Discord's Apple

9

By the time Evie and Alex carried Frank to the kitchen door, he could stand again and pulled away from them.

“It’s just a pain I get sometimes.” His mouth was locked in a grimace, his voice harsh.

“How often is sometimes? How long has this been happening?” Evie demanded.

“Never mind.”

“Dad—” Over and over again, Evie made the word a plea. Tell me what’s happening, tell me what’s wrong, I don’t understand.

“I just need to rest.”

He kept saying that.

Alex let him go as they entered the kitchen, but Evie clung to his arm. She trailed beside him, helpless.

Finally, in the living room, her father stopped and took hold of her shoulders. “Evie. I’m going to go to my room, take some painkillers, and lie down. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

She didn’t believe him. His voice never sounded like that, on the edge of breaking, harsh with stifled emotion. He would suffer in silence until he curled up and disappeared into the pain.

“Promise?” she said, her voice small.

Nodding, he gave her arms a final squeeze. He let go, went into his room, limping, and closed the door.

“I should help him,” she murmured. “I don’t know how to help him.”

“I’ll leave,” Alex said softly, and turned.

“No.” She winced and looked away, floundering for words, wondering what she was doing. “I mean, you don’t have to. Do you have a place to stay? Mr. Alvarez said you weren’t at the motel.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been here and there. I’ll find a place. I always do. But if you think you could use a friend just now . . .”

If she asked him to stay and he did, she might find out more about him, she rationalized. Once again she asked herself, If the sword was Excalibur, and the woman was Hera . . . who was he?

“I could use the company.” That sounded a little more honest.

“All right.”

They stared at each other across the living room for a moment. Evie, tense and shaken, rubbed her hands and tried to keep her shoulders from bunching. Mab had settled down between the bedroom doors, lying with her head resting on her paws, looking dejected.

“You hungry?” Evie said abruptly, making a dash for the kitchen. “I’ll make sandwiches.”

“Can I help?”

“No, just sit down, make yourself at home.”

She got as far as getting the bread out when her mobile phone rang. She ran to the living room, grabbed the phone off the coffee table, glanced apologetically at Alex, and answered the phone as she returned to the kitchen.

“Hi, Bruce.”

“Have you had a chance to watch the news yet, or should I just tell you how world politics are fucking with our storyline?”

She didn’t mean for her sigh to sound as forlorn as it probably did. “Things have been a little crazy here. I still haven’t seen the news.”

Bruce waited a second before asking, “How’s your dad?”

She almost used her father’s line: Fine, okay. Just like Frank’s daughter. But Bruce was her friend—she should have been talking to him all along. She should have called him, instead of him calling her all the time.

“Not good. He isn’t getting treatment, he’s in pain, and there’s nothing I can do. He won’t talk, he’s pretending like nothing’s wrong—” Her voice cracked, and she shut her mouth to keep from breaking into a full-blown sob.

“Evie, I’m sorry. If there’s anything—”

“I know, I know. Thanks, Bruce. I think I just need to keep working. Keep busy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. So tell me, what’s the President done now?”

“Well. Russia came up with proof that China’s been funding the rebels. So the E.U. is siding with Russia and India. The U.S. is still waffling. Britain is waffling, and the E.U. is threatening sanctions on them for siding with the U.S.”

“And we’ve got a whole storyline with the U.S. and Russia being friends. That’ll never fly.”

“This whole mess is playing like someone’s idea of a fucked-up war game. It’s just so unreasonable.”

“Is it ever reasonable?” Evie said. She knew what he meant, though. She couldn’t help but conjure this image of stern generals and power-mad heads of states standing around tables with tactical displays, shuffling around troops and weapons, with no thought to the people on the ground—the real lives their decisions impacted. “Do we wait and see what happens?”

Bruce said, “We could be waiting for ages. I say we just keep going with what we have—the new stuff that you just sent—and play it by ear.”

“Do you want me to keep e-mailing scripts?”

“You know—I haven’t been working much. You can if you want. Definitely keep writing. Write anything. We’ll do something with it, at some point.” He sounded tired.

“How are things there?”

“Citywide curfew, but that’s nothing new. Callie finally got out of West Hollywood. It’s not too bad.”

“Hang in there.”

“You, too. Call me if you need anything.”

She needed to reverse time and live in last month, before her life had run away from her.

