Carrie Vaughn - Discord's Apple

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?