Discord's Apple

15

Robin made every indication of being able to take Evie. Somehow, he clamped her arms to her side, immobilizing her, yet could still pat her down, searching her pockets for the apple. He did more than search: he groped, stroked, tucked his hand down the waistband of her jeans, and his fingers suddenly seemed longer, reaching for her, brushing the skin of her hips.

She could barely suck breath through her nose. His grip suffocated her, but she drew as much air as she could, arced her head back, and screamed. Her throat tore with the noise that came out muffed, like distant thunder.

He moved his hand, pressed his mouth over hers, and laughed as he kissed her, swallowing her scream. “Hush, my dear, and you’ll learn what the love of an immortal is.”

She bit him.

She didn’t think she succeeded in catching anything between her teeth; she could only snap, like a dog behind a fence. Nevertheless, he hissed and drew back, only for a second, and she had just enough air left to cry out. When he leaned his forearm against her throat, pressing down, she choked against the pressure as loudly as she could, hoping that someone in the house heard.

Even though Robin was killing her, she felt a great sense of relief when a pounding started on the bedroom door, punctuated by barking from the living room. Robin looked back at the door, pointed, and something happened—the pounding faded, becoming muffled as if the door were barred now.

She turned her head to slither out from under him, writhing, trying to escape.

When the thumping against the door stopped, so did she. Too tired, too out of breath, her muscles failed. She lay half on her side, her back twisted painfully.

And Robin was still there, his mouth against her neck. “Now, where was I? Ah, I was searching for rare fruit. Let’s find out what that Greek bloke sees in you.”

When one of her characters found themselves in an impossible situation, Evie had time to think of clever ways for them to escape. Her characters were always so clever, instantly clever, without even thinking about it, because their author had the luxury of revision. Now, in an impossible situation, Evie couldn’t make her brain work to be clever. No time for revisions if she failed here.

“If you don’t have it here, I’ll just have to look for it when I’m finished,” he said. “If you had listened to me the first time we met, we could have had such a lovely time together. We could have been friends.”

She’d left her jacket hanging on the doorknob of the bedroom. If she told him it was there, maybe he’d leave her alone.

Evie and Robin flinched together as the bedroom door splintered inward. Like a cat, Robin sprang away, his back to the wall, facing the door. A second blow tore through the plywood, then a third, then Alex, gripping an axe, pushed through, murder in his eyes. He cut himself, climbing through the broken plywood of the door, and held the axe ready.

His gaze scanned the room and focused on Robin. Alex swung the axe over his head and charged. Wide-eyed, Robin backed away on tense limbs. He appeared to be terrified, but at the moment Alex brought the weapon down to strike, Robin disappeared. Alex slammed the axe into the top of an antique dresser, wedging it half into the wood.

A wisp of smoke and rush of wind whipped through the broken door, to the main part of the house.

Snarling, Alex needed several attempts, jerking back with his whole body, to rip the axe out of the dresser. He paused only a moment before storming after Robin.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, quickly and birdlike. He leaped through the chopped-up door.

My hero, she thought vaguely before scrambling off he bed and following.

Alex stalked to the kitchen, hefting the axe and looking like something out of a horror film. Robin wasn’t there. Alex searched the room, every corner in which the imp could hide.

Near the sofa, Mab half sat, half sprawled, and barked to wake the dead. Frank was on the floor with her, arms around her body, holding her back. Some of her stitched cuts had started bleeding again. His arms were shaking. The only reason Mab didn’t break free was because the dog was weak as well.

And there Robin appeared, behind Alex, holding a butcher knife from the Walkers’ own supply.

“Alex!” Evie screamed, too late.

Expertly, Robin drove the blade up, through the soft part of Alex’s lower back, under the ribs, through the vital organs. Alex arched his back and growled; Robin twisted the blade.

Alex wrenched away and stumbled back. Evie’s heart ached. She wanted to run to him, like the heroine in a bodice ripper. For a moment, she forgot what he was. It was easy to forget.

Never taking his eyes off Robin, Alex reached back and pulled out the knife. He swept the axe around one-handed, hacking at Robin. Robin jumped, writhed in midair—inhumanly, like he was made of smoke, defying gravity—and disappeared again, and Alex cut through nothing.

