Carrie Vaughn - Discord's Apple

Despite his withdrawn nature, the Wanderer was handsome and polished. She could take him anywhere, and his manners would do him credit. He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket and offered it to her. She drew one from the pack, and he took one himself. He lit hers with an antique Zippo, then his own. Smoking was a way to delay, to draw out time. She knew the Wanderer used it as another way to read people: how they held the cigarette, how they exhaled, did they do so nervously, or did the movements calm them. She could let him think he was reading her, learning more about her—confiding in him bound him to her. If he felt he was a partner—or even a paramour—and not simply a soldier, he’d be more loyal to the goal.

“Do you think he could be persuaded to join us?”

“Who, the old man? Walker?” he said.

“Yes. Assuming the daughter fails to cooperate, we might convince him to give us the Storeroom. For a price, of course.”

The Wanderer looked at the flat horizon and shook his head. “I don’t think he has a price.”

“Not even a cure for his illness?”

His lips curled. “His illness frightens him. But he won’t try to avoid it.”

“What if we threatened his daughter?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think you could threaten them both and expect them both to give in. They’ll think you’re lying to both of them. You need at least one of them to get the prize.”

“You can bluff only one player at time?”

“Something like that.” He tapped off the ashes. “I think you’re better off threatening the daughter. She’s younger, more emotional. The older one—he’s bound to the Storeroom. He’s tied up in the same magic guarding that place. I don’t think he could sell out to us even if he wanted to.”

Robin—curse him—jumped out from behind a nearby headstone like some kind of carnival prop. He turned to lean against it, as if he’d been there for hours, hinting that he’d heard every word they’d said, whether he did or not. Bluffing with the best of them.

Hera regarded him coolly, without the least bit of surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding our pawn?”

“I can see him from here. I can be at his side in a moment if he tries anything. I thought you should know, the Greek slave is coming.”

“Should I leave?” the Wanderer said.

“No.” She’d need him to help read the newcomer.

“Should I leave?” said Robin from his gravestone.

Her voice honey-sweet, she said, “Would you even if I asked?”

Grinning, Robin didn’t move.

The Greek came up the drive that cut down the middle of the cemetery. He looked wretched. Blood covered the lower half of his shirt and most of his lap, as if he’d been stabbed and bled all over himself. He didn’t seem hurt.

He glanced at the car parked halfway up the drive, but continued toward her. She waited, dropping the cigarette and stepping it flat. Hands shoved in his coat pockets, he stopped a good distance away, eight or ten feet, not displaying excessive familiarity. Watching his step. He was wary. She wished she could read mortals as well as she could in the old days. Something else, something besides her, was worrying him.

“What happened to you?” she said, regarding his gory clothing with a grimace of distaste.

“I fell.”

“Ah. So, are you here because you have information for me? Is Evie Walker on her way?”

His expression was calm, revealing nothing. “What are you going to do to them? When you have the apple, what happens to the Walkers?”

“Why are you concerned with them?”

Here he winced, as if uncertain, and didn’t answer. Anyone could see what it meant, even without divine powers.

From his perch on the headstone, Robin said, “The Walkers have many allies. Tell her, Greek.”

The Greek gave nothing away—he’d had lots of practice hiding things. One wondered that he ever talked at all.

Robin shrugged off the silence and spoke, grinning. “I saw Merlin at the house. Arthur can’t be far behind. That Merlin. That Arthur.”

Hera didn’t bother asking why Robin hadn’t seen fit to tell her this earlier. The edge in his tone bothered her—the Greek had offended Robin, who of course had taken it personally and would goad him when he could. Hera would have to watch the hobgoblin carefully.

The news he delivered was disconcerting—what did it mean, that more magic than hers was at work here? Britain’s greatest heroes—she’d heard rumors of Merlin’s power, and if even half of them were true, he’d be an opponent of consequence. Or an ally of great worth. If she could have a word with them, show them that her plan had the greatest chance of restoring order to the world, the influence of her pantheon would increase.

By the gods, as the mortals said, what an exciting time to work, with so much magic returning to the world.

Hera stepped up beside the Greek and wrapped her arm round his, pulling him so that they strolled together down the walk, past rows of weathered granite stone decorated with plastic flowers.

“You were a spy for the Greeks, weren’t you?” she said to him. “I trust you haven’t lost your touch. Where is the girl now?”

“Maybe I could take you to her. She wouldn’t expect that.”

“Can’t you simply tell me if she’s coming?”

He held back, tugging against her like an anchor. “You’re not going to hurt her.”

Hera gave him a reassuring smile. “Of course not. I’m not a brute.” With her urging, she started him walking again, guiding him to the northern edge of the cemetery, where the town lay.

Robin and the Wanderer followed a few paces behind.

“Where did you find Robin?” the Greek said.

“Sulking in a pub in Dublin. I’ve found my lieutenants in the strangest places. I’m not picky. All I ask for is loyalty. Have you thought about joining me?”

“I served a god once. It didn’t suit me.”

“You wouldn’t be a slave with me,” she said with a laugh, putting seduction in her tone.

“Can you get rid of this?” He hooked his fingers around the chain on his neck.

She touched it, running her fingers along the skin underneath as she did. She was disappointed that he didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. I could have my friend the Marquis have a look at it.”

“The Marquis?”

“A scion of the British aristocracy and a student of magic. Formal for my taste. But he has his talents. He found the Storeroom for me.”

“Did he? He must be powerful.”

“It’s not so impressive as it sounds. He didn’t find the Storeroom so much as follow the path of one who already knew where it was.”

The Greek hesitated a step.

Hera studied him. “How did you find the Storeroom?”

“I looked for it,” he said.

She said in a low voice, “I could use someone of wisdom. Of age. That’s what my people lack. The experience that comes with the age of an immortal. We gods were thousands of years old by the time we came to Greece. We’d ruled in other lands under different names. But the old ones in all the lands are gone. The pantheons seemed to have a knack for killing themselves off. Everybody had a Ragnarök. You may be pleased to hear that you are one of the oldest people I’ve encountered in my recent travels.”

“That doesn’t comfort me, my lady,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the ones who followed, and his voice changed, becoming colored with false brightness. “I’d like to meet this Marquis of yours.”

“He’s busy,” said Robin, overhearing them. “Spending all his time trying to crack that shell around the Walker house.”

“Having trouble with that, is he?” the Greek said.

Robin said, “He insists it’d be easier if he knew who cast the spell in the first place. It certainly wasn’t the Walkers.”