~13~
WHERE THE CREEK NARROWS

The dark conclusion to the Samhain feast had shocked and saddened many at Rowan. All told, some six hundred souls boarded Prusias’s galleon and sailed off into the east, lured by the promise of new lands and titles. This was not what shocked Max; he knew enough history to understand that some people would always grasp at land and titles. What shocked him was how quickly these people were forgotten.

Forgotten was, perhaps, too strong a term. These people had been loved; their family and friends missed them as one might expect. But Max knew something insidious was at work—a fading within the mind. Most people technically remembered the departed, but the recollections were hazy, as though some fundamental bond had been severed or anesthetized. References seemed more appropriate to a distant ancestor rather than one’s immediate family. If asked, a person might fondly recall a friend or relative who had once sailed off into the blue to make their fortune.

And that was where the stories stopped.

People didn’t write once they’d left for Blys. Weeks had passed and many trade ships had come and gone, but they never carried any letters from Blys. Few who remained at Rowan begrudged the silence. After all, Blys was where big things happened and its new nobles were understandably busy. Little Rowan was a charming afterthought, a provincial outpost compared to mighty Blys across the sea. It had always been that way.…

Max found this last sentiment particularly disturbing. The Four Kingdoms of Blys, Jakarün, Zenuvia, and Dùn had not only entered the lexicon, but had been woven into the fabric of daily life. Many referred to them as though they had always existed. Russia, Los Angeles, Egypt … countries and cities from the past were lumped into a remote, exotic history that bordered on the mythological. One might have been discussing Atlantis.

Memories weren’t the only thing that continued to fade. It seemed that each week, another modern innovation or technological insight had vanished. By now Max was accustomed to the absence of television, telephones, electric lights, computers, and a host of other contemporary conveniences. But the losses continued. By mid-November, most fishermen refused to sail beyond sight of land for fear they’d be lost at sea. Antibiotics disappeared from the medical stores so that a case of whooping cough or scarlet fever became life-threatening.

Despite the fading of memories and technologies, Rowan managed to prosper like a great city of the Renaissance rather than some Dark Ages backwater. The harvest had been full, horse-drawn carts rolled smoothly along cobbled lanes, and there was as much milk and cream and butter as one could wish for. Money exchanged hands freely, and the shops were full of handcrafted lanterns, quilts, and artworks. It was the rare wretch who had to beg for coppers or a woolen blanket.

At the moment, Max could have used a blanket. He walked briskly across the academic quad on a night that promised snow. The lamps had already been lit, illuminating trees whose bare branches formed a lattice against the deepening blue-gray sky. From out on the ocean, Max heard a bell—a ship was entering Rowan Harbor.

He walked east toward the sea, then curved to skirt the woods that led to the great gates. He glimpsed lights bobbing among the trees and heard his father’s deep voice singing a ridiculous march.

“How was the spooky lantern walk?” asked Max as the group emerged into the clearing.

“Terrrrribly spooky,” replied Mr. McDaniels, raising the lantern just beneath his face. “Shoulda joined us. The woodcutters were roasting chestnuts off the main road, and we told some ghost stories.”

Max smiled, waving to the bundled tykes who held their parents’ hands and clutched their lanterns.

“Was it spooky, Tim?” he asked a shy little boy.

“A little,” the boy replied quietly. “But not too spooky.”

“Good,” said Max. “Well, I could smell dinner already cooking in the Manse. Lamb stew, I think.”

“Go on ahead,” said his father, waving the group on. “Check the bulletin board for the next outing.” Mr. McDaniels turned and cocked an eye at Max. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do I need to guess?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” said Max.

“Max,” laughed his father. “You’ve never been one for hiding your emotions.”

The two walked along the cliffs, slipping between Gràvenmuir and the white statue of Elias Bram. “It’s just that I was sure I’d hear from Connor by now. Or Mum. But apparently none of the people who left for Blys have written. And no one seems all that bothered by it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t trouble your mind about Connor,” said his father. “If anyone can take care of himself out there …”

“Do you find it harder to remember things, Dad?” asked Max. “Places like the Workshop or even important people?”

