No Hero (21 page)

Tabitha swishes about, all nervous energy. And is that out of character for her? Is that a Progeny screwing up on its acting?

Jesus.

I put my head in my hands again.

“Got some news might cheer you up,” Tabitha says.

I look up. And she really is talking to me. I raise my eyebrows. Both of them.

“The Progeny,” she says. “We got them by the short and curlies.”

“We’ve translated Olsted’s book,” Tabitha says. “Clyde and me.” She favors him with a nod. Then she looks away, a slightly confused expression on her face. I glance at Clyde. And it is a confusing look he’s giving her. Not quite happy. Not quite sad. Longing? Suddenly, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut in the car.

“Anyway,” Tabitha continues, “translated. The book. Not all of it. Enough. A couple of spells. A whole lot of history. The usual. But not that usual.” A grin almost cracks the surface of her face but she manages to suppress it.

“See, Olsted had a book that talks about The Book.” The capitalization is audible in her voice. “The Book that begat other books. Big poppa grimoire. The Source.”

Clyde taps the table he’s so excited. The longing look is replaced with wide-eyed wonderment. Personally, I’m going to keep on working on morose until something actually makes sense.

“The Source is one of the original grimoires,” Tabitha says, eyes flicking between Shaw and me. “Most others are derivatives. Copies of fragments. Corruptions. The Source is a big prize. Read lots about it before, but not details. Olsted had details. Now we have them.”

Even Shaw is leaning forward in her seat now, so I figure it’s time to start paying attention properly. I fish for a notebook. Tabitha seems to suddenly realize she’s the center of attention and starts talking more quickly, trying to wrap things up.

“According to Olsted’s book, the Source gets into some fundamentals. Realities intersect like this. Or that. Or this and that. Gives us the rules. Lets us know how to shut other realities out. Lock the door to our reality. Permanently.”

Suddenly the grin that’s been threatening her face does break through. It’s a wicked-looking thing. Probably bludgeoned its way onto her face with an axe.

“No way for the Feeders to get in,” she says.

Clyde actually squeaks.

“Oh, and, yeah,” Tabitha’s grin grows, almost looks like it won’t stop, “we’ve got a map.”

Clyde stands up, arms upraised, fists balled. Then he realizes what he just did and sits down very fast. “Sorry,” he says. “Little carried away. Academic at work and all that. Always enjoy a breakthrough. Silly of me. Probably shouldn’t have—”

“Be quiet, Clyde,” Shaw says.

“Good idea,” he says.

“This map,” Shaw says, speaking to Tabitha now, “we can crack it when Olsted couldn’t?”

“Well,” Tabitha says, “respect to Olsted, but he’s not a government department with an extensive library built on seventy-five years of raiding tombs, museums, and libraries, is he?”

“So,” Shaw says, “there’s a chance this Source is still where the map is pointing to?”

“Decent one.” Tabitha nods.

“Where?” the word bursts out of Clyde. “Where? Where? Where?”

“Where do you think?”

Is Tabitha actually playing it coy? She and Clyde are as bad as each other.

“I knew it!” Clyde bounces in his chair.

“Would one of you care to actually enlighten the rest of us?” Shaw says. Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks something is up between these two. I really should have kept my mouth shut in the car.

“Peru,” Tabitha says. “Where Olsted kept going back. But I can get more specific. Did some cross-referencing. Other stuff we had. We need to bloody digitize, by the way. Do some scanning.” She pauses, looks at Shaw suspiciously. “Not volunteering.”

“Of course not,” Shaw says. “You’re going to be busy in Peru.”

There’s about fifteen minutes of profanity after Shaw says that. But Tabitha folds in the end. She’s going. And once that’s settled, it seems like everything’s settled. We’ll be flying out in the morning. Shaw gives us a time and the location of a military airbase. We stand up and start filing out.

Shaw catches my arm as I get to the door.

“A moment,” she says. “Please.”

“Sure,” I say. And we do need to talk. I don’t want to but I think I need to start doing more things I don’t want to do. This isn’t an action movie; it’s a job. Aping Kurt Russell is only going to get me so far.

“About Tabitha,” she says, which I wasn’t expecting. “She’s a good researcher. We recruited her from Oxford after we promoted Clyde. She’d had our eye for a while. Her work is very impressive. And I want you to have the right information when you’re out in the field.”

Something in her stance, her tone—this isn’t what she really wants to talk to me about. It’s certainly not what we need to talk about, but I think she knows that too. I think we’re both trying to negotiate how to tackle the tricky subjects. Maybe we’re more alike than I thought we were.

Shaw opens her mouth but is interrupted by a violent string of vulgarities coming from the corridor outside. They largely center on the fact that Tabitha is, “a bloody fucking researcher.”

“Occasionally she could work on being a better person,” Shaw says. “But she is an excellent researcher.”

“I’ll remember that.” It sounds awkward. It is awkward. We’re standing in a conference room, but there’s a rooftop and my terribly confused attack between us.

“Look,” I say. “Sorry about, what I said, what I did, up on...” I look at my feet.

“You’re sorry about me hitting that nerve cluster in your neck? I don’t think you need to apologize for that.” I look up. It’s not quite a smile on Shaw’s face, but it’s something not too far removed.

“I’m sorry you needed to hit it.” I twist my neck, stretching the crick that still lingers there. “Sorry you hit it too, actually.” And that does get a smile. Wasn’t expecting that. Then it fades.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” she says.

“Me too.” I look away. But I don’t want to overdramatize this. I want to get back to work. I want to do my job. And I want it to hurt the Progeny very badly.

