Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest (20 page)

The marionette halted its capering and stood still.

“It's not the puppet,” she said. “It's the amulet.”

She commanded the puppet to dance again, and it did so. Some simple experimentation with some of the other objects in the room showed that their relic could bestow animation to the inanimate. They made the Slinky slither, and an old boot hop. The orders couldn't be too elaborate, and only one object at a time could be animated. Attempts to bring a whole basket of golf balls to life worked only on one. Troy was better with the amulet, perhaps due to his puppeteer experience. Objects could twist and move in cartoonish ways under his command. He got an old wooden tabletop radio to sway and bob while playing a song.

“How fun,” said Babs.

She was a quiet old lady, and they hadn't noticed her enter. Achilles growled.

“Dinner is ready,” said Babs. “You'll find a nice orecchiette with broccoli and chickpeas on the table. Please help yourselves. Leave the dishes. I'll take care of them later.”

“You aren't eating with us?” asked Troy.

“Oh, I'm afraid not. I must prepare things for you.”

“Prepare what things?”

She smiled. Shadows pooled under her eyes and in dozens of wrinkles on her wizened face. “There's time to discuss such things later. Now eat. You'll need your strength.”

The old woman slunk down the hall, gliding more than walking, swinging her long thin arms like pendulums.

Helen whispered, “Now tell me that isn't creepy.”

After their battle with the dragon, the members of the Wild Hunt were too broken, battered, and beaten to chase after Helen and Troy. The orcs had just enough energy to ride out of the preserve. The spirits refused to give directions to a good bar, but where their spirits and gods failed them, GPS technology proved more helpful.

They found a run-down shack off the interstate that called itself a tavern. Under normal circumstances Nigel might have disagreed, but the place had four walls, cold-ish beer, and a jukebox, so the Wild Hunt called it close enough and settled in for a few hours of celebration, to treat their scrapes, their broken bones and lacerated flesh, with warm beer, classic rock, and hot wings. Medical care, the traditional orc way.

The orcs' biggest strength had always been their ability to recover from injury. It wasn't regeneration. They were still hurt. Nigel was fairly certain he'd broken a few ribs and maybe had a concussion. But he relished the aches and bouts of dizziness. They reminded him he was alive.

As the ancient orc saying went, “That which does not kill me can kiss my ass.”

It was that legendary refusal to surrender to pain, to instead draw strength from it, that had given the orcs a reputation for stubbornness when meeting death. The more painful an orc's injuries, the more determined he was to keep going. It wasn't uncommon for an orc to recover completely from his injuries before being willing to die from them, a paradox they had no problem with.

The Wild Hunt packed in the nameless tavern and shared tales of bravery and adventure. Once they covered the dragon-fighting bit, they had to stretch the bounds of heroic triumph for this modern world. Jenny Gutspitter regaled them with her latest real estate sale, of a property that had long haunted her sales portfolio. Alan Spleenspearer told of the time, often told of before but it was somehow different now, when he bedded that drunken supermodel. Franklin, still covered in dried dragon blood and vomit, mentioned that time he noticed he had free cable but didn't let the cable company know about it. Nigel spoke of his greatest triumph (second-greatest now), that week when he spotted an accountancy error that would have cost the company millions, taught his son to ride a bicycle, and defeated that giant possum living in his attic, all while passing a kidney stone.

After each story the orcs would raise their mugs and cheer without concern for the other customers, and soon their boisterous celebration drove these few individuals from the darkened sanctuary. The staff, only three people, didn't mind. The Wild Hunt brought plenty of cash and tipped well.

The celebration passed into the evening. The only indication of the passing of time was in the dimming of the light in the tavern's two tiny windows. It might well have gone on into the next day if not for the arrival of Shoth, the avatar of death itself.

The avatar came through the front door and brought a hot wind with him. This was a positive sign, as orc tradition put hot death well above cold. No one had to be told who he was or why the pale figure was there. He wore a dapper crimson suit and fedora. Shadows covered his face. His eyes weren't visible, but his teeth were. The pointed white fangs formed a grim rictus.

The Wild Hunt continued their revelry. They didn't ignore death, but they refused to acknowledge Shoth with more than a glance or a nod. He strode quietly to the bar, ordered a fruity mixed drink that the bartender was unfamiliar with, then patiently instructed the bartender in how to make it before finding a seat at Nigel's table without waiting to be invited.

