Carrie Vaughn - Discord's Apple

“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.”

H enrich 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.