The Vault of Destinies (James Potter #3) (36 page)

"Levitate you," Ralph nodded. "You want me just to see if I can levitate you right up there?"

James shook his head. "Too obvious. If I climb, I'll stay in the shadows, so there's less chance of getting caught. That moon's like a searchlight tonight. Just be ready."

"Get it over with," Ralph said sincerely, slipping the duffle bag from his shoulder and offering it to James. "My stomach's in knots already. Maybe we should have just gone for Igor House after all."

James shook his head. "No turning back now, Ralph. Don't worry, this'll all be over in a few minutes."

Ralph nodded, unconvinced but committed. James shouldered the bag and then turned toward the building. A series of narrow iron stairs and balconies clung to the rear of Administration Hall, stretching all the way up to the roof. James clambered up the first level as quietly as he could. Before long, the campus fell away beneath him, stretching out so wide that he could see the stone wall that surrounded it. Beyond the wall, the city of Philadelphia sparkled with lights, and James had time to wonder what year they were currently occupying. After only a few minutes, he reached the top level of the fire escape. He peered up at the bell tower that loomed before him. It seemed much larger this close up, each of the four bells approximately the size of a giant's head, but far less lumpy. All around the inside of the bell tower, pigeons roosted by the dozens, dozing amid messy nests. James turned around and leaned over the railing. Far below, Ralph peered up at him, his face a round white dot in the darkness. James gave a halfhearted wave, and then turned and clambered up onto the angle of the roof, reaching for the wooden railing of the bell tower.

The inside of the tower stank of pigeon guano and age. A narrow wooden walkway ran around the perimeter of the tower, overlooking the dizzyingly deep throat of the tower. James held his breath and looked around. On the other side of the bell tower was a rickety circular stairway, leading up into the rafters. James made his way toward it, trying to ignore the squeak and groan of the planks beneath his feet. As he began to climb the narrow staircase, circling its central post, a wave of vertigo overtook him. The duffle bag felt very heavy and awkward on his back as he gripped the railing. He squeezed his eyes shut until the sensation passed, and then continued onward carefully.

An unlocked trapdoor opened easily at the top of the stairs and James clambered cautiously up onto the narrow floor of the belfry. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath and hugging the floor, afraid to look up, and a subtle noise pricked his ear. Slowly, he pushed himself upright and raised his head. The raftered ceiling of the belfry was black with bats. They shuffled and squeaked faintly, watching James.

His eyes went wide and he uttered a strangled little squeak of his own, getting his feet beneath him as he hunkered on the floor. He peered around and saw the ladder on the belfry's right side. It was made of ancient painted wood, attached to the outside of the belfry beyond the low railing. Scuffling, James moved toward it. Beyond the railing, the wind switched suddenly, hooting in a nearby drainpipe. James shuddered. Finally, he leaned on the railing and reached over it, gripping the ladder. As carefully and quietly as he could, he pulled himself over the railing and clung to the ladder, which creaked ominously. Probably, it was magically fortified, as were nearly all old magical structures. Still, the ledge of roof some twenty feet below seemed horribly narrow and the drop beyond that perfectly harrowing. James tried not to look. He gritted his teeth and began to climb.

Fortunately, there was one more trapdoor above the ladder, leading to a very narrow walkway around the conical roof of the belfry. James heaved himself up onto it and leaned against the angle of the narrow roof, breathing hard. With his foot, he kicked the trapdoor shut, not wishing to fall through it by accident. Above him, the huge old American flag, Old Betsy, flapped in the breeze. Finally, James worked his way partly around the cone of the roof, knelt in its shadow on the wooden walkway, and unslung the duffle bag from his shoulder. He began to draw out the Zombie flag, careful not to let the wind catch it and carry it away.

Suddenly, shockingly, James heard a scuffle of footsteps. They were very close by, but indistinct, lost in the rush of the wind. James froze, his eyes going wide.

