فصل 11

Chapter 11

HE WAS IN an ice cave. The cold of it made his breath crystallize in the air. He could feel it even through his heavy coat, even through his magic. There was a terrible pain in his chest and all around him were the dead and dying.

If he didn’t act quickly, he was going to be one of them.

He had come here to strike at the old and infirm, the weak, because he knew from long experience that fear was more palpable than might. It gave him no pleasure to attack the elderly, children, sick people. Yet the person who cares the least is always the winner and he wanted to win. He was willing to do whatever it took, no matter how terrible, and he was willing to do it himself, not trust it to some underling.

He’d never expected such a weak and infirm collection of people to mount such a response. The Chaos-ridden he’d brought with him were destroyed, fallen in their second death, and he’d been hurt. Badly hurt.

His body was failing, its heart slowing, its lungs drowning in their own blood. He cast about for a new vessel. Sarah Hunt, who’d sent the magical knives into his chest? He’d managed to turn a few of the blades back to strike her and now she leaned against the wall, mortally wounded, watching him with wary, dulling eyes. No, she wouldn’t be alive much longer. He glanced at a few of the grandparents, their bodies protecting children. Dead, all of them dead.

A thin, thready cry went up, and he saw that there was a baby, still alive, held in the arms of a man — Declan Novak, Sarah’s brother. Declan had slumped down against the wall near his sister. The mage made swift calculations. He had no idea whether his Makar power would go with him into this child. He’d always taken care to possess the body of a Makar before — if the power didn’t go with him, then he might well find his end at last.

He took a long and painful step closer to the baby, ignoring Sarah’s cries for him to keep away. The child was wailing, which was a good sign. It was still strong, a survivor, with a shock of black hair and angry waving fists.

A baby. As an infant, he wouldn’t be able to do magic or leave the cave. He would be defenseless. He would have to take the chance that someone came. Worse, he was afraid that the unformed mind would be overwhelmed by the full scope of his memories. And yet, Constantine’s body was fading fast. It would never last long enough for him to find another candidate.

His memories would have to be walled up inside this vulnerable new mind, he decided swiftly. It was a tidy solution in its way — only when he was a mage strong and wise enough to find those memories locked up inside his head would he be able to free them. He would receive all the wisdom he’d once possessed only when he was ready for it. After all, without his memories, how would he ever return to glory?

And he, Maugris, the Scythe of Souls, the Devourer of Men, the Enemy of Death, was intended for glory. Glory forever and ever, for all time.

Taking a deep breath, his last in this broken body, his soul pushed its way out of what was left of Constantine Madden and into the screaming infant that had been Callum Hunt.

This is not the end of me, he vowed.

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Call woke with a scream and then went on screaming. Someone had tied him down to a bed and there were scorch marks on the wall, scorch marks Call didn’t recall making. He didn’t recall the walls either, or the room.

“Call?” It was Jasper’s voice, and for a moment, Call quieted. He knew where he was, after all. Or at least he thought that he did before the room tilted and everything slid away.

Then it seemed to him that he was in a thousand places at once, that there were a host of people passing before him, trying to talk to him. A thousand voices shouting. Mages in Assembly robes, men and women with burned and blackened skin, shaking their fists.

“I defeated you in Prague!” Call shouted back at one of them. “It was I, and I shall defeat you again!” “This is really not good,” said Jasper’s voice. Call found himself back in his body. His wrists were tied to the posts of a large bed whose hangings bore marks of punctures, water damage, and smoke. His shoulders ached.

“It’s me,” Call said. His voice sounded hoarse, and his throat ached. “Where’s Aaron?” I’m here, said Aaron’s voice in his head. Call, you’ve got to get hold of yourself. Push the memories back, wall them up again. You were right — Jasper looked worried. Why he was next to Call’s bed, Call didn’t know. “Aaron’s dead,” he said. “Call? Do you know where you are?” He ran to the door. “Tamara! He’s talking!” A girl raced into the room, her hair flying. Brown skin, dark hair, beautiful. Call knew her but the knowledge was rushing away from him. He gripped the ropes connected to his wrists, trying to hang on. “What’s happening now?” he said. “What happened then?” The girl — Tamara, Tamara — came close to his bed, her eyes full of tears. “Call, what’s the last thing you remember?” “The ice cave,” Call said, and saw both of them stare at him in horror just before he tumbled off the edge of everything.

