Discord's Apple

5

When Evie was little, she used to think there was a rule book, some kind of golden understanding that enlightened you when you became an adult. “When I grow up” was a place, a real state of being, where one shed childhood like a worn-out carapace. Then she learned that if kids were cruel, so were adults. Not much really changed except the size and expense of the toys. There was no book, no magic moment of enlightenment, and she took a grim satisfaction in realizing that everyone spent most of their time being just as confused as she was.

But this was different. She could feel a key sitting in her hand, even though she couldn’t quite grasp it. She could sense the door about to open. The door to the Storeroom, and what it meant. And unlike that great false Grail of adulthood, understanding really would come. When her father passed away.

She was an heir waiting for the seal on the will to be broken. And she didn’t want anything to do with it.

Her father went out again the next day. Evie thought he looked paler. Had he taken an extra painkiller at breakfast? She didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to argue anymore about him going out. He could take care of himself.

She worked on the script. The team splits up. Talon can’t get the image of his long-lost friend out of his mind. The others have never seen him like this—agitated, obsessed. It makes them nervous. The Captain has always been their anchor. Sarge offers to go with him while the others continue on the original mission to rescue the captured spy.

Tracker feels like she’s betrayed Talon by insisting on going on without him. She feels disloyal and wonders if he’ll ever forgive her. The hint of her feelings for him have been there for the last two dozen issues. Will it come out in the open soon? The tension is fierce.

So Talon and Sarge are sneaking into the stronghold of the Mongolian terrorists. The other three race deeper into Siberia—

A knock rattled the kitchen door.

Evie’s heart started speeding—a Pavlovian response of anxiety. Not again, she thought. Not this again, please. She didn’t want to stand and move to the door. Her hands were sweating and her limbs felt stiff.

The knock came again. It could have been just a neighbor. The postman. Please let it just be the postman. She went to answer.

Mab trotted to the kitchen with her. She looked at the door, her head low, brown eyes glaring. A growl rumbled deep in her throat.

This wasn’t like yesterday.

Evie scratched the dog’s back, and Mab wagged her tail once, but never stopped staring at the door. Evie wondered who was waiting on the porch. She opened the door a crack, in case Mab decided to launch an attack.

She was glad she was showered and dressed today. The woman standing on the porch was extraordinarily poised. Evie felt small and scruffy next to her, but at least she didn’t feel half-dressed.

The visitor was tall, elegantly slender, like a 1940s starlet. She wore an expensive-looking, calf-length dark coat belted at her waist, and high heels. Her black hair was pulled to the back of her head and held in place with invisible clips, as if by magic. Her dark eyes were exotic, while her expression was indifferent.

“Can I help you?” Evie asked cautiously.

The woman smiled, barely shifting her features. “I wondered if you might have something for me.”

Not again, she thought. I don’t want this—

Evie didn’t feel that tingling electric thrill that the old woman brought with her yesterday. Far from it: she felt sick to her stomach. She didn’t understand enough to know what the feeling meant.

Mab growled, the rumble leaving her throat and echoing between her bared teeth.

She shook her head. “No. There’s nothing here for you. I’m sorry.”

The woman’s manner shifted. The smile became that of a predator. The gaze became piercing. “Are you certain about that?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” Mab inched toward the door. Evie put her hand on the dog’s ruff. Mab didn’t wear a collar. Evie didn’t think she could hold her back if she decided to attack.

“One wonders if you know what you’re talking about.”

One does, indeed. Evie bit her lip and glared.

“Might I have a look? You keep things in the basement, don’t you?” The woman stepped forward, like she was going to push open the door and invite herself inside.

Evie grabbed Mab in a bear hug just as the dog launched herself at the woman, barking fiercely enough to rattle windows.

“Ma’am, trust me,” Evie said, hugging Mab’s shoulders, leaning with her whole weight to keep the dog back. “We don’t have anything for you.”

The woman didn’t seem to notice the chaos happening in front of her. She held up a gloved hand, palm facing the door. Turning her hand, she brushed with her fingers like she was stirring the air.

“I can’t cross the threshold,” she said. She glanced at Evie, almost as an afterthought. “But you could invite me in. Would you do that, Evie Walker?”