Blood covered the back of his shirt, bright red against the white fabric. His hand was red with it. Still, his face creased with intensity, he searched for Robin.

“Not entirely mortal, are you?” said Robin’s voice, disembodied. It had no focus, but diffused through the whole room, without source. “Let’s see how mortal you are.”

Alex stood his ground, waiting for Robin to show himself. He seemed calm, like a soldier waiting for battle, the faintest smile on his lips.

Abruptly, he fell back, flinging out his arms for balance. His knees buckled, as if something had struck them from behind. Robin appeared, light flashing into form, a reflection taking shape. He crouched on Alex’s chest and punched him, knocking his head back. Alex grappled for the axe, which had dropped a few feet away. Robin looked like a slender young man, almost a boy, but he had supernatural strength. Alex couldn’t upset him from his perch.

Taking careful steps, desperate not to attract attention, Evie stepped to the kitchen. She skirted along the wall until her feet left the hardwood and touched tile. She had to find a weapon, preferably one that required minimal skill.

Alex managed to unbalance Robin, twisting violently and slipping out from under him. There was a crack, like a bone breaking or a shoulder popping out of joint. It had to have come from Alex, but he didn’t look like he was in pain.

Robin was too fast. Before Alex could find the axe or establish his position, Robin was on him again, legs wrapped around his middle. He laughed, pulling Alex’s hair while Alex reached, futilely clutching at him. Next Robin grabbed the chain around Alex’s neck. He twisted it, tightening it until it pinched deep into Alex’s skin, cutting off blood and air. Alex’s face flushed, turning darker and darker red, and it seemed as if Robin could pull the chain clean through his neck, decapitating him.

Alex surely wouldn’t survive that.

Evie grabbed the cast-iron skillet off the stove top.

It was almost too heavy, but if she moved it fast enough, her wrist hardly felt the weight. Two-handed, she swung it like a baseball bat, aiming the flat bottom to connect with Robin’s head.

It crunched on impact. There should have been some resistance, some recoil, but her arms hardly felt a jolt as they finished out the arc. Robin followed the arc, spinning sideways, falling limp on the floor, jerking to a stop.

Evie stood ready, skillet in hand. But Robin didn’t move. At this angle, his head seemed flattened, and a trickle of blood leaked from his ear.

Alex lay on his side, his hands hooked around the chain, holding it away from his neck. His breathing wheezed, as if the air passed through a damaged windpipe. Evie’s own breath felt harsh in her lungs; she might start hyperventilating. She dropped the skillet and tried to breathe slower.

She knelt beside Alex and touched his shoulder, helping him roll onto his back. He had to be all right, after all he’d been through. He opened his eyes, and she sprawled on top of him and kissed him. After a moment’s hesitation, his lips moved against hers and his arms wrapped around her, one hand lacing into her hair to hold her in place.

Uncertain, she broke away and lay her face against his neck. Eyes closed, she breathed his scent—sweaty, a touch of blood where some of the links of the chain had broken skin. She wished she could rest here for a long time, warm and protected. The next few minutes were going to be difficult and confusing.

Alex was difficult and confusing. “I’m sorry,” she said finally.

“For what?” he whispered, wheezing as he chuckled with his damaged throat.

“For doubting.”

“Oh my dear, never mind.”

A wet canine nose interrupted. Mab arrived and pushed toward Evie’s face, licking and nosing until Evie moved, thereby proving she wasn’t dead.

“Oof.” Alex, innocent victim of Mab’s affections, halfheartedly pushed the dog’s head away. “I should kill the beast, but I spent all that effort sewing her up.”

Evie sat up and reassured the wolfhound, scratching her ears and looking into her sad eyes.

Her father made his way toward them, leaning on the wall for support. His hand wrapped around his middle, and his face was ashen, his jaw clenched in pain.

“Are you all right?” His voice was soft, difficult to hear. She wanted to laugh that he’d ask her that question. He looked like he was about to collapse.

Slowly, Alex sat up. He touched her hand, gripped it where it rested on her knee, and watched Frank’s slow progress. He passed them, went to Robin’s prone form, and with one hand on the wall, he knelt and touched Robin’s neck.

