The shrill cry of a bird shattered the pre-dawn stillness.

Something was coming.

Max’s pulse quickened. He scanned the switchback below for any sign of his pursuer, but there was only the smell of damp earth and the low sigh of the wind as it blew tatters of mist across the mountain.

While the sky brightened to a thin wash of blue, Max watched and waited, still as a stone among the roots and nettles. Just when he had decided to abandon his position, a flicker of motion caught his eye.

One of the trees was creeping up the mountainside.

At least he had thought the shape was a tree—one of several bent and broken saplings clinging precariously to the slope’s dry soil. Slowly, however, the silhouette straightened and began to thread its way up through the sparse wood. It crept toward Max’s double, as dark and shrouded as a specter. When the figure was some twenty feet away, Max realized why he had been unable to shake the pursuer.

It was Cooper.

The Agent’s scarred and ruined face looked like a fractured mask of weathered bone. His pale skin was camouflaged with dirt; his telltale shoots of blond hair were tucked beneath a black skullcap. Reaching the base of the tree on which Max’s double was perched, he drew a thin knife from a sheath on his forearm. Its blade gleamed with phosphoroil.

Cooper began climbing the tree with the fluid ease of a spider.

While the Agent climbed, Max’s pupils slowly dilated. Terrible energies filled his wiry form, making his fingers twitch and tremble.

Max sprang from his hiding place.

Cooper’s head cocked at the sound as Max hurtled toward him with his knife.

Max’s weapon struck home, but instead of meeting flesh and bone, it passed through the figure to thud against the tree in a spray of bark. Cooper’s conjured decoy dissolved in a billow of black smoke and Max realized he’d been duped.

Max whipped his head around and spied the real Cooper darting out from a nearby thicket. The Agent closed the distance in five long strides. Shifting his knife to his left hand, Max swung himself up into the tree as Cooper’s blade whistled past his ribs.

Cooper seized Max’s wrist in a grip of iron. “You’re caught,” he hissed.

With a terrible wrench, Max pulled himself free and sliced his own knife across Cooper’s shoulder, leaving a bright line of phosphoroil on the black fabric. Cooper gave a grunt of surprise. Slashing the Agent again, Max leapt clear of the tree.

In one fluid movement, Max landed and bolted up the path, veering right at the fork and dashing up the steep trail he had marked on the map. Cooper trotted after him, apparently unconcerned that Max was increasing his lead with a burst of Amplified speed. Ignoring Cooper for the moment, Max focused his attention on the coppery summit as he raced up the mountain, climbing steadily above the timberline.

It was ten minutes of hard running before Max spied a small white pennant fluttering from a distant peak of jagged rock. He fixed its position in his memory and grinned in spite of himself. Another ten minutes at this pace and he would be victorious.

As he ran on, however, his breathing was reduced to shallow gasps and then to agonizing, frantic swallows as the air became unbearably thin. A quick glance behind revealed that Cooper had closed to a hundred yards and was running as evenly as ever. Max spat on the path and increased his pace, coughing as he climbed.

The pennant was tantalizingly close, but the pain and dizziness became overwhelming. Tiny motes of light swam before Max’s eyes; his mouth felt as if it were full of hot sand. Stumbling over a rock, he spilled onto the ground, scraping his knee and dropping his knife. He scrambled to his feet just as a blurred shape came into view.

Cooper stood ten feet away, his sturdy black boot planted squarely on the hilt of Max’s knife.

The Agent’s eyes were locked on Max. His chest rose and fell in long, slow breaths as he flicked a cold glance at the red patch on Max’s uniform. The patch was a target, positioned directly over Max’s heart. A successful strike there signified a kill and would bring the exercise to an abrupt finish.

“Do you submit?” came Cooper’s clipped Cockney accent.

Max paused a moment, crouched in a defensive posture while he considered Cooper’s offer.

The very instant Max made his decision, the Agent reacted so swiftly, it was as though he had read Max’s mind. Before Max had even moved, Cooper flicked his wrist and sent the thin black knife darting toward the patch on Max’s chest.

