Discord's Apple

  “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 had
n’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.