She didn’t want to hear the word. She hadn’t meant to kill anyone. She didn’t think she could kill anyone. She never expected to have to.

“Dead?” Alex said. Her father nodded.

Evie felt for remorse, but it was a distant, tired thing. Weakly, she said, “I didn’t hit him that hard.”

Nodding at the skillet, Alex said, “Cold iron. Magnificent. Even better than rowan.”

“Dad?”

Her father had slumped against the wall. Mab whined and stepped toward him, nuzzling him. He winced and held her away. Evie went to help him up, but he pushed her away as well.

“How did he get in?” Alex said. “I thought the house was protected.”

Her father said, “It’s gone. I woke up. I felt it go.”

“Me, too,” Evie said. She listened, uncertain what she expected to hear, unclear what she expected to find when she stretched her mind like she would reach with her hand. She visualized the shape of the house, and knew that there should have been a second skin around it, a force to keep people like Hera away.

Instead, harsh wind knocked against the windowpanes, and the thunder came closer. The Storeroom was unprotected. The end, the end. But it still spoke to her. The core of it remained. She was still the heir.

“Where are Arthur and Merlin?” Alex said.

Evie and Alex stood together, helping each other up. He let go of her hand as he raced to the kitchen door, opened it and stopped on the threshold. Evie crowded behind him, looking out.

Full-bodied black thunderheads roiled above, moving faster than the wind that buffeted the house, some of them swirling in the wrong direction. This was the kind of storm that wreaked havoc on the Great Plains in the middle of summer, spilling lightning and tornadoes on fragile, unsuspecting towns. Gouts of dust rolled across the plain and smacked into the house, with the rattling sound of hail.

The thunderhead spun its circle above the Walker house.

In a flash of lightning, a figure appeared on the porch. He’d run up the steps, a shadow in the wind. Startled, Evie flinched back, and Alex stepped in front of her, his arm spread protectively. But it was Arthur. He carried Excalibur, which shone bright silver, even in the darkness. Blood streaked the blade.

“I’ve been fighting off more animals round back. Are tigers native to this part of the world?”

Weakly, Evie shook her head.

“Are you well?”

“Evie killed the hob goblin,” Alex said, grinning happily at her.

Arthur nodded and made a pleased-sounding grunt. “Well done.”

Evie decided they were both so cheerful because they were in their element, surrounded by danger, doing battle.

Merlin came over the edge of the roof. He rolled off, dropped, seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then landed on his feet. He brushed off his shirt and trousers as he rushed to the porch. Even his short gray hair tossed in the fierce wind.

“They have some sort of witch with them,” Merlin said, raising his voice to be heard. “The storm is hers. She’s well protected. I can’t get to her.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve always had a bit of a weak spot with enchantresses.”

“I can’t fight the winds, Merlin. You must do something.”

Her father arrived at the doorway. Evie stepped aside to give him room. His skin was pale, drained. His face lined with pain. He seemed to move in slow motion.

“Evie, go to the basement.”

The old tornado drill. “What about you?”

“I’m going to give it to her.” He turned his hand, revealing what he’d been holding tucked against his stomach. The golden apple. He must have taken it from her jacket in the bedroom, picked out from the wreckage of the door where it had been hanging.

Alex’s hand clenched on her shoulder. But Evie didn’t move.

“You can’t do that,” she pleaded weakly. “It’ll give her everything—”

“No, it won’t. Evie—she can’t have the Storeroom. It holds objects more powerful than the apple. Our duty is to protect them. Even if we have to make sacrifices.”

“But to sacrifice the world?”

He smiled with unfathomable wisdom and knowledge. “It’s happened before. But the world always comes back, Evie.”

He turned to walk out into the storm.

She grabbed his arm. “You can’t go out there!”

“Why not?” he said. “Because it’ll kill me?”

He’d been dying all along, and this was better. Wasn’t it? Wouldn’t Homer have thought so?

“There are stronger forces than Discord. They must survive. Go into the Storeroom. Find the box.” Then he looked at Alex. “Go with her. Help her.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said, his voice tight.

Merlin said to Frank, “I can send them to a safe place. It’s why we’re here—to protect the seeds, to help grow a new world after the chaos.”

Her father nodded. “Good. But wait—wait until Evie tells you to.”

