Discord's Apple

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—”

He was carrying on, and she barely comprehended what he was saying. He spoke like an authority on the subject. Magicians, magic—those words didn’t mean anything to her. Magic happened in stories, or onstage in Vegas. Not in her family’s backyard.

Except she’d seen it, and she believed. “Real magic?”

He sat back, a distant smile fading on his lips. “I once saw a woman turn to water. She spilled right out of my arms and flowed away. There used to be sirens whose voices lured sailors to their deaths. I saw a bag that, no matter how much you put into it, would always hold more. I’ve seen men who couldn’t be killed.” His voice was haunting, melodious, drawing her into his trance. “Throughout all of history there have been people who could work miracles: saints, mystics, wizards, prophets. And gods. The world used to be filled with gods. Really, they were just people wielding very great magic. The rest of the world couldn’t help but worship them.”

The dozens of books of folklore on the shelves expanded in Evie’s mind, and the world suddenly became a darker, fiercer place. She’d dreamed of being in stories when she was young. She’d made stories her life, writing comic books. But did she really want to live in those worlds?

What was she supposed to do, stay here for the rest of her life looking after the Storeroom? Didn’t she have a choice?

When her father called to tell her he was sick, she didn’t have to come back. She could have stayed in L.A. and checked up on him over the phone. He had plenty of friends here; he didn’t need her. But he was family. It’s what you did. It’s what it all came down to.

She was tied to this place, even as her world fell apart around her. Discord everywhere.