Evie shook her head. She hugged Mab harder; it made her feel safer. As much as she didn’t know about this, she knew she didn’t want this woman entering the house.

The woman’s voice was patient, calm, like she would stand there all day, politely asking to be let inside, until Evie could do nothing but relent.

Mab was still barking, fearless. Mab would protect her. But the woman didn’t spare a glance for the dog, and seemed unflustered by the barking.

A figure ran onto the porch and slid to a stop before banging into the wall of the house. He was young, determined, and wore a pea coat—Alex, from the grocery store. The woman turned, stepping away from him.

He lowered himself to his knees. Clasping his hands, reaching them toward her, he spoke to the woman in a language Evie didn’t recognize, much less understand.

“Ho hupsalos—aurain kataballe, seh enoiksomai. Ouk anagignoskei hos essi.”

The woman hesitated a moment, then approached him. Alex squeezed his eyes shut with something that looked like fear.

“Se exoida—Apollou aysta.” She touched his cheek, and Alex bore it as if she were a lioness breathing down his neck—silent and trembling. Her finger brushed his throat and hooked on his necklace, a bronze chain with thick links in a band around the base of his neck.

Mab had returned to growling. She stood between Evie and the door, so massive that Evie almost couldn’t see outside. She couldn’t remember sitting, but she was on the floor.

The stranger glanced at her, then at Alex again, then marched down the porch and across the gravel drive in her high heels without wobbling once.

Falling silent at last, Mab turned and licked Evie’s face.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled absently, ineffectively trying to push Mab away.

“Are you?” It was Alex, leaning against the wall on the other side of the door. They looked at each other across the threshold.

“Yeah.” Mab eyed him warily, but didn’t growl. Evie thought that a point in his favor. “Who was that? Who are you?”

They had known each other. She hadn’t understood them, but their words had held a tone of ritual and familiarity.

He shook his head absently, more a gesture of denial than of ignorance. “I thought she was dead. Years ago. She should be dead.”

“Who is she? What’s she doing here?”

“Same as me, evidently. Looking for something.”

“For what?”

“Don’t know. Could be anything.” He let out a tired sigh. A sheen of sweat dampened his brow.

“Who are you?”

Smiling, he looked away. “A traveler.”

She didn’t know whether to invite him in for coffee to coax the whole story out of him, or slap him for being so cryptic. “Why are you spying on us? You were watching the house, weren’t you?”

A car pulled into the driveway, kicking up gravel. It wasn’t her father’s pickup, but the passenger door opened and Frank started to climb out. The driver—one of Frank’s friends, Pete Losasso from the hardware store—rushed to the passenger side to help him. He took her father’s arm.

Frank brushed him away, but he leaned on the door. “I’m fine.” Her father’s voice carried across the driveway. Then, “Thanks for the ride, Pete. I’ll get the truck back tomorrow.”

Pete stood by the car, watching until Frank reached the porch. He was limping.

Evie stood, keeping her hand on Mab’s back. What had happened? Alex stood with her, his brow furrowed.

“He’s sick, isn’t he?” he asked softly.

Her father didn’t seem to notice Alex until he came to lean on the railing of the porch steps. At that point, he stared hard at Alex, glanced questioningly at Evie, then turned and waved to Pete, who took the cue to drive away.

“Dad, you okay?”

He glared, a silent reprimand for even asking the question, then nodded at Alex. “Is this guy bothering you?”

“No.” Far from it. She had a feeling he’d saved her from something. But she didn’t tell her father about the woman, about what had brought Alex here. She didn’t want him to worry.

Her father said to Alex, “I told you, there’s nothing here for you.”

“A man can hope.” He gave Evie a look that made her blush. “I won’t trouble you again, Mr. Walker.” He turned his collar up, nodded a farewell to Evie, and walked off the porch, his hands shoved in his coat pockets. She almost ran after him. She had more questions, like what had he been looking for in the Storeroom?

She said, “So that guy’s been here before?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure he’s harmless. Just . . . desperate.”

“About what?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“What’s going on?” She was surprised at how angry she sounded. “This all has to do with the basement, and I don’t understand—and don’t tell me I will!”

“Evie, I can’t explain. It’s impossible to explain.”

