The Ferryman Institute (46 page)

“I'll be honest,” Charlie replied, “I don't know what average Joe Ferryman would say. However, I do know that not-so-average Ferryman Charlie Dawson would have loved to know he was getting jerked around for two and a half centuries.”

Maybe Charlie wasn't feeling quite as overwhelmed as he thought.

“You misunderstand, Mr. Dawson.” Freya this time. “There was no
jerking around
, as you put it. You agreed to serve the Institute, and so we put your talents to use. No more, no less. No one expected you to be the savant you turned out to be, perhaps save Virgil. Whether you believe it or not, you've been an invaluable asset to us. Yet, if you knew of our existence, would you still have served like you have, or would you have rebelled when you held a conflicting position?”

Though he was tempted to be contrarian, Charlie bit his
tongue. It was a losing battle—she was right, and he didn't have the heart or composure to argue a side he didn't truly support.

Charon's baritone voice spoke again. “It seems you understand Freya's point. Now, imagine that dilemma but on an Institute-wide scale. If a fraction of the Ferryman Institute population disagreed with a decision of ours, the resulting waves of malcontent could be devastating. Apocalyptic, even. I can sympathize with your frustration at our secrecy, but understand that it's a necessary evil.”

Charlie gazed across the table, looking directly at Charon as he spoke. “I don't think you give your employees enough credit,” he said.

The original Ferryman appeared entertained by the response, but his eyes sharpened subtly. “And I don't think you've been around long enough to make that assessment.”

There was a certain madness to being told all of this, and Charlie knew it. All the reasoning, the intrigue, the justifications, the shadow games being played out on a stage no one in the Institute even knew existed. It was like living for decades in a place only to find that it was a set, a bunch of props cobbled together that he was only now seeing behind for the first time. And Charlie . . . he was the unknowing star of the show.

They sat in silence for a while—how long, Charlie couldn't say—before he asked the last question he had.

“So,” he said casually, “what now?”

He knew they were clever enough to read between the lines. He'd taken their test; whether he'd passed it or not—if that was even a thing—was an entirely different story. Now it was time for him to know what that meant.

All eyes turned to the man and woman sitting across the table from Charlie—in some ways, arguably the two most powerful people that no one even knew existed.

Melissa was about to speak when Charon interrupted her: “Charlie, we'd like for you to join the Ferryman Council.”

That wasn't something he'd even remotely been expecting to hear. Then again, none of this had been.

“Sorry . . . ?” he said, nearly choking on the word.

Cartwright and Melissa looked just as dumbfounded. “Charon, what are you—” Melissa began, but the head of the Council continued on.

“You've been a vital resource to this Institute. One of the best Ferrymen we've ever seen. Being able to triumph after your assignment went into completely uncharted territory is just proof that you belong here. That you should be one of us. I believe Death would fully support adding another seat to our table—but only if it's for you. Look at the people around you, Charlie. Only eight have ever served on this Council. In the entirety of human history, only
eight
people. Imagine that. Abilities that even a Ferryman would blush at. It's the closest man could ever hope to being a god.”

Suddenly, Cartwright was standing up, eyes blazing. “What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded.

“Sit down, Virgil,” Charon shot back, his voice starting to rise.

Cartwright stood his ground. “We had an agreement!”

Charon stared him down, glaring at him. “He's demonstrated a level of talent that is on par if not greater than what members of this Council currently possess. You have to be able to see this, Virgil. Transferring him out is completely off the table.”

A smattering of responses floated around the table, but the woman known as Morrigan spoke up. “I'm sorry, Charon, but the agreement was binding. He is allowed to transfer out if he so chooses. Whether it is agreeable to you or not now has no bearing. No one will stand with you on this.”

Anubis folded his arms across his chest. “She's right. If we can't abide by our agreements, we will lose our order. Like it or not, this decision isn't yours to make.”

