Discord's Apple Page 11

  “Everything’s okay?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded earnestly.

  He didn’t believe it. He looked back and forth between them, his narrowed gaze accusing them of conspiracy. He finally pointed at Alex. “Don’t think you can use her to get at the Storeroom.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Alex said.

  Her father studied them further, then said, “Call me if you need anything. Keep an eye on things, Mab.”

  He scratched the wolfhound’s ears. She placed herself alertly at the corner of the room, staring at Evie. He disappeared back behind his door, still limping, hiding a wince.

  Alex said, “You haven’t told him about Hera.”

  “I don’t want him to worry.” She curled up on the sofa, half a sandwich in hand, picking at the bread crusts. She squeezed her eyes shut against tears. Her father wasn’t worried. Not once had he shown any fear or worry, any of her own emotions that she wanted to see mirrored in him. He was taking it all so calmly, as she couldn’t imagine doing. She said, half to herself, “I think he wants to die.”

  Alex’s brow was lined. “Why would he? I can understand the impulse, but why would he want to?”

  “To be with my mother.” He waited for her to continue, which she did, almost unwillingly, as if a different voice spoke her thoughts. “She died in the Seattle bombing. I keep thinking about her now. It happened so quickly. I talked to her the night before, and the next day she’s just gone, nothing left. And now Dad—and I can’t decide which is worse. The slow death or the sudden. I have a chance to say good-bye to him. But I have to watch him—I can already see him getting more sick, and I’ve only been here a few days. With Mom, at least it was over. I could just move on. But I don’t know which is worse.”

  Just move on. That was a lie. It had been five years. She started writing Eagle Eye Commandos right after the Seattle bombing. She created characters who could do what she couldn’t—take revenge—and who could stop the tragedies that no one in reality seemed able to prevent.

  Would Emma Walker be proud that Evie had found a way to profit from her grief and anger over that day? Evie covered her mouth to make herself stop talking.

  Alex sat at the edge of the armchair, leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees. He must not have been any more hungry than she, because he hadn’t eaten any of the sandwich. He’d stayed when she asked, but he didn’t seem comfortable. A god, a magician—someone like Hera or Merlin—ought to appear a little more sure of himself.

  She was about to once again ask him who he was, when he hopped to his feet and said, “Do you drink? Is there anything alcoholic around here?”

  Bewildered, she said, “Yeah, I think there’s beer in the fridge.”

  “Right.” He dropped the sandwich back on the plate and marched to the kitchen. Mab rose and trotted after him, ears pricked and alert. She didn’t growl or look menacing—just had to keep an eye on him, like her father said.

  Alex moved purposefully, opening the refrigerator, searching, finding his quarry in short order, and returning with two handfuls of bottles, four in all, and a church key. He cleared some of the comics away to make space for them on the coffee table.

  “Most people would have used the comics as coasters,” Evie said, smiling crookedly. He was successfully distracting her, and she was surprised to find herself pleased at being distracted.

  “Who knows, they might be worth millions someday. But not with water rings on them.” He snapped the cap off one of the bottles. It breathed a puff of fog when he offered it to her. “Come on, drink up. It’ll make you feel better.”

  She took it, and he opened a bottle for himself. “Thanks.”

  “Cheers.” He lifted his bottle; she lifted hers. She didn’t know what they were toasting: comic books, friendly dogs—Mab had parked herself at the other end of the coffee table—fridges conveniently stocked with beer. Helplessness.

  It didn’t matter. He was right. She needed to feel something besides sickening anxiety, and the cold liquid pouring into her belly and alcoholic warmth seeping into her blood was an alternative.

  He leaned back into the armchair. Now she should ask him who he really was. Or maybe he’d be more likely to give her a straight answer once he finished the beer. He might have been trying to get her drunk so he could convince her to sneak him into the Storeroom. She leaned back with a sigh and closed her eyes, holding the chilled bottle against her cheek.

  “Do you know who that was who came by just now? Do you realize who that was?” he said with too much enthusiasm.

