~1~
THE MOON HAS A FACE

It was not the warm sun or the bleating lambs that woke Max McDaniels. Rather, it was the soft patter of little feet—sly, terribly eager feet—that converged upon him as he lay amid the ripening corn. Max kept still while the first of his visitors hopped onto his chest. He did not stir at the second or third. But once the twelfth clambered up with an exasperated peep, Max cracked an eye and smiled.

Twelve goslings stood upon him. Downy heads bobbed; inscrutable eyes glistened like wet pebbles. With a sudden, triumphant honk, the boldest stepped forward and tapped its hard little beak on Max’s breastbone. The others followed suit, and soon Max writhed and chuckled beneath the Lilliputian assault.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, shooing at them halfheartedly. “I’m awake!”

The pecking continued.

“MAX!” bellowed a shrill female voice.

Several crows took flight as a plump white goose crashed through the cornstalks and into Max’s row, looking frantically from side to side.

“There you are!” exclaimed the goose. “Sleeping away like a lazy bottom!”

“Bottoms can’t be lazy, Hannah,” murmured Max. He plucked the last of the marauding goslings off his stomach and placed it on the ground, where it promptly resumed its indiscriminate pecking.

“Like-a-lazy-bottom!” sang the goose, aspiring to an operatic tremolo.

“Bravo,” said Max, rising to his feet.

“Thank you,” replied Hannah, curtsying. She waddled forward and gave him a motherly once-over. “Max, there are a gazillion things to do, and you should know better than to sneak off for a handful of winks.”

“I’ve been working late every day for a month,” protested Max, emphasizing the point with a bleary yawn.

“Excuses, excuses,” retorted Hannah. “Stoop down a bit, dear.” Max bent over in silent resignation while the goose flicked bits of dirt and hay from his shirt and smoothed his dark hair into a respectable shape. She sighed. “You of all people should know how special tomorrow is.…”

“I do,” said Max. “I’ll do my part.”

“You’ll do your part now,” she said pointedly. “On the double!”

The matronly goose buffeted Max forward with her powerful wing and whistled for the goslings to fall in line. They did so dutifully, and the group now formed an orderly column as they marched through the cornfield. When they arrived at the Sanctuary’s main clearing, Hannah flapped her wings excitedly. “Nearly all back to normal and pretty as a picture,” she crowed, gesturing toward the rebuilt Warming Lodge.

The long, low building seemed almost to bask next to its small lagoon. Its timbered walls were clean and smooth. There was no trace of splintered wood or blackened stone, nothing to suggest that this very building had been recently reduced to embers.

“Hmmm,” said Max, privately thinking that Rowan Academy, while largely rebuilt, would never be “back to normal.” Only six months ago, Astaroth’s armies had rampaged across the school’s sprawling campus, burning its forests, razing its structures, and slaughtering its flocks as they marched upon Rowan’s final refuge in the cliffs. Many lives had been lost. It was Max who ultimately withstood them, fighting on alone until the only remaining option was to surrender the Book of Thoth to the Demon that coveted it. It had been a wrenching decision, but Astaroth had seemingly kept his word and fulfilled their bargain. The monstrous armies were spirited away, and Rowan had been left in peace, battered and broken, but free to rebuild at its own pace.

By any standard, that pace had been remarkable. Using magic and muscle, crops were planted, stone was quarried, forests were raised, and herds restocked. The Sanctuary’s broad plain was now thick with grain fields, lush orchards, and grazing herds that were hemmed by a broad forest that sloped up into the mountains. Max inhaled the September air and spied a family of shimmering pixies as they skimmed toward a yellowing oak.

It was not just the Demon’s peaceful withdrawal or recent glimpses of notoriously shy pixies that roused Max’s curiosity. There were other changes, too. Since Astaroth had claimed the Book, Max had felt the world thawing—as though the Earth had clomped in from the cold, stamped snow from her boots, and settled by a comfortable fire.

“A new age is beginning,” he muttered.

“It sure is, honey,” remarked Hannah brightly, herding her goslings toward the Sanctuary gate. “And just like I predicted, Mother Nature was due for one.”