The ebony-skinned man looked poised to continue arguing when Freya placed her hand on his. Charon looked over at her, and she gently shook her head. With a sigh, Charon withdrew, his posture noticeably shrinking as he sank back into his chair.

“I know a futile argument when I see one. So it is. However, while I won't force the issue, I only ask that my offer be allowed to stand.”

Charlie was beginning to get the feeling that he was completely over his head in this discussion. Still, he had questions, and it wasn't like he could find himself in a much worse predicament. “Excuse me,” he interjected, “just to make sure I've got this right: I can become a pseudo god or die? Those are my only two choices?”

Freya tossed her hair back with effortless grace. “Transferring out isn't technically death, but for simplicity's sake . . . Yes, you die.”

Charlie let his body slump down into his chair. So, those were his options: become a demigod or die. He laughed, only because, in one of life's bizarre twists, it was a laughably easy decision. He'd only dreamed about it for years. Yet for a moment, his mind turned to Alice. It seemed that whichever he chose—Council or death—their time together had come to an end. What right did he have to see her, anyway? He couldn't imagine a scenario where she would want anything to do with him. What was done was done. It was about time he got to ride off into the sunset and disappear for good. Alice would be just fine without him. Hell, it was probably for the best.

He raised his eyes to the group. “If those are my options, then I'd like to transfer out.”

Several members of the Council dropped their heads or shook them lightly in disappointment. Charlie felt slightly bad about that, but it was his decision to make. He wasn't about to let them shame him into confirming his immortality for effectively forever.

Then he turned to Cartwright. Despite the look of misery carved into the man's face, he still managed a smile for Charlie. “It appears, my old friend, that your just reward has finally arrived. I can think of no man who deserves that more than you.”

The moment was too bittersweet for Charlie to react. If there'd been one constant source of happiness in Charlie's life, it had been Cartwright. The man had been there from the beginning—had guided him, taught him about the Institute, and, most importantly, been a friend in the truest sense of the word. It was impossible for Charlie to escape the feeling that Cartwright would miss him (the feeling was mutual), but there was something indescribably heroic about a man who would sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of a dear friend.

“Thanks,” Charlie said. His voice cracked ever so slightly. “For everything. I'm sorry I ever doubted you. I mean that. Maybe if I hadn't been so stubborn, things would have turned out differently.”

Cartwright shook his head definitively. “To ask for more out of your friendship would be nothing short of greedy. I am a blessed man to have been given the privilege of your companionship as it was. Never forget that.”

Across the table, Melissa withdrew a gold key from her bag and set it on the table. Charlie knew without asking whose it was. The familiar lines of the word
PORTHMEUS
gleamed underneath the light. “I had it tracked down before I arrived,” she said. “Figured you might be wanting it for a situation like this.”

Charlie gave a halfhearted smirk, but there was little warmth in it. He found it strange that he felt so sad. “You were always the one who kept me organized,” he said.

“Are you sure about this, Charlie?” Charon asked. “You're passing up an opportunity that—”

“I'm sure,” he said. “While I'm beyond flattered by your offer, I'm not the man you want. Trust me. I have no business shaping mankind's future. I couldn't even shape my own.” He surveyed the room one last time, then exhaled a long, deep sigh. “Let's just get this over with.”

This was it. This was the end. Having waited two hundred and fifty years, he'd always thought the event would seem more momentous, but now that it had arrived, it felt strangely . . . hollow. As if something was missing.

Melissa pulled out a sheet of paper from the folder in front of her. “It's settled, then. The Council will serve as the required witnesses. This is binding and cannot be undone.” She looked at Charlie. “Are you ready?”

He nodded.

Melissa cleared her throat. “By the power vested in me by this Institute, I hereby acknowledge the termination of Ferryman Number 72514, Charles Ronald Dawson, effective immediately. May he find peace and—”

But Melissa never finished the invocation. A set of auxiliary doors across the room burst open, and in limped one Alice Spiegel and a completely embarrassed Begemot Koroviev.