The knife’s flight was straight, swift, and unerring. In a blur, Max batted the weapon aside, registering a sting of pain as its blunted edge sliced his palm. Leaping forward, Max caught Cooper with a sharp kick to the knee that forced the tall man backward. Max extended his fingers and his knife flew obediently into his hand. He pressed the attack in a blinding array of subtle feints and blurred strikes.

Rage churned within Max. How dare they send Cooper! Cooper was not another student; he was a solitary killer who hunted the Enemy at the behest of his superiors. Today, he’d been sent to hunt Max—a move undoubtedly calculated to humble Max after a string of easy victories. Max pressed his attack at a wild, reckless pace. He would take the Agent’s patch as a trophy and pluck the pennant at his leisure.

Unlike Max’s previous opponents, however, Cooper was not cowed by Max’s uncanny speed and aggressiveness. The Agent had overcome his initial surprise and recovered his knife. The two now danced back and forth, Cooper a disorienting mirage of steel and smoke as he began to gather a cloak of shadows about himself. Soon, Max had to squint to see him at all: an ink-black silhouette against a backdrop of charcoal gray. Under such circumstances, it was difficult to gauge in which hand Cooper held his weapon, or even if a strike was coming. As the darkness deepened, the knife’s glowing point became a sort of will-o’-the-wisp, bobbing and treacherous as it disappeared periodically only to stab forward with exquisite speed and accuracy. Max tried to anticipate the attacks, but there was no pattern to them; he was forced to rely wholly on his reflexes.

There was a rush of air behind him. Max parried the thrust, seeking to catch the slim blade in his guard, but Cooper retreated, and Max’s counterattack met empty air. He seethed. Again came the knife—three stabs, faster than a boxer’s jab at Max’s chest. Max knocked Cooper’s hand aside and managed a pair of desperate slashes before the Agent slipped beyond his reach.

“Show yourself!” Max spat in frustration.

There was no answer. The darkness swirled about him, thick as pea soup.

Finally, Cooper made a mistake. Max heard a sudden shuffling behind him. Turning, he saw a flash of phosphoroil arcing low and wide toward his midsection. Swift as a serpent, Max stabbed downward and caught the blade within his parrying guard. Cooper stopped a moment—off balance and close enough so that Max could see a tantalizing glimpse of the Agent’s target patch. Max grinned and went for the kill.

As he stabbed, however, he felt the Agent’s weight shift, and Cooper’s hand locked onto his elbow. Using Max’s momentum, Cooper sent him flying while the Agent slipped out of harm’s reach, as smooth and fluid as an eel. Landing hard on his backside, Max felt a sudden point of pressure on his chest. Cooper’s voice dispelled the silence.

“Stop.”

The command was delivered with calm, taut finality.

The unnatural darkness subsided into wisps on the wind. By the time it had gone, Max saw that Cooper had backed away to a distance of some twenty feet. For a few quiet moments, he merely watched Max. Apparently satisfied the fight was over, the Agent tapped a small receiver in his ear.

“This is Cooper,” he said, his eyes still locked on Max. “I’m with him now. We’re finished . . . outcome as expected.”

Max watched as Cooper listened patiently to someone on the other end. Then the Agent switched off the receiver and turned to Max.

“We’re to head back,” he muttered.

Max got to his feet and craned his neck at the white pennant fluttering above them.

“Leave it be,” said Cooper. “I’ve won.”

Max followed the man’s casual gesture to the red patch on Max’s chest. A bright smear of phosphoroil was glowing at the center.

“Are you sure?” asked Max, glowering at the Agent before succumbing to a series of dry, hacking coughs.

Cooper glanced down at his own chest, where a glowing stab of phosphoroil was burned into the blood-red patch like a brand. A dozen phosphorescent scars laced the Agent’s chest and arms.

The Agent surveyed Max’s handiwork with a grim expression. He tapped his ear receiver.

“Retraction. Outcome unexpected. Both parties eliminated.”

Cooper removed the receiver.

“Who was that?” asked Max.

“Director Richter,” said Cooper. “We need to be back by noon.”

Max groaned, but Cooper would have none of it.

“You should be happy to run,” growled the Agent while Max retied his shoes. “Your conditioning is very poor.”

“No one else gets chased up here by Agents,” muttered Max, feeling drained and snappish.