“Important people like your mother?” inquired Mr. McDaniels with a knowing smile.

“Yeah,” said Max, looking out toward the sea. “I guess.”

“Max,” he said. “Rest assured, I will never forget your mother.”

“You know,” said Max cautiously, “we’ve never really talked about this, but you could start dating or something if you wanted to. I mean, I wouldn’t be angry or anything.”

“Are you giving me your permission?” his father asked, bemused.

“Yeah.” Max shrugged. “I guess so.”

Scott McDaniels laughed and looked affectionately at Max. “I didn’t know I needed permission,” he chuckled. “But it’s nice to know I’ve got it. Besides, how do you know I haven’t already been going out on dates? I might be a hot commodity!”

Max gave his dad a dubious glance.

“I’ll tell ya what,” said Mr. McDaniels. “When I stop dreaming about your mom, I’ll start dating. Till then, she’s still my sweetheart. Just last night I had the most amazing dream about her.…”

“Dad!” Max exclaimed. “I do not need to hear about it.”

“No, no,” laughed his father. “Nothing like that. This was purely innocent. I was walking in my night thingies—pajamas—outside someplace. There were hills and a sky full of stars and a bright, magical moon. But something was behind me. I could hear it breathing, but I was too darned scared to turn around! So I just kept strolling along the road, trying to keep calm so as not to set off whatever was walking after me. Up ahead, I saw a house—a big house on a hill. I made straight for it. By the time I reached the door, Max, I swear that I could feel something’s breath hot on my neck.”

A chill inched down Max’s spine. Mr. McDaniels’s dream was eerily similar to his recurring nightmare of the monstrous wolfhound. It was the wolfhound that had followed his father; he was sure of it.

“What happened next?” he whispered.

“Well, I knocked and prayed to high heaven that someone would answer. Knocked again and still that awful panting just behind me. Knocked one more time, and who do you think opened the door?”

“Mom?”

“No fooling you,” replied his father. “There she stood, pretty as the day I met her. Didn’t say a word; just smiled and took me by the hand. And when her fingers touched mine, Max, I swear to you that I could feel it. I jumped like I’d been struck by lightning. Woke right up, of course, and just sat there in the dark wishing like hell I could fall back asleep and see her again. Isn’t that something?”

“It is,” said Max.

“Well,” said his father, “when I stop having dreams like that, I’ll start dating again.”

“Fair enough,” said Max, touched by his father’s devotion.

Max’s father looked past him then. “What’s going on over there?” he asked.

Max turned and saw the tall, gangly mummers leading a small procession of demons across the lawn toward the harbor steps. By all indications, they were seeing someone off—undoubtedly a demon of high standing.

While the McDanielses watched, more figures came into view. There was Miss Awolowo and Ms. Kraken, both wearing shawls against the cold and conversing quietly with the Gràvenmuir ambassador, who stopped and waited for the final pair.

Max could not believe his eyes.

Ms. Richter, Rowan’s Director, walked in step with the very demon that had shot the boy back in the fall. Every attitude and expression of Ms. Richter’s was one of appeasement. Her hands were clasped, her face attentive as though seeking to agree, to comply. The rakshasa inclined its great tigerlike head, evidently pleased by the Director’s latest utterance. Reaching the cliffs, they joined the rest of the company and proceeded down the steps.

“Who’s that?” asked Mr. McDaniels, rubbing his arms against the chill.

“Someone who shouldn’t be here,” muttered Max. “Come on.”

Max trotted up ahead of his father and gazed down at the piers, where a luxurious-looking yacht was moored at a dock piled high with baggage. Gray, lanky vyes were already loading the baggage aboard as Lord Vyndra and his escort reached the bottom and made their way across the icy beach.

Max did not bother to wait for his father. He dashed down the stone steps two at a time, and then ran toward the torch-lit pier.

While the vyes continued loading the ship, Lord Vyndra puffed upon a serpentine pipe. He faced the beach, looking both resplendent and bored while he listened to some final message or petition from the ambassador. Ms. Richter and the other Rowan representatives stood off to the side near the other demons and the mummers. As Max ran up the dock, Vyndra caught sight of him and blew a smoke ring into the brisk night.