Shoth's voice was a smooth, sliding serpent that slipped from his unmoving grin and slithered into his listeners' ears.

“Having fun?”

Nigel said, “Yes.”

“Good. Good.” Shoth removed his hat, smoothed the brim. “You've certainly earned it.”

“Am I dead?” asked Franklin.

“You? Oh, no, not you, dear boy,” replied Shoth. “Though I must say I'm amazed you aren't. But death is full of surprises, isn't it? Even for me.”

Nigel didn't ask about his own mortal state. If he was dead, he'd find out soon enough.

“Nice suit,” he said.

“Just something I had sitting in the closet. I hope it's not too old-fashioned. It's been a few decades since I've been called down to the material plane.”

Shoth was an avatar of death, but it was a very specific type of death he brought. He came for orcs who died in glorious battle, but this alone wasn't enough to make him manifest. His charges must also have been of such singular stubbornness that they refused to lie down and die when it was obvious they should, and, while true oblivion awaited all orc souls, anyone who earned Shoth's graces got a night of passion and carousing before being added to the Mound of Unworthy Bones.

Nigel checked himself for any fatal wounds he might have failed to notice. He noticed none, but if Shoth was here for Nigel, he wouldn't have. He would be surprised, though, because his Shoth should be a female.

“Grog sent me,” said the avatar. “He's not happy you're wasting time.”

“Then maybe he should get off his lazy ass and kill these mortals himself,” said Nigel.

Shoth's smile widened. “Would that he could. Rules, y'know.”

“He could do us a favor and back off then.”

Shoth stirred his drink but didn't sip it. He hadn't taken a sip yet. Perhaps because his mouth couldn't open.

“I'm just the messenger.”

Peggy, who was nearly as pale as the avatar of death, with a smile that was, truthfully, a touch more off-putting, said, “Was that the message?”

“Oh, there was something else. Something about ending the cycle. Something else about the most important tool at your disposal should the worst come to pass. Can't recall what it was, but he seemed to think it worth mention.” He tapped his long white nails, clawlike, against the table. “I tried to pay attention, but you know how that guy is. What's the word I'm looking for?”

“An asshole,” said Nigel.

Shoth chuckled, and every fly in the place died. The jukebox fell silent, cutting off the Journey playlist Becky Bonebreaker had selected. The bar fell silent.

“That's the word.” Shoth ran his finger around the edge of his glass. “Regardless, it seemed important to him, so you might want to consider that.”

“We'll do what we're supposed to do,” said Nigel, “but we'll do it our way. The next time you see Grog tell him that.”

“If it's just the same to you, I'd rather not. I try to avoid that guy. Not always easy. The orc portion of the heavens is rather small. And I'm not as busy as I once was, so we do run into each other more than I'd like. But such is our lot. He didn't ask to be your god. I didn't ask to be your avatar. And you didn't ask to be mortals. Yet we carry on, as we must.”

Shoth stood. “But as much as I would enjoy dallying, I have a party to get to.”

“Who are you here for?” asked Nigel. “It has to be one of the women. Or James.”

James scoffed. “He can't be here for me. You're in male form.”

The other orcs chuckled.

“What's so funny?” asked James.

Nigel punched James in the shoulder hard enough to knock him out of his chair.

“Buddy, we all know you're gay. We've known for a long time.”

“You know?”

They murmured their positive replies.

“Your love of musical theater kind of gave it away,” said Nigel.

“You can be straight and love musicals,” said James.

“True, but when you get drunk, you won't shut up about Minnelli and Streisand.”

“Your favorite movie is
Funny Girl
,” added Franklin.

Peggy said, “You once punched me because I didn't know the difference between lavender and lilac.”

James smashed his fist into the table, breaking the legs and spilling beer and pretzels across the floor.

“They're two different colors!”

He stifled his rage and took a moment to regain his composure.

“Wow. I can't believe I thought I was hiding it. Why didn't you say anything?”

“I always thought we should,” said Franklin, “but I was overruled.”

“It didn't seem important,” added Nigel. “Although in retrospect, maybe it would've been easier on you if we'd put it out there. We weren't really sure about it.”

“We figured you'd let us know when you were ready,” said Peggy.

James grunted. “Gary always said I was being paranoid. Said you wouldn't care.”

“Do we still have to call him your roommate?” asked Nigel. “Or is
life partner
the preferred term?”