“You’re exhausting your options,” replied Cooper stoically. “The older students complained. They refuse to train with you—they think the results are hurting their placement applications. It will be Agents or Mystics from now on.”

Max thought of the terrified Sixth Year he had tracked earlier in the week and how the boy had stormed out of the Sanctuary following his rapid defeat.

“I promise I won’t get them so fast,” Max said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll let them do better.”

Cooper scowled at him.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ve plenty to work on. Pleased with your little yellow dot, are you?”

“A little,” Max admitted, reddening and studying his shoe tops.

Cooper counted off Max’s errors in a flat, clipped staccato.

“I could have approached your hiding place from any direction. A basic birdcall let me get within thirty feet of you. Your decoys were crude and childish—”

“I get it,” said Max quietly, feeling his face burn.

“No,” said Cooper, stooping to look him squarely in the eye. “You don’t. If this had been for real, there’d be no yellow dot on my chest. You’d be crossing the river before you ever even saw me.”

Max said nothing.

“One more thing,” said Cooper, sheathing his knife and turning his taut, scarecrow face toward Max. “Your self-control is atrocious—your emotions give away your intentions. A well-trained opponent will know what you’re planning even before you do. Fatal flaw.”

Max scowled and swallowed his response while Cooper turned and broke into a trot.

By the time they reached the Sanctuary clearing, the sun was already high above the eastern dunes. The clearing’s tall grasses waved and rippled in the breeze, accented here and there by splashes of wildflowers and jutting pillars of sun-bleached rock. In the distance, dozens of small figures fidgeted nervously in the blue shadows of the Warming Lodge.

“Can we watch the First Years?” asked Max, tugging at his black shirt, which was slick with sweat.

Cooper shook his head just as Nolan, Head of Grounds, led YaYa out onto the porch. Max grinned as the First Years backed away in a sudden stampede. He had been in their shoes just a year ago, terrified at the sight of that rhino-sized shaggy black lioness now settling herself onto the porch.

Nolan waved as they approached.

“Heard you two would be comin’ this way. Everybody still in one piece?” he inquired in his mellow drawl, his bright blue eyes twinkling with good humor. He smacked his thick leather gloves, scattering stray bits of hay.

Cooper merely nodded, seemingly oblivious to the stares and whispers of the students.

“My oh my,” muttered Nolan, taking a long, curious look at the yellow dot on Cooper’s patch. “Everyone, this is Cooper and Max McDaniels. Max is a Second Year—”

Nolan blinked suddenly; his smile faded.

“Now that I think of it,” he continued, “some of you have met Max before.”

Several gasps of recognition swept through the students. A few had indeed seen Max before; last spring he had rescued them from a terrible fate in the crypt of Marley Augur. Max gave a little wave, anxious now to keep moving.

“Director’s waiting,” explained Cooper, ushering Max along.

“I know,” said Nolan soberly. “Glad you’re here for this, Cooper. Don’t let her get too close to our boy, eh?”

Cooper nodded but kept them walking briskly away. Max held off on his questions until they closed the Sanctuary’s thick, mossy door behind them.

“What’s Nolan talking about?” he asked cautiously. “Who isn’t supposed to get close to me?”

Cooper’s gaze followed the flight of a bright red butterfly while Old Tom chimed eleven.

“A witch,” he murmured. “She arrived before dawn.”

“The Director thinks this is important,” Bob rumbled in his baritone.

“Oh, ‘the Director thinks this is important,’ ” sneered Mum, mocking the huge Russian ogre’s accent while seizing the unfortunate turkey. She planted the bird on her head and snapped up a nearby broom, waving it under the ogre’s nose. “Is big, strong Bob afraid of witches?” she cackled. “Do they make him want to hide? Do they make him want to tinkle?”

Mum began to dance in little circles, the turkey wobbling drunkenly as she twirled the broom like a majorette.

“Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle . . . ”

Max finished his toast and nodded to his roommate, David Menlo, who stood in the kitchen doorway calmly surveying the scene. Mum sniffed the air and stopped abruptly. She shrieked and spun about to face David in wide-eyed horror. The hag had been terrified of the small blond boy ever since her failed attempt to subdue and eat him the previous Halloween.

“Hi, Mum,” said David.