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He was in a massive stone room. Constantine Madden was pacing back and forth in front of a huge dais made of granite, his customary mask pulled down over his scarred face. On top of the dais was a tomb, and on the tomb lay a body — one that Maugris recognized easily. He knew both Madden siblings well enough. It was Constantine’s brother, Jericho.

Jericho was motionless in death but Constantine was full of movement. He raced from one end of the room to the other, the silver mask that hid half his face gleaming. Over and over he spoke to his brother, telling him that he’d bring him back, that he should never have died, that the Magisterium would pay. Death itself would be destroyed.

Maugris watched with interest. He understood hating death. He had spent generations and centuries avoiding it himself. Looking down at the elegant but wrinkled fingers of his own hand — a woman’s hand this time — he knew he could easily have a decade or three more in this body. And yet Constantine, in his present state, might not last so long. He would burn up — all ambition and impulse and no strategy.

Master Joseph had done good work, separating him from the Magisterium, from the people who cared about him. Maugris allowed himself a moment of pleasure and pride in his cultivation of that mage. A man broken enough to be manipulated, broken enough to break that child, had been an excellent choice for an apprentice. And yet he had never suspected his Master of anything but inflaming his own ambitions. He had certainly never suspected her of being a Makar. The mouth of the woman’s body he wore curled up into a smile.

The last time he rose in power, the last time he had made a bid for taking a bite out of the mage world, was long enough back that they would never connect him with those who had come before. That was the value of lying low for several generations: It gave the world time to forget. But this new Makar had tried some interesting experiments. He had failed to bring back the dead, but he’d given Maugris an idea for an army. An unstoppable army.

It was time to become Constantine Madden.

This has all been and will be again.

Call opened his eyes again, back in the stone room with the bed. The scorch marks were no longer on the wall, but he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined them or if they’d just been washed away. He heard howling — Havoc? Chaos wolves?

“Call?” came a soft voice. He turned his head. “Do you remember who you are now?” Celia was there, her wispy blond hair pushed back with a headband, her face so pale that what stood out was the redness of her eyes. Call frowned at her, trying to place her in his memories. She didn’t like him.

Had he burned down her tower and scorched all her lands? Murdered her family? Spit in her soup? There were so many crimes rushing through his head.

“Call?” she said again. He realized he hadn’t answered.

“You …” he croaked, raising a finger to point accusingly at her. She’d done something, too, he remembered that.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know you must be wondering why I’m here when I’ve been so awful — and I was awful. I was afraid. I had family here at the Magisterium when your father — and you, I mean not really you, but him.” She stopped speaking, clearly having gotten herself tangled up in her words. “When Constantine was at the school, no one thought he would become the Enemy of Death. They knew he was all puffed up about being the Makar and believed he could do things no one else could, but it didn’t seem that bad. Until it did. A lot of my family died in the Mage War, and when I was growing up, they warned me over and over again about how brave I would have to be to stand up to Constantine, but that if someone had, none of this would have happened.” Murdered her family, Call thought. That was what I did to her.

Call, came a voice in his head, a voice that startled him. Call, you have to focus. Push back the memories.

“I know that’s an excuse,” Celia said. “But it’s also an explanation, and I wanted you to have one. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” “Why now?” he wanted to know. Why had she decided to forgive him when she’d been right all along? He wasn’t trustworthy. He wasn’t even sure he was Call.

“You nearly died saving Jasper,” she said. “Constantine wouldn’t have. Maybe he’d have done some of the other stuff to look good, but I couldn’t think of any reason to do what you did other than being Jasper and Tamara and Gwenda’s friend. And then I started to think about the walks we used to take with Havoc and how horrible it would be for everyone to think something bad about me for something I couldn’t control. And then I thought that it wasn’t fair you had to almost die for me to think better of you. And then I heard you weren’t okay and I wondered if things would have been different if we hadn’t — if I hadn’t — ” “It wasn’t that,” he started, but then the room tilted again and he got a lungful of smoke. He was standing on the deck of a ship and in the distance he saw an entire armada on fire. He watched mages leaping into the sea, but when they got to the water, tentacles reached up for them out of the depths. He needed to warn her. The girl. The girl who was sorry.