“Best leash your Hound, Madam Director,” he growled.

Ms. Richter turned just as the mummers stepped between Max and the group and crossed their tall halberds like a hideous mockery of the Vatican guards. The minor demons hurried behind them.

“Max, what are you doing here?” asked Ms. Richter calmly.

“Me?” asked Max, coming to a halt. “What’s he doing here?”

“Lord Vyndra was visiting his embassy before his departure,” replied Ms. Richter in a stiff, warning tone. “As he has every right to do.”

“That demon has been here hunting humans,” Max seethed. “I saw it with my own eyes! He murdered a boy right in front of me.”

“Why didn’t you report this?” asked Ms. Richter.

“Cooper made the report,” said Max. “Ask him! He can verify it.”

Ms. Richter pursed her lips and bowed her head by way of apology to Lord Vyndra, who merely stood by, puffing thoughtfully.

“Max, Agent Cooper reported nothing of the sort and is not here to verify your claim, as he sailed for Dùn this morning. Now, I must ask you kindly to leave.”

Max gaped at Ms. Richter. “How can you side with him?” he exclaimed incredulously. “Look in his bags, Ms. Richter. I’ll bet there are trophies in there, heads or skins or whatever else this monster took!”

“Max, please!” Ms. Richter snapped.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Madam Director,” interjected Lord Vyndra smoothly. The fierce, feline features were composed into an impassive sneer. “I am grateful for the extended stay within your lands, but this boy is delusional. Prusias may brook insults, but I do not. I will confess to taking a stag or two, but no skulls or skins of man. Search my baggage if you like,” he said, gesturing for the vyes to unload the many trunks.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Ms. Richter.

“Are you insane?” Max shouted, utterly incredulous. “Search them!”

“No,” replied Ms. Richter firmly. “That would be insulting to our guest. Now remove yourself or you will be placed under arrest and stand trial for insubordination. Is that understood?”

Max recoiled as though he’d been slapped.

“Nobody’s arresting my son,” sputtered Mr. McDaniels, coming up the dock.

“This does not concern you, Mr. McDaniels,” said Ms. Richter. “Please take Max and go.”

Lord Vyndra laughed. “Are you the Hound’s father?” he asked with evident interest. “Can such a thing be?” Stepping between the two mummers, Vyndra leaned over the crossed halberds to gaze more closely at Scott McDaniels. The demon’s presence was immensely powerful; Mr. McDaniels trembled like a baby bird held in thrall by a serpent. At length, the demon exhaled a cloud of sweet smoke and shook his head. “I think your wife has fooled you, my friend. You’re not his father, just a well-fed cuckold.”

“I’ll kill you!” Max rushed toward Vyndra. Planting his foot, he leaped clear above the crossed halberds.

But Max did not fall upon Lord Vyndra as he had planned. Instead, his motion ceased altogether, as though time had stopped. His body was suspended in midair, his limbs cemented in place by a compressing force that nearly crushed the air from his lungs. He strained against it.

As he did so, a light began to shine from his brow, a radiance that blazed ever brighter as he struggled.

“Annika!” gasped Ms. Richter. “Ndidi, help!”

It was then that Max realized that it was not Vyndra but Ms. Richter who had acted against him. The energies required of the Director were so great that she had sunk to her knees, her arms shaking uncontrollably as they extended toward Max.

The whole harbor erupted in light as Max broke the spell.

He fell heavily to the dock. Scrambling to his feet, he recovered his balance and leaped again at Vyndra, who had not moved.

Again he was frozen in midair, this time by the combined efforts of the three powerful Mystics. He screamed again. Every window in the customhouse shattered. A wave of energy erupted from his body, warping the dock and nearly tipping all upon it into the icy sea. Mr. McDaniels was thrown backward. Still, Ms. Richter and the others maintained their unwavering focus.

“Go!” screamed Ms. Kraken. “We can’t hold him any longer!”

