Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest (4 page)

“I can't believe you signed anything, Helen,” said Roxanne. “After everything I've taught you.”

Helen had seriously considered leaving her mom in the dark about her discussion with Waechter.

Helen had been a good kid, never in any real trouble, and her mother had given her the respect that came with that. But Roxanne was also innately distrusting of authority figures. Helen had to admit that distrust of a mysterious government agent from a mysterious government agency wasn't unwarranted.

Now Helen was trapped in the passenger seat of a minivan on the long ride home from the police station with her mother.

They didn't say much for the first ten minutes. Helen's minotaurism came from her mother's side, though nobody in the family had suffered from a full-blown case in centuries. Roxanne had the ears. One of Helen's older brothers had fur. And her younger brother had a tail. But only Helen suffered
enchantment regression
. Luck of the draw, she often thought. Or whim of the gods. She wasn't sure which idea bothered her more.

Roxanne's ears twitched when she was upset.

“What did this man look like?” she asked.

“Like a guy, Mom,” said Helen. “He didn't look weird or anything.”

“Of course he didn't. He's trained to be invisible, unidentifiable. He walks in the shadows, screwing with people's lives for some
greater good
.” She released the steering wheel just long enough to mime quotation marks.

“I've never even heard of this National Questing Bureau,” said Roxanne. “I doubt it even exists.”

“Troy Googled it with his phone, Mom. It seemed legitimate.”

“Oh, I'm sure it
looked
legitimate.” Air quotes. “It always looks
legitimate
.” Air quotes. “Always looks
harmless
.” Air quotes.

“Uh, Mom, do you want me to hold the wheel while you make your point?”

“Don't sass me.”

Helen shrugged. “Sorry, Mom. Guess I learned to question authority. Wonder where I got that from?”

Roxanne shook her head. “So you pick this up from me but you're perfectly willing to sign any random paper pushed your way.”

“Mom…”

Silence passed between them.

“Mom what?” asked Roxanne.

“Nothing,” replied Helen. “You're right. It was probably a dumb thing to do, but I did it.”

She flipped open her government-issued questing permit. She still hated the photo, but the ID was growing on her. The credit card seemed legitimate, though she hadn't had a chance to charge anything on it. Still, it all seemed very official, very important. Although she wasn't sure what her powers as an NQB agent were at this point. She doubted it was a license to kill, which vaguely disappointed her even though she had no plans to kill anyone.

But she had thought about it because quests usually involved some level of violence. She'd already been almost fed to a hamburger god, and that was before officially starting the damn thing. It might get worse.

Or maybe her quest would be as simple as driving across the country, picking up a few packages, and dropping them off. Agent Waechter hadn't seemed too concerned for her safety, though he had been difficult to read.

“I wouldn't be surprised if he was a Black Knight,” said Roxanne, and Helen realized her mom had been talking even if Helen hadn't quite been paying attention.

“I don't think the Black Knights actually exist, Mom.”

“That's what they want you to believe.”

There weren't many conspiracy theories Roxanne didn't believe in. At the center of it all, the Black Knights sat like spiders spinning a giant web. There wasn't a mysterious celebrity death (or many non-mysterious ones) that didn't have some whispered connection to the Knights, and, supposedly, the only reason flying carpets had been rejected as an eco-friendly alternative to automobiles was the Knights' nefarious intent to create smog. Helen wasn't clear on the reason, but it seemed to change every week anyway.

She'd always suspected that the sinister machinations of the Black Knights were based on how many books and magazines those machinations could sell. Judging from her mother's impressive collection, this was a surprisingly large amount.

“Do you know what your problem has always been?” asked Roxanne. “You're too trusting. Like your father.”

“Did you call him?” asked Helen.

“Of course I did. He almost canceled his business trip to come home, but I told him it wasn't necessary.”

“Maybe it is, Mom.” She pointed to her hand. “I have been cursed by the gods.”

“I'm not worried about that,” said Roxanne. “And you shouldn't be either. Haven't I always told you that you can handle anything?”

“Yes, Mom, but—”

“Don't give me any buts, Helen. You're a very capable young woman.”

“Yes, Mom, but—”

“You are as strong and able as anyone. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”

The minivan pulled into their driveway, and they exited.

“Actually, I'm stronger than most everyone, Mom.” Helen slammed the door shut to make the point.

“You know what I mean, Helen.”

They hugged.

“We'll get through this.” Roxanne tried to hide her nervousness behind a smile, and she almost succeeded. “Now let's call your father and tell him everything is OK.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You're welcome. For what?”

“For believing in me.”

“You've never given me any reason not to.” Roxanne's ears perked up. “It's only the gods, after all. And if they know what's good for them, they won't harm a hair on my girl's head. Otherwise I'll storm the heavens myself and show them what wrath really is.”

She went inside.

Helen lingered, staring into the sky and the few stars she could see through the city's light pollution. She smiled.

“She'll do it too.”

The constellations dimmed in fear of the notion.

Troy got home late from the police station. His parents went to bed while he slapped together a sandwich and ate it over the sink.

Lights flashed in the window. He heard the front door open slowly and the click of heels on the hardwood floors. Imogen cautiously poked her head into the kitchen.

“You can relax,” he said. “Mom and Dad went to bed.”

His older sister entered. She removed her jacket and draped it across a chair. “We have anything to drink?”

“There's juice,” he said.

She smiled, put a hand to his cheek. “You're cute, little brother.” She opened the fridge and pulled out a pair of beers. “Can't Dad buy imported, like any good upper-middle-class family?”

“You know Dad,” said Troy. “Buy American. I didn't know you were in town.”

Imogen shrugged. “You know how it is. I don't like giving the folks a lot of notice. Better to slip in and out, like a thief in the night.”

“Uh-hmm.”

