The Eye of Midnight Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Andrew Brumbach

  Cover art copyright © 2016 by Jeff Nentrup

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. The excerpt of Disputatio regalis et nobilissimi iuvenis Pippini cum Albino scholastico that appears on pages 129–130 was translated into English by the author.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Brumbach, Andrew, author.

  The eye of midnight / Andrew Brumbach. — First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: In May 1929 Maxine Campbell and her cousin William Battersea arrive at their grandfather’s house in New Jersey to find that the house is empty—and soon they are caught up in the contest for an ancient Arabian relic called the Eye of Midnight, which several secret societies are willing to do anything to posses.

  ISBN 978-0-385-74461-4 (hc) — ISBN 978-0-385-39069-9 (ebook) — ISBN 978-0-375-99176-9 (glb) 1. Antiquities—Juvenile fiction. 2. Secret societies—Juvenile fiction. 3. Cousins—Juvenile fiction. 4. Grandfathers—Juvenile fiction. 5. Adventure stories. 6. New York (N.Y.)—History—1898–1951—Juvenile fiction. [1. Antiquities—Fiction. 2. Secret societies—Fiction. 3. Cousins—Fiction. 4. Grandfathers—Fiction. 5. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 6. New York (N.Y.)—History—1898–1951—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.1.B8Ey 2016

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015004177

  eBook ISBN 9780385390699

  Cover design by Kate Gartner

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Jacob, Drew, Davis, and Ruby, my pride and joy

  You who must travel with a weary load

  Along this darkling, labyrinthine street—

  Have men with torches at your head and feet

  If you would pass the dangers of the road.

  —the Diwan of Abu’l-ala al-Maarri

  NEW YORK CITY

  MAY 19, 1929

  The hour has come, called the voice of the master.

  The Hashashin watched from his place in the shadows, staring out into the sunlit street.

  “I am a living dagger,” he replied in a hoarse whisper, “thrust by the Old Man’s hand.” He pressed three fingers to his forehead and made a low bow.

  Across the street, the door of the telegraph office swung open, and a heavy, grizzle-bearded man emerged, tucking an envelope into his pocket as he started up the block. The Hashashin followed quickly, stepping from his concealment into the street amid the coughing, growling motorcars.

  The strangeness of this place still unbalanced him, and it was more than these lurching machines in the road. The customs and laws of this country were alien; the speech was difficult. His garments felt awkward and uncomfortable—the coat and trousers, the necktie at his throat, the brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.

  All this was of no consequence, of course. He reached into his coat and found his knife, felt the edge sticky-sharp beneath his thumb, felt the certainty of its weight in his palm.

  Up ahead, the sacrifice moved at an easy pace, pausing to take in the window displays of several shops along the way. The Hashashin held back, moving inconspicuously through the crowds with eyes fixed like barbed hooks on the back of the man’s neck, until finally they arrived at a faded storefront squeezed between a butcher shop and a Chinese laundry, with a window lettered in flaking gold:

  The Hashashin waited while the man unlocked the entrance; then he circled the building and found a rear door. Producing a pair of slender steel instruments from a leather wallet, he picked the lock and slipped inside a dim storeroom, blinking twice as his eyes adjusted to the heavy darkness. A gray Persian cat, startled by his arrival, darted past him and disappeared down an aisle of wooden crates and baled rugs. The Hashashin paused and listened.

  A steady string of thumps echoed faintly in the gloom. The Hashashin crept toward the sounds, weaving his way through the cluttered space like a jackal among the tombs, until he came at last to a standing row of rolled carpets at the back of a small showroom.

  Except for the afternoon rays that filtered through the dusty windows, the store was unlit. It was the same back in the bazaars of far-off Baghdad and Istanbul. In this way the shops were kept tolerably cool even in the oppressive heat of midday. Only when a customer chanced to enter would the hot bulbs above be switched on, illuminating the rich carpets in a magnificent blaze of color.

  There were no customers now. Here in the shadows, old grizzle-beard worked alone in the middle of the floor, heaving a pile of rugs back one by one with a whoosh and a thud, checking his inventory with a series of regular grunts. His task absorbed him entirely.

  Like the rumble of distant thunder, the voice of the master called to the Hashashin from beyond the void.

  His life is forfeit.

  The Hashashin exhaled silently and drew his knife. In an instant, in the space between two heartbeats, the stroke would be accomplished.

  “One breath more, sadiqi,” he whispered as he started to step out into the room.

  At that moment, the door of the shop opened, ringing a bell on the jamb. The carpet merchant looked up from his stack, and the Hashashin froze. Cursing silently, he shrank back into hiding.