He started to climb up the stairs, wincing. Thoughts of the Storeroom and the confrontation at the door left Evie’s mind entirely, and she wanted to rush to his side to help him, but she didn’t dare. He’d push her away, and they’d fight.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just a sore back. I’ll lie down, rest a bit. It’ll pass.”

A factoid from her Internet research presented itself: If the cancer has metastasized to the spine, spinal cord compression along with back pain can ensue.

“How long has this been happening?”

“A while now.” He moved slowly, taking each step like he was afraid of jostling himself.

Mab, wagging her tail madly, pushed past Evie and trotted to him, nudging him, ducking her head, whining. “Oh, hey there, I’m fine, girl. I’m fine.” His voice brightened as he scratched the dog’s ears. He seemed to stand a little straighter and wince a little less with Mab at his side. He could lean on her without looking like he needed help.

Thanks, Mab.

“I’ll make you some tea,” Evie said, turning away before he could argue.

Bruce had faced deadlines worse than this. He’d drawn a twenty-page book in two days, once. It hadn’t been his best work by any stretch, and he’d slept for twelve straight hours when he finished. But it could be done.

He didn’t want to have to work like that on Eagle Eyes. Drawing a good explosion took time. But at the start, he and Evie had decided to acknowledge current events in the storylines, to make the book as relevant as possible, raising it above the level of a military fetishist’s dream.

Maybe that was why he was procrastinating. It wasn’t like Evie hadn’t done her part and not sent him enough script to work with. But he wanted more time. He wasn’t going to get it. So he didn’t work at all.

It certainly wasn’t that he lacked for inspiration. All he had to do was look out his window.

In the years since its creation, Homeland Security had authorized local militias in every major city, then promptly lost control of many of them to local politics, gangs, and organized crime. Gang warfare and underworld conflicts now had a veneer of government approval. When the tribalistic skirmishes got out of hand, the National Guard had to come in to sort out the situation. It had happened two or three times in L.A., but never this close to home.

The Pasadena Militia had taken offense at some territorial insult offered by the Glendale Militia. The Guard instituted a security lockdown. Bruce hadn’t been able to leave Glendale in two days. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but his girlfriend Callie had gotten stuck outside, at her job at a Los Feliz hair salon. She was staying with her cousin, so at least she was safe. Bruce would have felt better if they’d been together, safe.

Evie, who lived a quarter mile closer to Pasadena, was lucky she got out of the city when she did. He couldn’t imagine having a sick father three states away and not being able to leave the house.

His apartment was just a couple of blocks off Colorado Boulevard. He could see a sliver of the intersection and an armored troop carrier zipping by on the empty road. He wondered if he could get them to pose for a drawing. He wondered if any of them even read Eagle Eye Commandos, and if they’d be impressed with him.

The TV offered a counterpoint. He’d left it on all day, switching back and forth between a local news station for better coverage of the Glendale and Pasadena lockdown, and a national news network for updates on the situation in Russia. Evie was going to be pissed off. The situation there was deteriorating so rapidly, the revised script was already in danger of becoming obsolete. They kept setting storylines in Russia because it was exciting, rife with plot potential. A little too rife, unfortunately.

The news anchors’ voices faded to an insect chatter in his consciousness. He sat by his apartment window and stared out. The sun was setting, turning the polluted sky a shade of neon orange he’d only ever seen in L.A.

He ought to get back to work on the book, but he kept waiting to see if the Guard turned up his street, soldiers marching with their rifles in hand.

Finally, he called Evie’s mobile phone. It rang half a dozen times; then her voice mail picked up. He didn’t leave a message. She probably just hadn’t found the phone in time.

A minute later, his own mobile rang. He answered, “Yeah?”

“Sorry, I had to dig in my bag for the phone.”

He smiled. Ah, predictability.

“What’s up?” Evie said.

“What do you want, local or global?”

“Geez, global I guess, to start with.”

She sounded exhausted. He resisted the urge to ask how she was doing, how her father was doing, how bad was it really. Not that she’d tell him, one way or the other.

“Let’s see. Russia and India have declared war on China.”

“God, that was fast,” she said.

“Don’t tell me you saw it coming.”

“No, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Russia’s claiming the Chinese government backed the Mongolians who dropped the plane on Red Square. I think it’s just an excuse, but never mind. Congress is debating about who to side with. The U.S. has got aid treaties with all of them still on the books. That’s what we get for making friends with everyone, eh? We can’t side with the terrorists, but we can’t side against our largest trade market, can we? It’s a mess.”