  She’d almost forgotten: the strange old man, the sword in the stone in the backyard. The image of her father collapsing erased everything that came before it. The afternoon had shrunk to that moment.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It was Merlin. Merlin, Excalibur—oh my God.” It sounded so foolish when she said it out loud.

  Alex’s eyes lit with an aura of adoration. “The stories about him—he’s one of the greatest magicians who ever lived. One of the maddest. But the things he could do—”

  He was carrying on, and she barely comprehended what he was saying. He spoke like an authority on the subject. Magicians, magic—those words didn’t mean anything to her. Magic happened in stories, or onstage in Vegas. Not in her family’s backyard.

  Except she’d seen it, and she believed. “Real magic?”

  He sat back, a distant smile fading on his lips. “I once saw a woman turn to water. She spilled right out of my arms and flowed away. There used to be sirens whose voices lured sailors to their deaths. I saw a bag that, no matter how much you put into it, would always hold more. I’ve seen men who couldn’t be killed.” His voice was haunting, melodious, drawing her into his trance. “Throughout all of history there have been people who could work miracles: saints, mystics, wizards, prophets. And gods. The world used to be filled with gods. Really, they were just people wielding very great magic. The rest of the world couldn’t help but worship them.”

  The dozens of books of folklore on the shelves expanded in Evie’s mind, and the world suddenly became a darker, fiercer place. She’d dreamed of being in stories when she was young. She’d made stories her life, writing comic books. But did she really want to live in those worlds?

  What was she supposed to do, stay here for the rest of her life looking after the Storeroom? Didn’t she have a choice?

  When her father called to tell her he was sick, she didn’t have to come back. She could have stayed in L.A. and checked up on him over the phone. He had plenty of friends here; he didn’t need her. But he was family. It’s what you did. It’s what it all came down to.

  She was tied to this place, even as her world fell apart around her. Discord everywhere.

  “What does it mean,” she said, “if Merlin’s come here for Excalibur? If he says he’s going to bring him—the one who can pull it from the stone.” Arthur, a voice in her hindbrain said. Say it. “What does it mean if—Arthur—is returning?” When Britain has need of its King again . . .

  After the Norman invasion, the Wars of the Roses, Cromwell, Napoléon and the Blitz, how bad would things have to get to bring about the return of Arthur? How bad were they already?

  Alex tapped the neck of the bottle against his chin and stared into space. “I wonder if Excalibur could kill me.”

  She huffed a frustrated breath and thought of flinging her bottle at him, but it was still half-full, and she didn’t feel nearly tipsy enough yet. This would be easier to take if she were tipsy. Him wanting to die didn’t make any more sense than the rest of it. He was young, in his thirties, strong and intelligent. Not sick like her father. That was what made the situation so horrible—she could almost understand Frank’s wanting to die, wanting to be done with it as quickly as possible without resorting to suicide. It was only her selfishness that wanted him to continue living, no matter what treatment was required, what sacrifices he’d have to make. But Alex—anyone else would relish the invincibility he claimed he had. She
supposed that depended on what curses went along with it.

  It wasn’t fair that someone who wanted to die should be invincible, while her father was in the next room dying by inches. It wasn’t fair.

  Thoughtful, she straightened, considering. “Why do you want to die?”

  “It’s the only thing left. I’m tired of living.”

  She wished she’d met him at another time or place, at a bar in L.A. or one of the parties her creative friends were always throwing. She could imagine him as an actor—if he’d get rid of the bulky pea coat and put on a tight T-shirt. He carried himself like he was well built inside his clothing. She wondered if that gleam in his eye would carry onto film. He held her gaze, and her stomach lurched. If she’d met him under normal circumstances, she might actually have liked him.

  Maybe she already did. When he said he wanted to die, she wanted to argue with him.

  She said, “Who are you? Don’t dodge this time.”

  He stared at her for a long time, and she was content to watch him think in silence. Then he stood and went to the bookshelves. After a moment of searching, he chose a volume and handed it to her.