“But I won’t leave!”

They all focused on Frank, who stood like a pillar, untroubled by the wind buffeting him.

Hushed, Alex said, “Sometimes a person can change the world by sacrificing his life.”

Arthur saluted Frank with his sword. “I will give them the time they need.”

“But you—” She looked between Arthur and Merlin. “This isn’t your story, you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have to, to—” Die here, sacrifice themselves—

“Don’t worry about us,” Arthur said, laughing. “We’ve been through much worse than this.”

“Haven’t you been paying attention?” Merlin said. “Our story is just beginning!”

“Dad—”

“When she gets the apple, she’ll be distracted. She won’t be thinking of the rest of the Storeroom. You’ll have an extra few minutes.”

“But, Dad—”

He touched her face, a fleeting brush of fingers along her cheek. Her skin tingled with it. “I didn’t get to say good-bye to your mother. This is better. Good-bye, Evie.”

He started down the steps. Alex held her back, gripping her arms, and she leaned against him, toward her father.

Mab pushed out the doorway, moving stiffly, her wounds bleeding. On the first step she nudged Frank, gazed up at him, and wagged her tail.

Evie paused. She whispered, “Go with him. Take care of him.”

Her father looked down at the dog and laced his fingers in the fur on her neck. She was exactly the right height for him to lean on her. He met Evie’s gaze once more, then turned away. They walked down the steps, onto the driveway.

From the wind, mist, and darkness, a trio of figures approached to meet him and the dog at his side. One of them was tall and poised, like a goddess. The others, a man and woman, her lieutenants, emulated her carriage. A space of calm formed around them. The wind didn’t gust there.

“Come on, Evie,” Alex said into her ear. “Come on!” He gripped her around the middle and hauled back, stumbling with her into the kitchen. Merlin followed, and Arthur protected their retreat.

Into the house, through the kitchen, down the stairs. A window shattered as a piece of debris struck it. Dad was still out there. Hera wouldn’t care if he lived or died.

She’d felt very little when she found the Marquis’s body. His death hadn’t entirely surprised her. She’d been prepared to make sacrifices. He’d succeeded, and that was something. The house was free now. Maybe she would name a bird after him.

In the space of quiet she’d created, Hera watched the old man and the dog approach. No, he wasn’t an old man. He was solidly middle aged, but old before his time. Dying. Even the dog seemed to be on its last leg, limping, bleeding from a dozen hastily stitched cuts.

For the first half of her life, she hadn’t bothered even to think about what that must be like—dying. Then, she almost had, when Zeus pulled his trick. She didn’t much like the feeling. She’d vowed to avoid the possibility in the future.

Frank Walker entered the stormless space without blinking. He held the apple in his hand.

It pulsed with power in her eyes. She’d seen that power the first time it rolled into her sight, at the wedding. Not everyone had seen it, even among the gods and goddesses of Olympus. Aphrodite had, and of course, Athena. The three of them exchanged glances across the banquet hall, each challenging the other: It will be mine.

If she were to be charitable, she’d admit that Aphrodite had won it fairly. She’d rightly seen into Paris’s heart, seen him for the idiot he was, and played to his basest desires. With what Hera and Athena had offered him, he could have acquired any woman in the world, including Helen. But the boy hadn’t been able to see past his libido.

She and Athena both should have known better. Aphrodite had bested them.

But now, finally, the apple would be hers.

“Mr. Walker,” she said amiably, ignoring her minions and the chaos billowing around her. “I was just coming to make your daughter another offer. I took the wrong approach last time—I understand that now. She doesn’t want power. She doesn’t want to be part of a new pantheon. She wants to save her mother, but since she can’t do that—she wants revenge. Am I right?”

“Can you give that to her?” he said.

“I can do away with the system that caused her pain. It’s as close as she’ll ever find. This age is over. Nothing can stop that now, you know that.”

Walker smiled sadly and shook his head. Hera quelled a spark of rage. She hadn’t seen such a look of condescension on a man since Zeus.

“What do you think this is going to do, really? You think you can use it to wipe the slate clean. But the so-called chaos that’s already out there, that you want to take advantage of, the wars and terror—that isn’t chaos. It isn’t discord. It’s orchestrated. The gods of this age, the ones who made this world, pushed it into fear and chaos to stay in power, they made the world this way. They’re the ones who must be broken. This breaks the power of the gods.” He gestured with the golden apple.