She didn’t say anything, and for a moment he wondered if they were still connected.

“Evie?”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired.”

He didn’t buy it, but let it slide. “How are we going to spin this in the story?”

“Until we know who the President and Congress are going to back, we won’t know. Maybe we should get the Eagle Eyes out of Siberia and send them to . . . Peru or someplace. Are there any wars in Peru right now?”

“The way things have been going lately, it’s probably sunk into the ocean.” She laughed, which encouraged him to broach the difficult question. “How’s your dad?”

A beat passed before she said, “You know he got a dog? This huge Irish wolfhound. She’s great—I’ll have to send you pictures.”

The misdirection meant the situation there was bad. As terrible as it was being stranded in a security lockdown across town from Callie, he wouldn’t want to trade places with Evie.

“That’d be cool,” he said, not really interested in the dog but wanting to be supportive. “I should get going. We’ve got work to do, right?”

“Right.”

Work always gave them something to hide behind.

They signed off, and Bruce didn’t feel any better after the conversation than he had before it. It seemed like all their lives were blowing up at the same time.

The sunset’s orange faded to brown.

The woman shed her coat and pulled off her gloves, tossing them over the back of the desk chair in the matchbox that passed for a hotel room in this village. The carpet was brown, worn; the bedspread a garish paisley in shades of red and orange; the cheap paneling was coming off the walls. The place smelled of mice. So unsuitable. In her own mind, she was still the Queen, though she hadn’t worn a crown in centuries. The day would come again, and she had suffered far worse conditions than this over the years. She had spent the last three thousand years crawling out of ruin.

There was a closet near the bathroom. She knocked sharply on the closed door, three distinct raps. In response, the door slid open, pulled from the inside, and a few wisps of fog trailed from darkness. The young man who stepped out of the passage looked eighteen or nineteen, lithe and fine-boned, with tanned skin and curly brown hair. His hazel eyes flashed; his movements were quick and precise. He closed the door, then set about buttoning the cuffs of his white silk shirt.

“Finally,” he said. “I was so bored.”

“Then I’ll give you work,” the Queen said.

He looked up from his shirt cuffs to meet her gaze at last. His smile was crooked, disguising who-knew-what mischief. He made an ostentatious bow. “It is my fate to serve the powerful.”

“As if you had no power of your own. I know differently. You’re only bitter that the stories have reduced you to a friendly, harmless spirit.” She pinched his chin lightly.

He grinned all the wider. “Not so bitter as I would be if the stories had reduced me to a frigid old harridan.”

He was too much to bear by half. She turned away and spoke easily, as if she had not heard him. “The Marquis was correct. The trail he’s been following ends here. There are only two of them, father and daughter. But I can’t get inside to get at the Storeroom. Can you find a way into the house?”

“Simple. A task for children. I’ll be there and back before you know I’ve gone.”

“Not likely,” she said with a purr.

“A turn of phrase, milady,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Yet you will be amazed at my speed, startled at the thoroughness with which I complete my task, awed by the—”

“Robin—don’t overexert yourself, hm? This is only just starting.”

“I hear you and obey.” He bowed and blew her a kiss, though the look in his eyes was dark, and walked out the door in a perfectly casual manner.

She went to the bathroom to draw a hot bath, sighing at the Fates that left her to make deals with one such as him. Still, she’d had worse servants, even at the height of her power. She wouldn’t make an enemy of someone who could help her. So few these days had the skills she needed. A hedge-witch here, a self-styled magician there—obscure saints of obscure miracles. Under her guidance, they’d become useful. She hadn’t been able to find the Walkers herself, but she had found the Marquis, and he had found someone else searching for the Storeroom, and the path became clear.

That man who’d been at the Walker house—he might be another one she could use. The daughter hadn’t even seemed aware that the house was protected, but the man . . . She hadn’t heard that language spoken in three thousand years. How had he survived from that time?

And how could she use him to her advantage?

Her father didn’t leave the house the next day, which made Evie both relieved and worried. She didn’t want him going out, to collapse somewhere and need help without anyone nearby. But how sick was he, to feel like he couldn’t go out?