The vyes hurled the last of the baggage onto the bobbing yacht. With a cold bow, Lord Vyndra stepped aboard his ship, followed by several attendants. Swiftly cutting the cables, the vyes thrust the yacht away from the dock with long poles so it could ease out into the cold swell. As though manned by a spectral crew, the sails were raised and the ship swung around to face the open sea.

All eyes were upon Max and the blinding radiance that surrounded him. His attention remained fixed upon the yacht as it sailed toward the harbor mouth and the dark ocean. Upon its deck stood Lord Vyndra, leaning upon the brass rail and smoking his pipe. He waved pleasantly to Max.

As Max stared, he noticed that the demon did not merely wave but was holding something aloft. The object gleamed round and white under the pale moon.

It was a human skull.

Max tried to yell, to signal the others to look, but now even his tongue and vocal cords had been paralyzed. His whole body was numb from the strain of spent muscles. Bolts of energy snaked from Ms. Richter, Ms. Awolowo, and Ms. Kraken’s fingertips, reinforcing the sphere so that it grew stronger even as Max weakened.

“Ambassador, take your people and go,” said Ms. Richter calmly.

Once the demons had returned over the beach and up the cliff steps, Mr. McDaniels spoke.

“You can let go of him now. I think it’s safe.”

But Ms. Richter and the others did not release Max. Not until Lord Vyndra’s ship had gone and the light surrounding Max had faded did the women release their collective spell. It happened slowly, the sphere’s energies unknotting and unraveling like a ball of thread until it dispelled entirely. Sinking slowly to the dock, Max lay in a panting heap while the surf churned and eddied beneath the icy dock.

Clearing her throat, Ms. Richter called out to the dumbfounded customs master. “Mr. Hagan, please send a missive to the healing ward and request some help. Annika may require medical attention. Ndidi, help me sit her up.”

Max’s strength slowly returned. Rolling onto his side, he took a deep breath and glowered at Ms. Richter, who now sat next to Ms. Kraken amid a spray of broken glass. The Director looked spent.

“Mr. McDaniels,” she said. “If you’re not hurt, please escort your son back to his room.”

Max felt a pair of strong hands slide under his arms and lift him from the dock. Despite the weakness in his legs, Max managed to lean against his father and make the slow, shaky walk down the deck. There, he could see a crowd had gathered along the bluff. He scanned it for a friendly face and found none.

*   *   *

For the next two days, Max remained isolated in the observatory. There had been knocks and letters slid cautiously beneath the door. But he did not budge from his bed, not even for meals or to answer his father. Instead, he lay amid the warm sheets and watched the constellations turn slowly about the glassy dome. His emotions fluctuated wildly, swinging from anger to depression in sudden fits. He was furious with Ms. Richter—with all of Rowan’s leadership—for kowtowing to the demons. Yet he felt guilty that he’d lost control.

He had not seen David, but he had been sleeping much of the time. Yawning, Max walked wearily about the observatory’s deck and glanced down at the lower level. Although David was not present, there were signs he had been there. Papers and manuscripts were scattered about, and Max detected the faint smell of smoke from the fireplace. He pulled on his robe and went downstairs.

The table was a disaster, every inch piled high with books and papers. The nearest parchment had been brushed with a silvery substance that shone as though still wet. Curious, Max lit one of the thick candles and held the paper up to warm yellow light.

At first, the contents were indecipherable—a nonsensical array of words and letters, numbers and symbols. But as Max watched, patterns began to form. Words emerged, whole sentences as if he’d put on magic glasses. It soon became clear that the writings were Bram’s and the parchment was from Bram’s private papers.

Max turned the page over, but that was all. The journal’s tone contrasted sharply with the sober, earnest accounts that Max had read from later years. This Bram seemed arrogant and ambitious, coldly insensitive to the heartbreak of his friend.

Max heard a sound from upstairs and put the paper down. The door opened, sending a shaft of hallway light into the dark observatory. Footsteps. A crinkling of paper.

“I come in peace!” called a warm English voice. “May I come down?”

