But what, if anything, could Isaac Wolf do about it all?

Something had taken over Colin.

That storm outside wasn’t natural.

A dragon perched in the trees.

Whatever happened to poor Miss Gumble was magic, of the bad kind.

If Isaac was an amplifier, if he could make magic stronger—good and bad magic—he needed to control it at all costs. Because he was sure that not only had evil followed him to Rookskill, he could make—why, he might already have made—the evil worse.

*   *   *

Isaac pushed away from the wall and went down the steps, faster this time. Down and down until abruptly he reached the bottom, facing a great wood door with iron strap hinges and a ring latch. He pulled and the door groaned. He had to tug hard several times to open it wide enough for him to pass through.

The castle—for good or for ill—had led him here. He was meant to be here. Yes, there it was, that hum again, his signal that magic was near. Of the good kind, he hoped.

He squeezed through into pitch-darkness.

It was cold, so cold that he wrapped his arms over his chest. It smelled musty, metallic, and old.

His feet clapped against a stone floor. As he stepped inside, a pale light grew, reminding him of the light that grew inside the Vault, although this light was blue and luminescent. He took another step and gasped.

The room was long and narrow, and the ceiling disappeared into shadow. Lining the walls of the room were figures facing the center, two rows of suits of armor, glinting faintly from their pedestals. The walls behind them were covered with armaments of war—pikes and staffs, shields and banners, axes and blades.

“An armory,” Isaac said into the space. It was cold enough for him to see his breath.

Each of the knights was a little different. They stood straight, staring through helmet eye-slits. Isaac admired the workmanship, the intricate joints, the way the metal was bent to deflect a strike, the tight piecing at shoulders and hips. He walked slowly down the rows.

Then came a noise from behind him, and he turned, fast, fearing Colin-not-Colin and that wolf.

But, no.

One of the knights was no longer standing on his pedestal. One of the knights was now standing in the middle of the room.

Facing Isaac.

With a raised sword.

CHAPTER 42

Isaac

1942

Isaac braced, staring straight into the knight’s empty visor. His hand went to his pocket. There was the watch, and the Adder Stone cuff. Then he pressed his hand to the pendant, cold and hard against his skin. He had magic. “So. What will it be?” he asked the knight.

The knight remained silent. It stood completely still, a ghost knight in heavy armor raising a great sword.