“Can you feel it, too?” he asked. At times he wondered if he was particularly sensitive to such things. Max McDaniels was a son of the Sidh, a hidden land where gods and monsters slumbered amid the hills. As the child of an earthly mother and an Irish deity, Max straddled a tenuous line between mortal and immortal. Within his blood coursed rare sparks of the Old Magic, primal forces that could make Max as wild and powerful as a storm. Hundreds of enemies had given way before Max during the Siege of Rowan.

“Of course I can feel it,” replied Hannah, her head bobbing in time with her step. “Things growing, the air brimming and crackling with magic. It’s like a ray of sunshine on my beak! You’d have to be a ninny not to feel it.”

“Do you believe Astaroth’s behind it all?” asked Max.

“Who knows?” The goose shrugged. “But I’d wager that once he got his hands on the Book, he’s been changing a thing or two. Can’t say it’s ruffling my feathers, either.”

“So you think things are better?” asked Max, feeling somewhat defensive. He had been expecting fire and brimstone following Astaroth’s victory, not a peaceful, bountiful summer. The quiet was unsettling.

“Around here they are,” Hannah concluded. She spread her wings and puffed out her chest to absorb the autumn sunshine. The goslings imitated their mother. “Anyway, I’ve done what I was supposed to do: find you and direct your lazy bottom back toward the Manse. So, you go mow lawns or weed gardens while this goose gets her groom on!”

“Excuse me?” asked Max.

“Deluxe feather tufting, Swedish beak massage, and a pedicure,” explained Hannah. “The dryads owe me big-time. Big-time! So be a dear and watch the goslings while you do your chores. You know they just love it when you babysit. Mind you, L’il Baby Ray’s been wheezy, so don’t let Honk play too rough. And Millie’s not allowed any sweets since she’s been a very naughty gosling, and …”

Max’s eyes glazed over while Hannah recited a litany of special instructions for each of her fidgeting, utterly indistinguishable children. Once Millie’s pesky skin irritation had been addressed, Hannah waddled away, greeting a nearby work crew with the amiable ease of a big-city mayor. As soon as she disappeared, Max felt a sharp peck on his shin. The goslings were jostling at his feet. Implacable stares met his own.

“Mind your beaks,” said Max, and with that he led them toward a mossy wall and the stout wooden door that separated the Sanctuary from the rest of Rowan Academy.

A symphony of sounds greeted them as they made their way through the tunnel-like arch of interlaced trees. Hammers, saws, shouts, laughter, and innumerable other noises blended together in a happy hum of endeavor. Emerging into daylight, Max saw hundreds of chattering students and adults touching up the stables’ trim and fitting the last planks for a riding pen, where palominos pranced and whinnied. The invigorating air smelled of fresh paint, autumn leaves, and the sea. Max felt a rumbling in his stomach and toyed with the notion of stealing into the kitchens for a bite.…

But duty called. He led the goslings along a path that skirted round the stables and past the orchard until they arrived at the Manse, Rowan’s central building and Max’s home. Cutting across a garden, Max gazed up at the Manse’s noble entrance with deep satisfaction. Charred stones had been salvaged and scrubbed to a spotless gray, shattered windows had been replaced, and welcoming smoke puffed once more from the many chimneys adorning the steep slate roof. Most pleasing, however, was the line of rowan trees that graced the drive once again. During the Siege, the Enemy had uprooted them and hacked them to splinters. Yet now they stood tall, crowned with creamy white blossoms as though no vye, goblin, or ogre had ever touched them.

A hag was touching them, however. Bellagrog Shrope was a massive specimen, some two hundred pounds of globular flesh cajoled into a dress intended for a smaller being. Her skin was gray, and her dress was brown; the combined effect was suggestive of some sort of enormous, dusky vegetable that had been uprooted and unwisely endowed with teeth. These teeth—these gleaming, triangular teeth—now chewed thoughtfully upon the hag’s upper lip while she shuffled through a stack of papers. One of the goslings uttered a frightened peep.

The hag ceased her shuffling. Straightening, she gave the air an audible sniff. With a slow swivel of her head, she fixed the goslings with a pair of bloodshot crocodile eyes.