“Sure,” said Max, sitting up. Shoving aside a pile of books and papers, he attempted to make things semipresentable before Nigel had reached the bottom stair.

“Hmm,” said Max’s onetime recruiter. “It’s a bit dark down here. Mind if I warm things up?”

“You said that when we met,” replied Max. “ ‘Cocoa and fire to soothe the soul’ or something like that.”

“Yes, well, you were a scaredy-pants and needed soothing,” quipped Nigel, setting down a brown bag and a stack of papers. “Sorry to barge in, but your father gave me a key.”

“Is Ms. Kraken okay?” asked Max anxiously.

“She’s just fine,” replied Nigel, frowning at a newspaper and slipping it to the back. “A bit overtaxed from all the excitement, but she’s recovering.”

Max nodded, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Nigel slid the brown bag toward him, and Max detected the buttery scent of popovers. They were still warm. He wolfed down two, grunting his appreciation.

“Etiquette’s really smoothed out all the rough edges, hasn’t it?” said Nigel, bemused.

“Hnnh enh Mnisses Bessow?” asked Max, taking another bite.

“I beg your pardon?”

Max swallowed, swatting a flake of crust from his chin. “How is Mrs. Bristow?”

“She’s wonderful, thank you. Pregnancy has her in full bloom. I’ve never seen her more beautiful. How are you?”

“Fine,” said Max.

“Hmmm,” said Nigel. The man handed Max a stack of unopened letters. Sorting through them, Max counted four from Julie, two from Cynthia, one from Sarah, and one other whose handwriting he did not recognize.

“Do you mind if I take a look at this?” asked Max. “I don’t know who it’s from.”

Nigel shook his head, and Max opened the envelope.

“Good news?” asked Nigel with a hopeful smile.

“Not so much,” said Max. “Julie’s parents don’t want me to see her anymore.” He spoke in a monotone; the reality of the message had not seeped in. With Max’s permission, Nigel read it for himself.

“Are you angry with them?” Nigel asked, once he’d finished the letter.

“No,” Max sighed. “They’re nice people. I know they’re doing what they think is best. But I would never hurt Julie.”

“I know that,” said Nigel. “For whatever it’s worth, I think they know that, too. From their letter, I don’t think they’re afraid that you would ever hurt her. I think they fear that you—by virtue of who you are—are a magnet for dangerous situations.”

“That demon’s lucky they stopped me,” Max seethed. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Hmmm,” said Nigel. “I think it’s a good thing for all concerned that nothing untoward occurred. Rakshasa are exceedingly powerful, Max. You might have been badly hurt. And from what I hear, we need that particular rakshasa.…”

“Vyndra?” Max scoffed. “Why do we need him?”

“Lord Vyndra is very influential among his kind,” replied Nigel. “And he has little love for Prusias. It’s my understanding that Vyndra believes he should be the ruler of Blys. As you can imagine, this makes him exceedingly useful.”

“He’s a murderer,” said Max. “I saw him hunt a human for sport.”

“I never said he’s a pleasant fellow. Merely valuable.”

“I don’t understand why we have to even deal with them,” Max snapped. “This is supposed to be our land. It seems so cowardly to me, all this bowing and scraping.”

“You would prefer that we simply duke it out, eh? Mano a daemona?” asked Nigel.

“Maybe.”

The man smiled and crumpled the empty bag. “Max, as things currently stand, we wouldn’t last a week,” he said matter-of-factly.

Old Tom chimed three o’clock.

“I’m late as usual,” Nigel sighed. “Max, I promised your father I’d drag you outside to join the kiddies on their playdate. It snowed last night, my boy—everything’s all white and sparkling. Striking, really. If you’re game, I’ll join you. It’s been years since my last snowball fight. Tell me, do they throw terribly hard?”

“Nigel, they’re five.”

“Well, those little beasts can still pack a wallop.”

Within minutes, Max had grabbed his coat, tied his boots, and hurried downstairs. He met Nigel in the foyer and pushed open the doors to see the quad white and twinkling.

