one.”
“So try not to worry,” said Max, pulling her toward him. “Cooper may be hunting me, but he’ll have an angry ki- rin hunting him. In the meantime, I have my ring and the fearsome Umbra watching my back. I like those odds.”
Scathach tried to smile, but it faltered. “I won’t rest until he’s taken,” she said gravely. “And you must promise me you’ll always keep Lugh’s brooch with you. You must never take it off.”
“Never?” asked Max, flashing a mischievous grin.
Rolling her eyes, Scathach took up her spear and pointed to the door. “The only thing worse than a haughty hero is one who thinks he’s funny.”
~ 15 ~
The Wanderer
Assuming Umbra’s face and form once again, Scathach escorted Max home. They avoided the refugee camps, keeping to the dark woods until they reemerged along a garden path that wound behind Old Tom and led toward the Manse. Dozens of people were gathered near the Manse’s front steps. Some were armored and mounted on horseback; others wore Mystics’ robes and were positioned in a perimeter around the illuminated fountain.
“Here is where I leave you,” whispered Scathach. “Wish me good hunting.”
With a squeeze of Max’s hand, she backed away and faded, blending like a wraith into the landscape. Turning, Max stepped onto the path and beneath the bright halo of a streetlamp. He had not walked three steps before he was sighted.
“Halt!” cried a harsh voice by the fountain. “Hold where you are!”
Max stopped as three glowspheres converged, circling about him like three great spotlights. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
“It’s me!” he yelled, taking a step forward. “Max McDaniels.”
Squinting, Max saw a dozen archers rise from positions upon the Manse roof, their silhouettes interspersed among the many chimneys.
“What’s Sarah Amankwe’s charge?” called the voice.
“A Cantonese Huang named Su,” Max yelled.
The glowspheres dimmed and zoomed back to their Mystic.
“Come inside, son,” called the voice, sounding anxious and relieved. “Hurry.”
Trotting ahead, Max saw that the speaker was Nolan. Max had never seen Nolan in armor or even carrying a weapon, and their effect was strangely unsettling on such an inherently peaceful, good-natured man. Nolan was smiling, but he also looked careworn and tired. His smile died when he saw Max’s clothes.
“Is that
“It is,” said Max. “But I’m okay.”
“My god,” muttered Nolan. “I’d heard the attack was bad, but I … I didn’t imagine anything like this. I don’t even see where all that blood came from.”
The man’s jaw dropped when Max drew a finger across his throat.
“There’s more to this than I want to know,” said Nolan, steering Max up the steps. “But I swear that if I ever get my hands on William Cooper …” His mouth tightened. “That man is in for a reckoning,” he said, pushing the doors inward. “If Grendel doesn’t make it, I won’t be able to talk any sense into YaYa. She’ll swallow Cooper whole.”
“Nolan,” said Max, “if anyone should want revenge, it’s me. But it wasn’t Cooper who attacked me—it was the demon controlling him. We can’t forget that. He needs our help, not our anger.”
Halting in the foyer, Nolan sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Of course you’re right. But to see Grendel like that and you covered in all that blood … I guess I’m just tired.”
“How is Grendel?”
“Hanging in,” replied Nolan. “He wasn’t poisoned, but that knife went awful deep. YaYa brought him back to the Warming Lodge. We’ll just have to wait and see, but I’m hopeful. Cheshirewulfs are tough as old tree roots. Anyway, the Director has been awful anxious for any word of you. Do you want me to tell her you’re okay, or do you want to tell her yourself?”
“I’ll go,” said Max. “Is she in her office or at Founder’s Hall?”
“The Director’s always in Founder’s these days,” replied Nolan. “C’mon, I’ll take you. We’ve tripled the guards on post, but I’ll sleep better if I’ve seen you there myself.”
Following the declaration of hostilities, Founder’s Hall had been transformed into Rowan’s war room. Almost every square foot of its vast space had been converted to some useful purpose. Upon its curving walls hung enormous maps, lists of regiments, crop inventories, architectural drawings, astronomical charts, and one vast section that was covered with sheets of Florentine spypaper. Despite the late hour, the hall was brightly lit and teeming with activity.
It was difficult to locate the Director amid the hundreds of people and creatures bustling about: Promethean Scholars, Mystics of various specialties, Agents, older students, innumerable domovoi, and a sandstone shedu boasting four unblinking faces. At last Max spotted her at the far end of the hall, leaning upon a table and conversing with an anxious-looking domovoi.
Most everyone was busily occupied, but as Nolan led Max through the hall, people began to notice not only his presence, but also his appearance. Conversations ceased, the silence spreading so conspicuously that the Director glanced up. When she spied Max, initial shock was replaced quickly by an expression of profound relief.
“This must wait, Zimm,” she remarked absently to the domovoi. “Question the lutins and scour the lower vaults. Zenuvian iron doesn’t just walk away.”
As the domovoi and Nolan took their leave, Ms. Richter came around the table to give Max a maternal hug and flick a stray leaf from his shoulder.
“Well,” she sighed, looking him over, “it’s been a long night and you’re a mess, but you’re here on your own two feet and that’s all that matters. I’d jump for joy if Directors were allowed to do such things. Let’s have a private chat.”
He followed her into an adjoining conference room and sat at a table while several apprentices quickly brought coffee, a basin of water, and a clean shirt to replace Max’s bloodstained horror. Sipping her coffee, Ms. Richter grimaced and set it down.
“Who would have imagined that a bawdy, incorrigible hag could be so irreplaceable?” she said. “For all of Mum’s foibles, she didn’t mistake sludge for coffee.” The Director chuckled. “My days are consumed by war—its awful scale and grandeur—and yet the littlest things make such a difference. Now, tell me what happened.…”
Max relayed what he could remember of Cooper’s attack—the ambush, Grendel’s intervention, and Umbra finally driving Cooper off and pulling Max from the fire. He did not mention Umbra’s true identity.
“And you’re certain it was William Cooper,” said the Director.
“Yes,” said Max. “The tent was smoky, but I saw him clearly enough.”
“I’m curious,” mused Ms. Richter, stirring her drink. “This Umbra is the same refugee who slew Rolf Luger. I find that very odd. Unless I’m mistaken, she has now sabotaged two assassination attempts, outdueled the commander of the Red Branch, and promptly healed a poisoned victim with a slit throat. That’s quite a girl. And yet you maintain that you know nothing else about her?”
“Um … yes?”
“Max McDaniels, you are the least competent liar I’ve ever encountered,” said Ms. Richter. “It’s a good thing, too, because you’re not terribly forthcoming. Who is this Umbra? And don’t you dare tell me she’s just some random refugee.”
Reddening, Max gave in and told Ms. Richter that Umbra was none other than Scathach who had crossed over from the Sidh to protect him. The Director raised her eyebrows.
“Well, well,” she muttered. “That is a surprise and a pleasant one. I’ll send word that she should be allowed