“Hello,” mumbled Mum, her crocodile eye darting wildly about the archway above David.

“Mum, you have a turkey on your head.”

“Thank you,” muttered the hag, removing the battered bird and placing it gingerly on a roasting rack. “Please excuse me—”

Mum bolted for her cupboard, letting the broom clatter to the floor. Squeezing her bulk inside, she slammed the door behind her. A glazed sugar bowl tottered from its shelf and smashed in a spray of shards and sugar on the tiles.

“Sorry,” said David, stooping to help Bob sweep up the mess.

“It is not you,” whispered the ogre, rolling his eyes. “Mum has been awful—worse than usual. I think her letters are to blame. She reads them over and over.”

The ogre pointed a long, knotted finger at a small stack of airmail letters sitting near Mum’s cutting board. Max picked one up and glanced at its blocky printing:

“Who’s Bea Shrope?” asked Max. He wrinkled his nose at the envelope, which smelled of cabbage.

A bloodcurdling shriek sounded from the cupboard. The small yellow door flew open, and Mum rocketed out to snatch the letter from Max’s hand and sweep the rest against her bosom.

“Nobody! Bea Shrope is nobody! She doesn’t exist!” Mum panted, clutching the letters and backing her ample bottom back into the cupboard. “Go find your witch and stay out of Mum’s business!” she thundered, slamming the door a final time.

“Well, that was fun,” said David, “but Cooper’s waiting for us. You were supposed to shower, by the way.”

“I was hungry,” Max protested, his gaze lingering on a plate of crispy bacon. David merely hummed and strolled up the Manse’s winding steps.

“What?” said Max, following after his roommate. “You stay up half the night with Cooper after you, and with nothing to eat!”

“Cooper,” piped up David, “this sounds dangerous. Are you sure we should go in there?”

To Max it appeared that Cooper’s hard features softened for just a moment. The Agent knelt down and looked David in the eye.

“It’ll be all right,” he said with calm assurance. “Nothing will happen to you, eh?”

Cooper patted David on the shoulder before revealing a wavy-bladed knife of rusty, reddish metal. Max had never seen it before. The weapon exuded an unwholesome aura; its discolored blade suggested a particularly loathsome history. Max’s instinct was to step away from the knife, but David looked positively green and wobbly.

“It’ll be fine, David,” whispered Max, steadying his roommate.

David smiled weakly, but he took a second glance at the knife as Cooper slipped it into his sleeve.

“Let’s see what the old witch wants,” said Cooper, rapping softly on the door.

The door swung inward and Cooper led the boys into a dark, windowless room arched with carved beams and lit only by oil lamps that cast a warm, golden glow over the room’s occupants. Director Richter was seated at the head of a granite table engraved with the Rowan seal and set with crystal goblets and a decanter of red wine. Miss Kraken, Rowan’s hunched and snappish head of Mystics, sat on her right. Max said hello to them but focused quickly on the strange, wizened thing studying him from the far end of the table.

“Boys,” said Ms. Richter, “excuse the low light; it is on account of our guest, who is more comfortable in such surroundings. I’d like to introduce Dame Mala.”

The witch smiled and bowed her head low in greeting. In the dim setting, her skin initially appeared scarred, like Cooper’s, but Max soon realized he was looking not at scars but at tattoos. Every visible inch of her body—her face, her ears, the tops of her fingers—was marked with small hieroglyphs and symbols arranged in neat little patterns and shapes before they disappeared into the folds of her plain black robes. Her braided white hair was as thin as corn silk and her sagging face had an air of polite expectancy as she took a small sip of wine. Pale green eyes glanced at Cooper as he claimed the seat next to her, lingering longest on his sleeve. The smile never left her face, however, and her interest returned quickly to Max and David as they took seats alongside Ms. Richter.

“Dame Mala is one of our distant kin from the East,” explained Ms. Richter, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from her brow. “It has been several centuries since we’ve had contact with the witches, but they are old friends and we are honored by their visit.”

The witch raised her glass in gratitude.

“Yes,” said Ms. Richter, offering a tight smile in return. “You see, students, Dame Mala’s arrival this morning was most unexpected. Apparently, during his travels, our own Peter Varga visited the witches to enlist their aid in finding the children who were kidnapped last year. He mentioned the two of you and . . . our guest arrived on our doorstep, to our great surprise and delight. Perhaps now that you are here she will share the broader purpose of her visit.”

