The Second Siege by Henry H. Neff

concerns.
    “Nah,” said Bellagrog with a dismissive wave. “Jumped ship in Boston and made my way up. Had to nose around the woods a bit, but I found the place sure as Sunday.”
    “What brought you here?” asked Bob as he rummaged through a freezer.
    “Things gettin’ awful bleak out in the wild, Bob,” said the hag with a sober nod. “Right smart of you to get out when you did! Humans just don’t let their wee ones wander about and play the way they used to, and, well . . . a girl’s got to eat!”
    The bloated hag gnashed her teeth and gave a mischievous chuckle. Mr. McDaniels turned green and placed a protective arm around Max, causing the hag to roar with laughter.
    “Aw, a good father you are, Scott, but not to worry, love. I know these young ones ain’t for eating. Wouldn’t dream of insulting me hosts! I’ll catch my dinner in that cute little town outside the gates—lots of tourists, by the looks of it!”
    Mr. McDaniels groaned.
    “Perhaps we can have a second sniffing ceremony,” volunteered Bob. “I’ll ask the Director.”
    “What the blazes is a ‘sniffing ceremony’?” asked Bellagrog, glancing at Mum.
    “It’s so we . . . don’t bother anyone here,” mumbled Mum, failing to meet her sister’s eye.
    “And you do this, do you?” asked Bellagrog.
    “Yes,” said Mum meekly.
    “Should be ashamed of yourself, you should!” scolded Bellagrog, wagging a sharp, stubby finger under Mum’s nose. “Imagine a Shrope submittin’ to something like that!”
    “If you want to stay, you’ll have to do it, too,” said Mum quietly.
    “Pshaw!” said Bellagrog, stalking away to shake the radio, which now issued only static. She squinted at the dial and adjusted it, but no stations came through. “Well,” she said, “that’s it for Ella, I guess. So, Bob, how ’bout I get cracking on those soufflés?”
    “That would be very nice,” said Bob, directing Bellagrog to a refrigerator stocked with eggs, milk, and cream. Bellagrog immediately set to laying out bowls and pans, whisks and spoons in an efficient array.
    “But I can make a soufflé,” protested Mum, tilting a tear-streaked face up toward Bob.
    “I know,” said Bob gently. “But I need you on the roasts. Nothing’s more important than the main course, Mum.”
    “Yes,” said Mum, practically shouting in the direction of her sister. “The main course is terribly important! Much more vital than dessert! Children never forget a good roast!”
    Mum snatched up a cleaver and shambled off into the meat locker, her cheeks pink with pleasure. Max took advantage of the momentary quiet.
    “Dad,” he said, “I want to tell you something that I did last night, so you hear it from me and not anyone else.”
    Mr. McDaniels nodded quizzically and reduced the level of flame on the range.
    “Would you like me to go?” asked Bob.
    “No,” said Max. “It’s not a big secret or anything—I just wanted to tell my dad that I got Acclimated last night.”
    Mr. McDaniels raised his eyebrows and glanced at Bob, who gave a sputtering sigh.
    “What is that?” asked Mr. McDaniels. “Is that slang for getting high? Did you try a cigarette or get into the wine cellars, Max?”
    Mr. McDaniels smiled uncertainly as Bob began to laugh, nearly subsonic chuckles that vibrated the glass panes of the dish cabinets.
    “No, Dad,” said Max. “Nothing like that. Ms. Richter had Cooper take David and me to an empty beach last night—a couple hours from Rowan.”
    “Yeah?” said Mr. McDaniels, the smile disappearing from his face as Max told him the story. He kept the tale brief, omitting the gruesome details of the husband’s head in the basket. Max’s father listened attentively, his expression alternating between anger and shivering curiosity.
    “And what was the point of all this?” asked Mr. McDaniels when Max had concluded.
    “Cooper said it’s to get students used to being near the supernatural,” explained Max. “David got