  “Mr. Constantin!” said a tall, gray-haired gentleman with a British accent.

  “Ah, effendi,” replied the carpet merchant, beaming. “Excellent timing, old friend! I am only just now returned.”

  The men shook hands, and the visitor removed his hat and smoothed his broad mustache.

  “How are you these days? Business is good?”

  “Tolerable,” said Mr. Constantin with an indifferent wave.

  The visitor nodded, sighing comfortably as he sank onto the pile of carpets. He ruffled his hair and stretched his arms. Then he stiffened.

  “What is it?” asked Mr. Constantin. “Something is wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.” The visitor’s eyes were alert now, probing. “Y
ou’re alone?” he asked.

  “Of course. Except for the cat. Perhaps you heard him chasing a mouse in the storeroom.”

  The Hashashin was seething inside, but he remained motionless. He had no instructions for this contingency. Perhaps both men should fall, though two strokes represented a more demanding test.

  The visitor waited for several moments, listening for even the faintest disturbance of the stillness. None came. His senses chafed, unsatisfied, but at last he shook his head. “Has it arrived?”

  Mr. Constantin nodded and handed him the telegram. “Do you have time for apple tea, Horatius?” he asked.

  “Why not?” said his guest, turning his attention to the contents of the envelope. “I’ve never turned down tea before, that I recall.”

  As he scanned the lines, his jaw tightened in alarm.

  “No,” he murmured. “No…it can’t be.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  The gray-haired man hesitated, as if words momentarily failed him.

  “The enemy has found them,” he said. “After all these years…”

  Mr. Constantin’s eyes widened spectacularly. “And what of the Eye of Midnight?”

  “The telegram mentions nothing on that point,” muttered the visitor. “I’m sorry, but it looks as if I’ll have to pass on tea. I have a train to catch.”

  He took up his hat and put his hand on the shopkeeper’s shoulder, hastening for the door. “Thank you, old friend,” he said in earnest, “and thank Yusuf for me as well.”

  Mr. Constantin shook his head. “It was nothing,” he said. “The debt still stands on my side of the ledger, I think. Besides, I understand what this means to you. You know I would do anything to help.”

  His guest tipped his hat. “Tread carefully,” he said. “The Old Man’s arm is long.”

  Mr. Constantin made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and held it over his heart.

  “Nothing will prevail,” he said.

  “The Cipher does not sleep,” replied the gray-haired man, returning the peculiar salute as he turned for the door.

  The Hashashin knew the visitor’s identity and purpose now, knew also that his only opportunity to intercept the telegram had been lost.

  Furiously, he tore open his garment and pressed the point of his blade to his chest. “I have failed the Old Man,” he whispered.

  Remember the command, rang the voice in his head. Thy death belongs to me.

  His hand faltered and dropped to his side. He knew the creed. His life was not his own to take.

  And yet, blood must still be spilled today.

  Behind him, the gray cat crouched and hissed.

  The Hashashin lifted his eyes toward the carpet merchant, who stood at the dusty window. He gripped his dagger and stepped out into the room.

  THE JERSEY SHORE

  MAY 21, 1929

  The weather turned dirty that first day, the day the cousins arrived in Hendon, back when the whole business was just at a beginning. A yellow taxicab rolled along under a canopy of dark clouds that blew in off the sea, and soon heavy drops began hammering the windshield, falling from a tombstone sky with such intense ill will it was hard to imagine that the sun could ever shine in this particular corner of the world.

  The cab drove on, and the rain fell, and the miles slid past, until at last the car came to a stop, and a young girl no older than thirteen stepped out, ankle-deep, into a puddle. She pulled her suitcase from the back and paid the driver, who left her alone at the bottom of a hill.

  Her gaze moved upward, past a formidable flight of steps, to a house atop a grassy perch that met her stare with a humorless frown, looking more like a fortress than a house, really—smooth stone; high, peaked roofs; and gables and towers beyond number. All something less than delightful, to her way of thinking. Not a flower to be seen, no cheerful curtains framing the dark windows, just a great gray edifice against a gray May sky.

  She started up the hill, her suitcase bumping along behind her as she climbed the steps. Halfway to the top, she stopped and pushed the wet brown hair from her eyes.

  “Just like Anne Boleyn climbing Tower Hill,” she said under her breath, “right before she lost her head.”

  The image was tragically romantic, and she raised her chin with an air of somber dignity. Her suitcase had begun to feel like a load of wet sand, and for a moment she contemplated abandoning it there on the steps before finally resigning herself to her plight. Groaning wearily, she hefted the bag and pressed on.