“There are elementals,” he told her urgently. “Under the waves. Waiting. They will drown you if you let them.” “Oh, Call,” he heard her say, voice soft and broken up by sobs.

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He was lying on a narrow wooden bed. He knew he was dying. His breaths were coming in ragged gasps and his body felt as if it were full of fire.

This was not what he had planned for his life. He had been a brilliant student of the best Magisterium in the empire. His teacher, Master Janusz, had been the wisest and most powerful Master, who had chosen him first at the Iron Trial. He was a Makar who could shape chaos. He had been assured of a long life of power and riches.

And then the coughing had begun. He had dismissed it at first as the product of exhaustion and long nights working in the laboratory he shared with his Master. Then, one night, the coughing had bent him double and he had seen the first red spray of blood across the floor.

Master Janusz had brought the best earth mages to heal him, but they could do nothing. His power had waned with his health, and he had become a prisoner in his garret, eating only when his landlady or Master Janusz brought him food, waiting in a fury for the inevitable.

At least until the day he realized.

He had always known it. The opposite of chaos is the soul. But he had never really, truly thought about what it meant. Since the day he had thought of it, he had lain in his bed, considering the possibilities, dwelling on method, on opportunity … The door to his garret opened. It was Master Janusz. Still a man in his prime, he bustled over to the dying mage’s bedside. The man in the bed hated his former master. How dare he have health and a future when he had already had so many years?

He seethed as Master Janusz fussed with his pillows and used fire magic to light the candle by his bed. The room was already growing dark. He listened as the older mage wittered on about how he would be well soon enough, as soon as the weather was warmer.

“Nonsense,” he said, when he could stand it no longer. “I am going to die. You know it as well as I do.” Master Janusz paused, looking stricken. “Poor Maugris,” he said. “It is a shame. You could have been a great Makar. One of the greatest the world has known. It is a shame and a pity for you to die so young.” Rage came upon Maugris. He did not want pity. “I would have been the greatest Makar history has ever known!” he roared. “The world would have trembled before me!” It was then that Master Janusz made his mistake. He came toward the man in the bed, hands outstretched. “You must calm yourself, my boy — ” The dying mage reached out with all his strength, not of his body but of his mind. The idea that had burned inside him flared into life. He was a manipulator of chaos. Why couldn’t he also manipulate the soul?

He reached within Master Janusz with hands made of smoke and nothingness, and saw the other man’s eyes bulge. With all his strength, he tore his own soul free from its moorings and pushed — pushed it into Master Janusz, hearing the mage’s tinny scream as his soul was forced out into nothingness….

A few moments later the door burst open. The landlady, hearing the commotion, had raced upstairs. She saw before her a scene she had expected: her dying young tenant had expired, white-faced and still in his bed. Master Janusz stood in the center of the room, a dazed expression on his face.

“The boy,” she said. “He died?”

The Master did a very strange thing. He grinned from ear to ear. “Yes,” he said. “He is dead. But I will live forever.” image

“Aaron.” It was Tamara’s voice. “Aaron, I know you’re in there.”

Call opened his eyes. They felt like heavy weights. Celia had gone, if she had really been there in the first place. Tamara was sitting next to his bed. She was holding one of his hands.

But it was kind of strange that she was calling him Aaron. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t Aaron. Except he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t. Memories swirled inside his head — a Chaos-ridden wolf puppy, a burning tower, a monster made of metal, a room full of mages, and he was one of them. One by one he killed them all, so they could never go against him. He watched them fall and laughed….

“I was the Scythe of Souls,” he croaked. “I was the Hooded Kestrel, Ludmilla of Prague, the Scourge of Luxembourg, the Commander of the Void. I was the one who burned down the towers of the world, who parted the sea, and death will die before I do!” Tamara made a choked noise. “Aaron,” she said. “I know you’re in there. I know Constantine is doing this somehow. He’s driving Call out of his mind.” It’s not Constantine. The words swirled up inside Call’s mind. He didn’t quite know what they meant, but they carried an enormous urgency with them. He found words spilling from his mouth suddenly: “It’s not Constantine,” he gasped. “There’s another mage. One even more evil and way more ancient. His memories were blocked up, but we unblocked them and they’re basically blowing up Call’s brain.” Tamara’s eyes widened. “Aaron,” she breathed. Her body jerked forward. “Aaron, you have to save Call. You have to close those memories off! Wall them up! And Call — you have to help him. You have to let him do it.” For a moment, it seemed as though he’d fallen back into the morass of memories, that time slipped and went sideways again, but then there came another feeling, like a cool cloth against his brow. It was the feeling when someone came into your mess of a room and put everything away when you were gone, but in the right places, in the places you’d meant to put things.

