Reapers - Thirteen Brothers

XXXIII - Max

 

The awkwardly tall, skinny man in front of me looked familiar. Long narrow pale face. A slightly hooked nose between high cheekbones. I thought I had seen him in one of the pictures Archie showed us a few days ago. The alluring pale silver eyes said it all. Though he wasn’t exactly as beautiful as the rest of his brothers, he was unmistakably one of them. One of Reaper’s sons. Based on his height and body built alone, I knew he wasn’t the mystery intruder who sabotaged the Gates in Centralia. But he could still be an enemy. In panic, I started to flick my wrist to summon my Cataclyst.

With some interest, the newcomer looked at my hand. “You don’t want to do that,” he said, still smiling casually.

The incredibly huge cat and the fruit bat were both silent but alert of my every movement.

Stay put. Don’t do anything rash. Vincent replied in an urgent tone.

I let my Cataclyst falter before it could even form. Before I knew it, Vincent and Byron Flynn were already in front of me. For a moment, no one said anything. The cat and Byron Flynn growled menacingly before they pounced at each other. They tumbled on the floor, both baring a set of sharp teeth, snapping wildly at one another’s necks. The cat’s fangs were about more than five inches so Byron Flynn didn’t exactly have the upper hand.

Before I could even think of joining the fight, Vincent grabbed my arm and whispered, “Don’t panic. Look.”

Byron Flynn was on his back while the giant furry cat bit one of his legs. When the cat let go, there wasn’t any wound or bite mark. In retaliation, Byron Flynn tackled the cat and playfully tossed it like an oversized toy. The cat landed on all fours and they began chasing each other all over the hallways. Maybe it was their disturbing idea of playtime.

“Well, isn’t this a development?” the man said, uneasily tugging the collar of his off-white turtleneck undershirt. “I see you finally took a familiar, Vincent.”

Vincent straightened and offered a hand to the newcomer. Instead of shaking it, the tall man looked at my master’s hand and gave us a rueful smile. He shrugged off his dazzling Nysmic coat and started fanning a gloved hand on his face as beads of sweat formed on his wide forehead. I noticed a Roman numeral eight etched on the inner aspect of his right arm. The Eighth Son.

“There’s always a first time for everything, Max,” Vincent answered without moving a facial muscle.

“And you’ve chosen well,” mumbled the man called Max, not even blinking as his silver eyes swept on me from head to toe. Gently, he took my hand from Vincent, making me jump a bit. “Maximilian Herondale, at your service, Miss…”

“A-Aramis… Aramis Rayne,” I stammered. I didn’t like the way he looked at me.

“A pleasure,” Max said, leaning over to touch his lips on the back of my hand.

Quickly, I took my hand from him. Just then, Vincent pulled me beside him. I dropped my gaze on the floor; a trick I learned from Mei. Apparently, familiars weren’t supposed to look at masters directly in the eyes. Doing otherwise would be disrespectful. The Sinclairs didn’t mind breaking old traditions but this guy might.

“So what brings you here?” Vincent finally asked as we walked along the dimly lit corridors heading to the study room.

The two brothers walked side by side. I followed, head lowered, keeping a couple of steps behind, watching as the shadows cast by the magnificent shell lamps frolic on the floor. Another ancient rule. Familiars should always walk behind the masters. So I did.

“Louise,” Max called shakily and the fruit bat perched on his shoulder tilted its gray head. “Go find Antoinette. Make sure she doesn’t break anything in the house until I summon the two of you.” After that, he reluctantly faced Vincent. “Business, as usual.”