Carrie Vaughn - Discord's Apple

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.