“Aaron?” Call said. He was able to separate himself from the torrent again.

I’m here, came Aaron’s voice. Do you know who you are?

“Yes,” Call said. From the end of the bed, Tamara was watching him warily, clearly reserving judgment as to whether Call talking to himself out loud was a good sign or a bad one.

And who exactly is that? Aaron asked, sounding as though he was coaxing a cat.

“Callum Hunt.” He turned toward Tamara. “I’m okay now. I know I’m Callum Hunt. I remember — well, I remember a lot.” She let out her breath all at once and sagged against the footboard of his bed.

“How long was I … like that?” His stomach growled. It had seemed both instantaneous and endless, the cascade of memories. He could feel them still, at the edges of his mind, whispering.

“Five days,” Tamara said, and Call gaped at her.

“Days?” he repeated.

“Let me bring you some food,” she told him, and rose. He caught her wrist on the way to the door.

“I have to tell you some things,” he said quickly.

She smiled a soft smile that was at odds with her usual fierceness. “Later,” she told him, and he was too exhausted and wrung-out to protest. He watched her walk out the door, then slowly and painfully pulled himself into a sitting position. His whole body ached, his leg the worst of all.

In his memories, in those other bodies, his leg hadn’t hurt. But he didn’t miss the feeling. It had been horrible, being that evil, deathless mage. And being caught in those memories had felt like drowning, gasping for consciousness the way he might have gasped for air. He didn’t know how Aaron had controlled them.

Are you okay? he asked Aaron. And then, because they were alone, and he wanted to know: Are you afraid?

Yes, Aaron said. For a long moment, there was only silence in Call’s head. And yes.

Tamara came back carrying plates of lichen and fizzy sweet drinks. Gwenda and Jasper followed her, carrying even more food — sandwiches, pizza — and setting it up where Call could get to it easily without getting out of bed. Soon his blanket was covered with platters of food.

Tamara went back to the door as Gwenda and Jasper sat down near Call. “Okay, we’re supposed to tell Master Rufus that you’re awake, but we wanted to talk to you before we did,” she said in a low voice. Then she snapped her fingers. “And someone else wants to see you, too.” Havoc trotted in. He seemed a little subdued and looked nervously at Call. For a wolf, he had a great side-eye.

“Hey, boy,” Call said in a hoarse voice, remembering how Havoc had flinched away from him in the forest. “Hey, Havoc.” Havoc trotted up and sniffed Call’s hand. Apparently satisfied, he lay down on the floor and stuck his paws in the air.

“Master Rufus thinks you were sick from using too much chaos magic,” said Jasper, but he sounded dubious. That was probably because he’d heard Call raving about his memories and burning down cities.

“That’s not what happened,” Call said. No one looked that surprised. Gwenda took a sandwich and nibbled the edge. “Look, I have to tell you something and I promise it’s the last secret I will ever have. Like if it even seems like another secret is coming my way, I will dodge and weave to avoid it.” Liar, some part of him said. Some part of him that wasn’t Aaron, but that he couldn’t hide from Aaron. After all, Gwenda and Jasper still didn’t know there were two souls inside of him. But at least he had told Tamara. At least he wouldn’t have any secrets from her.

“Okaaaaay,” said Gwenda slowly. “So did you remember being Constantine?” “Kind of,” said Call. “But I remember being someone else, too.”

“Like past lives?” Jasper asked.

“Exactly like past lives if instead of reincarnation, you imagine me as a mage who learned how to push the souls out of living people and put his own soul inside instead.” “Like body-hopping?” Gwenda said, wrinkling up her nose.

“Exactly,” said Call. “Now imagine he only body-hops from Makar to Makar because he doesn’t want to lose his chaos powers. Imagine him — me — shoving the soul out of Makars through history and then becoming different Evil Overlords.” “How many?” asked Tamara.

Gwenda got up and started toward the door. Call sighed. He supposed he should have expected that.