Dame Mala beamed, revealing small yellowed teeth that had been filed to points. Beads and necklaces of semiprecious stones clicked and clacked as she stood and bowed low before them.

“You are very gracious, Director,” she said in a throaty tenor. “And I, in turn, extend greetings on behalf of my sisters to honor our kindred who crossed the sea long ago. It is only fitting that the young should be the sparks to rekindle old friendships and bridge the differences between us. We have waited a long time to see these two.”

“Ms. Richter . . . ,” whispered Max.

The Director held up a finger to silence him. The witch turned quickly from Ms. Richter to fix her piercing green eyes on Max.

“Which of the Blessed Children is this?” she asked.

“Dame Mala, this is Max McDaniels. He is—”

“The Hound,” breathed the witch, widening her eyes and leaning forward. Cooper shifted slightly in his seat. “Forgive me, for only now do my old eyes see the light upon his brow. Rath dé ort, Cúchulain. Saol fada chugat.”

Max fidgeted uncomfortably as the witch touched her forehead briefly to the table and took her seat once again. She made a hasty sign before continuing.

“Now that Astaroth walks upon this earth, the great School of Rowan will have dire need of its Hound. To honor our past allegiance, my sisters have instructed me to press only half our rights. The Hound of Rowan may stay with you. The witches demand only the young Sorcerer, so gifted in our arts.”

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” interrupted Miss Kraken sharply, glaring at Dame Mala. “Who are the witches to show up on our doorstep and demand anything, much less one of our students, for God’s sake?”

“Annika,” said Ms. Richter with a warning tone.

Miss Kraken bristled to the point of bursting, but swallowed another comment. Dame Mala appeared confused.

“Have I said something that displeases you?” the witch asked, her eyes darting from face to face.

“Dame Mala,” said Ms. Richter, “forgive our ignorance, but what exactly are you demanding? Surely you do not mean to leave this school with David Menlo. . . .”

The witch nodded and smiled at David, who gave a funny gurgle and slumped low in his chair.

“What on earth would convince you that we would permit such a thing?” asked Ms. Richter calmly.

“It is our right,” said Dame Mala, her smile dissolving into a look of angry indignation.

David was speechless, slumping lower until only his eyes were visible above the table’s rim.

“Ms. Richter,” hissed Max, “you’re not going to send David away with . . . with this witch, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Ms. Richter with a sharp glance. “On what basis would the witches possibly make such an absurd claim?”

Dame Mala frowned as she traced the top edge of the Rowan seal with a sharp-nailed finger.

“There is nothing absurd about our claim,” said Dame Mala slowly, her eyes glittering, “and we have waited nearly four hundred years to make it. Perhaps your memories are fading, but even the youngest witch knows of Bram’s Oath and the hiding of the Book of Origins.”

“The Book of Origins,” repeated Ms. Richter, appearing to search her memory. “You’re referring to the Book of Thoth?”

“Indeed,” confirmed the witch. “It was said that Astaroth himself coveted the book, that he had devoted long study to acquiring the secrets that would permit him to use it. Bram took the perilous thing and hid it beyond the Demon’s reach.”

Ms. Richter frowned and glanced at Miss Kraken.

“That’s impossible,” scoffed Miss Kraken with a definitive shake of her head. “That book was destroyed thousands of years ago.”

“It was not destroyed,” whispered the witch. “Over five hundred years ago, the witches took it from Prince Neferkaptah’s resting place and left a false relic in its stead. We sought in vain to divine its secrets. Word of the ruse, however, seeped out into the world and our treasure eventually attracted interested parties. Astaroth’s messengers sought us in the mountains; great rewards were promised should we surrender the book or give information regarding its true whereabouts. We considered their offers—after all, they were generous, and the book had proven beyond our understanding. But Bram came, too, and it was his proposal that we accepted.”

Max thought of Elias Bram, the last Ascendant who had fallen during the Siege of Solas, buying time so that a few survivors might escape aboard the Kestrel. While Bram was revered at Rowan, something about Dame Mala’s tone made Max’s spirits sink. He looked at David, whose eyes had taken on the detached, glassy look they often did when he was thinking deeply.

