“But—”
“No,” she snapped. “I love very few people on this planet and I’m not going to lose them all to the Atropos. Grendel is on the hunt again and the Cheshirewulf is better equipped to track his steward than anyone else. If we need your help, we’ll ask for it.”
“Fair enough,” said Max, anxious to change the subject. “Are you teaching again?”
“Just two classes.” She sniffed. “Third and Fourth Year Mystics. I’d like to say my personal life hasn’t affected my work, but those students just took the hardest exam I’ve ever written.”
“Well,” said Max, “just grade it on a curve.”
She glared at him, simultaneously shocked and appalled. “Do you honestly believe in such ridiculous measures?”
Max winced, feeling as though he’d violated some academic commandment. He made to speak, but she raised an authoritative finger and began pacing.
“Tell me,” she demanded. “Are we to lower our standards and applaud a student’s mediocre efforts because it’s simply less mediocre than his or her peers? On the same basis, shall we admit an Agent to the Red Branch because he can do three whole sit-ups while his fellows only managed two? Are these the utterly absurd standards that you would impose upon the world’s greatest school of magic? Well, I submit to you that …”
With a hasty bow, Max retreated.
He left the Archives, climbing up the many steps and passing a handful of winded scholars along the way. Emerging from Maggie’s front doors, he beheld a campus that was settling into late afternoon. Above, the sky was azure; to the west was a thin band of orange as the sun dipped behind the Manse and the hedge woods of the Sanctuary. The air was colder and a light snow was blowing in off the ocean.
Wrapping his cloak about him, Max walked through the woods behind the academic buildings, winding his way among the birches and oaks, conscious of the distant shouts and ring of steel from the refugee camp. But he drifted away from the noise, content to let his boots sink through the crusted snow and let the smell of pine tickle his nose.
At last he came to the clearing where Rose Chapel stood.
The sun had set and the snow was falling harder now. The chapel was conspicuous in the darkness, an elegant building of white stone whose open doors spilled warm yellow light onto the graveyard’s headstones. Poking his head inside, Max saw an elderly chaplain and several domovoi laying out prayer books for the Sunday service. The chaplain spied Max in the doorway, lingering at the threshold.
“Can I help you?”
Max cleared his throat. “Would it be all right if I sat in here awhile?”
“Of course,” said the chaplain, gesturing toward the pews.
Max slid into the nearest row, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. It had been two years since Scott McDaniels’s death. The funeral had been held here; Max could still picture the man who raised him lying in a coffin by the altar. This very chaplain had spoken. Max wondered if the chaplain knew who he was. He almost certainly did, but at least he had the decency to let Max be—not to preach or pry but to simply let him sit in this quiet space of wood and glass and stone.
When they’d finished with their work, the domovoi filed out. The chaplain followed behind, stopping only to set a lantern by Max’s feet.
“Stay as long as you like,” he said. “No need to lock up.”
Max lingered for another hour, savoring the silence and the warm glow of the yuletide candles set within the alcoves and windows. At last he rose and left the chapel, closing the door gently behind him and gazing out into the dark churchyard. Snow was still falling, the flakes settling softly onto the gravestones.
Holding the lantern, Max walked the rows of the dead, shining its light upon each headstone until he found the one for Scott McDaniels. It was a modest slab of pale granite with the proper letters and numbers chiseled into the hard stone. Kneeling, Max brushed away the snow and wiped away the bits of dirt and grass that had accumulated upon the foundation.
Rolf’s grave was easier to find. There were still flowers propped against the headstone, half-frozen roses and lilies left over from the funeral. As Max arranged them, he found a medal buried in their midst—an award the boy had won in Mr. Vincenti’s class. Polishing its surface, Max hung it around the headstone so that it dangled next to Rolf’s name.
There were no flowers at Byron Morrow’s grave. It was a small plot near the woods that ran along the churchyard’s boundary. He’d been buried next to his wife, Elaine. Her headstone was weathered, the corners worn smooth by many rains and winters. But Mr. Morrow’s was new, its edges clean and sharp as Max knelt to brush the snow away.
He had just finished when he noticed that someone was watching him.
The figure was standing in the woods, just beyond the lantern’s light. It did not move, but there was something unsettling and sinister about its quiet surveillance. Drawing the gae bolga, Max hoisted up the lantern.
“Who is that?” he hissed. “Show yourself!”
The figure glided smoothly forward, emerging from the dark wood so that the lantern shone full upon his white and smiling face.
It was Astaroth.
~ 12 ~
A Watcher in the Wood
Max stared, disbelieving, as the Demon came forward. The last time Max had seen Astaroth, he had been radiant and white—a luminous image of terrible power. Now his raiment was less glorious, more subdued. He wore a simple black robe and leaned upon the very staff he’d been carrying when he pursued Max and David in the Sidh. The Demon’s face was the same—a gleaming white mask of patrician, almost genderless beauty framed by smooth black hair that hung past his shoulders. His fathomless black eyes crinkled into cheerful slits as he spoke in his honeyed tenor.
“Now it is the time of nightThat the graves, all gaping wide,Every one lets forth his spriteIn the church-way paths to glide.“Are we communing with the dead?” he inquired pleasantly.
“I’m imagining this,” Max murmured, watching the Demon’s image grow translucent and flicker in the lantern light. “You’re not here—you’re skulking, lurking, hiding from Bram. You’re just some mischievous spirit, some watcher in the woods.”
The Demon gave a knowing smile. “I’m the watcher in all the woods,” he replied softly. “And I am here. Not in the flesh, alas, but then I can’t risk getting close to that awful blade. What a crime to craft such a weapon. You will never be free of it. You’ve made a bargain with the Morrígan, my boy, and blood is the only coin she takes.”
Frowning at the gae bolga, the Demon’s expression became thoughtful, almost melancholy.
“Dismiss your silly thoughts of violence,” he said. “When I’m in this form, we cannot harm one another. I’ve merely come to talk with you, Max, to appeal to your good senses and save you from the path you’re on.”
“Of course,” said Max scornfully. “You’re here to save me.”
“Yes, I am,” replied Astaroth. He gazed about the churchyard and the falling snow and sighed. “You and David and all the rest have done such foolish things,” he lamented. “It tries even my patience. I resurrect this beautiful world, give you a veritable Eden scrubbed clean of mankind’s mistakes, and you’re determined to throw it all away.”
Max’s face darkened. “This is your Eden? A world of war and death and fear?”
“Tut-tut,” Astaroth chided. “Where is your vision? I suppose it’s not entirely your fault—it’s the human in you. But try to have some perspective. We’re merely baby steps into a grand project, but already the old cities and governments and even memories are gone, cleared away so that a new and better world can take their place. Will death and heartbreak accompany such massive upheaval? Of course they will. When a farmer tills his fields, the ants must scatter or perish. But very soon, new life is created. The land and the ants are better for it.”