“Where are you going?” asked Jasper, and Call wanted to tell him to shut up, not to make Gwenda say whatever awful thing she was thinking, because Call didn’t need to hear it. But Call didn’t tell Jasper to shut up because he didn’t want Jasper to leave, too. He especially didn’t want Tamara to follow them out.

But Gwenda came back a moment later with a big book called Makars Through History. “Okay,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Were you the Monster of Morvonia?” “I don’t think so, actually,” Call said. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I guess it’s good you weren’t every evil mage throughout history,” said Tamara.

“The Hooded Kestrel?” Gwenda asked.

“I was that one,” he answered. “Unfortunately.”

Her eyebrows went up. Tamara bent to see the page Gwenda was reading from. “Yikes,” she said. “It says here that he used to use his chaos to churn up his victims’ insides. Gross. Like a magical egg beater.” “Do you mind?” said Jasper. “I’m eating lichen.”

“What about Ludmilla of Prague?” said Gwenda.

Call nodded. “I was definitely her.”

“She sent a plague of beetles against the men of Prague when one of them divorced a friend of hers.” Gwenda chuckled.

“No approving of the Evil Overlords,” said Jasper. He turned to Call. “Look,” he said, “we’ve been through a lot together. So much so that I can say that I don’t really care which evil magician you were in your past life.” “Lives,” Call corrected gloomily.

“Water under the bridge,” said Jasper.

“But you were Constantine Madden,” said Gwenda. “Right?”

“I was, but it’s complicated. It looks like the original evil mage, Maugris, tracked Constantine down after he’d become the Enemy of Death. He jumped into his body, and no one ever noticed the difference, probably because Constantine was already pretty evil. It does explain, though, why he never really tried to raise Jericho from the dead after that, just moved him to a mausoleum — Maugris didn’t care.” Tamara shuddered. “I can’t imagine having someone else’s memories thrust at me all at once like that. No wonder you were so disoriented.” Tell me about it, said Aaron.

Call nodded. He very deliberately didn’t say that if his soul had started out in someone named Maugris, then those memories didn’t belong to someone else. They belonged to him, even if he wished they didn’t. “There was one thing, though,” he said. “I — I mean Maugris — was around for a really long time. And he saw some stuff. Like another Devoured of chaos.” For a moment, they were all quiet, looking at him.

“Seriously?” Gwenda said. “You’re not just messing around? Maugris saw a Devoured of chaos?” Call nodded.

“Do you know how to stop Alex?” Tamara asked, looking as though she was holding her breath.

“I have a way,” he said. “Maugris managed to purify the chaos out of the Devoured he fought. According to the rules of alchemy, it took four Devoureds of four different elements to do it. But if we can pull the chaos out of Alex’s body, then we can fight him normally.” I wish I could fight him, Aaron said. I wish I could punch him right in the face.

“So he’d live?” Tamara asked. Call couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or not.

Call nodded. “Maybe if he’d been Devoured longer, then there wouldn’t be as much of him left, but I think he will be strong enough to be dangerous. Remember, he’s still a Makar.” “So he could do it, too,” said Jasper. “He could push out someone’s soul. He could jump into another body when he was dying, just like Maugris.” Call started. “But he doesn’t know he could do that.”

“Come on, Call. Think like an Evil Overlord,” said Jasper. “He knows what Constantine Madden did. He knows how he survived the Cold Massacre.” Tamara nodded. “Jasper is right. We’re going to have to be very careful.” In Call’s head, the beginning of an idea bloomed.

“At least we have a plan,” said Gwenda, picking up a fizzy drink and taking a big gulp. “I thought we were never going to come up with one. This is pretty exciting, actually.” Jasper shook his head, as though mourning the reasonable Gwenda of days past.

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Call thought that after all the being unconscious and raving that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but it turned out that after eating and talking, he was exhausted. Whatever the visions had been, they weren’t restful. Luckily that night he didn’t remember his dreams.

At the bell, he rose, stretched, scratched Havoc, and went out into the common room. Master Rufus was there, waiting for him.

“Callum,” he said. “I am relieved to see you up and moving. We were all afraid for you, an altogether too common occurrence these days. Since Aaron’s death, you’ve been taking far too many risks. How many times have you overextended your magic? How many times have you done magic that would be dangerous even if you had a counterweight, which you don’t.” Call looked down at the floor.

“Choose another counterweight and do it soon. No, that person won’t be Aaron, but they will keep you alive.” Call still didn’t speak.

