Discord’s Apple (31 page)

When the thumping against the door stopped, so did she. Too tired, too out of breath, her muscles failed. She lay half on her side, her back twisted painfully.

And Robin was still there, his mouth against her neck. “Now, where was I? Ah, I was searching for rare fruit. Let’s find out what that Greek bloke sees in you.”

When one of her characters found themselves in an impossible situation, Evie had time to think of clever ways for them to escape. Her characters were always so clever, instantly clever, without even thinking about it, because their author had the luxury of revision. Now, in an impossible situation, Evie couldn’t make her brain work to be clever. No time for revisions if she failed here.

“If you don’t have it here, I’ll just have to look for it when I’m finished,” he said. “If you had listened to me the first time we met, we could have had such a lovely time together. We could have been friends.”

She’d left her jacket hanging on the doorknob of the bedroom. If she told him it was there, maybe he’d leave her alone.

Evie and Robin flinched together as the bedroom door splintered inward. Like a cat, Robin sprang away, his back to the wall, facing the door. A second blow tore through the plywood, then a third, then Alex, gripping an axe, pushed through, murder in his eyes. He cut himself, climbing through the broken plywood of the door, and held the axe ready.

His gaze scanned the room and focused on Robin. Alex swung the axe over his head and charged. Wide-eyed, Robin backed away on tense limbs. He appeared to be terrified, but at the moment Alex brought the weapon down to strike, Robin
disappeared. Alex slammed the axe into the top of an antique dresser, wedging it half into the wood.

A wisp of smoke and rush of wind whipped through the broken door, to the main part of the house.

Snarling, Alex needed several attempts, jerking back with his whole body, to rip the axe out of the dresser. He paused only a moment before storming after Robin.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, quickly and birdlike. He leaped through the chopped-up door.

My hero,
she thought vaguely before scrambling off he bed and following.

Alex stalked to the kitchen, hefting the axe and looking like something out of a horror film. Robin wasn’t there. Alex searched the room, every corner in which the imp could hide.

Near the sofa, Mab half sat, half sprawled, and barked to wake the dead. Frank was on the floor with her, arms around her body, holding her back. Some of her stitched cuts had started bleeding again. His arms were shaking. The only reason Mab didn’t break free was because the dog was weak as well.

And there Robin appeared, behind Alex, holding a butcher knife from the Walkers’ own supply.

“Alex!” Evie screamed, too late.

Expertly, Robin drove the blade up, through the soft part of Alex’s lower back, under the ribs, through the vital organs. Alex arched his back and growled; Robin twisted the blade.

Alex wrenched away and stumbled back. Evie’s heart ached. She wanted to run to him, like the heroine in a bodice ripper. For a moment, she forgot what he was. It was easy to forget.

Never taking his eyes off Robin, Alex reached back and pulled out the knife. He swept the axe around one-handed, hacking at Robin. Robin jumped, writhed in midair—inhumanly, like he
was made of smoke, defying gravity—and disappeared again, and Alex cut through nothing.

Blood covered the back of his shirt, bright red against the white fabric. His hand was red with it. Still, his face creased with intensity, he searched for Robin.

“Not entirely mortal, are you?” said Robin’s voice, disembodied. It had no focus, but diffused through the whole room, without source. “Let’s see how mortal you are.”

Alex stood his ground, waiting for Robin to show himself. He seemed calm, like a soldier waiting for battle, the faintest smile on his lips.

Abruptly, he fell back, flinging out his arms for balance. His knees buckled, as if something had struck them from behind. Robin appeared, light flashing into form, a reflection taking shape. He crouched on Alex’s chest and punched him, knocking his head back. Alex grappled for the axe, which had dropped a few feet away. Robin looked like a slender young man, almost a boy, but he had supernatural strength. Alex couldn’t upset him from his perch.

Taking careful steps, desperate not to attract attention, Evie stepped to the kitchen. She skirted along the wall until her feet left the hardwood and touched tile. She had to find a weapon, preferably one that required minimal skill.

Alex managed to unbalance Robin, twisting violently and slipping out from under him. There was a crack, like a bone breaking or a shoulder popping out of joint. It had to have come from Alex, but he didn’t look like he was in pain.