This was Max’s favorite kind of snow—clean and fluffy, with just enough moisture for packing. It clung in thick clumps to the tree branches, cloaked the fountain sculptures, and even caked the roof of Gràvenmuir, whose eaves hung thick with icicles. The quad was packed with students commiserating over finals. A carriage rolled past with a clop of hooves, dragging a makeshift plow that cleared the walk. Above the rooftops, starlings and gulls rose and fell on the air currents, crying out in shrill, sad voices.

“Are they in the Sanctuary?” asked Max.

“No,” replied Nigel. “Outside somewhere. Your father said you’d know where—some creek or whatnot with a beaver dam.”

They set out, making deep tracks in the smooth snow.

Rowan rarely bothered to close the great gates anymore. David’s carvings upon the door and the myriad of spells now seemed a quaint design to welcome visitors who traveled the cobbled roads from the outlying farms and small settlements. Max and Nigel walked beneath the high stone arch, and Max expressed his frustrations with teaching.

“Everyone tries,” he said. “Ms. Richter, the Agents … everyone gives it their best. But I don’t know. They just can’t do most of the feats. Even when they Amplify, there’s just something missing. I can’t quite pinpoint what’s wrong, so we’re trying to break things down into their component parts.”

“Very sensible,” said Nigel.

“Yeah, but something still gets lost in translation,” said Max, stopping to read the new sign that had been erected where the road diverged. “Cooper can do one or two, but it’s still not as effortless, as natural as it should be.”

As Max led the way, they left the cobbles and veered onto a woodcutter’s trail that curved through the forest and back toward the ocean. The day was growing overcast, the horizon a deepening gray that promised more flurries. As the sun subsided, the landscape took on a stark beauty of snow and shadow, black branches and green needles. The breeze grew colder, but not unpleasant. Far off, a bell rang from the harbor, its chime clear in the wintry air.

“Are you a wagering man, Max?” asked Nigel.

“Sure,” said Max. “What’s the wager?”

“That bell means a ship, as I daresay you know. Well, if the ship is a Blyssian xebec, I’ll buy you a pound of Mr. Babel’s finest chocolate. If it’s a Zenuvian clipper, you buy Emily the same.”

“Done!” said Max, shaking his hand. “Blyssian xebecs are twice as common as Zenuvian clippers. Ha! Someone made a sucker’s bet!”

“Was it the someone who read this morning’s shipping news?” inquired Nigel casually.

“Oh no,” said Max, sliding between a pair of fir trees to reach a vantage point. He soon found one, a granite ledge that provided a panoramic view of Rowan’s crenellated walls and a peep of Gràvenmuir’s black spires. Far below, the harbor seemed tiny, a child’s play set.

Sure enough, there was a ship. At first, they spied its lanterns—tiny pinpricks of light against the charcoal sea. The black hull was long and narrow, the tall masts built for an enormous spread of sail. Every line and curve suggested a ship built for carrying exotic cargo at speed—a Zenuvian clipper.

“Victory is sweet!” crowed Nigel. “I’ll be sure to have Emily send a thank-you note. Incidentally, she prefers dark chocolate.”

“Mr. Babel’s,” Max confirmed.

“Indeed,” said Nigel. “We all need a bit of chocolate to fend off the chill, although apparently not that fellow. Who’d be sailing for pleasure in these conditions?”

“Where?” asked Max, gazing out at the ocean.

“Down there,” said Nigel, pointing south at a hazy vessel that was bobbing within the shelter of a small cove. Waves crashed upon the nearby rocks, sending up a misting spray that obscured much of the ship. A swell finally pushed the boat higher, allowing them to see it clearly. Max caught sight of gleaming teak and a serpentlike prow. He’d seen that ship before.

It was Lord Vyndra’s yacht.

“What’s he still doing here?” Max muttered.

“Who?” asked Nigel pleasantly.

As though in answer, they heard the sound of the demon’s horn. It came from the south—from land. The long, hoarse call froze the blood and sent birds fleeing from the trees.

“Do you have a weapon?” Max asked urgently.

Nigel’s smile evaporated. “What? Of course not—Max, what’s wrong?”

