; two peliqueiros were sprawled in the street, unconscious. Cooper held one of their stout wooden batons under his arm. He pointed to a nearby spigot while he riffled through the bundle of documents.

“Wash off as best you can,” he commanded, glancing down the alley.

Distant music floated in the air while they took turns at the spigot, splashing cold water over their shoes and pant legs until even Mum was satisfied that the odor had faded. Poor Nick huddled under the spigot, cold and miserable, while Max combed the water through his thick quills. He was careful to keep the red mark on his wrist concealed beneath his sleeve.

“These are your papers and passports,” Cooper said. “Memorize your name and likeness. You are with the German ambassador. You are his aides and you are returning from a diplomatic conference. I will be the ambassador and speak for the group. Do you understand?”

They nodded as Cooper distributed the documents. He paused when he reached Señora Lorca. “We need to get you out of Salamanca, María.”

“I will do no such thing,” muttered Señora Lorca, squeezing the water from the hem of her skirt. “I am not leaving.”

“Please, María,” said Cooper.

The old woman shook her head defiantly.

“Where will you go?” asked Cooper quietly.

“My sister’s.”

Cooper glanced down at the motionless man lying at his boot. He said nothing for several moments. Señora Lorca gently took his hand.

“Go,” she urged. “I do not blame you, William.”

“I will try to come back and find you,” said Cooper, kissing her on the forehead. Walking among them, Cooper spoke quickly in Latin, tapping each of them on the shoulder. The illusion complete, he shouldered David’s bag and strode quickly down the alley.

“Vaya con Dios,” whispered Señora Lorca, waving farewell as they hurried away.

The Agent sat across the compartment. His face was stone.

“The Book, Miss Boon,” he said quietly. “All that matters is the Book.”

The train picked up speed and glided like a silver snake into the east.