She made ham-and-cheese sandwiches, but her heart and appetite weren’t really in it. Eating would give her and Alex something to do while they stared at each other. She brought two plates with the sandwiches into the living room.

She had her work spread all over the coffee table: her laptop, powered down; pages of handwritten notes she’d collected when ideas hit her late at night, in bed, in the car, and the like; and a few back issues of Eagle Eye Commandos she used as reference.

Alex, sitting on the armchair, was reading one of these.

The faces staring back at her on the front cover belonged to Tracker and Talon. He was about to fall off a cliff; she was holding on to him, grimacing. Eagle Eye Commandos number 42. She wanted to snatch it out of his hands and hide it away, apologize for it. It wasn’t that she wasn’t proud of her work. It was—well, sometimes she felt guilty for being proud of it. It wasn’t exactly high literature.

“What do you think?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

He smirked. “I like how the flying bullets leave trails.”

She set down the plates, slumped onto the sofa, and smirked right back at him.

He said, “You write as E. L. Walker. Why don’t you use your full name?”

“Thirteen-year-old boys wouldn’t take the book seriously if they knew a girl wrote it.”

“But—” He opened to a page featuring Tracker. At Evie’s insistence, Bruce didn’t draw her in the stereotypical comic book manner of portraying women in skintight clothing, antigravity breasts and all. She wore functional black fatigues, had a reasonably normal athletic figure, and most of the time—splicing wire in the middle of a jungle, for example—looked downright scruffy. “—this is you, isn’t it? This isn’t about thirteen-year-old boys’ fantasies. It’s about thirteen-year-old girls’ fantasies.”

In another life, a parallel universe, Evie had enlisted in the military. Army, air force, whatever. She didn’t know what she would have done as a private or an airman. Administration, probably. Mostly, she’d wanted to have a bit of an adventure—basic training, for instance—and it seemed an easy way to go about it. Never mind that adventures weren’t supposed to be easy. College and independence diverted her. To this day, she wondered if she could have hacked it, and wondered if she should have tried, just to see.

When she didn’t answer, he turned back to the book, flipping pages without reading. “The presence of a nominally talented, self-sufficient woman hasn’t seemed to hinder sales.”

Alex was right. Evie never wanted Tracker to be a sex symbol. She wanted her to be a role model.

She stared at the page, her words in the speech balloons, and smiled fondly. “If just one girl out there picks up the book, and it makes her think she can do anything, I’d be happy.”

Evie looked at the old covers. Tracker featured on all of them. One of the ongoing storylines focused on her, her coming-of-age, her increasing confidence in herself and her abilities. Through all the other storylines—Talon’s insubordination, the unit’s rebelliousness, the fight against terrorism—Tracker’s personal development played a part. Often, the progress was uncertain—two steps forward, one step back as some tragedy undermined her faith in herself. At this rate, the storyline could go on forever, with Tracker never developing much beyond where she was now.

No, Evie ought to do something about that. Tracker needed to become independent. She needed to become a leader. Talon’s equal, not his hero-worshipping subordinate.

“Is Bruce your boyfriend?”

“Hm?” Evie glanced up. Alex had a sandwich in hand, but he hadn’t taken a bite. He looked at her questioningly.

“The phone call. I was just curious.”

Evie rubbed her forehead. Not that it was any of his business. “No, he’s my partner. The artist.” She pointed at the comics.

“Ah, of course. That Bruce.”

“He’s called me almost every day. The book deals so much in current events, we try to tie in as much as we can. But things have gotten volatile. It’s impossible to predict what might happen anymore. We’ve had a couple of major storylines yanked out from under us in the last year. He’s mad at me because I haven’t been watching the news.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah,” she said with a painful chuckle. That was without telling Bruce about hypothetical Greek goddesses showing up on the doorstep, the basement full of mythical artifacts, or the strange man in the pea coat.

There’d been so much news to keep up with over the last few days. All of it bad, the conflicts so much greater than the third world clashes that had preoccupied current events over the last half a century or so. No one had to wonder if Russia had nuclear weapons or not.

“It’s so surreal,” she said. She shook her head, rearranging her thoughts. “Bruce was saying that this is playing like some messed-up war game. It’s like there are people—the people in power—moving pieces around on a game board. It makes you wonder how much of history is just people in power manipulating a game.”

Alex said softly, “That isn’t far from wrong.”

She stared at him. “How do you know?”

He shrugged and wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Then what about Discord? What about that apple? What does it do?”