She tried to put her mind on her work.

Here was Tracker, sick with worry about Talon, distracted from her own task. She should have gone with him. That’s when Jeeves says, “You’re in love with him.” It’s out now. She can deny it or ignore it. She remains immobile, mired in indecision and uncertainty.

Evie stared at the screen, mired in indecision.

Whenever she felt like she’d written herself into a corner, she inserted a battle. Attacked by terrorists, chase scene here. She’d have to answer Jeeves’s statement later.

After lunch, she told her father she was going to catch up with friends. He’d spent much of the day in his armchair in the living room, reading, as if nothing were wrong. He didn’t say much to her when she left. She gave him her cell phone number, told him to call her if he needed anything, anything at all.

Either he would or he wouldn’t.

Mab was napping in the kitchen. Evie knelt by her, resting her hand on the dog’s head. “Look after him, ’kay?” Mab’s tail thumped the floor. Her dark eyes were liquid and earnest.

The Prairie Schooner had been Hopes Fort’s only motel since the fifties. These days, it was owned by Carlos and Gracie Alvarez. Evie had gone to school with their sons.

“Hi, Mr. Alvarez,” she said to the family patriarch, who sat behind the counter. It didn’t matter that she was all grown up now; he’d always be Mr. Alvarez. He was a middle-aged man with paunch and thinning hair. He hadn’t changed at all in the last ten years. She seemed to remember that his sons, Stu and Harry, were living in Pueblo now.

“Well, Evie Walker, hello.” He stood and offered a friendly handshake, which she bore amiably. “What brings you back to town? You need a room?”

“No, I’m seeing my dad for Christmas.”

“Sure. Hey, I heard that he—I mean, if there’s anything—” He let the offer end with a shrug.

He’s not dead yet, she wanted to growl. Did everyone in town know? Were there signs up at the Safeway?

“Thanks. Actually, I have a question for you. Do you have a guy staying here? About this tall, dark hair, kind of tough looking.” Was Alex tough looking? She seemed to remember his frame being on the thin side. But capable. Handsome even? “Wears a big felt jacket. Also a woman, maybe in her thirties, elegant, well dressed. But they’re not together. Probably.” This wasn’t making sense.

He didn’t even have to stop and think. “Nope. I’ve only got three rooms filled right now, the usual holiday crowd. Relatives’ places are overflowing, so they come here. Two families with young kids and one older woman.”

“You haven’t had anyone like them in the last week or so?”

“No. ’Fraid not.”

No standoffish single guys, nothing unusual. Alex would certainly stand out, if he were staying here. “Right. Thanks. So—how’s business?”

He shrugged. “People don’t travel much these days. But we get by.”

“How are Stu and Harry?” Carlos Alvarez rambled on about them and their families—they had a rapidly growing collection of children, Evie gathered. She listened politely. If she hadn’t wanted to sit through the report, she shouldn’t have asked the question. Finally, she was able to work in, “Well, tell them I said hello.”

“I sure will. You tell your dad to take care of himself.”

If only she could.

She sat in her car for a while, watching the doors of the guest rooms lined up behind the main office. The motel was a one-story building. Red doors stood out against the white siding and the gray asphalt shingles. Except for new coats of paint, the place probably looked exactly as it had fifty years ago. Only two other cars were parked in the lot. Evie didn’t know what she was waiting for. She didn’t know where else to find Alex. Strangers in town stayed at the motel, right? She supposed she could go ask Johnny Brewster if the police had seen anything. Someone like Alex stood out in a place like Hopes Fort.

She put her car into reverse, looked out the back window for oncoming traffic, looked over her other shoulder, and started backing. When she checked the rearview mirror, a man stood behind the car.

Gasping, she pounded the brake. In the rearview mirror, she saw him jerk, like he’d been hit. She swore he hadn’t been there when she looked a second ago.

She shifted to park, hit the emergency brake for good measure, and rushed out of the car. “Are you okay?”

He was leaning on her trunk. Smoothing the sleeves of his shirt, he straightened, smiling a little, unflustered. He was younger than she first thought, in his early twenties. Short, thin, and baby-faced, he had curly brown hair, tousled around his ears.

He said, “I should watch where I’m going, huh?”

