Discord’s Apple (14 page)

“Hi, Bruce.”

“Have you had a chance to watch the news yet, or should I just tell you how world politics are fucking with our storyline?”

She didn’t mean for her sigh to sound as forlorn as it probably did. “Things have been a little crazy here. I still haven’t seen the news.”

Bruce waited a second before asking, “How’s your dad?”

She almost used her father’s line:
Fine, okay.
Just like Frank’s daughter. But Bruce was her friend—she should have been talking to him all along. She should have called him, instead of him calling her all the time.

“Not good. He isn’t getting treatment, he’s in pain, and there’s nothing I can do. He won’t talk, he’s pretending like nothing’s wrong—” Her voice cracked, and she shut her mouth to keep from breaking into a full-blown sob.

“Evie, I’m sorry. If there’s anything—”

“I know, I know. Thanks, Bruce. I think I just need to keep working. Keep busy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. So tell me, what’s the President done now?”

“Well. Russia came up with proof that China’s been funding the rebels. So the E.U. is siding with Russia and India. The U.S. is still waffling. Britain is waffling, and the E.U. is threatening sanctions on them for siding with the U.S.”

“And we’ve got a whole storyline with the U.S. and Russia being friends. That’ll never fly.”

“This whole mess is playing like someone’s idea of a fucked-up war game. It’s just so unreasonable.”

“Is it ever reasonable?” Evie said. She knew what he meant, though. She couldn’t help but conjure this image of stern generals and power-mad heads of states standing around tables with tactical displays, shuffling around troops and weapons, with no thought to the people on the ground—the real lives their decisions impacted. “Do we wait and see what happens?”

Bruce said, “We could be waiting for ages. I say we just keep going with what we have—the new stuff that you just sent—and play it by ear.”

“Do you want me to keep e-mailing scripts?”

“You know—I haven’t been working much. You can if you want. Definitely keep writing. Write anything. We’ll do something with it, at some point.” He sounded tired.

“How are things there?”

“Citywide curfew, but that’s nothing new. Callie finally got out of West Hollywood. It’s not too bad.”

“Hang in there.”

“You, too. Call me if you need anything.”

She needed to reverse time and live in last month, before her life had run away from her.

She made ham-and-cheese sandwiches, but her heart and appetite weren’t really in it. Eating would give her and Alex something to do while they stared at each other. She brought two plates with the sandwiches into the living room.

She had her work spread all over the coffee table: her laptop, powered down; pages of handwritten notes she’d collected when ideas hit her late at night, in bed, in the car, and the like; and a few back issues of
Eagle Eye Commandos
she used as reference.

Alex, sitting on the armchair, was reading one of these.

The faces staring back at her on the front cover belonged to Tracker and Talon. He was about to fall off a cliff; she was holding on to him, grimacing.
Eagle Eye Commandos
number 42. She wanted to snatch it out of his hands and hide it away, apologize for it. It wasn’t that she wasn’t proud of her work. It was—well, sometimes she felt guilty for being proud of it. It wasn’t exactly high literature.

“What do you think?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

He smirked. “I like how the flying bullets leave trails.”

She set down the plates, slumped onto the sofa, and smirked right back at him.

He said, “You write as E. L. Walker. Why don’t you use your full name?”

“Thirteen-year-old boys wouldn’t take the book seriously if they knew a girl wrote it.”

“But—” He opened to a page featuring Tracker. At Evie’s insistence, Bruce didn’t draw her in the stereotypical comic book manner of portraying women in skintight clothing, antigravity breasts and all. She wore functional black fatigues, had a reasonably normal athletic figure, and most of the time—splicing wire in the middle of a jungle, for example—looked downright scruffy. “—this is you, isn’t it? This isn’t about thirteen-year-old boys’ fantasies. It’s about thirteen-year-old girls’ fantasies.”

In another life, a parallel universe, Evie had enlisted in the military. Army, air force, whatever. She didn’t know what she would have done as a private or an airman. Administration, probably. Mostly, she’d wanted to have a bit of an adventure—basic training, for instance—and it seemed an easy way to go about it. Never mind that adventures weren’t supposed to be easy. College and independence diverted her. To this day, she wondered if she could have hacked it, and wondered if she should have tried, just to see.

When she didn’t answer, he turned back to the book, flipping pages without reading. “The presence of a nominally talented, self-sufficient woman hasn’t seemed to hinder sales.”

Alex was right. Evie never wanted Tracker to be a sex symbol. She wanted her to be a role model.

She stared at the page, her words in the speech balloons, and smiled fondly. “If just one girl out there picks up the book, and it makes her think she can do anything, I’d be happy.”

Evie looked at the old covers. Tracker featured on all of them. One of the ongoing storylines focused on her, her coming-of-age, her increasing confidence in herself and her abilities.
Through all the other storylines—Talon’s insubordination, the unit’s rebelliousness, the fight against terrorism—Tracker’s personal development played a part. Often, the progress was uncertain—two steps forward, one step back as some tragedy undermined her faith in herself. At this rate, the storyline could go on forever, with Tracker never developing much beyond where she was now.

No, Evie ought to do something about that. Tracker needed to become independent. She needed to become a leader. Talon’s equal, not his hero-worshipping subordinate.

“Is Bruce your boyfriend?”

“Hm?” Evie glanced up. Alex had a sandwich in hand, but he hadn’t taken a bite. He looked at her questioningly.

“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—”

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.”