“One shudders to think,” he said.

Mab raised her head, her tail thumping the floor as it wagged. A moment later, her father’s door opened, and Frank himself appeared in the doorway. His hand clutched his side, but nonchalantly, as if he had put it there and forgotten it.

His brow lined quizzically, he said, “I forgot to ask: What are you doing here?”

Alex hesitated a moment, a stricken look briefly crossing his features before he lifted the sandwich and said, “Having lunch.”

Evie stood. “Dad—you don’t look good.”

He waved her away. “I’m fine. Is he bothering you?”

“No.” She debated about what to tell him. She didn’t want him to worry. He shouldn’t have to worry about anything but getting well. Or rather, not dying. But she could deny that anything was wrong, and he wouldn’t believe her, any more than she believed it when he insisted he was fine. So she didn’t say anything.

“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 twilight.

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.

As if he’d been a real person and not a story.

Merlin said the true king would come to retrieve the sword from the stone, in their backyard. Merlin, as if he was a real person who’d yelled at her father through the closed door.

Alex could be anyone. Or none of them. He was playing mind games with her. She put the books away, crumpled her list, and threw it on the floor. She ate one of the wilted sandwiches, thought about going to bed, but decided she wasn’t tired.

She powered up her laptop.

Write anything. How long had it been since she’d done that? No scripts, no deadlines, no proposals for new projects to pay the rent.

Maybe she should try that novel.

Tracker’s story was still unfinished, still tickling her mind, not leaving room for new ideas. She picked up the thread again. Tracker, Jeeves, and Matchlock were traveling across Siberia in search of American spies to rescue. Jeeves had just guessed her secret—she was in love with their commander. Rather cliché, that, looking back on it. Evie could put a twist in it somehow. Then they were attacked. Which was a cop-out, really.

But she could explain it away. The Russians were suspicious of the Americans, had been following them, wanted to stop them, and hired mercenaries to make the attack look like the work of terrorists. Tracker was separated from Jeeves and Matchlock.

The Jeep swerved to avoid an incoming missile—the bastards had rocket launchers. Sheltered by the sparse foliage that dotted the edge of the tundra, she saw another one taking aim. She didn’t think about it. She jumped, handgun ready, rolled to a stop more expertly than she had any right to hope for, and fired.

She wasn’t a sniper. At this distance, with this much adrenaline in her system, she shouldn’t have hit him. But she did, and he slumped, his weapon falling. Jeeves, Matchlock, and the Jeep were safe.

Rising from her crouch, she looked ahead. The Jeep had swerved to a stop. A dozen soldiers carrying automatic rifles surrounded it. Jeeves and Matchlock held their hands up. Tracker caught her breath and flattened to the ground. She waited for the sound of gunfire that would tell her that her friends had been murdered where they stood. But the sound never came. Instead, the soldiers hauled them out of the Jeep. A thumping noise in the air signaled the arrival of a helicopter. The mercenaries loaded Jeeves and Matchlock into it, climbed in themselves, and flew away.

She didn’t have much cover here—a few tufts of scrub, a snowdrift. But they never looked for her.

In a way, writing prose was like relearning how to walk. She had to think about complete sentences. Describe instead of label. She didn’t have Bruce to draw the pictures for her. Like Tracker, she was alone.

She had a dilemma: Did she continue with the mission, or did she go after Jeeves and Matchlock? Her instincts told her it wasn’t really a dilemma. They could hold out for now. If the soldiers wanted them dead, they would have killed them immediately. She had no idea where the mercenaries were taking them. The helicopter had flown west, and Russia was a very big place.

The bunker at the edge of the defunct gulag, where the prisoner was being held, was ten miles away. She could reach it before nightfall if she managed a good pace. Never mind that she had only her gun and a short-range radio with her. The bunker would have food and water, and the equipment to contact Talon.

She could do this without Talon. If she ignored the pang in her belly the thought of him gave her. He’d tell her she was crazy, trying this on her own.

No, he wouldn’t, a voice inside her argued. He has faith in you.

She checked the body of the mercenary she’d shot, verified he was dead, and looted a pack of food rations and a canteen off him. The canteen held vodka. No good for survival—maybe she could use it to inure herself to a lingering death, if she became hopelessly lost or injured. She shook her head, chastising herself for such defeatist thinking. Maybe she could use the vodka as a bribe.

Then, loosening the collar of her coat and hardening her will, she set off at a jog across the wasteland.

