The 39 Clues: Cahill Files: Silent Night by Riley Clifford

the water.
    Slowly, Rupert looked over his shoulder. And there, in the bit of moonlight that had broken through the clouds, a man in black stood watching him. He was tall, with a long coat, a hat pulled down low over his face, and a walking staff in his hand.
    He couldn’t breathe. The Madrigal. Albert’s Madrigal. Fear seized him, like an icy iron clamp around his throat. He was looking into the face of a Madrigal, into the face of evil, of chaos. It would be the last thing he ever saw.
    Rupert was frozen in place, his hands digging into the rusty grate. Blood roared through him, as if it were trying to complete as many laps around his body as possible before he died. As if his whole being were trying to squeeze in just one more little bit of living before all was over. But at least if he died, he would die a Lucian.
    So he did what a Lucian would do. He lied.
    “You can’t stop us,” he said. “I’m not afraid of you.”
    “Gehe,”
said the Madrigal. He swept his arm out toward the river.
“Gehe hin und sündige hinfort nicht mehr.”
    Rupert didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what that meant, and he didn’t understand what the Madrigal wanted from him.
    The popping of gunfire erupted around the corner, and Rupert didn’t really have time to think about translating German anymore. The Madrigal turned quickly in the direction of the cracking of the guns, and Rupert took that opportunity to make a break for it back toward the river. He ran like he was the one being shot at, and he tried to ignore the great
splash
upstream.
    At the river’s edge, he saw something bobbing and flailing along with the current — Marie.
    “Aidez-moi!”
she was gasping as she came nearer and nearer. Rupert spun around, looking for something to use to help. There, on the grass, was the Madrigal’s walking stick. Rupert was loath to touch it, but he grabbed the stick and looked for Marie again. She was farther toward the French bank than the Belgian, so Rupert took a deep breath and ran full force across the top of the bridge. The company that had been crossing was past; they were headed toward the north side of the building, their guns out.
    The major. Rupert’s stomach went cold. But he couldn’t think about that right now. There was another Cahill, and this one was right in front of him. Back in France, Rupert skidded down the slippery bank toward the river again. He waded out waist-deep into the water.
    “Grab hold!” he fiercely whispered, hoping Marie would see him, would grab for the stick. She did, but she didn’t stop. The river kept sweeping her downstream, toward the north. And if Rupert didn’t catch her, she’d go right past the guards. If the water didn’t drown her, they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her. But she held on. Rupert dug his heels into the silt and pulled and pulled until Marie made it close enough to find her feet and the two of them could push each other back up onto shore.
    “Merci, merci,”
Marie kept saying, grabbing Rupert by the face and kissing one cheek and then the other, over and over again.
“Merci mille fois, mon cousin.”
    “I know, I know, you’re welcome,” said Rupert. “Marie, I get it! You’re welcome!” Rupert wiped his cheeks with a wet sleeve. “Where’s the major? Have you seen him?”
    “
Non.
When they started shooting I began to run; I fell down the bank into the river. Is the major dead? What do we do? Do we wait for him?”
    “Your face is blue,” said Rupert. “You need to get to a fire and dry clothes. But we need to find the major. And I don’t know which of those things should be done first.”
    Then, from the other side of the river, down by where the ford had been, came a great roar. Marie and Rupert hurried down to see what it was.
    The major was tearing across the stony break in the rush, holding one hand to his other arm and running as fast as his legs could carry him.
    Behind him, a pair of soldiers was chasing him, firing at his back as