Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“How did he manage that?”

“As you know, he once possessed the Book himself. Before he hid it in the Sidh, he studied its pages and realized just how powerful it could be. It disturbed him that someone could control, change, or even destroy him using his truename. My grandfather is not the sort to leave himself so vulnerable and thus he removed his own truename from the Book.”

“But wouldn’t he cease to exist if he did something like that?” Max wondered.

“I’ll spare you the alternate-universe theories, but yes—if he had removed his own name in this world, he would have effectively destroyed himself. Instead, he used the Book to create another tiny world—no more than an extradimensional pocket. And once inside this new world, he gave himself a new truename, one that tied his origins to this little place of his own creation. Once he had achieved this, he removed his former truename from the Book of Thoth. Because of these precautions, he is effectively beyond the Book’s reach. Since my mother’s and my truenames stem partially from him, we inherit this immunity. The Book can only manipulate those whose origins are tied wholly to one world. That is why you are also immune from its direct control—your truename has roots in this world and the Sidh. If Astaroth wants to destroy us, he’ll have to do the job himself … or get others to do it for him.”

“Which is why he’s bribing me to turn on your grandfather,” Max concluded.

“Precisely. Max McDaniels might be able to destroy Elias Bram with the gae bolga , but the Book cannot. And at the moment, I don’t believe Astaroth can either.”

“You think Walpurgisnacht weakened him?”

“I do,” said David with evident satisfaction. “Alas, he’s not weak enough for someone like me to tackle him, but I believe Astaroth is legitimately afraid of my grandfather. I think he is waiting … biding his time for the wars to play out and to see who survives. He is nothing if not patient.”

Max stood, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Stretching, he walked to a washbasin to splash some water on his face.

“Thanks for listening,” he said. “I do feel better—it’s no good to keep a secret like that, and I’m glad to hear there are some things beyond the Book’s reach.” He glanced at the fire. “Should we throw on another log or do you want to get something to eat?”

“I’m meeting Cynthia, Sarah, and Lucia for dinner,” replied David. “They’ve just finished up exams. Why don’t you join us?”

“Okay,” said Max, rubbing uncertainly at his sandpapery chin. “We can go to the Hanged Man. It’s nice and quiet in there.”

“Normally I would be in full agreement,” sighed David. “But Lucia laughed me down when I proposed it. Apparently the Pot and Kettle’s the place to be.”

Judging by its overflowing crowd, the Pot and Kettle was indeed the place to be. It was located on a corner of the township’s main avenue in a handsome building of pale stone with a wraparound porch and sky-blue shutters. The porch was already teeming with people when Max and David arrived, bundled up students and teachers and wealthier refugees enjoying hot cider or a pipe while waiting for their tables. As they stepped onto the porch, Max thumbed his ring. The metal’s coolness was reassuring, a reminder that no evil spirits or possessed servants of the Atropos were lurking nearby. David craned vainly about to find their friends among the crowd.

Max saw them almost immediately. The three girls were standing on the porch near a far pillar, a trio of viridian robes as they laughed and sipped their ciders. Cynthia Gilley was the tallest of the three, a round-faced English girl with reddish-brown hair and a friendly, earnest bearing. Spying Max, she grinned and waved them over.

“Look at you!” she crowed, giving Max a sisterly hug. “All we hear is that you’re injured, knocking on death’s door, and you show up looking like Prince Charming. Shame on you! And, David, might I say you look very elegant with your cane. Dashing, even.”

David beamed and stood on tiptoe to give Cynthia a shy kiss on the cheek. She blushed and he did the same, causing Max to raise an eyebrow. Resisting a strong temptation to comment, he instead leaned over to Sarah.

“Thanks for the note,” he said. “I was afraid you’d be angry at me for … for what happened.”

“Nonsense,” said Sarah, squeezing his hand. “Rolf’s death was not your fault. It’s not even Umbra’s. I blame the Atropos, and when I’m an Agent, I’m going to put them out of business. You mark my word. Lucia’s going to help me.”

“Assolutamente!” declared the Italian beauty, her dark eyes fierce and resolute. Turning to Max, she leaned forward and kissed him in the distracted European fashion, a peck on each cheek, but her hands were clutching something boxy beneath her robes.

“What is that?” asked Max, careful not to knock it.

Lucia hissed at Max to be quiet while rearranging her robes and glancing about to see if anyone at the restaurant had noticed.

“It’s Kettlemouth,” whispered Sarah, referring to Lucia’s charge, an enormous red bullfrog from a magical breed known as Nile Croakers. “He’s been sick and Lucia won’t go anywhere without him. She’s been sneaking him into classes, exams, the dormitory showers. You can imagine how that went over. I told her to leave him at home, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Max gave Sarah a knowing look. Lucia Cavallo was not only a paragon of Mediterranean beauty and a gifted Mystic, but she was also haughty, opinionated, and notoriously demanding of her friends. Fortunately, these less desirable qualities were offset by a deeply loyal and protective nature. Lucia might drive her friends to an early grave, but no one would weep harder at the funerals.

Eyeing the crowded porch, Max gave a worried glance at Sarah.

“What if he sings?” he whispered nervously. Kettlemouth was often drowsy and seldom made a peep, but on rare occasions he suddenly burst into song. These ballads were infused with a love enchantment so powerful they didn’t merely reduce the listener’s inhibitions but eliminated them altogether. A quiet library might suddenly turn into a madhouse of breathless smooching and stammering sonnets as every unspoken crush or budding attraction suddenly flared into full, unrestricted bloom. The Pot and Kettle was bursting to the gills; an untimely performance would be pandemonium.

“Sing?” scoffed Lucia, wheeling on him. “My baby can hardly eat, much less sing! I knit him silly hats, I massage his toe pads, and still he just puffs his gorgeous cheeks and blinks.”

“Didn’t he just kind of do that before?” Max wondered.

Lucia almost erupted into a frenzy of Italian when Cynthia headed her off.

“What does Nolan say?” she inquired delicately.

“Oh, what does he know?” grumbled Lucia, patting the carrying case. “The dryads suggested some oysters to perk up my dumpling. We will see. Anyway, nothing is going to spoil my big surprise.”

“You should just tell them,” said Sarah impatiently.

“Over dinner,” demurred Lucia, rolling her eyes at an admiring Sixth Year.

Fortunately, they did not have to wait very long for a table. Handing Kettlemouth to Cynthia, Lucia promptly knifed through the crowd to beg a word with the busy proprietor. Max saw her flash a singularly winning smile even as she pointed back to their party and at Max and David in particular. The gentleman nodded, a waiter was summoned, and the five were promptly whisked to a choice banquette in a candlelit corner. Many of their fellow diners eyed the party as they crossed the room. Some appeared awestruck, some discreetly curious, and still others looked vaguely hostile—as though the presence of Max and David boded ill. While Max was highly conscious of the stares, he was even more so of his ring. Its metal remained cool. Pushing it from his mind, he tried to relax and enjoy the company of his friends.