Troy and Imogen had always gotten along, though their parents had a bad habit of pitting them against each other, dangling approval like a maiden before a hungry dragon. She'd always been smart and beautiful. In any other family she'd have been too good to be true. Then he'd come along and wrecked the grading curve. Imogen had elected to stop competing and become the black sheep. Though being the bad daughter mostly involved wearing tight jeans, bumming around Europe for a few months to “find herself,” and dating a few hippies and a beatnik. Troy had always been impressed she'd found a beatnik in this day and age.

He handed her half his sandwich. She took it, sniffed it. “What is this? Bologna?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't eat meat.”

He laughed. “Since when?”

“I'm vegan now.”

Troy said, “Not even dairy or eggs.”

Imogen frowned. “I still eat eggs.”

“That's not vegan then.”

“I'm pretty sure it is.”

“Next you'll tell me you're still eating seafood.”

She bit her lip. “Fish aren't vegan?”

Troy said, “Some are. Not sharks, of course.”

Imogen smiled insincerely. “You know what I mean, smartass.”

“So why are you vaguely vegan?”

“I'm not allowed to try new things?” she asked. “Anyway, we shouldn't be talking about me. You're the one who is in trouble. Quest, huh?”

He nodded.

“Mom couldn't wait to tell me,” she said. “Couldn't wait to brag about her popular, smart, and now officially
chosen-by-the-gods
son. You just can't stop overachieving, can you?”

“It's not as impressive as it sounds,” he replied. “It was a hamburger god.”

“Sounds gross.”

“It was.” He nodded to a sketch of the god on the kitchen table.

“Ewww.” She flipped through the sketchpad. “I didn't know you could draw.”

“Just a hobby, Sis.”

She dropped the pad on the table and shook her head. “Maybe if you'd stop excelling so much, Mom and Dad wouldn't think of me as the bad child.”

“I think you were stuck with that label once you got that tattoo. I'm pretty sure they think that butterfly on your ankle means you're in a gang.”

Imogen handed a beer to Troy.

“Don't argue with me,” she said. “Just drink it. You've had a rough day.”

They twisted off the tops, clinked the bottles together, and took a drink.

Troy grimaced. “Stuff tastes terrible.”

“You get used to it. Sit with me, little brother. We should talk.”

They sat at the table.

“So how are you holding up?” she asked.

“I'm good.”

She tapped her fingernail against her bottle.

“What?” he asked.

“It's OK to admit you're nervous,” she said.

“Why should I be nervous?”

She pointed to the mark on the back of his hand.

“Oh, I've got this under control,” he said.

“So we're playing it that way?”

“What way?”

“You might get away with the
I'm awesome
attitude with everybody else, but not with me.”

Troy smiled. “But I am awesome.”

“Yes, and I acknowledge your awesomeness. But it doesn't change things. This is big stuff. Even for you.”

He took another sip. “Yes, but I've got it under control. And it's not like I'm facing this alone. A friend of mine carries the curse too.”

“Have I met this friend?”

“Maybe. She dropped by my birthday party. You'd probably remember her.”

Imogen raised an eyebrow. “That pretty?”

“Distinctive.” He paused. “And pretty in a unique way.”

“What's that mean?”

Troy said, “She's tall. Brown eyes. Wide shoulders and hips. A bit…meaty, but not in a bad way. Brown hair with white spots.”

She stopped halfway through a swallow. “Spots?”

“On her neck,” he said.

Imogen nodded to herself. “The minotaur chick?”

“That's her.”

“Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place?” asked Imogen.

He picked at the bottle label. “Whenever someone describes me, the first thing that comes up is
Asian
. And I hate that. And don't tell me you don't hate it too.”

Imogen said, “That's a fair point, though minotaurs are a little more distinctive in the grand scheme.”

“Doesn't change the fact that she shouldn't be defined by the fact that she has horns.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but that doesn't change the fact that it'll be the first thing someone notices about her.”

“Doesn't make it right,” he said softly.

“So do you like this girl?”

He stared blankly at her.

“What?” she asked. “It's a legitimate question. If you're going to be questing with this girl, you're going to be spending a lot of time together, right?”

“We're just friends. Casual ones. We didn't even really talk to each other until she started working at Magic Burger. It's not like we've hung out a lot.”

Imogen said, “Yes, but do you like her?”

“She's like a foot taller than me and has hooves. I haven't even thought of her in that way.”

“I gotta say, little brother, I'm surprised you're so superficial.”

“Haven't the last four guys you dated all had washboard abs?”

She laughed. “Hey, I know I'm superficial.”

“You just want me to date a minotaur so Mom will forgive you for bringing that Belgian guy home last year.”

“He was French,” she corrected.

“No, he was Belgian.”

“I'm fairly positive he was French.”

“He came from the French-speaking southern region of Wallonia,” said Troy. “But he was most certainly Belgian.”

“But he had that flag on his backpack.”

“Yes, the Belgian one.”

“OK, don't pretend that you know all about flags. Because I'm not buying that.”

“I know next to nothing about the subject,” admitted Troy. “Other than he and his flag patch were Belgian because he told me so. At least a dozen times. He also mentioned how much he hated being mistaken for French.”

She nodded. “OK, now that's ringing a bell.”

“Mom is still convinced you did that just to irritate her.”

“Back on topic.” Imogen rapped the table. “So how does one quest anyway?”

“I haven't had a lot of time to research it yet,” he replied. “But from what I've read, it's about time for some sort of supernatural aid to appear to point me on my way. I'm hoping it's some form of talking animal.”

A white cat meowed as it rubbed against his legs.

“What's that, Mister Scraps?” asked Imogen. “You want Troy to journey across the river of fire to the land of the forgotten dead and kick the lord of the underworld in the shins?”