Zane had said that the school administration was on the lookout for students engaged in the flag switch escapade. Had they seen him? Were they climbing up to catch him in the act? There was absolutely no place for him to hide. James peered around, but he could no longer see the trapdoor around the shape of the roof. He hunkered back against the old shingles, trying to blend in with the shadows as well as he could.

The scuffling came again, stealthy and quiet. Someone was sneaking up on him, apparently, trying to catch him by surprise. With a sigh, James decided that there was nothing for it but to turn himself in. He dropped the Zombie flag into a heap on top of the duffle bag, stood up, and found himself staring into the pale, surprised face of his own brother.

"James!" Albus rasped, and James realized that his brother had his wand in his hand. "What are you doing here?"

James looked his brother up and down and made a very quick deduction in his head. He sighed. "Same as you, apparently. Where's the Werewolf flag?"

"Back behind me," Albus said, stifling a laugh. "Is that…?" he asked, pointing his wand at the wad of fabric next to James' feet. James nodded.

"You're switching the flags," James said. "Same as me. Did you know?"

"Not likely!" Albus replied in a harsh whisper. "Altaire said that no one else was going to do it this year because the heat was too high with the administration. So now what do we do?"

James didn't hear his brother's last question. Another scuffling sound came from behind him and a shadow rose into view. James saw a wand raised in a dark hand, pointing at Albus from behind.

"Al!" James cried, scrambling to produce his own wand. "Behind you!"

Albus turned, but not before the figure struck.

"
Petrificus Totalus
!" a female voice barked, and a bolt of magic seared from the upraised wand. It passed over Albus' shoulder and struck James squarely in the chest. He went immediately stiff, frozen in place, and began to totter backwards.

The figure flicked her wand again and the Zombie flag at James' feet rose up like a cloth snake. It coiled around James' waist and knotted, leaving a long length behind it.

"Grab that, pledge," the female voice said briskly.

Albus scrambled and snatched at the length of flag that trailed from James' waist. A second later, the cloth went taut, catching James as he fell backwards against the old railing, breaking it.

"Ugh," Albus grunted, shifting his stance and wrapping the length of flag around his fists. "You're heavy. You know that, James? You need to lay off the Cockroach Clusters a bit."

"This is your brother?" the figure asked, and James now saw that it was the dark girl from Werewolf House, the one that had made Albus do pushups the day before.

"Sir, yes sir!" Albus answered immediately.

The girl smiled tightly at James. "Lesson number twelve from the Werewolf handbook, pledge. Let me hear it."

"'He who strikes first strikes best'!" Albus announced, still struggling to hold onto the length of flag. James leaned back on his heels, frozen like a statue, but dreadfully aware of the precariousness of his position. Below him was only dark space, full of wind and the shush of the chestnut trees on the Hall lawn.

"That's lesson number six," the girl said. "But still appropriate, so I'll let you off this time. Number twelve is 'all's fair in love and war…'"

"'And there's nothing other than love and war!'" Albus finished confidently.

"Good work, pledge," the girl nodded. "Hold on while I raise the Werewolf flag."

James' heart pounded as he watched the girl produce the flag from a camouflaged backpack. The flag was folded into a neat triangle shape, which she unfurled with a tap of her wand. A moment later, she used her wand to operate the pulleys of the flagpole, which jutted from the roof 's cone. With practiced economy, she switched the flags, folded Old Betsy reverently, and secured it in her backpack.

"Operation Capture the Flag is complete, pledge," she said, straightening. "Which only leaves us to manage our prisoner of war. We have to assume he isn't alone, but Raphael has probably already secured any hostiles on the ground. Can't leave this one up here to replace the flags again once we decamp, which leaves us only one option. Lesson number three from the Werewolf handbook, pledge."

"'Neutralize any potential threat!'" Albus quoted immediately. Behind him, the girl knotted the long end of the Zombie flag around a length of copper drainpipe. She smiled grimly.

"You do the honors, pledge," she said. "Prove your Werewolf worthiness."

