Carrie Vaughn - Discord's Apple

“The phone call. I was just curious.”

Evie rubbed her forehead. Not that it was any of his business. “No, he’s my partner. The artist.” She pointed at the comics.

“Ah, of course. That Bruce.”

“He’s called me almost every day. The book deals so much in current events, we try to tie in as much as we can. But things have gotten volatile. It’s impossible to predict what might happen anymore. We’ve had a couple of major storylines yanked out from under us in the last year. He’s mad at me because I haven’t been watching the news.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah,” she said with a painful chuckle. That was without telling Bruce about hypothetical Greek goddesses showing up on the doorstep, the basement full of mythical artifacts, or the strange man in the pea coat.

There’d been so much news to keep up with over the last few days. All of it bad, the conflicts so much greater than the third world clashes that had preoccupied current events over the last half a century or so. No one had to wonder if Russia had nuclear weapons or not.

“It’s so surreal,” she said. She shook her head, rearranging her thoughts. “Bruce was saying that this is playing like some messed-up war game. It’s like there are people—the people in power—moving pieces around on a game board. It makes you wonder how much of history is just people in power manipulating a game.”

Alex said softly, “That isn’t far from wrong.”

She stared at him. “How do you know?”

He shrugged and wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Then what about Discord? What about that apple? What does it do?”

“One shudders to think,” he said.

Mab raised her head, her tail thumping the floor as it wagged. A moment later, her father’s door opened, and Frank himself appeared in the doorway. His hand clutched his side, but nonchalantly, as if he had put it there and forgotten it.

His brow lined quizzically, he said, “I forgot to ask: What are you doing here?”

Alex hesitated a moment, a stricken look briefly crossing his features before he lifted the sandwich and said, “Having lunch.”

Evie stood. “Dad—you don’t look good.”

He waved her away. “I’m fine. Is he bothering you?”

“No.” She debated about what to tell him. She didn’t want him to worry. He shouldn’t have to worry about anything but getting well. Or rather, not dying. But she could deny that anything was wrong, and he wouldn’t believe her, any more than she believed it when he insisted he was fine. So she didn’t say anything.

“Everything’s okay?”

“Yeah.” She nodded earnestly.

He didn’t believe it. He looked back and forth between them, his narrowed gaze accusing them of conspiracy. He finally pointed at Alex. “Don’t think you can use her to get at the Storeroom.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Alex said.

Her father studied them further, then said, “Call me if you need anything. Keep an eye on things, Mab.”

He scratched the wolfhound’s ears. She placed herself alertly at the corner of the room, staring at Evie. He disappeared back behind his door, still limping, hiding a wince.

Alex said, “You haven’t told him about Hera.”

“I don’t want him to worry.” She curled up on the sofa, half a sandwich in hand, picking at the bread crusts. She squeezed her eyes shut against tears. Her father wasn’t worried. Not once had he shown any fear or worry, any of her own emotions that she wanted to see mirrored in him. He was taking it all so calmly, as she couldn’t imagine doing. She said, half to herself, “I think he wants to die.”

Alex’s brow was lined. “Why would he? I can understand the impulse, but why would he want to?”

“To be with my mother.” He waited for her to continue, which she did, almost unwillingly, as if a different voice spoke her thoughts. “She died in the Seattle bombing. I keep thinking about her now. It happened so quickly. I talked to her the night before, and the next day she’s just gone, nothing left. And now Dad—and I can’t decide which is worse. The slow death or the sudden. I have a chance to say good-bye to him. But I have to watch him—I can already see him getting more sick, and I’ve only been here a few days. With Mom, at least it was over. I could just move on. But I don’t know which is worse.”

Just move on. That was a lie. It had been five years. She started writing Eagle Eye Commandos right after the Seattle bombing. She created characters who could do what she couldn’t—take revenge—and who could stop the tragedies that no one in reality seemed able to prevent.

Would Emma Walker be proud that Evie had found a way to profit from her grief and anger over that day? Evie covered her mouth to make herself stop talking.

Alex sat at the edge of the armchair, leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees. He must not have been any more hungry than she, because he hadn’t eaten any of the sandwich. He’d stayed when she asked, but he didn’t seem comfortable. A god, a magician—someone like Hera or Merlin—ought to appear a little more sure of himself.

She was about to once again ask him who he was, when he hopped to his feet and said, “Do you drink? Is there anything alcoholic around here?”

Bewildered, she said, “Yeah, I think there’s beer in the fridge.”

“Right.” He dropped the sandwich back on the plate and marched to the kitchen. Mab rose and trotted after him, ears pricked and alert. She didn’t growl or look menacing—just had to keep an eye on him, like her father said.

Alex moved purposefully, opening the refrigerator, searching, finding his quarry in short order, and returning with two handfuls of bottles, four in all, and a church key. He cleared some of the comics away to make space for them on the coffee table.

“Most people would have used the comics as coasters,” Evie said, smiling crookedly. He was successfully distracting her, and she was surprised to find herself pleased at being distracted.

“Who knows, they might be worth millions someday. But not with water rings on them.” He snapped the cap off one of the bottles. It breathed a puff of fog when he offered it to her. “Come on, drink up. It’ll make you feel better.”

She took it, and he opened a bottle for himself. “Thanks.”

“Cheers.” He lifted his bottle; she lifted hers. She didn’t know what they were toasting: comic books, friendly dogs—Mab had parked herself at the other end of the coffee table—fridges conveniently stocked with beer. Helplessness.

It didn’t matter. He was right. She needed to feel something besides sickening anxiety, and the cold liquid pouring into her belly and alcoholic warmth seeping into her blood was an alternative.

He leaned back into the armchair. Now she should ask him who he really was. Or maybe he’d be more likely to give her a straight answer once he finished the beer. He might have been trying to get her drunk so he could convince her to sneak him into the Storeroom. She leaned back with a sigh and closed her eyes, holding the chilled bottle against her cheek.

“Do you know who that was who came by just now? Do you realize who that was?” he said with too much enthusiasm.

She’d almost forgotten: the strange old man, the sword in the stone in the backyard. The image of her father collapsing erased everything that came before it. The afternoon had shrunk to that moment.

“Yeah,” she said. “It was Merlin. Merlin, Excalibur—oh my God.” It sounded so foolish when she said it out loud.

Alex’s eyes lit with an aura of adoration. “The stories about him—he’s one of the greatest magicians who ever lived. One of the maddest. But the things he could do—”