“Hello, darlings,” she murmured. Stooping to the ground, she extended her arms. “Come and give ol’ Bel a kiss!”

The goslings huddled close to one another, forming a soft, trembling mass. The hag repeated her invitation but to no avail.

At length, she rose and gave a deep chuckle. “Guess I ain’t as cuddly as their ol’ Mother Goose!”

“They’re just shy, Bellagrog,” Max lied, privately applauding the goslings’ judgment.

“Sure they are, sure they are,” said Bellagrog, scratching absently at her belly. “Anyway, it ain’t them I been waitin’ to see. It’s you. I got a schedule to keep, Max, and yer puttin’ me behind. Can’t have it, love, can’t have it.…”

Max ventured forward and stood next to the hag, peering over her shoulder while she riffled through her papers and scanned them like a stern accountant.

“Now, because I like ya, I’m going to give you some choices,” she said. “No septic duty for Rowan’s hero.” She blinked and gave a snort of laughter. “ ‘Septic doody’ … that’s a good one, Bel! Right witty, you are. Anyhoo, Max, we need ya doing stonework at the gates, shelving books in the Archives, or oiling seashells for the feast. What’s it gonna be?”

“What about Old Tom?” Max inquired, scanning the seemingly endless list of remaining tasks. “Can I work there instead?” Max had a special affinity for Old Tom and had dearly missed its ringing chimes these past months. The academic building had been badly damaged during the Siege. In fact, Max himself was responsible for cracking the ancient bell housed in its clock tower. He felt a twinge of guilt over this and liked to work on its stately, weathered edifice whenever possible.

“Access to Old Tom is restricted until the celebration,” replied Bellagrog coolly.

Max turned to view the building several hundred yards away. Stories of scaffolding were draped in white, wrapping the building as if it were an enormous present.

“What’s going on?” asked Max.

“Information regarding Old Tom is to be distributed on a need-to-know basis,” said the hag, examining her talons. “You don’t need to know, and now you is making me regret my generous offer.…” She flipped the page, and Max glimpsed the word sewer in the heading.

“Seashells,” he blurted. “I’ll work on the seashells.”

“Right, then,” said Bellagrog, penciling his name next to others. “Off ya go. Work up an appetite for tomorrow’s party. I know I am.…”

Bellagrog grinned at the goslings. Ignoring her, Max led his little charges to the broad expanse of grass and gardens that served as Rowan’s central quad. On one sizable square of lawn, clusters of children were polishing colossal seashells with rags dipped in round tubs of yellow goop. Some of the seashells were no bigger than a beach ball, while other ancient specimens loomed as large as mail trucks. The yellow goop was a thickened form of phosphoroil, and as the waxy, pungent substance was applied to the shells, they began to give off a soft glow, like gargantuan fireflies. The effect was diminished by daylight, but even so, a golden haze hovered above the lawn as though El Dorado lay beneath. Max stepped past a giggling group of children and sized up an imposing nautilus.

For the better part of two hours, Max polished the shell. It was monotonous but satisfying work as he burnished each smooth, curved section to a natural gleam until the oil saturated its surface and it began to emit a phosphorescent glow. While Max worked, the goslings were reasonably well behaved. They seemed content to gaze at their ghostly, distorted reflections in the shell until Honk managed to roll—or plunge—into a tub of phosphoroil. While Max scrubbed the indignant bird, a shadow fell over him.

“Well, what have we here?” chuckled a familiar voice.

Turning, Max saw Dr. Rasmussen, the deposed director of the Frankfurt Workshop. The hairless, nearly skeletal scientist grinned at Max from behind his thin spectacles. Some dozen adults accompanied him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the engineer, “please allow me to introduce Max McDaniels. The young man visited the Workshop last year, but given the circumstances, I fear that many of you did not get to meet him. Let’s amend that now.”