Robin Goodfellow was matchless as a spy. But soon, Hera would need an army. She gathered the start of one in a bar outside town.

The bartender, his eyes a bit glazed, his movements meticulous, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, or someone else was guiding his motions, stood at the bar and finished pouring a glass of wine. He set the bottle aside, his face slack. The next day, he’d remember nothing, he’d be convinced that his bar stood empty all night, and know nothing about the four people gathered here. The place was frequented by bikers and truckers. Transients. She couldn’t have her people trooping in and out of her hotel room, so she gathered them here. They might have been holding an informal meeting of some innocent town club.

Smiling indulgently at the entranced bartender, she picked up the glass, took a sip, and went to the round table in the center of the room where the others waited for her, pretending to nurse their own drinks.

They were frustratingly young to her eyes. The oldest among them had only two thousand years behind him. The youngest, forty. One learned so little within the span of a natural life. Despite their youth, their inexperience, they were used to wielding power, and the world was not so rich in magic as it once was. These people would have to do.

She had drawn them here with a promise of more power than they could find or make in their individual spheres of influence. She had explained that through her, and only through her, they could combine their strength and reach for the divine. Because they were who they were, could do what they did, and knew something of power, however limited their understanding of it was, they believed her, and they answered her call.

Now she had to prove that their faith in her was not misplaced.

“I want to own this town,” she said.

“What will that gain us?” The Curandera was older than she looked, a mother and healer, a bringer of rain and storms, a speaker of the languages of the earth and sky. Still in her first lifetime, she was the youngest of them, but because her knowledge of magic had been passed down to her, from mother to daughter, for a thousand years, she was powerful.

“Here lies a power that can dictate the fate of nations,” said the Marquis. He was in his third or fourth lifetime, a British nobleman from the last century steeped in the culture of empire and one of the few successful practitioners in the revival of what he called ceremonial magic. He could bind, curse, break, mold, and summon. If only Hera could teach him how to do all this without his props, tools, symbols, and erroneous scholarship. He looked uncomfortable in a suit and tie, his brown hair tied in a short tail at his neck, as if the modern clothing were a costume. He ought to be wearing a frock coat and powdered wig.

“What power?” said the Curandera.

“How much do you know about chemistry?” Hera asked. “What happens to an unstable compound, where the molecular bonds are weak, or require too much energy to maintain? It breaks down. A reaction occurs until the molecules form more stable compounds. Do you see what is happening in the world? The political situation is unstable. The artificial borders, the nations constructed out of blood and misguided diplomacy are falling apart. The world is an unstable compound, and it must break down if it is to form a more stable unit. I plan to guide that reaction. I have access to the catalyst that will ignite the final decomposition.”

“That’s ambitious. Thinking you can mold the world, and that it will be better because you’re involved?” said the Curandera. Her eyes shone, and Hera knew the thought that inspired the brightness: the idea of a female divinity remaking the world, of a matriarchy restored.

“Yes,” she said simply. “It certainly couldn’t be much worse.”

The Curandera smiled.

The fourth of their party sat a little ways off from the table, out of the light coming through the room’s only window. He was young looking, handsome in a tie and dark jacket, his short hair combed back. The Wanderer was the oldest of them, apart from Hera herself. Through sheer experience, he had gained insight. He could see patterns of the past and how they would play into the future. He could look at a man sitting perfectly still with a blank expression, and predict what that man was thinking or might do next. He had become, by the stubborn nature of his existence, a seer.

“It isn’t worse,” he said. He spoke slowly, with a quiet certainty that the others would wait to listen to him. “No worse than it’s ever been. Perhaps better in some ways. Always, there has been chaos. The world has broken and re-formed many times—I have seen it many, many times. It does so against the will of people, and without our guidance.”

Hera said, “How many times have you wanted to take control—you can see what must be done, your wisdom tells you when you see madness, when the world is run by fools. Even you, Wanderer, don’t remember. There was a time when the world was not ruled by shortsighted mortal whim. I remember.”

“Can you bring that time again?” he said flatly, like he didn’t believe her.

If she had been able to act even a few hundred years ago, she would have gathered a very different looking army: witches, mediums, saints, prophets. People who knew magic for what it was, people who feared the dark it could do, but worshipped its strength, whether they called it God or nature or alchemy. These people before her—they felt the power, they touched it, they identified some destiny in their skills, the strength of their knowledge of what lay underneath the surface of emotions like love and hate. But they didn’t call it magic. Even the Marquis preferred to think of the power as a science that could be codified.