“I’m really sorry, I thought I looked, I didn’t see you there—”

“Hey, not a problem. No worries.” Flashing a brilliant smile, he touched her hand.

And she thought, how strong his hands were, how sure his touch, which felt like a spark racing up her arm, into her mind, and he was smiling for her.

“What’s your name?” he said. “I’m new here in town, and I’ve been wondering where’s a good place to get some dinner. Maybe you could show me.”

His words tingled. He didn’t let go of her hand. She shook her head. Another stranger in town. Looking for her.

“I don’t think . . .”

He looked away, his tanned face blushing a little, his smile turning sly. “I know it’s a little forward of me. But I’m a believer in fate, and it’s just possible that I showed up here, at this exact time, and you almost ran over me for a reason.”

He made such a prospect sound reasonable. Her mind fogged. He wasn’t speaking to her mind; he was speaking to another place, deep in her gut, making her want to melt.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said, trying to clear away the dizziness that seemed to overtake her.

“Evie! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

She looked, and there stood Alex. He took her elbow and pulled her arm out of the stranger’s reach. In spite of herself, she leaned into his touch. He was solid, and didn’t send shocks along her nerves.

“Hold this,” Alex said, and tossed something at the stranger. It looked like a sprig of leaves, like part of a boutonniere.

Startled, the man caught it out of reflex. For a moment, he held it with both hands. Then he shouted, an indecipherable curse, and dropped it, scuttling away from it.

Alex shoved her to the car and climbed into the front seat, pulling her in with him.

“Hurry up and drive, please,” he said.

Numb and bewildered, she did. The tires squealed as she jerked forward, circled around the parking lot, and lurched into the street.

The stranger glared after her, rubbing his hands together like he was brushing dirt off them.

The Queen paced back and forth along the narrow aisle between the bed and dresser, arms crossed. Robin sat at the edge of the bed, melting an ice cube over each palm in turn.

He scowled, all his humor gone. “I thought it would be easy getting to the house through the girl. I usually do so well with them. But I didn’t know about him. Who did you say he is?”

“He was a slave. A Greek, one of Apollo’s. Detritus of history, lost in time somehow. He certainly doesn’t have any power. He’s nothing.”

She said the words and tried to believe them, but her mind reached. He may have been nothing in himself, but what had brought him here? Whom did he serve? Surely not any of her brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. They were all dead. She’d have known if they were still alive.

“He has enough power to irritate me.” Robin scowled at the rash on his hands. “I hate them. I hate them both.”

How could someone who’d lived so long act like such a child? “Any mortal could know such a charm.”

“But if he used such a charm, then he knows who I am—what I am. He’s dangerous.”

“He’s guarding her. The Walker girl,” she said.

“Why?”

“He could want the house for himself.”

“Or the girl,” Robin said with a leer.

This should have been easy. Only two mortals in a simple house stood between her and the prize. Once she’d located the Storeroom, taking what she needed should have been easy. Three thousand years gone, and Zeus was still making life difficult for her. Leave it to him to plan so far ahead, placing obstacles for her to overcome. Maybe the Greek slave was part of that plan. Or maybe the man had his own agenda afoot. In either case, he was a nuisance.

“I’ll take care of him,” she said. “It will take only a moment. You stay and nurse your wounds.”

Robin glowered with a hint of ancient stories, of red caps and sharp teeth. “I’ll be ready for him next time. No one fools me twice.”

She pressed her lips into a mocking smile and opened the door.

The woman who stepped out of the motel room was old, seventy or eighty, with white hair and soft, wrinkled skin. Dressed in a respectable skirt and blouse, she was tiny, but despite her short frame and thin bones, she managed to hold herself straight and walk with slow dignity as she crossed the parking lot to the motel office.

The proprietor sat behind the desk. He greeted her as the door opened. “Hi, Mrs. Basil. Is everything okay?”

“Hello, Mr. Alvarez. I’m not really sure.” Her wrinkles deepened in confusion, and she glanced over her shoulder, through the glass door to the parking lot. “I saw something rather disturbing on the street just now.” She checked, and the street itself wasn’t visible from the parking lot. She could tell him anything. “It may be nothing, but I thought I should tell someone.”

As she expected, Alvarez frowned, interested and concerned. “What is it?”

“There was a young woman, she had brown hair in a ponytail, a green army-looking jacket—”

“Evie Walker. She was just in here.”