Max nodded at the strangers as they were named. They did not return his greeting but merely stared at him with expressions of cold curiosity. Putting aside their rudeness, Max was surprised to see members of the Workshop at Rowan, much less in the company of Dr. Rasmussen. The Workshop was a techno-centric society—a scientific faction that had splintered off from Rowan long ago and now lived within a network of self-sufficient subterranean cities. Until the previous year, Jesper Rasmussen had been the Workshop’s director, but his colleagues had driven him out on Astaroth’s orders.

Since that day, Rasmussen had taken refuge at Rowan, offering his technical expertise. Unfortunately, his expertise was accompanied by his arrogance, and thus requests for his input had dwindled. He was now Rowan’s most sullen dignitary.

“When did they arrive?” asked Max, looking past Rasmussen at the visitors.

“This morning,” replied Dr. Rasmussen. “They’re here to … make amends.”

“With you or with us?” asked Max, keenly aware that the Workshop had done nothing to resist Astaroth’s assault on Rowan or the world at large. For all Max knew, they had now sworn allegiance to the Demon. Rasmussen ignored the pointed question.

“Does Cooper know they’re here?” asked Max.

“Yes, yes,” muttered Rasmussen. “Everyone here has the requisite authorization. Thank you for making sure, however.” He offered a prim smile to his colleagues. “Wherever would we be without the endearing insolence of teenagers?” He elicited one feeble laugh. Shooting Max a peevish glance, Rasmussen beckoned his colleagues along. They began to follow until one of them—an angular, humorless-looking man—abruptly stopped.

“What is that mark, Jesper?” asked the man, pointing at Max’s wrist.

Dr. Rasmussen frowned and peered closely at the crimson tattoo of a red, upraised hand.

“Hmmm,” mused Dr. Rasmussen. “Agent Cooper has the same one, I believe.”

“You did not mention anything about a mark,” said the man, sounding aggrieved.

“What is he talking about?” asked Max, snatching his arm away from Rasmussen.

Rasmussen offered no response but merely scrutinized the tattoo for a few more seconds before waving his colleagues on again. The group departed, with the exception of the man who had first observed the mark. He stood rooted to the spot, allowing his pale, watery eyes to wander over Max’s face and body without a hint of hurry or embarrassment. Max might have been a laboratory rat.

“Why don’t you just take a picture?” Max snapped.

The man blinked, as though Max’s question had jolted him from deep contemplation. Strolling closer, he rested his hands upon his knees and leaned forward until his thin, impassive face hovered only inches away.

“And why would I do that?” the man whispered. “I can see you whenever I want.”

Straightening, the man offered a curious smile and then walked briskly away to rejoin his colleagues. Max felt a reflexive surge of anger as he watched them go; he despised the Workshop and its smug representatives. Still, it was a peculiar comment. Max had never seen the man before and was unlikely to do so again. While he puzzled over this, it suddenly dawned on him that these very representatives were from outside. The Workshop was based in Europe. Surely they would know the status of various governments and cities; they would know what was happening in the wide world beyond.

“Hey!” called Max, running after them. “Hold on.”

He caught up to them as they were climbing the Manse’s broad steps. Rasmussen tried to hurry the group inside, but they had already stopped and turned in response to Max’s breathless call.

“How is the rest of the world?” Max asked. “What’s going on in Boston? Or Berlin? Or Paris!”

He was met with silence. Clearing his throat, Rasmussen glanced at his colleagues. An olive-skinned woman in a pale gray suit shook her head, and Rasmussen’s thin lips tightened.

“Max, do yourself a favor and forget about Paris,” he said softly. “It’s forgetting about you.…”

Before Max could ask another question, Rasmussen had turned away and the adults continued inside. Following after, Max watched them cross the foyer and funnel into the hallway leading toward Ms. Richter’s office.

With a sigh, Max tossed his rag from one hand to the other, nodding hello to an elderly couple as he made his way back to the field of shells. As he approached the nautilus, he saw that a man and woman were sitting near its base.

“We were wondering if you’d come back,” chuckled the man.

Nigel Bristow and his wife were sitting with the goslings. While Mrs. Bristow soothed the panic-stricken birds, the sandy-haired recruiter wagged a chiding finger.

“God help you, Max, if Hannah learns you left her darlings unattended.”