“Funny. Hadn't really thought about it,” said James.

Shoth said, “Though this is a touching scene of camaraderie, I should be going. Becky Bonebreaker, I hope you enjoy carrot cake and close-up magic because we must be off.”

Becky, who had been quietly sitting by Nigel's side, said, “But I'm not dead.”

The avatar of death pointed to a tree branch sticking through her chest.

“This? This is nothing,” she said. “I've had paper cuts worse than this.”

Shoth adjusted his hat. “Why do they always make this difficult? Becky, your wound is fatal. You died four hours ago, and it's time to admit this.”

She stood, grabbed her leather jacket. She stuck her finger through the hole where she'd been impaled. In hindsight, the whole
being dead
thing was rather obvious.

The orcs raised their mugs and bottles and cheered.

Becky fell over, dead.

Shoth put his hat back on. The avatar of the stubborn dead shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out of the bar. He paused at the door and swept his eyeless gaze across the room, aiming at no one and everyone at the same time.

“See you around.”

And then he was gone. His ghastly smile was the last thing to go, sticking around for a few seconds after his face was gone.

The Wild Hunt celebrated for a few hours more after his departure. Becky's corpse, with a beer taped in her hand and a cigar dangling from her lips, was propped in a place of honor at the bar, where the staff did their best to pretend they weren't put off by it. By the grace of Shoth, the jukebox returned to playing Becky's Journey compilation, and they sang a rousing rendition of every song from
Infinity
in Becky's memory.

If their gods had a problem with the delay, they wisely kept silent.

The Mystery Cottage's table was set with more than vegetarian pasta. It wasn't quite a feast, but there was plenty to eat. Breads, a selection of cheeses, and cake for dessert. Helen didn't eat any of it. Troy ate without hesitation. He tempted her with a plate of vegetarian pasta, but she passed.

“I've got a granola bar in my room,” she said.

“Suit yourself, Hel, but you're missing out.”

“I'm telling you it's a trap.”

He buttered a hot roll. “You don't know that.”

“You don't not know that,” she said.

“I never thought you were the suspicious type.”

“I wasn't. But then my boss tried to sacrifice me to his god.”

Troy sighed. “You can't let one bad experience control your life.” He threw a piece of bread to Achilles, who wolfed it down. “It passes the dog test.”

“So does his own ass.”

She picked up a fork, poked the pasta. It did smell delicious.

Helen set down her utensil, pushed away from the table. “All I know is that in all the legends I've heard there's no such thing as a free lunch. There's always some catch.”

“You might be onto something there,” he admitted. He'd already eaten enough that there seemed little point in stopping now.

“I'm going to bed,” said Helen. “It was a long day, and I want to be ready for whatever challenge awaits us tomorrow. Just promise me you'll be careful, Troy.”

“I'll keep an eye on that wheel of brie.” He winked. “See you tomorrow, Hel.”

She smiled, walked away with Achilles trailing behind. When she glanced over her shoulder she could've sworn she caught him checking her out. His gaze darted from her back to his pasta.

She wondered if that was a blush on his cheeks or the dim lighting of the old chandelier.

She said, “Just don't come running to me when that second helping of cursed salad transforms you into a pig.”

He held up his hand in a Boy Scout salute. “Won't hear an oink from me.”

Troy ate his fill and retired for the evening. He wasn't tired, but there wasn't much else to do in the Mystery Cottage. He played around with the amulet, bestowing life on random objects in his room. After getting bored with that, he read a book for an hour. Having exhausted his entertainment options, he tried to sleep.

He climbed into his nice comfy bed and closed his eyes. It didn't work.

This was unusual. So unusual, he could remember the last time he'd had trouble falling asleep. His mom had gone into the hospital with a burst appendix, and it'd been touch and go for a few hours. That had been nine years ago.

Since then he'd always slept like a baby. Untroubled. Relaxed.

Not tonight.

He sat at the edge of the bed and flipped open his phone. It was barely eleven. Imogen would be up. He dialed her number.

“Hey, li'l bro,” she said. “What's up?”

“Didn't wake you, did I?” he asked.

“You're kidding, right? How's the questing going?”

“Good,” he replied. “Almost got eaten by a dragon earlier today.”

“Cool.”

He paced around the bed once, then again.

“Imogen, I think I need some advice.”

Silence.

“Hello? Are you still there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

More silence.

