Free The Second Siege by Henry H. Neff Page B

pretty country near Shropshire. Plenty to eat, too, with all the men off fighting the war and . . . er . . . leaving their families. . . .”
    Bellagrog gave Max a sheepish shrug as her audience began whispering to one another and scooting away. She snapped her fingers to reclaim their attention, leaning forward to continue in a throaty whisper.
    “Let’s just say it was easy living for the Shropes, while those hags what stayed near London had an awful hard time of it. The moral of me little tale is that any blubbering fool will go arunnin’ once it rains, but it takes a smart old bird to find a cozy nook soon as the wind goes still and quiet. And it’s quiet in the world, my lovelies—radio ain’t singing me tunes, telephone’s out half the time. Soon, dark nasties will be digging into cellars. . . .”
    “Dark nasties . . . like hags ?” quipped Connor, poking his head out from the French doors.
    This brought a laugh from the group, but none laughed louder than Bellagrog, whose whole body shook with mirth while she wiped a tear from her crocodile eye.
    “Aye, nasties like hags,” she allowed with a final, convulsive chuckle. “But other things, too—vyes and hobgoblins and older things much too terrible to mention.”
    Max knew the hag reveled in trying to frighten them, but he also saw that there was wisdom and hard experience in her words. Bellagrog was a survivor; it was evident in the way her small red eyes darted about, constantly filtering her environment into threats and opportunities.
    “Sorry to interrupt,” said Connor, “but Mr. McDaniels asked me to look for you—they need you in the kitchens.”
    “Well,” said Bellagrog, swirling her brandy and downing it in one huge swallow, “it’s nice to be needed, ain’t it? And it’s awful nice to be here snug and cozy with the likes of you while it’s getting dark outside. Stay with me, my wee ones, and we’ll wait it out right here—backs against the wall and brandies in hand!”
    With a creak and a snort, the hag eased herself up, followed toward the French doors by the assembled students. Waiting for Julie, Max said her name and tapped her on the shoulder. Without so much as a sideways glance, she breezed past him.
    “What is the matter with you?” shouted Max.
    Several students turned and gaped at Max. But Julie wasn’t one of them. She walked away, her shoulders as stiff and straight as a church pew. Red-faced, Max opened his mouth and shut it again, turning toward Connor. The Irish boy shrugged and stepped closer, sniffing at Max’s armpit.
    “Mystery solved,” he declared.
    “Shut up,” said Max, sinking into an antique chair, utterly perplexed.
    “You know,” said Connor thoughtfully, “we could TP her room, leave a flaming bag on her doorstep—the possibilities are virtually endless. Of course, there are easier ways. . . .”
    Max exhaled and glared at his friend, whose face was now alight with scheming.
    “I’ve told you a dozen times,” said Max, “I don’t want to use Mr. Sikes.”
    “That’s just ’cause Davie scared you off his services,” said Connor. “He’s really a help.”
    “When I need a lemonade, I’ll let you know,” said Max.
    “No,” said the Irish boy thoughtfully, “he’s a lot more useful than that. He listens to me.”
    “If he’s so great, why don’t you have him make Lucia fall madly in love with you?” said Max, smiling. Connor blinked and shook his head.
    “No, no—I mean, if I went whining to Mr. Sikes every time Lucia told me to bugger off, he’d stop answering my calls.”
    “He has to answer your calls,” said Max pointedly. “He’s a demon.”
    “Well, he can’t make Julie fall in love with you,” Connor said quickly, pausing between chimes as Old Tom sounded six o’clock. “I, er, already asked him about that sort of nonsense. I have something else in mind. A brilliant idea—and I know it will work.”
    Max looked at him impatiently.
    “Forget all about