Troy had been the beginning of the end. Troy had happened when they overstepped their bounds—when they manipulated the fates of men for the sake of a trinket. When men destroyed civilizations for the sake of status. The gods of this age—oh, yes. Discord already ran loose in the world. This artifact was meant to overpower those who sowed chaos. Use the values of the age to turn the tables.

His role as the Keeper of the Storeroom had given him understanding. How did a mortal gain such wisdom? His family had been living with this power in their cellar for over three thousand years. She wondered: Who had been the first? Who from the age of heroes had founded this line?

She nodded to him with the respect he’d earned.

He pulled something else out of his pocket: a cell phone. He offered her both, one in each hand.

“You need energy. You need a life to do this thing. Take mine.”

The sacrifice had to be willing. He was. And she was sure she had the skill to guide such power.

“Are you sure?”

“I have a condition. A request. This is for my daughter. To keep her safe. Build a world that will keep her safe.”

“I will. To the best of my ability, I will.”

He reached out with the apple. She covered it with one hand, touching both its gold surface and his cool flesh, creating a link. After three thousand years of waiting, she felt the object’s power—the hum of an oncoming storm.

With her other hand, she took the phone. It was already on. Deftly, she dialed with her thumb, checked the screen briefly, then met Frank Walker’s gaze.

This would be myth. This would be turned into metaphor and told in stories. The two of them would be the founders of a new age.

She didn’t turn away as the phone rang against her ear. Then, there was an answer.

“Hello, yes,” she said. “I’d like to order a delivery.”

In a secret room in a distant city, the power brokers worked their spells. The lobbyist from one country, the general from another, the president of a corporation that did business with them all. They moved their pieces across the board and manipulated the world to their best advantage.

Then came a knock on the door.

A lackey answered it. There was a man in the uniform of a delivery service. He offered them a square box, small enough to fit in a hand, wrapped in plain paper, unmarked but for an address which read:

FOR THE GREATEST.

_________

Evie found the flashlight and went to the Storeroom. The box, he’d said. Which box? She didn’t have a clue. The room was a jumble of antiques and knickknacks, forgotten museum pieces. Lore and treasures. Her mother’s writing was still on the shelf, as if it held some magic other than memories.

Alex had stopped at the threshold. He was almost laughing, hysterical, when he said, “I still can’t go in there.”

She shook her head, clearing it of a sudden certainty that Alex belonged here if she wanted him to be here. The power of this place was hers.

“Alex.” She went to him and reached out her hand. “Sinon. I think you belong here. You fell out of time, didn’t you? Like everything else here. An artifact of legend, forgotten by the myths.”

He wore a strange, distant smile. “Forgotten, eh? Dante wrote a place for me in hell. Shakespeare used my name. I became a metaphor for treachery. But—if I could change the past, I wouldn’t. Not a minute of it,” he said with a frantic edge. “The past brought me here.”

When he wouldn’t take her hand, she took his, so they were connected across the threshold. “They all thought you died, and you didn’t. You belong here.”

“Moros maruma moo emetrei. . . .”

She narrowed her eyes, inquiring.

“It’s something Cassandra said. Fate has measured out my thread . . . to a frayed end. I’d forgotten.” He squeezed her hand.

She pulled him into the Storeroom.

He looked at her; then he looked around. “Gods, this place is unreal.”

Merlin waited outside the Storeroom. Arthur was at the top of the stairs. He scurried down a few more steps when the sound of wood and metal groaned above them, crashing with the noise of destruction.

“The house is collapsing!” Arthur called.

“We should hurry,” Alex said.

“But I don’t know what to do.” She looked around. There was something she was supposed to save. Something more important than the end of the world itself.

On top of a crate, she found a neatly folded leather bag. The bag was part of this. It had been here from the beginning.

She was on the verge of knowing.

Alex stared at the lyre on the shelves. His hand paused an inch or two from touching it. He clenched a fist and drew away. “It reminds me of someone,” he said when he caught her watching him.

Next he turned to the rack of weapons. He pointed, his hand shaking a little. “I might need a sword,” he said softly. “Could I have this one?”