Albus glanced over his shoulder at her, and then turned back to James, his face vaguely apologetic, but only vaguely. He smiled crookedly. "Sorry, James," he said. "Lesson one in the Werewolf handbook: 'A Werewolf 's gotta do what a Werewolf 's gotta do.'"

James tried to shake his head, but the spell still had him perfectly frozen. Albus let go of the flag and James immediately dropped backwards, tipping over the edge of the rooftop walkway. He fell for one sickening second, and then jerked to a halt, caught by the flag that was knotted around his waist. An explosion of noise suddenly surrounded him as the shock of his fall startled the bats in the tower belfry. They squeaked and boiled into the air, their wings thrashing all around him. A moment later, the noise of the bats' departure died away and James swung gamely, turning dizzyingly on the end of his unusual tether. One of the bats perched on his head, squeaking amiably.

Nearby, he heard the diminishing tramp of footsteps on the ladder as well as the infuriating sound of smug, stifled laughter.

"You two," Warrington said after a long fuming pause, "seem to have some basic misunderstanding of how the whole flag switch dare is supposed to go down."

James slumped in the rickety chair in the attic office of Hermes House. Next to him, Ralph sighed and stared hard at the stained yellow carpet. Warrington leaned on the wobbly old desk, all four of whose legs seemed to have folded wads of paper under them.

The Zombie House office was tiny and crammed with bookshelves despite its noticeable lack of books. The shelves were, instead, heavy with unusual odds and ends, brick-a-brack, piles of unopened post, tools, amusingly shaped papier-mâché art projects, and the occasional skull, most wearing sunglasses and plastic noses. The wooden door was covered with a nearly life-sized poster photo of Theodore Hirshall Jackson caught in a stern pose, wagging a long finger at the viewer, his dark brow lowered. Construction paper letters were tacked above the poster's head, spelling out the words 'I WANT YOU to GIVE ME A HUG AND A COOKIE'.

Warrington stood up straight and paced along a narrow path worn through the room's detritus, passing between the desk and the single round window. "The point, you see," he went on in a strained voice, stabbing his right finger at his left palm, "is to
not
make Zombie House look like a bunch of bumbling nincompoops. Anything beyond that is, frankly, gravy. Gravy!"

Warrington punched an inflatable doll made to resemble a rather ghastly clown. It bobbed on its weighted base and swung back, squeaking.

"They were Werewolves," Ralph moaned weakly. "I barely saw them before they dropped on me like a piano. They were wearing camouflage! They had bits of bushes stuck to their hats! I thought I was being attacked by some kind of weird American dryad monsters!"

"They were
Werewolves
!" Warrington hissed, rounding on the boys, his eyes wild. He struggled to compose himself and swiped a hand over his face, sighing vehemently. "Look. You're new here, so I'll give you a helpful little lesson on the intricate societal politics that define life here in the hallowed halls of the Aleron.
We hate the Werewolves
. Here endeth the lesson. Got it?"

"But they had actual members helping out the pledge, who just happened to be my brother," James rallied. "They attacked us before we had a chance to react!"

"That's how Werewolves work!" Warrington cried, exasperated. "They're Werewolves, for Zark's sake! To them, everything's a battlefield! Their one weakness is when people yank the battlefield out from under them!
That's
the
Zombie
way!"

Ralph raised both hands, palms up. "But what could we have done?"

"Gummy shoes!" Warrington rasped, deadpan. "Stick them to the ground like flies on flypaper! Or the Jelly-Legs Jinx, or Tickling Hexes, or even spontaneous explosive intestinal gas. You can't just face down a Werewolf, you have to embarrass them. Their insufferable pride is their ultimate weakness. Any Zombie knows that!"

"Sorry," James said miserably, "we're new to all of this. They got to us before we had a chance to respond. We'll do better next time. Give us one more chance!"

Warrington boggled at James. He spluttered, "They left you hanging by the Zombie flag from the belfry landing! The entire school saw you up there before Franklyn was able to get you down! You made us a laughingstock! Zombies
do
the laughing, pledge! Not the other way around!"