Robin was too fast. Before Alex could find the axe or establish his position, Robin was on him again, legs wrapped around his middle. He laughed, pulling Alex’s hair while Alex reached, futilely clutching at him. Next Robin grabbed the chain around Alex’s neck. He twisted it, tightening it until it pinched deep into Alex’s skin, cutting off blood and air. Alex’s face flushed, turning darker and darker red, and it seemed as if
Robin could pull the chain clean through his neck, decapitating him.

Alex surely wouldn’t survive that.

Evie grabbed the cast-iron skillet off the stove top.

It was almost too heavy, but if she moved it fast enough, her wrist hardly felt the weight. Two-handed, she swung it like a baseball bat, aiming the flat bottom to connect with Robin’s head.

It crunched on impact. There should have been some resistance, some recoil, but her arms hardly felt a jolt as they finished out the arc. Robin followed the arc, spinning sideways, falling limp on the floor, jerking to a stop.

Evie stood ready, skillet in hand. But Robin didn’t move. At this angle, his head seemed flattened, and a trickle of blood leaked from his ear.

Alex lay on his side, his hands hooked around the chain, holding it away from his neck. His breathing wheezed, as if the air passed through a damaged windpipe. Evie’s own breath felt harsh in her lungs; she might start hyperventilating. She dropped the skillet and tried to breathe slower.

She knelt beside Alex and touched his shoulder, helping him roll onto his back. He had to be all right, after all he’d been through. He opened his eyes, and she sprawled on top of him and kissed him. After a moment’s hesitation, his lips moved against hers and his arms wrapped around her, one hand lacing into her hair to hold her in place.

Uncertain, she broke away and lay her face against his neck. Eyes closed, she breathed his scent—sweaty, a touch of blood where some of the links of the chain had broken skin. She wished she could rest here for a long time, warm and protected. The next few minutes were going to be difficult and confusing.

Alex was difficult and confusing. “I’m sorry,” she said finally.

“For what?” he whispered, wheezing as he chuckled with his damaged throat.

“For doubting.”

“Oh my dear, never mind.”

A wet canine nose interrupted. Mab arrived and pushed toward Evie’s face, licking and nosing until Evie moved, thereby proving she wasn’t dead.

“Oof.” Alex, innocent victim of Mab’s affections, halfheartedly pushed the dog’s head away. “I should kill the beast, but I spent all that effort sewing her up.”

Evie sat up and reassured the wolfhound, scratching her ears and looking into her sad eyes.

Her father made his way toward them, leaning on the wall for support. His hand wrapped around his middle, and his face was ashen, his jaw clenched in pain.

“Are you all right?” His voice was soft, difficult to hear. She wanted to laugh that he’d ask her that question. He looked like he was about to collapse.

Slowly, Alex sat up. He touched her hand, gripped it where it rested on her knee, and watched Frank’s slow progress. He passed them, went to Robin’s prone form, and with one hand on the wall, he knelt and touched Robin’s neck.

She didn’t want to hear the word. She hadn’t meant to kill anyone. She didn’t think she could kill anyone. She never expected to have to.

“Dead?” Alex said. Her father nodded.

Evie felt for remorse, but it was a distant, tired thing. Weakly, she said, “I didn’t hit him that hard.”

Nodding at the skillet, Alex said, “Cold iron. Magnificent. Even better than rowan.”

“Dad?”

Her father had slumped against the wall. Mab whined and stepped toward him, nuzzling him. He winced and held her
away. Evie went to help him up, but he pushed her away as well.

“How did he get in?” Alex said. “I thought the house was protected.”

Her father said, “It’s gone. I woke up. I felt it go.”

“Me, too,” Evie said. She listened, uncertain what she expected to hear, unclear what she expected to find when she stretched her mind like she would reach with her hand. She visualized the shape of the house, and knew that there should have been a second skin around it, a force to keep people like Hera away.

Instead, harsh wind knocked against the windowpanes, and the thunder came closer. The Storeroom was unprotected.
The end, the end.
But it still spoke to her. The core of it remained. She was still the heir.

“Where are Arthur and Merlin?” Alex said.

Evie and Alex stood together, helping each other up. He let go of her hand as he raced to the kitchen door, opened it and stopped on the threshold. Evie crowded behind him, looking out.