It wasn’t the best sword on the rack, dull and bronze-looking, ancient and stubby compared with some of the more impressive broadswords around it. She expected the odd voice to resist. But it didn’t argue.

“Sure,” she said. “Take it.”

His face lit with wonder. “Apollo gave me this sword.”

The room had never mentioned that. When he came to the door wanting something, she could have given him this.

But it wouldn’t have killed him, and that was what he wanted.

Then the voice flared, screaming. She screamed to match it and fell, her knees striking the concrete, her hands at her temples.

And she knew that her father was dead. In that moment, she knew everything else as well. Everything she needed.

Alex was at her side, holding her. Heart pounding, she said, “Help me find it. We’ve got to find it. A box. A small box.” She showed dimensions with her hands.

She shoved aside a stack of folded banners and a pile of reptilian scales the size of her hands. She listened to the voice whispering you’re getting close.

“My lady, you’d best hurry,” Merlin called from the next room.

Plank by plank, the ceiling flew away, screeching with the agony of destruction. Spaces of open sky showed through swirling dust and debris. The walls, the roof, were gone. Smelling of brimstone, howling air pulled at her, lifting her. Around her, scraps of cloth and paper, splinters and shrapnel, flew upward. Her ears popped, wind thundering around her. Alex held the waistband of her jeans with one hand and the sword with the other. He anchored her, or she might have flown away as well. Together, they crouched on the floor, protecting each other.

There, shoved far back under a bottom shelf, was a box, small enough to sit on a girl’s lap. It was made of simple wood, bound with bronze hinges. A latch secured the lid.

Stretching, she was able to reach it. She clawed it from its resting place and hugged it to her chest. She still had the sack draped over one arm, but no time to put anything else in it.

“She’s coming!” Arthur cried.

The wind’s ferocity never dimmed, even though Hera had what she wanted. But she wanted Discord and destruction, and she was getting it. Shelves toppled, boxes lifted from their places. The contents of the Storeroom were being sucked into the funnel of a tornado, which seemed to roar with a human voice.

“Now, Merlin! Now!” Evie cried.

“Come on!” Merlin said from the other side of the doorway.

Alex wrapped his arm around her middle and hauled her to her feet. They ran. Merlin pointed at them as they passed through what remained of the doorway.

“Blessings on you both,” he said, a wild look in his eyes, his hair blown in a halo around his face. “We’ll see you on the other side!”

Then the doorway disappeared, showing a rectangle of light instead. They went through it, to searing light and a room with no air. She hoped Alex was holding her, because she couldn’t feel him anymore. She tried to scream, but could not breathe. But she held the box, and the voice that told her what it was, told her that her father had died for it. All he knew, she now knew. And there was no time.

James drove. They’d gotten out just in time. Behind them, the interstate was being closed down, all traffic stopped. Homeland Security had raised the alert status to red, severe. The government expected an attack at any moment. They weren’t even sure from whom. China, India, Russia—did it matter?

Along with six people, the SUV was crammed with supplies like tents, sleeping bags, tools, and bags of groceries: canned food, bottled water, toilet paper. Bruce had known some of his friends occasionally displayed far-out survivalist tendencies—they planned stuff like this for fun during gaming sessions. Now, he was grateful. He wouldn’t have thought of toilet paper.

Callie lay against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, crying silently. Numbly, he held her. The radio blared a static-laden news report on NPR:

“—been an exchange of nuclear armaments on the Asian continent, no word yet on what targets—”

The weather had chosen to reflect the current mood of world politics. Black thunderclouds barred all sunlight; the world was dark. James gripped the steering wheel, struggling to hold the vehicle on its course against a terrible wind. It howled and battered debris against the windows.

“Holy shit! Look at that!” Tony, James’s roommate, pressed his face to the window and craned his neck, looking up. “Do you see it? Do you see it?”

Bruce looked out his own window and tried to see. He had to look almost straight up, as straight up as he could, to directly over the car.

Funnel clouds. A dozen winding, fingerlike swirls of twisting clouds snaked down from the storm, stretching ahead of them to the horizon.

They couldn’t do anything but keep driving. There was no escaping this.

