Discord's Apple

The magician left the ritual markings and walked in a wide circle that swept around the property. Robin followed. The man had created another space, with similar markings, candles, and incense, exactly opposite the first. When they reached the other ritual site, Robin felt a tightness close in, a hum of power that hadn’t been there before. The Marquis had closed a circle of magic around the Walker house.

“Remember, Hera only wants the protection gone. She wants the magic in the Storeroom maintained.”

The Marquis sighed. “Will you let me do my job?”

Robin couldn’t interpret the gestures he made, or guess why he did what he did, but he couldn’t deny the power, the shape of it, the tremor closing in on the house. It raised the hair on the back of his neck. He wondered what would happen if he kicked a little dirt over one of those symbols. The Marquis didn’t even see him do it.

There was a presence, a force inside the house, and the Marquis was opposing it. Robin watched the house, expecting it to collapse, or burst into flames, or shoot lightning at them.

Then the feeling went away.

Expressionless, the Marquis let his arms hang loose at his sides. He said, “It’s done.”

Then the Marquis dropped to his knees. He didn’t make a sound, just worked his mouth for a moment or two as if trying to draw breath. His arms hung as if paralyzed, and the realization seemed to pass across his face that while he had succeeded, something had gone wrong. Then he fell, facedown into the dirt, and lay still, dead, after what must have seemed too short a life after all.

Robin clicked his tongue. “So much magic requires sacrifice. Hera will surely mourn you.” He kicked a bit of dirt on the Marquis’s nice coat.

Time to fly, Robin thought, smiling. Nothing had frustrated him like this in centuries. He wanted to break something. It was invigorating. He raced away, light as air.

Alex had become . . . overwhelming. If it were any other time and place, if her father weren’t dying and the world weren’t ending . . .

And why should that make any difference?

She curled up in bed, pretending that she might actually be able to sleep. Alex had said he was going to sleep in the armchair. She’d left him alone in the front room. She should go back, to keep an eye on him. Keep him company.

She should stop thinking about him at all.

A distant roll of thunder sounded, rattling the windowpanes. A winter thunderstorm. Rare, but not impossible. There might even be snow. A white Christmas. The holiday was still a couple days off. She’d forgotten. Evie pulled the pillow over her head and hugged it there. She was supposed to be pretending to sleep.

An ache caught her gut, a feeling of such profound dread, she almost vomited. She pressed her hand to her stomach. She’d felt this when she got the call about her mother’s death.

She sat up. Someone had died. Her father—

Mab started barking, loud enough to shake the house, when she should have been resting. A door opened, squeaking. Her father’s door. She heard him say, “Mab, hush!”

She stifled a sob. He was okay.

A man jumped onto the bed.

Before she could scream, he straddled her and shoved her back, pinning her with his legs and body, and locked his hand over her mouth. Glaring up at him, she struggled, but he only held tighter. Despite his slight form, he was strong.

“Evie Walker. Evie, Evie.” His nose was an inch from her face, his breath caressing her. The young man bared his teeth when he smiled, vicious. He was Hera’s henchman, Robin.

“Do you know what’s happened?” he breathed into her ear. “You’re no longer safe. These walls will not protect you. I turned myself to dust and crept in through a crack in the floorboards. What do you think of that?”

Her mind raced, even as her body tried to thrash. She heard his words, but couldn’t make meaning of them. Scream, scream for help. But she couldn’t.

He said, “Hera is coming. She can have the apple. I want you.”

After hundreds of years, the island of Ithaca grew barren and diffi

cult, and the family’s prosperity was divided between too many sons. Niko hadn’t wanted his share of land, the wealth that lay in olive groves and flocks of sheep. He took the main of his inheritance: the contents of the Storeroom, packed away into an underground cellar. The artifacts were what he truly inherited from his mother, who had inherited them from her father, and so on, eldest child to eldest child, for generations.

When the Storeroom came to Niko, he stood on the cusp of migration. He had to leave, or be drafted into the army. Under Alexander, Macedonia was swallowing the world. While he didn’t like to be called a coward, he felt in his bones he had a different calling, a stronger calling, one that meant he had to flee.

The room was just large enough for him to turn around in. He surveyed the items, packed into shelves and nooks carved into the earthen walls. Swords, shields, helmets, lyres, winged sandals, golden fleece, woolen cloaks. One by one, he placed them in a leather satchel. The bag never grew heavier, never bulged, no matter how much he put in it. The bag itself was magic—the bag was the Storeroom, made small.

Niko knew the stories. Even if his family had no magical legacy, he’d know what many of these items were. Here was the ball of twine Ariadne gave to Theseus, to lead him out of the labyrinth. Two quivers of arrows, one silver and one gold, had belonged to the twins Artemis and Apollo. And here, a golden apple bearing an ancient inscription. The characters had long ago faded from knowledge. Niko couldn’t read them, but he knew the story, and he knew what it said: “For the Fairest.”