“I can,” she said.

“Then I will follow you, for it has been two thousand years since I have seen one with such a power.”

She nodded respectfully, though the Wanderer might have caught the flicker in her expression, the surge of anticipation at once again having followers and servants. He tasted his martini and watched her over the rim of his glass.

Soon, she would be able to break this world over her knee.

The door slammed open and Robin burst into the room. She’d told him to knock first. She’d have to do something about his irreverence. The imp claimed to admire Hermes, but Hermes had never been so impertinent.

Entering behind him, slouching in a felt coat, was the Greek slave who’d been at the Walker house.

Hera gave him a welcoming smile. “Good evening. Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

Walking slowly, cautiously, the Greek approached. He pulled a chair away from a different table than the others and sat. He eyed the others carefully, as if memorizing their features.

Robin stood apart, arms crossed and grinning, like he’d brought home the golden fleece all by himself.

She continued. “How much of our little endeavor did Robin explain to you?”

The Greek glanced at Robin and shrugged deeper into his coat. “Is that his name?”

“I’ll take that to mean none, then. Would you like something to drink?”

He shook his head. Not one for social niceties, it seemed. But then, she couldn’t blame him for being wary. He’d had experience with the old gods. What exactly had Apollo done to the lad to terrify him so?

She stepped before him. “I’m prepared to make a deal with you. I need access to the Storeroom in the Walker house.”

“What makes you think I have it?” he said with a half grin.

“One step at a time. I’m a patient woman.”

“I can imagine. It’s taken you a long time to get here.”

He may not have had any power of his own, but she’d do well not to underestimate him. He was old, and age alone would give him a great deal of knowledge, perhaps even wisdom. “You as well. We might be able to help each other. What do you want from the Storeroom? What are you looking for?”

“Hasn’t your spy told you?”

Hera made a noncommittal sigh. “The only reason any of us—people like us—are interested in the Walker house is the Storeroom. I believe you’re trying to get into it through the girl. I would only like to propose that when you reach your goal, you keep my interests in mind. I could make it worth your while.”

“How?”

Here came the problem in dealing with immortals: What could she offer to someone who’d been alive for so long? What experience could she give him that he didn’t already have, what wealth that he hadn’t already collected and squandered a dozen times over? Immortals were so jaded.

“Name a price,” she said, shrugging.

“I want to hear what you’re offering.”

What had he been, before he wore Apollo’s chain? What had he become, after Apollo was gone? If nothing else, he was pleasant on the eyes. One could never have too many nice-looking men around.

“I can offer you power,” she said. “I’m rebuilding a pantheon. I’ll need help to see it established.”

“You’re offering divinity?” he said.

“Is that what you want?”

He kept his expression still. His gaze revealed nothing, not desire, fear, shock, nothing. But it was so clear. She could give him what he hadn’t found in over three thousand years of life. Power. Godhood. He was a servant, like Robin. He needed only a worthy master to guide him. She could use him like a tool, and make him grateful for it.

“That isn’t what he wants,” the Wanderer said. He’d been staring at the Greek, studying him with his focused intensity. Looking inside him. To his credit, the Greek didn’t flinch.

“What does he want?” Hera said, not taking her gaze from the Greek.

“Ask him about the chain he wears around his neck.”

Hera lifted her brow. “Well?”

The Greek grimaced and said, “I want it off.”

Ah, three thousand years, his master dead, and he was still a slave.

“Then I will find a way to remove it. If you will help me.”

The Greek had just exposed a great deal about himself, so she didn’t fault him for his stony reaction. He’d locked himself behind an emotionless wall—which he was wise to do, in a room filled with so much power.

He said, “You have a plan.”

“There is a golden apple. It was mine by rights when it first came into being, but it was stolen from me. I would have it now. Since the Walkers won’t give it to me, I must take it.”

He nodded slowly, with understanding. “Discord’s apple. The Judgment of Paris.”

“You know the story. Good.”

“I fought in the war over Helen, my lady. Of course I know the story.”

She regarded him with renewed curiosity. Who was he?

“Can you find a way for me to get into the Storeroom, or bring me the apple yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“See that you do, and you will be rewarded.”

“My lady, can I ask you a question?”

“You may.”

“How did you survive?”

“Pardon me?”