“Yes, well, a man stopped her on the road just now.” She spoke carefully, as if she were trying very hard to remember and explain clearly, evoking sympathy for her age. “He pounded on the door, then got in the car. The poor girl looked frightened, and I think—I think he was holding a gun. Does that sort of thing happen here?”

Alvarez’s face paled. His hand was shaking when he picked up the phone. “I’ll call the police. I’ll call right now. Can you tell them what the man looked like?”

“Well, I think so. Oh, I hope she isn’t in danger.”

After he contacted the police, he handed the phone to her and she described the attacker in detail—short, slim, olive-skinned, in his early thirties, dark curling hair, wearing a navy blue felt coat. The police had the description and license plate number of Evie’s car on record from the checkpoint on the highway. Officer Brewster was sure they’d be found quickly, and he thanked Mrs. Basil very much for her help.

She insisted she was more than happy to be of service, and hoped the girl was safe.

Evie perched at the edge of her seat, leaning on the steering wheel while she drove. She didn’t know where she was going. Just away. Alex leaned against the passenger door and stared out the windshield.

After a mile, he said, “What’s your first question?”

She sat back and covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Or shrieking. When she realized she’d used the hand the stranger touched, she stared at it. The car hit a pothole. She was driving too fast and eased her foot off the gas pedal.

That guy at the motel had done something to her. Absently, she wiped her hand on her jeans.

“What was that you threw at him?” she said finally. “Rowan.”

“Rowan?”

“It’s a kind of tree,” he said.

“Yes, I know. Why did it hurt him like that?”

“Every magician has a weakness. Rowan is useful against that one’s brand of magic.”

“That one . . . who was he? Magic? What do you mean, ‘brand of magic’? What did he do to me? What do you mean, magic?”

“Slow down, one at a time.”

She swallowed and tried to keep her mind from tumbling. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He glanced at her. “You have?”

“You seem to know what’s going on. My father won’t tell me anything. I want to know what all that stuff is doing in my dad’s house. And why does everyone want it?” And why do I feel like this? Why is it speaking to me?

“It’s not that simple.”

“Who was that woman who came to the door yesterday? And who was that guy in the parking lot?”

“I’m not sure you would believe me—”

She slammed the brakes, cranking the wheel to skid to the side of the road. The tires complained, and belatedly she looked in the rearview mirror to see if anyone was about to plow into her. But this was Hopes Fort, and she was out of town already, surrounded by barren winter fields. Hers was the only car on the road.

“Who are you? Why did you save me? What did you save me from?”

Alex had one hand on the dash, the other on the back of his seat, and he pushed himself against the door, away from her. His brow was lined and anxious; his lips frowned.

“I think he’s working for Hera. He probably thought he could use you to get into the Storeroom. Here.” He reached his closed hand over to her. Tentative, she held her palm open, and he dropped a twig, a few inches long with rows of serrated oval leaves, bright green, into her hand. “You should keep it, in case he comes back.”

She rubbed the leaves between her thumb and finger. The stranger’s touch had been like a cord wrapping around her body. She would have followed him anywhere. Taken him into the house, anything. And how could a twig stop that?

“Hera? That woman? The one you talked to yesterday?”

“Hera, Queen of Olympus. Yes.”

“That’s crazy.”

He shrugged, unconcerned.

“So which god are you? Apollo?”

Laughing, he said, “I’m not nearly golden enough.”

She’d meant the question as a joke. “Then who are you?”

“Nothing. No one.” He looked away.

“But you understand. You know everything.”

His lips parted in a silent chuckle. “I ought to, after all this time. But I don’t.”

This was a very elaborate prank. What would any god—or goddess—be doing in Hopes Fort, of all places? Why would any basement in Hopes Fort serve as a Storeroom for ancient lyres and golden fleece? It didn’t make any sense. An old woman coming to her house looking for glass slippers didn’t make any sense.

The car had stalled. Evie shoved the sprig of rowan in her coat pocket, started the car again, and put her hands on the steering wheel. She wondered how she was going to kick Alex out of her car. But she couldn’t just leave him, after he’d saved her from . . . whatever he’d saved her from. And what god had that been? That was twice, now.