“Oh!” said Max, reddening. He hurried over to the wicker basket where the couple had arranged the goslings upon a mound of folded laundry. Max made a quick head count and breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, Nigel,” he said. “I was only gone a couple of minutes.”

“And presumably that was long enough for this irascible fellow to give himself a phosphorescent makeover.” The middle-aged man sighed and scooped Honk up into his hands.

“No, he did that while I was here,” explained Max. Despite Max’s hasty cleaning, the gosling was still glowing, the oil’s effect even more apparent in the fading daylight.

Nigel and his wife exchanged bemused glances.

“The Workshop is on campus!” said Max, changing the subject. “Here visiting Rasmussen. That’s why I left—to see if they had any news of the outside world.”

“There will be many visitors over the next few days, Max,” said Nigel, frowning. “I assumed you knew this.”

“Don’t tell me the witches are coming, too,” moaned Max, but Nigel shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Not the witches. After all that happened last year, the witches are forbidden on these grounds. Are you certain Ms. Richter hasn’t spoken to you? I know she had been intending to.”

“Nobody tells me anything,” said Max. “According to Bellagrog, things are on a need-to-know basis, and apparently I don’t need to know.”

Nigel looked thoughtfully at Max. Placing Honk back in the basket, he turned to his wife. “Emily, would you take these little ones back to Hannah’s nest? Max and I need to have a chat.”

Once Max had promised to put on a sweater and pay a visit to the Bristow’s cottage, Emily kissed her husband, hefted the basket, and strode off with a swish of her skirt.

All around Max and Nigel, people were beginning to gather up their things—saws, hammers, spades—as the smell of cooking wafted across the grounds. Max and Nigel strolled against the tide of hungry workers, out toward the windy bluff that overlooked the Atlantic. As they approached, Max saw a lone figure kneeling at the base of a marble statue.

The statue, like countless other decorations and even buildings, was a new addition to Rowan’s campus. With all the activity of the preceding months, Max had not yet stopped to look at it. The statue was of a man, tall and bearded, standing upon a rough pedestal of black granite. Despite the majesty of cold marble and the figure’s scholarly robes, the subject had a feral, unkempt appearance. His hair was tangled, his beard was uncombed, and his strong hands seemed almost to rend his book rather than cradle it. Max thought he looked like Poseidon, as huge and wild as the sea.

“It’s beautiful, Greta,” said Nigel, stopping to appreciate the looming work. The kneeling woman did not turn, but kept her attention on the pedestal’s bronze plaque. Her navy blue robes told Max that she was a Mystic of middling rank. Her hands betrayed her age, but the bronze plaque revealed nothing. It was blank.

“Is that you, Nigel?” croaked the Mystic.

“It is,” he said, “but don’t let me interrupt you.”

“Nonsense,” said the old woman, consulting her notes. “He’s almost finished.…”

The Mystic spread her fingers and whispered beseeching words of transformation. The bronze began to churn and bubble, and as the sun’s final rays sank into the west, elegant letters were raised in the thick metal. Leaning closer, Max saw a familiar name emerge.

With a grunt, the Mystic rose slowly to her feet and stood on tiptoe to pat the statue’s foot. Gathering up her things, she nodded a polite hello to Nigel and Max and came to stand by them so she could appraise her gleaming creation in its entirety. She gave a sudden cackle, a gleeful fit of artistic satisfaction.

“Handsome devil, isn’t he?” she said, winking at them. Bidding the pair good night, the old Mystic hobbled back toward the Manse, taking one of the garden paths and swinging her lantern like a girl.

Once the woman had gone, Nigel looked at Max with a decidedly boyish, mischievous expression. “Last one up’s a sorry loser!” he exclaimed, and dashed toward the statue in an attempt to heave himself onto the massive base.

Max did not join Nigel in this game but merely watched. He admired the man’s determination, but it was a mortifying spectacle. There were pitiful leaps, hoarse curses, and several agonizing moments when Nigel’s meager arms failed him at the pivotal instant. Eventually, Nigel simply clung to the granite, occasionally kicking his legs like a dying frog.

“Would you like a hand?” Max offered.

“If you insist,” gasped Nigel.