“So where are they, man?” Tony said.

Bruce glared at him. “Who?”

“The Four Horsemen.”

It wasn’t funny.

A flash filled the sky. They all shut their eyes, or turned away to avoid the flare. Lightning. In a storm like this, it had to be lightning.

If a nuclear bomb struck, would they even know it?

The radio cut out with a high-pitched whine.

If the world ended, would anything come after? Would they be able to look back and know what had happened?

Bruce closed his eyes and pressed his face to Callie’s. “I love you.”

A second flash came, white hot, and he never saw the end of it.

Hera entered the Walker house. The game was in motion, the power was in play, but there were a few loose ends left here. She would leave no loose ends.

Part of her entourage flanked her: the Curandera at her right hand, the Wanderer at her left. She still had to see about the girl. She owed it to Frank Walker to make sure she was safe.

Such a prosaic little house to serve as a repository for such great treasures. It was a common trick, hide something beautiful in something plain, disguise the desirable with the humble. It had worked, for a time. Now, though, the house’s roof had blown off, and debris buzzed in a whirlwind around them. The storm was ripping the house apart to its foundations. Hera and her lieutenants moved in a sphere of calm, protected and untroubled.

The Wanderer moved a few steps away. “Look, there,” he said, gesturing Hera closer.

On his side, half his face bloody and caved in, lay Robin Goodfellow. Beardless, boyish, and innocent—even dead, he looked like everything he was not. She’d told him not to attack the house on his own. She’d asked him to wait, and he’d said he would, with that mischievous glint in his eye that indicated he didn’t care if she thought he was lying. He’d always had his own agenda, and she never cared, as long as it didn’t interfere with hers.

It didn’t, even now.

“Come,” she said, and drew the others away from him.

The Storeroom was in the basement. In her space of calm, she went down the stairs, as the world howled around her.

At the base of the stairs, Arthur and Merlin stood guarding the doorway to the Storeroom.

They weren’t guarding much. The ceiling spun up and away, piece by piece, floorboards and wiring ripping and disappearing into the storm, pipes and ducts exposed like bones. Arthur held his sword, the legendary Excalibur, in both hands, and stood with his feet apart and well braced, his blond hair flying around his face. He grinned up at her, maniacal. Beside him, Merlin gazed with chilling calm, standing as if they were in a park on a summer day. He had enough power to be a god. She wouldn’t even have to train him, as she would the others.

What would she have to bribe them with, to bring them to her side?

“Arthur!”

Merlin tugged the warrior’s arm. Arthur laughed, spun, ducked through the doorway into the Storeroom—and disappeared.

The wizard offered a brief salute to Hera and followed him. A light sparked around the doorway and was still, and the door was just a door, leading to a room in the process of being ravaged by a tornado.

She saw no sign at all of Evie Walker and the Greek.

She finished the walk from the stairs to the door of the Storeroom. The ceiling was gone now; the walls were following, and the contents of the room—shelves of artifacts, boxes and bags, spears and swords, cabinets of gowns, crowns, golden balls, ancient horns, lyres, flutes, and bones—spun up and away, caught in the whirlwind, and disappeared. All that magic, flying back into the world, scattering, and the cycle would begin again, the stories would begin again.

She raised her hands and laughed as notebook paper covered in writing fluttered around her.

Family, loyalty, duty. The stories his father told named these as the greatest attributes a man could have. All honor came from the way one behaved toward one’s family, friends, and comrades in arms. Abstract virtues were all well and good, but they could be twisted to serve unworthy ends or unscrupulous people. One marked the greatness of a man not by the crown upon his head, but by his actions.

Telemachus didn’t know his father until he was full grown. He didn’t hear these stories until he was a man with children of his own, and Odysseus told them to his grandchildren. But Telemachus knew the lessons because he had grown up with a symbol of them more powerful than any story Odysseus told: his mother, Penelope, at her loom. Her loyalty to Odysseus never wavered. Watching her, Telemachus learned of family, loyalty, and duty.

Telemachus never thought of having adventures of his own. His father’s adventures were so famous, how could the son ever match them? He would be content to stay at home and have the quiet life his father had missed.

He forgot, though, that Odysseus hadn’t asked for his adventures, and one day a stranger came to his door.