“Imogen?”

“Yes, I'm here. I'm just trying to absorb what you're telling me. You want advice. From me.”

“Well, you're my sister. And a woman.”

Silence again. Troy waited for her response. It didn't come.

“This call is about a woman? You're calling
me
for
advice
about
women
? You?”

He put the phone to his chest and shook his head. He placed the phone back to his ear. “It's not that weird.”

“It's pretty weird,” said Imogen. “If there's one thing you don't need help with, it's women. And calculus. And athletics. And…hey, when have you ever needed my help?”

“When I was six you helped me get my kite out of a tree.”

“Oh yeah.”

She said nothing, but he could imagine the smile on her face. Imogen had rarely resented him for his talents, but he knew he could be irritating to live with. Especially for his big sister, who would've easily been the star in any other family.

“Is this about Helen?” she asked.

“How'd you know?”

“How hard is it to put that together? What's the problem?”

“I like her.”

“Cool. And how is that a problem?”

“I mean I really like her.”

“No shit,” she replied with breathless sarcasm. “So tell her. Problem solved. You're welcome.”

The phone beeped as she hung up. He stared at the phone as if it had betrayed him. Fifteen seconds later it rang, and he answered.

“Very funny,” he said.

“I thought so,” said Imogen.

“You don't have to enjoy this so much.”

“I don't have to, but I will. So you like this young woman. How serious are we talking about?”

He thought about it. He'd been thinking about it for a few hours now, behind other thoughts, and the answer remained unclear.

“I don't know.”

“OK. That's honest. We can work with that. You've liked girls before. You've dated plenty. And you've never been hurting for confidence with the fairer sex. The question is what makes this situation different?”

He lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

“Is it the minotaur thing?” asked Imogen.

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I mean, I know it's not the way she looks. She's actually very pretty when you look at her. Not traditionally, of course. But she has a great smile, and knows how to handle herself. Did I tell you she punched a dragon?”

“You have always liked strong women,” said Imogen. “And tall ones too, if I remember right.”

“You do.”

“Hey, I'm not judging anything here. I don't remember much of her from that one time we met, but she had a nice figure and she seemed cool enough. I thought the tail was kind of cute, honestly.”

“Me too.” He sat up. “But what if it is a problem?”

“What if you're shallow?” she said.

“Not the way I would've put it.”

“Hey, you called me, little brother. No need to tiptoe around the question. To which I say relax. You aren't shallow. If you were shallow you'd be dating some empty-headed chick with big tits who was always telling you how awesome you are. It's not as if you'd have trouble finding one.”

This was true. Troy had always been popular. He'd never hurt for dates. He'd never been in a serious relationship, but it hadn't been because there weren't any applicants for the position. He'd been too busy for the most part. People thought he was good at stuff without much work, but the truth was that he had to work. He picked things up fast, but he also had a habit of finding everything fascinating. He was always exploring something new, and women had been a pleasant diversion from his life, but he'd never pursued them seriously. Usually he enjoyed them as they passed through.

“Let's put aside the minotaur thing for a moment,” said Imogen. “What else is bothering you?”

He didn't know, and that was what bothered him. Uncertainty was a foreign concept to Troy.

“You're worried because you like this girl,” said Imogen.

“That's what I already said.”

“No. Listen closely. You genuinely
like
this one. And not how you like everyone else. You're a people person, Troy. You get along with everyone. You find the bright side in everyone. You like people, and they like you. But this is different because this is someone you like specifically. This is someone who you want to like you back.”

He was about to interrupt, but she knew him too well.

“Don't interrupt. There's a big difference between being liked and being
liked
. I'm not sure you've ever been liked like that. Everyone adores you, but it's a distant sort of adoration. It's like having good feelings about an actor or a pro athlete. It's less about who that person is than what they represent. You've always been this ideal, this great guy, perfect son, fun dude, boyfriend material. That's nothing to complain about, but it isn't the same as being liked in a personal way.

“If I had to guess, I'd say that's what's bothering you. If Helen was some chick who fell into your lap, you'd have no problems here. You don't want her to be that. You want to be liked for who you are. The problem is that you can't help but ask yourself if maybe who you are, under all the sheen and popularity, is maybe someone not worth liking. That's risky stuff. Especially when you like someone yourself and want them to return the favor.”

Troy said nothing.

“Am I wrong?” she asked.