Knitting his fingers together, Max boosted him up. Seconds later, the two were seated on the far side of the statue, their backs resting against the stone drapery of Bram’s robes. Breathing heavily, Nigel fished for a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“Ah.” He exhaled, scanning the tranquil sea. “A bit trickier than I’d imagined, but we’re up and I was first! You may have youth and vigor, Max, but it will never be a match for age and treachery!”

“Please,” said Max, rolling his eyes. “But, Nigel, should we be sitting on this thing? I mean, Greta just finished it.”

“What stuff!” scoffed Nigel, refolding his handkerchief. “I’m disappointed in you, Max. Every student should know that statues are meant for sitting. If we’re to endure their terrible old faces leering at us, the least they can do is offer shade or a comfortable perch.”

Max grinned. “Should we write our names on it?” he asked, twisting to examine the spotless marble.

“A noble impulse,” said Nigel. “But for the moment, we shall stick to sitting.”

Settling in against the cold stone, Max folded his arms for warmth. The moon was rising. It was nearly full, its pale light shining on a lone seagull skimming over the ocean’s swell. As if reading Max’s thoughts, Nigel spoke in his warm English tenor:

“I’ve heard that before,” said Max. “But I can’t remember when.”

“It’s from a nursery rhyme by Robert Louis Stevenson,” said Nigel. “One of my favorites.”

“My mother used to read that to me,” said Max. “Or at least I think she did.” He searched memories of his old house in Chicago and those quiet evenings when he was burrowed in his bed. It seemed a lifetime ago.

“Yes, well, I’ll be reading it to many a young one,” said Nigel.

“What do you mean?” asked Max. Nigel and Emily Bristow had no children.

“Career change, Max,” said Nigel. “I’m sorry to say my recruiting days are over. I’m going to be a teacher. Given how things stand, it looks as though the refugees will be permanent residents here, and thus Emily and I have volunteered for one of the kindergarten classes.”

“But if you’re doing that,” Max wondered aloud, “who will be testing Potentials?”

Nigel smiled, but there was an unmistakable tinge of sadness in his eyes. “No one, Max,” he replied. “No one will be recruiting or testing Potentials. Those days have passed. We lost the war and must live by Astaroth’s rules.”

Max sat in confused silence. Of course, he knew they had lost; none knew better. But he hadn’t considered all of the implications. Rowan had spent the past six months furiously rebuilding, and it had been Max’s assumption—his expectation—that they would resume the great struggle against Astaroth when they were able.

“And what are those rules?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, I’ve only been told the ones pertinent to me,” said Nigel. “No more recruiting; no leaving Rowan until our borders are finalized and we’re given permission. That’s why it’s important that someone speak to you before …”

Nigel appeared nervous, tapping his fingers against his knee and glancing at his watch.

“I can’t imagine what you went through last spring,” he said at last. “A boy your age having to fight alone. It is because of you that Rowan has even had the opportunity to rebuild. We owe you a debt we can never repay.”

“Nigel,” laughed Max. “Out with it, already! What are you getting at?”

Swatting irritably at an insect, Nigel took a deep breath. His words were slow and deliberate. “Max, there will be a contingent of demons arriving here tomorrow—”

“What?” exclaimed Max, sitting up.

“Let me finish,” Nigel pleaded, his voice calm and taut. “This is precisely why I wanted to speak with you. Max, I love you like a son. But you have a terrible temper, and tomorrow is not the time for it.”

Max glared at Nigel. Wary of illustrating the man’s point, he slowly willed himself to stillness.

Nigel nodded appreciatively and continued. “The demons will be arriving tomorrow, led by one of Astaroth’s lieutenants—one called Prusias. They are coming as a token of goodwill—”

Max could not resist a scornful laugh.

“As a token of goodwill,” repeated Nigel, ignoring the interruption. “And to formalize the ongoing terms of our arrangement. They have promised to treat us with respect, and we have done likewise. Do you understand me, Max? This is how peace is made.”