“And what was Bram’s offer?” asked Ms. Richter, her voice very soft and serious.

The witch met Ms. Richter’s gaze and narrowed her eyes, tapping the table for emphasis.

“That any child of your people blessed by the Old Magic should be surrendered to the care and keeping of the witches. Three we may claim and thus it is written. Two such children sit here before me and yet I claim only the young Sorcerer. If I may say, Director, you should be grateful for our generosity. We recognize that you did not strike this accord and that it must grieve you to bid farewell to so bright a pupil. Thus, at this time, we take only one as a token of our respect . . . . I urge you not to make us reconsider.”

“Ms. Richter,” whispered Max, incredulous at the long pause that followed, “you’re not actually considering this, are you? You’re not going to let her take David away!”

Ms. Richter glanced sharply at Max before returning her attention to Dame Mala.

“Of course not,” she said. “Many proofs would have to be submitted before we would attribute even a grain of truth to this claim, much less honor it. I know nothing of such a pact—do you, Annika?”

“I’ve come across nothing remotely resembling this in all my years of access to the Archives,” said Miss Kraken proudly. “The very idea that Bram would bargain away children is preposterous—it violates everything he stood for! Trading children for books? Nonsense! Where is this Book of Origins for which we supposedly mortgaged our future?”

“We do not know,” said Dame Mala with cool reserve. “The fate of the book was Bram’s concern, not ours. Our concern is payment and the fulfillment of our contract.”

“If we refuse?” asked Ms. Richter.

“You will not,” replied Dame Mala. “To refuse is to ensure the fall of Rowan. Astaroth is here, Director Richter—Rowan’s efforts and vigilance failed us all and the very heavens point to the Demon’s return. Rowan will need all of her old allies to survive the coming storm. Now is not the time for foolish pride.”

Ms. Richter stood and folded her arms.

“I do not think it is foolish pride, Dame Mala, to remind you that the survival of your sisterhood has been secured by the very efforts and vigilance you critique. Through our charity, the witches have been hidden from the cities and machines and are permitted to live with the modern age at bay. These courtesies can be discontinued. Should the witches threaten Rowan or its interests, I can promise an outcome so swift and severe that it will shock even the greatest pessimists among you.”

The witch’s face darkened. She opened her mouth and shut it again, glancing briefly at Cooper, who sat unmoving and returned her gaze with unflinching calm. A small clock ticked off long seconds. The room became unbearably still; the threat of violence hung suspended in the air.

“It is regrettable that you should speak thus in front of these young ones,” said Dame Mala at last, clasping her hands together and exhaling deeply. “I am well aware there are many men and many weapons at your disposal, Director. We do not flatter ourselves that the witches could wage open war with Rowan; indeed, that is the last thing we would wish. It is you who speak in threats; I speak only of honor and agreements. Be warned, Director, that to deny our righteous claim is to violate the terms of Bram’s Oath and thus bring a curse upon yourselves that would be the ruin of this school and all who dwell here. The pact is bound in Old Magic—signed in Bram’s own blood and utterly irrefutable.”

“If it’s written in Bram’s blood, you must have the document,” said Ms. Richter coldly. “I wish to see it and whoever truly speaks for the witches. It is not you, Dame Mala—you’ve merely been sent to deliver a message, and your task is now finished. It’s time you returned home.”

Dame Mala drained the rest of her wine and rose to her feet.

“You are my hostess and you have asked me to leave. I will go. But my sisters will come, Director, and they will bring all the proofs you require. And when they depart, these Blessed Children—both of these children—will go with them.”

“Not while I’m Director,” said Ms. Richter quietly, motioning for Cooper to escort the old woman out. The witch paused in the doorway; her fearsome visage might have been plucked from the carven masks that lined the hall outside. She gave Ms. Richter a secret, knowing smile.

“Directors are replaceable, Ms. Richter, as your predecessor knows all too well. You should know that Peter Varga is not the only son of Rowan to cross the mountains and seek our aid.” She turned to Max and David. “Look for us in one month’s time, children. A new home awaits you.”

With a parting bow the witch was gone.