He seemed harmless enough. Or rather, he seemed harmless enough toward her. For the moment. But there was no mistaking, he was stalking her, following her.

Protecting her?

He finally broke the silence. “She’s looking for something in the Storeroom. That’s why she came to the house yesterday, that’s why she came after you today. You should try to find out what. If you want to know why she’s here, why these things are happening, that’s the key.”

“I don’t even know what all’s down there.”

“You could look.”

“It’s just a basement full of junk.”

He gave her a raised-eyebrow expression that clearly disbelieved her.

She tried again to make this sound rational. “The goddess Hera wants something from my father’s basement.”

“Obviously.”

“So, does that woman think she’s Hera, or is it just you who thinks she is?”

“You’re being willfully stubborn,” he said. “She is Hera. The goddess. Married to Zeus. Queen of Olympus.”

“And she wants something from my father’s basement.” This was starting to sound like an old comedy routine. “What does she want?”

“You won’t know until you have a look.”

“All right.” She could do that much. Just have a look around, see if something jumped out at her. Maybe this woman was a cousin nobody had told her about, and Evie would find her picture in a photo album. “But you’re coming with me. You said you know her—you might recognize something that I won’t.”

He didn’t argue, which made her wonder if this was a bad idea. She pulled back onto the highway and drove toward home. Her hands were sweaty on the plastic of the steering wheel.

He sat quietly, watching the road ahead. She tried to study him out of the corner of her eye, as if that would tell her what she needed to know about him.

“What are you looking for?” she said to break the silence. “You’ve been to see my dad before. He said he didn’t have anything for you.”

“Yes. At least he says there’s nothing.” He spoke with a tone of bitterness and frustration, like maybe he thought her father was lying.

“But what do you think is there? What do you want to find?”

He watched the yellow, wasted prairie scroll by the car window. He said, “I’m looking for something that will kill me.”

Henrich Vanderen crossed the Atlantic to escape Napoléon, and to escape being drafted into the army in Prussia. Europe had suddenly become a small place, nations sprawling everywhere. Difficult for a man to be alone in, and to find a place where he would not be bothered. He spent the journey in the ship’s hold, using as a pillow the one bag he brought with him, a sturdy leather satchel closed by a drawstring.

It felt a little like betrayal, leaving the land of his fathers, of countless fathers who had come before him, fading into history like ghosts. At the same time, those ghosts urged him on. He must find a safe, isolated place where he wouldn’t be bothered. The ghosts knew what was important, and they passed that knowledge to him. Find a safe place, dig in deep, and remember.

In America, he could lose himself, and no one would think him odd for wanting anonymity. People who needed to find him would. They always did. He traveled to the frontier of the new country, as far as Europeans had traveled in the wild land, and carved himself a farm in Ohio. His stumbling English, broken with a German accent, was not so out of place here. And while the forest had many eyes, which he felt watching him when he traveled, he did not feel the iron breath of armies and governments down his back. He could start a family without fear that it would be snatched from him when he closed his eyes.

He built a cabin, and under it he dug a cellar that became a new Storeroom, housing ancient lyres, golden fleece, and glass slippers.

One morning, he opened the door of his cabin and saw a man sitting cross-legged in front of his house. He was one of the natives, with sun-reddened skin, raven-black hair, and a broad face. He wore what looked like long gaiters made of leather, and a breastplate made of porcupine quills.

When Henrich appeared, the man opened his eyes, as if he’d been asleep, sitting with his back straight and legs tucked under him. He stood gracefully, without propping himself on his hands. His hair shimmered, and Henrich saw that it wasn’t simply that his hair was shining black. He’d braided raven feathers into a tail down his back.

Henrich had heard stories of bloodthirsty natives, but he wasn’t afraid of this man.

The native man approached him, arms stretched before him, cupping something in his hands. He spoke with a rough voice, like the scratching cry of a bird, in a language Henrich didn’t understand. But the man gestured with his hands, and the meaning was clear. Instinct made him reach and accept the gift from the stranger.

The native put an ear of maize in his hands. Henrich met his dark-eyed gaze, and the man nodded decisively. Then he vanished into the woods at the other end of the space Henrich had cleared for his holding. A raven circled overhead.

Henrich put the maize in the Storeroom, with the rest of the treasures passed on from his ancestors into his safekeeping.