  Virgil’s Aeneid. Pausing to give Mab a scratch behind her ears on the way out, he left the room without a word. The kitchen door opened and closed, and Evie and Mab were alone.

  ______

  What about that apple.

  Robin huddled on the windowsill outside the living room of the Walker house, tiny and invisible. He had the means to evade the watchdog—he could have run the beast on a merry chase if he’d wanted, but that would only have served to raise suspicions that something was amiss. And he still wouldn’t have been able to get inside the house. He didn’t know how that slave fellow had managed it, except that he’d somehow befriended the girl. As Robin would have done, if he hadn’t interfered.

  Never mind. He had news, which was what he’d come spying for. Frank was sick, perhaps even dying. And the Walkers had the apple. If only he could find a chink in the house’s armor. Break through and hold them all in his power.

  When he tried to slip under the window or through the crack between the door and the frame, he came against a wall, invisible, impenetrable. On bird’s wings, he circled the house three times, skittered to the eaves and over the roof, searching out ventilation slots and testing the chimney. The house had a barrier, a magical shield that guarded the threshold against any who were not welcomed inside. He might have been able to dig under it, but then simple concrete would keep him out.

  The easiest way to get inside would be to convince one of the Walkers to invite him in. Otherwise, the shield would have to be dismantled. He tried attacking it, slashing a magicked dagger across the enchantment like he might cut through it. He tried to slide under it, to find an edge that he could squeak around. But the protection was complete.

  It didn’t lash out at him. Passive only, it merely kept him out. It didn’t drive him away. He could stay perched on the windowsill all night if he wanted, and the dog wouldn’t even find him. But he’d accomplish nothing that way.

  The house belonged to the Walkers. If the magic was tied to them somehow, and not to the house itself, perhaps if they were got rid of . . . Perhaps then the house would open itself like a blossom to the bee.

  On his final circuit, Robin paused to look at Excalibur, driven into the stone. It shone, bright silver against dull granite, winking along the few inches of exposed blade, though the sky was overcast. He’d arrived just in time to see Merlin stalk off in a huff. Robin barely had time to make himself like air and was lucky the old wizard hadn’t caught a whiff of his magic. Not many in this modern day would recognize Robin, but Merlin would. Merlin most likely wouldn’t be pleased to find Robin hanging about, known troublemaker that he was.

  That was also a bit of news. Merlin was active again, after all these centuries, and the sword Excalibur was waiting to be claimed. Other forces were at play, beside those Hera was dabbling in. And Robin—shrewd Robin, knavish Robin—must ensure he found himself on the winning side when the dust settled.

  Robin stayed until the Greek slave left the Walker house. He followed the man into town, treading soft as thistledown, quiet as midnight. His powers hadn’t diminished over the years, but he’d so seldom had a chance to use them for good purpose. He hadn’t found a cause to serve or a great power to attach himself to in centuries, since back in the Old Country. Then she found him. She was ambitious. She had use for him. And she made such grand promises. It hardly mattered if she could keep them or not. The ride would be entertaining in the meantime.

  The Greek wandered, apparently aimlessly, for an hour or so. He seemed to be making a circuit of the town. He kept to the outskirts, the backstreets, where the hyperactive authorities weren’t likely to see him and take note.

  Toward nightfall, he reached an empty house at the end of a street overgrown with weeds. The place was boarded up, with a faded FOR RENT sign tucked in the door. It might have been empty for years. The man started to open the back door—the lock was broken, but rigged in such a way that it still appeared secure when the door was in place. He gave a little jerk, and it popped open.

  Once he had it open a crack, he looked behind. “You can stop following me now.”

  Robin winked to visibility, keeping his expression a bored mask to disguise his annoyance at being discovered. Was the man a magician as well? Hera had called him a slave, but perhaps he was hiding something. Oh, he was definitely hiding something. Robin had only to discover what. Peel the man like a grape, and wouldn’t that be fun?