“No, I think you nailed it. When did you get so deep?”

“I've always been deep. You've just been too busy being handsome to notice.”

“What do I do?”

“Seriously?” Imogen clicked her tongue into her phone. “You still don't know? Ask her out, you dope. Or at least tell her how you feel.”

“But what if she doesn't—”

“She will.”

“You don't know that.”

“No, you're right. I don't. Not everyone goes for the good-looking, intelligent, athletic, fun type. She might be into bad boys or quiet, angry loners. She might be into guys who dress up like chickens and play jazz flute. But I'm willing to bet she's not.”

“But what if—”

“I'm going to have to cut you off there, Troy. I'd love to sit here all night talking to you about what might happen, but in the end, the only way to find out is to just do it already. I can't guarantee it'll work out. I can't guarantee it won't blow up in your face, and you'll end up looking like a chump. For most of us, that's just the way life works. You take your chances, and you see what happens. Congratulations, little bro, you've stumbled into being a regular person.”

“I don't think I like it,” he admitted.

“Who does? I find it comforting that you can experience uncertainty, but talking to me is a waste of time. You should be talking to her.”

“You're right. Thanks, Sis.”

“Anytime, little bro. Good luck.”

He hung up, screwed up his courage, and walked across the hall. He wiped the sweat from his palms. This thump in his chest, the way the hairs on his arms stood on end, this was all new stuff. He'd felt pressure before. He'd experienced all the adrenaline and edginess that came with it. Despite his many talents, he wasn't perfect. He failed more often than people gave him credit for. They tended to downplay the failures because his triumphs were so much more impressive. Nobody cared if you dropped a pass if you caught six interceptions.

He knocked on the door. Helen didn't answer.

“Hel,” he said to the door. “I know it's late, but can we talk?”

No answer.

He knocked again. “It's important.”

He opened the door a crack and stuck his head in.

“Hel?”

She wasn't there, but he heard something scratching from the closet door. He opened it, and Achilles slunk out. The dog's tail was flattened and his ears pressed low. He ran around the room, sniffing and growling.

“How'd you get in there?” asked Troy.

Achilles exited the room, then stuck his head back in and barked at Troy.

“What's wrong?”

Achilles barked again.

“Can't you just tell me? I know you're not an ordinary dog, so do we have to keep pretending? If you can talk, this'd be a lot simpler.”

Achilles ducked into the hallway and barked. Troy followed the dog, already halfway toward the staircase.

“Should I get my sword?”

Achilles whined and wagged his fluffy tail.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

Troy retrieved his enchanted weapon. He put on some pants too, since boxers weren't the best armor. He stuffed the amulet in his pocket. He added the shield. If he was wrong, if Helen was just down in the bathroom or kitchen, it might be hard to explain wandering around fully equipped, but better safe than sorry.

He followed Achilles downstairs. The Mystery Cottage was quiet. The lights were dimmed, and the place seemed like a renovated dungeon where all the skeletons had been removed and replaced with porcelain curios and motel-art oil paintings.

Achilles trotted back and forth before a closet door. Troy debated forgetting the entire business and going back upstairs. Helen could take care of herself. There was no reason to assume anything was awry. A dog was hardly a credible witness. Even a possibly magic dog.

“If there's a bag of kibble in there, I'm not opening it.”

He threw open the door and readied himself for whatever might come charging at him.

It was only a closet, full of old clothes and shoes.

He lowered his sword and glared at Achilles.

“Very funny. Are you done wasting my time?”

Something stirred in the closet.

With a whine, Achilles scampered behind Troy.

A long brown tendril lashed out, grabbing the shield. He sliced the tentacle with one clean stroke of his sword. The thing in the closet withdrew.

He stepped back. The remnants of the closet thing were still draped over his arm. Brown fabric, like that of a cheap coat, on one side. On the other, a polyester lining.

The thing in the closet growled as it spilled into the room. It wasn't a monster hiding in the closet. It was the contents of the closet itself. Old coats and shoes, polka-dotted ties and tan slacks. They swirled and congealed into a hulking humanoid form, eight feet tall, with a dusty green bowling ball for an eye and a broken umbrella for a beak.

The monster struck. The magic shield zipped Troy to the side. A red feather boa wrapped around the shield and yanked it off his arm. It hurled the shield. Troy ducked beneath it. The metal disk embedded itself deep into the wall.