Silence ensued, and the two sat while the waves lapped at the beach below. Max was angry—he found the idea of hosting demons insufferably repugnant—but he was curious, too. It seemed tomorrow would bring answers to many of his questions. He pondered this until Nigel blurted something that Max did not catch.

“What?” Max asked.

“Emily and I are going to have a baby,” repeated Nigel. He spoke more slowly this time, but the words still tumbled out. “In March. You’re one of the first to know.”

“Congratulations,” said Max, unsure what else to say. It was an unexpected shift in their conversation.

“Yes, well, it changes one’s outlook on life and one’s priorities,” said Nigel. “Like any parent, I want my child to have the best chance she can have—a chance to make her own way and survive in the new way of things.”

“So you’re having a girl?” asked Max.

“Well, we don’t know yet, of course,” said Nigel, smiling. “But Emily has her hunches. Can you imagine a baby in our house, Max? It will be such a precious thing! Emily is beside herself, and I … well, I didn’t know if we’d ever be so lucky.”

Nigel’s appeal resonated more powerfully than anything Ms. Richter could have said. Max’s initial interpretation had been wrong; this was not a cowardly plea for meek compliance but the protective instinct of an expectant father.

“I’ll behave myself,” said Max solemnly.

“Thank you,” replied Nigel, allowing himself to exhale. He patted Max’s hand before peering casually over the edge of the pedestal. “You know, I’ve never really been one for heights.…”

“Nigel, we’re six feet off the ground.”

“Yes, well, there’s the precipice, too,” he argued, gesturing impatiently at the nearby bluff. “A fellow could trip and roll right off the edge. They’d probably never even find the body.”

Max thought it would take quite a determined roll to traverse the twenty feet of flat, manicured lawn. Hopping down from the statue, he turned and offered a hand to his friend.

“Not that you need it,” said Max.

“Quite right.” Nigel sniffed. “It’s simply a civilized courtesy.”

“How did you ever pass physical training?” asked Max.

“Never underestimate the power of a well-chosen bribe.”

Once Nigel was deposited safely on the ground, the two rounded the statue and gazed upon the Manse once again. All of its windows were alight, a remarkably cheery sight considering the smoldering hulk it had been months before.

“Ah,” said Nigel. “Supper beckons, and you shall marvel at the bizarre combinations Emily’s eating these days. Pork chops and chocolate; ice cream with mustard. You’d think we’re having a hag.”

“You go on ahead,” said Max. “I’m going to stay for a bit.”

“Are you sure?” asked Nigel. “The ‘Bottomless Pit’ passing up a meal!”

“I’ll come in soon,” said Max. “Just ask my dad to put something aside for me.”

“Will do,” Nigel promised. “I’m glad we had this talk, Max.”

Max nodded and waved good night. As Nigel’s footsteps faded, Max realized that the campus was still, and he became intensely conscious of the crashing surf, the creaking trees, and the dry leaves that skittered across the flagstone paths. He glanced at Old Tom, its gables, walls, and tower still cloaked in secrecy. Sighing, Max thrust his hands deep in his pockets and turned to face the statue once again.

The marble planes of Bram’s face were sharp, the set of his jaw defiant. It occurred to Max that he knew only the broadest strokes of the man’s history: the Last Ascendant who sacrificed himself at the Siege of Solas. Rowan’s teachers spoke of Bram with such reverence that Max thought of him not as a man, but as an idea whose abstract benevolence was akin to St. Nick or the tooth fairy.

The figure before him did not look benevolent, however. He looked dangerous. Max was aware that his roommate, David Menlo, believed Bram to be the greatest Sorcerer in human history. While Bram’s powers may have been vast, they had not been enough to keep him from Astaroth’s reach. When Solas fell, the Demon had spent his remaining energies consuming him.

Max felt an unexpected surge of affection for the stern visage. He thumped the pedestal with his fist and glanced up at the towering figure.

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t welcome a demon to your door,” he whispered.

The statue stared stoically ahead, and Max sighed. The marble positively gleamed in the clear evening, and Max rocked back on his heels to stare at the moon. It had risen nearly to its zenith and seemed to hover directly above the campus, shining a spotlight on Rowan and its quaint little doings.

“The moon has a face, indeed.”