  Robin leaned his back against the wall and crossed his arms. The light was fading; the Greek was little more than a shadow, but Robin’s night vision was excellent. He doubted the Greek could study him half as well.

  “Good evening, sir,” Robin said.

  Unflustered, the Greek let his arms hang relaxed at his side. More than familiar with magic, he was comfortable with it. But if he were a magician himself, surely Hera would know that about him.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “Information. I want to learn more about you,” Robin said lightly.

  He chuckled. “I’m sure you’ve already learned enough.”

  “Never,” Robin said, grinning.

  “You’re not one of the old gods.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

  “And would you recognize one of the old gods if you met one?”

  “I think I would.”

  He sounded so sure of himself. “I learned my trade from some of the old ones. Hermes, Loki, a bit from Coyote, Hanuman—but I am a simple sprite, nothing more.”

  “Then you’re a troublemaker. But—you’re old enough to know Hermes?”

  No, he wasn’t—merely a devotee of the old one’s art. But he didn’t have to give that away. Robin shrugged. “I’m old enough. Now, my turn for a question: What are you?”

  His smile was grim. “Cursed.”

  “And your interest in the Walker house is—?”

  He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, matching Robin’s pose. “Who says my interest is in the house?”

  That puzzled Robin for a moment. His own quest had been so focused on the artifact, had he failed to see what else was happening? Laughable, to assume everyone would have the same goal as himself.

  Thoughtful, Robin said, “Ah, I see. Or you could be throwing me off the scent. Attempting to confuse me. Deflecting attention from what you really want.”

  “Or not.”

  “What would you do to keep her safe?”

  At last, Robin put him on the defensive. His shoulders clenched, though his face betrayed no emotion. Before he could answer, Robin said, “My mistress wishes to meet you. She believes you could both benefit from an alliance. Will you come with me to meet her?”

  He thought for a moment the Greek slave was going to refuse. The hesitation could only mean that he was considering refusing. Finally, though, he nodded, and followed Robin into the t
wilight.

  The second book of Virgil’s Aeneid told the story of Troy’s last day in vivid, terrifying detail. The rest of the epic was filled with tragedies, battles, lists of ancestors, warriors, wandering travels, catalogs of the dead, and destiny. But none of it held the shock and immediacy of the telling of the fall of Troy. The guy could have written for comic books, the way he painted the scenes and depicted characters with four-color fervor from one episode to the next. Evie could see it all, was scripting it in her mind even as she read. How about it, Bruce—we revive Classics Illustrated. . . .

  Something in the story held Alex’s secret. That thought nagged her through her reading, which lasted after nightfall, and long after she should have been hungry. She didn’t forget to worry about her father. Every half hour, or sooner, she looked toward his bedroom. She could go check on him, but didn’t want to wake him if he slept. So she looked at Queen Mab, who was curled up, napping. If something were wrong with her father, Evie felt sure Mab would know.

  She found pen and paper and made a list, marking every time she encountered a likely character in the story. There were so many. She trusted the story, pretending it was real and not made up for dramatic effect. If a character died, she crossed the name off the list. If the character died in another story—Agamemnon, for example—she crossed him off the list.

  That still left her with a dauntingly long list of characters with polysyllabic names and a tendency to get into trouble.

  The Walker library had a wide selection of mythological references, dictionaries, encyclopedias, and the like. Had someone—her father, her grandfather?—tried to identify the objects in the basement? Could the golden fleece be that Golden Fleece? And the shoes, the apples, the enchanted ball gowns, the harps, the spears—Some of the books were very old.

  She looked up names in the mythological encyclopedias. She crossed off more of them if she found they’d met untimely ends elsewhere. Many names still remained. Could Alex be Odysseus? He seemed to fade out of the stories, the Odyssey ending with the start of another adventure. She rather hoped he got to live to a ripe and happy old age, with everything he’d had to put up with. Evie thought she’d like to meet Odysseus, out of any of the names on the list.