Full-bodied black thunderheads roiled above, moving faster than the wind that buffeted the house, some of them swirling in the wrong direction. This was the kind of storm that wreaked havoc on the Great Plains in the middle of summer, spilling lightning and tornadoes on fragile, unsuspecting towns. Gouts of dust rolled across the plain and smacked into the house, with the rattling sound of hail.

The thunderhead spun its circle above the Walker house.

In a flash of lightning, a figure appeared on the porch. He’d run up the steps, a shadow in the wind. Startled, Evie flinched back, and Alex stepped in front of her, his arm spread protectively. But it was Arthur. He carried Excalibur, which shone bright silver, even in the darkness. Blood streaked the blade.

“I’ve been fighting off more animals round back. Are tigers native to this part of the world?”

Weakly, Evie shook her head.

“Are you well?”

“Evie killed the hob goblin,” Alex said, grinning happily at her.

Arthur nodded and made a pleased-sounding grunt. “Well done.”

Evie decided they were both so cheerful because they were in their element, surrounded by danger, doing battle.

Merlin came over the edge of the roof. He rolled off, dropped, seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then landed on his feet. He brushed off his shirt and trousers as he rushed to the porch. Even his short gray hair tossed in the fierce wind.

“They have some sort of witch with them,” Merlin said, raising his voice to be heard. “The storm is hers. She’s well protected. I can’t get to her.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve always had a bit of a weak spot with enchantresses.”

“I can’t fight the winds, Merlin. You must do something.”

Her father arrived at the doorway. Evie stepped aside to give him room. His skin was pale, drained. His face lined with pain. He seemed to move in slow motion.

“Evie, go to the basement.”

The old tornado drill. “What about you?”

“I’m going to give it to her.” He turned his hand, revealing what he’d been holding tucked against his stomach. The golden apple. He must have taken it from her jacket in the bedroom, picked out from the wreckage of the door where it had been hanging.

Alex’s hand clenched on her shoulder. But Evie didn’t move.

“You can’t do that,” she pleaded weakly. “It’ll give her everything—”

“No, it won’t. Evie—she can’t have the Storeroom. It holds
objects more powerful than the apple. Our duty is to protect them. Even if we have to make sacrifices.”

“But to sacrifice the world?”

He smiled with unfathomable wisdom and knowledge. “It’s happened before. But the world always comes back, Evie.”

He turned to walk out into the storm.

She grabbed his arm. “You can’t go out there!”

“Why not?” he said. “Because it’ll kill me?”

He’d been dying all along, and this was better. Wasn’t it? Wouldn’t Homer have thought so?

“There are stronger forces than Discord. They must survive. Go into the Storeroom. Find the box.” Then he looked at Alex. “Go with her. Help her.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said, his voice tight.

Merlin said to Frank, “I can send them to a safe place. It’s why we’re here—to protect the seeds, to help grow a new world after the chaos.”

Her father nodded. “Good. But wait—wait until Evie tells you to.”

“But I won’t leave!”

They all focused on Frank, who stood like a pillar, untroubled by the wind buffeting him.

Hushed, Alex said, “Sometimes a person can change the world by sacrificing his life.”

Arthur saluted Frank with his sword. “I will give them the time they need.”

“But you—” She looked between Arthur and Merlin. “This isn’t your story, you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have to, to—” Die here, sacrifice themselves—

“Don’t worry about us,” Arthur said, laughing. “We’ve been through much worse than this.”

“Haven’t you been paying attention?” Merlin said. “Our story is just beginning!”

“Dad—”

“When she gets the apple, she’ll be distracted. She won’t be thinking of the rest of the Storeroom. You’ll have an extra few minutes.”

“But, Dad—”

He touched her face, a fleeting brush of fingers along her cheek. Her skin tingled with it. “I didn’t get to say good-bye to your mother. This is better. Good-bye, Evie.”

He started down the steps. Alex held her back, gripping her arms, and she leaned against him, toward her father.

Mab pushed out the doorway, moving stiffly, her wounds bleeding. On the first step she nudged Frank, gazed up at him, and wagged her tail.

Evie paused. She whispered, “Go with him. Take care of him.”

Her father looked down at the dog and laced his fingers in the fur on her neck. She was exactly the right height for him to lean on her. He met Evie’s gaze once more, then turned away. They walked down the steps, onto the driveway.