“When Zeus set the trap at Olympus, how did you survive?”

She considered. He knew too much. Even if he was Apollo’s slave, Apollo hadn’t known anything. The stupid boy had fallen straight into Zeus’s trap, along with the rest of the family. In the stories, the gods had lived on forever. Only disbelief caused them to fade into myth. No one ever learned of the destruction of Olympus. She would have to watch this one closely indeed.

“I nearly didn’t. But you must understand, Zeus was my husband. He didn’t think I knew what he had planned, but I did. I had a plan of my own, and though his power nearly found me out, it didn’t.”

His gaze became unfocused and thoughtful.

“Does that agree with what you know?” she said.

“Yes. Yes, it does. Thank you. I should be going, I think. I have work to do.”

He stood, turned up his collar, and let himself out the door.

The Wanderer said, “He’s hiding something.”

“Of course he is,” Hera said curtly.

“He never exactly agreed to help you, you know,” the Wanderer added.

“Did he really fight at Troy?” asked the Marquis.

“I believe he did.”

The nobleman continued. “There’s something else you should know. He’s the one I followed. He’s the one who led us to the Storeroom. I suspect he possesses a great deal of knowledge we could use.”

Hera tapped a finger on the rim of her wineglass. “Robin, you must keep a close watch on him.”

“Absolutely I must.”

Vita chopped vegetables while Sylvia, six years old, stirred the soup, or tried to. Vita hoped it didn’t burn too badly, but she didn’t have the heart to shoo her daughter away.

“When was the Trojan War, Mother?”

“Oh, hundreds of years ago.”

“Then how do people know what happened?”

“They tell stories. That’s why stories are so important. They help people remember.”

“Why didn’t anyone believe Cassandra? I would have believed her.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. Apollo made it so no one believed her.”

“Why?”

“Cassandra made him angry, so he cursed her.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what gods do.”

“Is that why we pray to them? So they won’t curse us?”

Oh, the blasphemy, Vita thought, biting back a smile. “Yes, my dear. That’s exactly it.”

Lucius came in then, and Sylvia screamed a welcome to him, ran, and hugged him. He snatched her up and spun her around until her brown hair tangled in front of her face, then he held her upside down while she screamed some more, and he leaned over to kiss Vita on the cheek.

“Supper soon? I’m famished,” he said. It was planting season. He’d been in the fields since dawn.

“Yes.”

“The Mouse been helping you?”

“She’s been very helpful.”

Finally, Lucius set Sylvia down. She collapsed in a heap, laughing and gasping for air.

“Mother’s telling me about the Trojan War,” Sylvia said once she had breath enough to speak.

“Oh?” Lucius eyed Vita.

“Everyone’s telling stories out of Virgil’s new epic. She overhears. Why don’t you tell your father one of the stories?”

While Vita finished seasoning the soup, Sylvia launched into dramatic reenactment of the fall of Troy, showing how the Greek soldiers must have had to scrunch up to hide inside the hollow horse, wriggling across the floor like the snakes from Tenedos as they attacked Laocoön, slashing the air like a warrior with a sword. Lucius pretended to be slain, then laughed, and Vita laughed, too.

In a moment of calm, Lucius said, “Who’s your favorite? Which of the people in the story do you like best?”

Vita was sure Sylvia was going to say Cassandra, but she said, “Sinon.”

Lucius sounded confused. “What? But he was a terrible liar. A spy. Deceitful. There’s nothing in him to admire.”

“But to the Greeks he was brave. Wasn’t he?”

“Humph. I suppose he was. But we’re not supposed to admire the Greeks.”

“Then why do we tell their stories?”

Lucius could answer that one on his own. Vita wiped her hands on a cloth. “I need to get some wine from the cellar. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“I’ll go! I’ll go!” Sylvia dashed ahead, as if to race there first, but Vita managed to snatch her around the middle and hold her back. Oof, she’s getting too big for this.

“No,” Vita said. “You’re not allowed down there, you know that.”

“You never let me see down there.”

“You’ll be allowed there when you’re older.”

Lucius stood to take Sylvia from her, distracting her with more questions about Trojans and Greeks. His gaze met Vita’s, and she saw her own suddenly somber expression mirrored on his face. He also did not go into the cellar. When her mother died, she told him why he couldn’t. The unspoken second part of what she had said to Sylvia hung between them.

You’ll be allowed there when you’re older, when I am dead.