“Come on!” Max cried, running along the coast toward the sound. Nigel quickly fell behind, but Max could not stop to wait.

“Dad!” he yelled, scanning the woods ahead. No one answered. The daylight was starting to fade as Max hurdled a fallen tree and dashed along a snowy trail that wound toward the narrow creek where the children liked to play.

“Dad!”

No response—just the sighing of the wind and the percussive thump-thump-thump of his beating heart. Ahead, a snowman had been built. Two dark, uneven eyes peered from its white head. Max ran past it, following the many footprints down the slope that terminated at the creek.

He could hear a sound up ahead—a child crying.

“Dad!”

And then he saw them.

The child sat in a pile of cold, wet leaves, while the snow-swollen creek ran over her boots. She was sobbing, her hand clutching Mr. McDaniels’s coat as he lay slumped against a tangle of roots that poked from the creek bank.

“Oh no,” Max gasped, lifting the girl free of the cold water and setting her on the blood-tinged snow. “Dad, can you hear me? Please tell me you can hear me.”

There was a mild splash as his father’s leg gave a sudden kick.

“It’s going to be okay,” Max whispered. “I’m here now.”

Glancing down, he saw a tear in his father’s sweater just below the breast. At first, Max thought it was just a tear in the fabric, until he saw the blood that seeped from it like syrup. Carefully, Max tore the hole wide and quickly unbuttoned the shirt beneath so he could examine the wound.

What he saw made him gasp.

His father held two arrows tightly in his hand—he must have made the hideous wound in his chest when he had wrenched them out.

The girl’s crying became a scream of pitched hysteria. Max tried to block it out while he focused on what to do.

“Okay,” he said, steadying himself. “Okay, okay … we’re going to do this.”

He felt his father’s pulse—weak, but certainly present. He was cold, however … terribly, terribly cold. Max needed to keep him warm while he stopped the bleeding. Pulling off his coat and sweater, Max piled them upon his father, then wrapped his scarf around his own hands so that he could apply pressure to the wound. His father inhaled sharply, stiffening from the pain.

“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I’m so sorry.”

Mr. McDaniels let go of the arrows and fumbled blindly for Max’s hand.

“You’re going to be okay,” Max insisted, seizing the hand and holding it fiercely. “The bleeding’s already slowing. It’ll stop soon. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

Max heard rapid footsteps along the creek. Nigel finally arrived, panting beside him. “Is he alive?” he gasped.

Max nodded.

“Where are the others?”

“I don’t know,” replied Max, trying to maintain steady pressure. “I only found her. I think the bleeding’s stopped, but I can’t carry him like this.”

Raising his hand, Nigel shot a screaming flare of distress sparks into the sky. Their burst reflected in the dark creek, a bizarrely festive light. Nigel sent two more—emphatic bursts that trailed like a funnel cloud down to their location. Crouching, Nigel felt Scott McDaniels’s pulse.

“I’m not getting much,” he said, his face pale with worry.

“But it isn’t bleeding anymore,” Max insisted, peering beneath the scarf. “It’s stopped.”

Nigel’s eyes darted down to the creek. Slowly, he dipped his hands into the water by Mr. McDaniels’s side.

They came up red.

Max stopped breathing.

Clearing his throat, Nigel spoke with unnerving calm. “Max, I think there’s another wound.”

Gently rolling Mr. McDaniels onto his side, Nigel lifted up his shirt to examine his lower back. He went as white as a sheet. Forgoing tourniquets altogether, Nigel immediately placed both hands directly against the injury.

“Do you know a spell?” asked Max, growing frantic.

“Not for anything like this.”

Scott McDaniels’s body shuddered. He had reached some tipping point. Leaning close, Max pressed his cheek against his father’s. “Don’t go,” he whispered. “I’ll be all alone. Please, please stay with me.”

Max repeated the plea over and over. It became a kind of incantation. As long as Max said those words, his father could not go.

There was no little girl crying.

No Nigel.

No creek.

There was only his father’s cold cheek against his warm one.

There were only the words that would keep him here.