Master Rufus gave a long sigh. “I can’t tell you to be more careful, not when the Assembly is sending you up against Alex. But if this is about guilt —” “It’s not,” Call said quickly.

Master Rufus put his hand on Call’s shoulder. “Aaron’s death was never your fault.” Call nodded uncomfortably.

He’s right, said Aaron.

“None of this is your fault, Call. That would be like blaming yourself for being born.” Master Rufus waited a moment, as though expecting Call to reply, but he didn’t.

“I’ve been thinking,” Master Rufus went on. “About my own situation. About how one has to sometimes face uncomfortable things.” “Are you going to tell your husband?” Call said. “About being a mage?” The older man gave a rueful smile. “If we get through this, yes.”

There was a knock on the door. Master Rufus went to answer it, swinging the door wide. On the other side was Alastair.

He looked haggard and drawn, as if he hadn’t slept in a few days. His hair was rumpled. “Call!” he exclaimed, pushing past his old teacher. He reached Call and seized him in a hug.

“Your father has been very worried about you,” said Master Rufus, when Alastair stopped thumping Call on the shoulder blades and stood back to look at him. “He’s been staying in the Magisterium since you first fell ill.” “I thought I heard your voice,” Call said, remembering his dad’s words tangled up among the flood of other memories and visitors.

Alastair cleared his throat. “Rufus, could Call and I have some time alone?” “Certainly.” Polite as always, Rufus showed himself out.

Alastair and Call sat down on the sofa while Havoc trotted over to investigate. After nosing at Alastair’s pant leg, he curled up and fell asleep on his shoe.

“All right, Call,” Alastair said. “I know this wasn’t the flu or something like that. What happened to you? You were shouting about burning down cities and marching ahead of armies. Is this something to do with the Enemy?” Be careful what you tell him, Aaron warned as Call opened his mouth. If he thinks you’re in danger, he’ll drag the whole Magisterium into it.

He was right, Call knew. So he told his father an edited version of events: that Constantine’s memories had been walled up in his head, that he had let them loose when he’d thought he needed to save his friends, that they’d overwhelmed him until he’d gotten control and shut them back down again.

Alastair was already half out of his seat. “I don’t like the sound of this. We should get Master Rufus — surely there’s something the mages here can do to make sure those memories either stay put or are removed forever.” No, Aaron warned. If they start fiddling around in here, there’s no telling what might happen.

“Wait,” Call said. “What did they tell you? Did they tell you about Alex Strike?” “The boy who came back as a Devoured of chaos? Yes, but …”

“Did they tell you they expect me to figure out how to defeat him?”

Alastair sank back onto the couch. “You? But you’re just a kid.”

“I’m the only Makar they have,” said Call. “And no one knows how to defeat a Devoured of chaos.” Alastair looked at him in horror. “My car is parked outside,” he said in a low voice. “We could run, Call. You don’t have to stay here. We could lose ourselves easily out in the normal world.” “But then,” said Call, “I think a lot of people would die.”

“But you would live,” said Alastair, intensity in his gaze. It made Call feel good to know that Alastair put Call’s life above everything else in the world, but the only thing that would make Call different from Constantine or from Maugris was if he didn’t.

Again he remembered the Cinquain, the line he’d added: Call wants to live. Again and again he’d thought about it, ashamed. Now that line seemed to cut to the heart of the terrible desire that had led him to become a monster.

Okay, several different monsters.

Call, Aaron said. Everyone wants to live.

And everyone deserved to live. Even if that meant Call put his own life at risk.

“I really have to try,” he told his father. “And I even have a plan. It just — I need some Devoureds to help me. I know a Devoured of fire, but I need three others, for the other three elements.” “And what happens to them?” asked Alastair.

Call shook his head. “They un-Devour him. Regurgitate him. Get him puked up from chaos. And then they wind up being in the same danger the rest of us will be in, fighting a really angry regurgitated Makar.” Alastair blinked a few times. Finally, he shook his head and spoke. “Yeah, I know a guy.” “You do?”

“Up in Niagara. He was in the war. That was when he got Devoured. He might listen if we put the case to him.” “Can you drive?” Call asked.

“What?” Alastair said. “Right now?”

“Right now.” Call stood up and started to wake his friends by banging loudly on their doors.