“Jesus H. Christ, Charlie, you were actually about to go through with it! God, I knew you were an idiot, but I didn't think you were
that
much of one.” She hobbled in with the aid of a cane, clearly in a bit of pain. Koroviev reluctantly followed, looking unusually helpless. She surveyed the room casually before opting to
stop in the middle of the floor. She waved her cane at the Ferryman Council with a lack of anything bordering politeness. “Howdy, gang. I'm Alice Spiegel, apparent subject of your messed-up little assignment. Pleasure all around, really. I think I'm supposed to say thank you for sending that weirdo over there to rescue me, but I'm a little annoyed that you were about to kill him, so try not to hold it against me when I don't.”

If anyone said anything as Charlie stood up, he didn't hear them. If they tried to stop him as he ran toward her, he didn't notice. If all of existence had exploded in that very instant, he would have reassembled the particles of the universe atom by atom until he'd reconstructed this moment, because, as it turned out,
this
was the moment he'd waited two hundred and fifty years for.

He just hadn't realized it until then.

As Alice went to speak, Charlie took her in his arms and kissed her. Really, really kissed her. The kind of kiss that invited no awkwardness or envy from those who happened to bear witness to it. The pull it exerted on those nearby was impossible to escape, and in that all-too-fleeting moment, there was only the kiss and nothing more. They burned with the singular intensity of those who had lost but found anew, who had walked to the very edge of the world and come to realize that, should they just turn around, the last step that would end it all suddenly became the first step of a new beginning.

In short, it was everything their first kiss wasn't.

When they finally pulled away from each other, neither one spoke. They simply looked at each other with eyes devoid of judgment. Then, slowly, gently, Alice wrapped her good arm around Charlie's neck and pulled herself close. She began to speak, her voice small and delicate, almost as if the bravado she'd barged in with had never been at all.

“You know, you've done a few stupid things since we've known each other. And I'm not sure it's even right for me to say this. Your life is your own, you know, and it's not like we've known each other for that long. But if you'd left just now, that would have been the dumbest, most hurtful thing you could have possibly done to me.” He could feel her squeeze him just a little tighter, hear the small sniffle that she tried to block out by pressing her face deeper into his chest. “I don't know how you could possibly think it'd be all right to leave, forever, after what we've been through, without saying good-bye.”

An indescribable pang of guilt hit Charlie like a wave of frigid water. He knew she was right. He'd tried to justify his quick departure as being the bigger man, letting her go on with her life, but he saw it now for what it was: cowardice. He'd been trying to escape her, trying to run from her given what he'd done.

Except it was more than just that. It was such an alien concept to him, something he hadn't dealt with in years—something so devastatingly human it just hadn't occurred to him: the idea that she might reject him. As the realization took shape in his mind and presented itself to him, he knew it to be true. For hundreds of years, he simply hadn't had to deal with that aspect of the human condition—so long that he couldn't see it for what it was. His own words suddenly came flooding back:

In fact, you're so scared of that future that you're willing to erase any possibility of it happening by choosing not to play the game at all. Can't lose if you don't play, right?

There are few ways to feel like more of an asshole than to be reprimanded by your own advice. So it was.

“I know,” he said. “I'm sorry. About everything. I just thought you'd never forgive me. I shot you, Alice. I had the gun and when you grabbed me—”

She raised her head up quickly and shushed him. “Stop,” she said. “Please. I know already, and I forgive you.” Then she kissed him sweetly on the forehead. “We're even now, though, okay? You've shot me once, I've shot you once, so how about we stop shooting each other for a little while? Deal?”

Being well and truly at a loss for words at this point, Charlie simply wrapped his arms around her and, as delicately as he could, just held her. “Sure,” he said. “I think I can manage that.”

Though it felt to Charlie as if the two of them were the only people in the room, it became clear a few seconds later they weren't. “Care to explain, Begemot?” came Charon's voice.