  By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was soaked through. She looked back to the winding road that had brought her here. The taxicab was far away now, a yellow smudge in the distance.

  She laid the back of her hand to her forehead and let out a mournful sigh, wondering how she looked.

  Like a queen, she hoped. A desolate queen. Desolate but proud. And beautiful. Desolate and proud and beautiful. Watching the car vanish over the horizon, she drew a finger across her throat.

  The rain was stinging now, but she no longer made any effort to cover her head. She took one last look up at the house and back down the long staircase, then turned to the great doorway before her, eyeing the bronze plate above the bell.

  BATTERSEA MANOR, it read, and below that was a strange medallion figured with a single numeral—an elegantly engraved zero.

  “What a strange address,” she muttered to herself. “Welcome to the old family castle, Maxine. Such a lovely place to spend the summer.”

  She rang the bell and for a long time stood waiting on the doorstep. There was no answer or footfall within, so she rang again. Then, not knowing what else to do, she tried the knob. The door opened with a heavy groan, and she leaned through the crack, the end of her nose sluicing a steady stream of water onto the black-and-white tiles inside.

  “Hello?” called Maxine. “Anybody?”

  There was no reply.

  The dry entry hall of a house, even a dark and cheerless one, struck Maxine as a vast improvement over a soggy front porch, and since the door was already open, she stepped across the threshold and glanced about.

  “Grandpa?” she called. Then, as an afterthought, “Colonel Battersea?”

  Her voice echoed down the dim hallway and died somewhere in the distant corners of the manor. The house seemed to be asleep, or perhaps lying in wait. Caesar’s bust stared at her mutely from a pedestal beside the front staircase, and Maxine shivered as the puddle beneath her feet spread slowly across the tiled floor.

  On the wall facing her was a tall blue mosaic framed by a pointed stone arch. Judging by the carved basin set at the foot, it must have been a fountain once upon a time, set into a wall along a dusty street in some far-off place like Cairo or Algiers. The basin was dry now, and the exotic blue mosaic work had been fitted with brass hooks for jackets and hats. Maxine peeled off her wool coat and hung it there, where it dripped mournfully into the stone bath, and she decided she might as well have a look around.

  The mansion was a labyrinth of winding corridors, and Maxine managed to lose herself several times without even leaving the first floor. She roamed the kitchen and the music room, the billiard room and the parlor, but all were empty and silent. The whole house, in fact, was as quiet as a tomb. The only sound at all came from an enormous grandfather clock in the entry hall—an ominous tick-tock that seemed to follow her from room to room and only served to heighten the stillness. She found herself tiptoeing, afraid to disturb the silence.

  At length she came to a pair of double doors. Maxine paused for a moment, then grasped the handles and threw them wide, revealing a long, dark-paneled room inhabited by a great many books. A whole wall of them, in fact, on shelves the length of a train car, the highest of which could be reached only with the help of a wheeled ladder that rolled along on a track.

  For some thirteen-year-olds, an afternoon in the library would have been more or less on par with a visit to the tailor’s shop or an hour in the dentist’s chair. Maxine, how
ever, felt her spirits lift for the first time since she had arrived.

  Her fingers brushed the spines as she walked the breadth of the room. The titles on the lower shelves were not entirely encouraging…Ovid’s Metamorphoses, in fifteen volumes, sandwiched between Disraeli and Milton. Latin dictionaries and German medical books, encyclopedias and botanical folios. She wrinkled her nose at them, as if the pages harbored a colony of creeping parasites. Still, she felt sure there had to be something of interest here, and indeed, as her gaze drifted upward she began to take heart. Huck and Tom, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Long John Silver, the good-natured Mr. Toad—her old friends all regarded her from the upper shelves with silent goodwill.

  The enormity of the collection presented certain difficulties, however. Maxine considered for a moment the proposition of trying to select a single book from such a broad assortment, then grabbed hold of the wheeled ladder with both hands and dashed madly across the room, trundling it in front of her. When the ladder reached top speed, she promptly jumped aboard and began climbing. Her plan was to wait until she had come to a stop, whereupon she would simply pick the first book she saw in front of her. It was a good plan, and would have worked well, too, if the ladder had not hit a sticky spot just as it was slowing down, catching her in an awkward position and depositing her unceremoniously on the hardwood floor.

  When Maxine opened her eyes, she found herself staring up at the ceiling, stunned but unhurt. She turned her head a bit and saw that she had dislodged a single volume, which was lying now in front of her nose. Kipling’s Plain Tales from the Hills. She dusted herself off and collected the old book, retreating from the shelves to find a spot where she could curl up to read.