“Kayla’s back on the team,” I say. Focused. Shop talk.

“You understand why?” she asks me.

“If anything goes the way it normally seems to,” I say, “I’ll probably be glad to have her along.”

Shaw nods. “She’s dedicated,” she says. “She’s an essential weapon against the Progeny. She can be difficult but you should never discount her.”

“I won’t.” I can’t promise to trust her either, but Shaw’s right—if I’m wrong I’ll really regret not having her along. And if I’m right...

If I’m right, then it won’t matter whether she’s close or far away. We’ll all be screwed.

My thoughts are spiraling down again. Down into an Alison-shaped pit. And I don’t want to go there. The best way to deal with everything is to stay out of there. Stay focused.

“We’re going to do this one better,” I say. “We’re going to get the book. We’re going to win this.”

“I...” Shaw looks suddenly awkward. It doesn’t really suit her. She shrugs it off with an expression as if she’s swallowing something bitter. “I’m glad you’re on board, Agent... Arthur.”

“Agent Arthur?”

“I meant Arthur.” She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose. “There’s been too much of keeping everyone at arm’s length. Enough with titles and formality.”

Enough with formality? Maybe she really is Progeny.

Oh balls. That wasn’t funny

“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate the support on this trip.”

“You’re going to get the book.” She smiles again, and it feels genuine. That does suit her.

“Smooth sailing,” I say. “We’ll be back here with the book before you know it.” And for a moment I even believe it.

I really should go hunting for long-lost grimoires more often. Yes, the flights are long, and military planes seem to have been involved in some warped design competition to produce a seat with no comfortable parts, but when you get where you’re going...

Yes. Most definitely, yes.

I can feel Oxford, the detritus of the past week sloughing away. There are no clouds, no rain; there is no craggy, ancient limestone. And there is a charm to that, to Oxford, of course, but this... Peru...

Massive open skies, patchwork fields and then jagged peaks jutting up—green and gray—like the world has teeth. There’s a sense of space, of breathing room. Here I can see Clyde, Kayla, Tabitha, the pilot, and the van driver—his smile a broken mosaic of mismatched teeth— but that’s it. All of it. I feel lighter. Freer.

Clyde keeps turning with the camera. I assume it’s a panorama shot he’s going for until I realize he’s tracking Tabitha around the plane. Her dark legs, dense with angels, demons, and seventies’ metal icons etched in white ink, and some very short shorts seem to have him hypnotized. I think of Devon again, her bustle and hurry and warmth. But I don’t think Clyde is.

Totally shouldn’t have said anything in the car.

The van can get us within two miles of the temple the grimoire, The Source, is supposedly at. After that, apparently, it’s pretty much vertical, but a little exercise can’t hurt. At least, not as much as the Progeny or one of their creatures.

Clyde and Tabitha sit in the front, as they apparently know where we’re going, or have mapped it out on Google, or something. Tabitha’s laptop is open anyhow and they’re both hunched over it.

I’m in the back of the van with Kayla. We sit in silence. I try to think of something warm and witty and general ice-breakery to say, but instead all I think—

She is not what you think she is.

I have to say, that would be my first move if I were a hideous mind parasite. Get in the head of the person trying to wipe me out.

But she did save me. Only a couple of yards from where she almost killed me. Without her I’d have been torn apart.

“Thank you,” I say finally. It sounds as awkward as I feel. Kayla turns and looks at me, a look of confusion and irritation. “For on the rooftop,” I say. “For coming.”

Kayla keeps staring at me. “Feck off,” she says finally.

Not a butterfly kiss on the cheek but she didn’t stab me, so that definitely could have gone worse.

I’m still working on a follow-up when the van pulls to a stop. The road has devolved into mud and now just stops entirely. Most of what is beyond us is above us. Rough rock and scree.

“It’s up there.” Tabitha points. “Buried.” She yanks a smartphone from her pocket and reads, “Under sky, under earth, under stone, underneath notice, hidden from the eye of the jealous Lord, it slumbers. Enter its chambers as the snake is cursed. At the base of the forbidden tree.” She looks up.

Kayla, ignoring the rest of us, is already several hundred feet up the mountainside.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Religious references,” Tabitha says. “Snake. Forbidden tree. Adam and Eve. Apple. Apple tree. Something we have to crawl into on our bellies.”

“Wait,” I say, because I feel like I just spotted a flaw in this plan too late, “when was this grimoire of Olsted’s written?”

“About four to five hundred years ago,” Clyde chips in. “I mean, give or take. Basing that on some of the grammar usage, way the book was bound, et cetera, et cetera. Nothing definitive. Ballparking you really. Didn’t carbon-date it or anything. Too much paperwork, you know. No, probably don’t. Why would you? Silly thing to say really Don’t know...” He notices Tabitha and I staring at him. “Apologies. Sorry. Shutting up now. Being quiet—”

“But,” I say, “wouldn’t the tree have died about... forever ago?”

“Well, a five-thousand-year-old pine tree was chopped down in the United States in the sixties,” Clyde says. “I mean, that’s an extreme example. Not many that old. Well maybe, could be, just people get bored counting the rings. But probably not. That’s probably silly. And five hundred years is an old tree. Of course. Not insignificant. But it’s possible.”

“Course,” says Tabitha, “could just give up. Go home. Let Ophelia live up to her name. Let the Feeders come through.” She raises an eyebrow at me. Just one.

“No,” I say, “I wasn’t—” But I was. “Fair point,” I say. “Best foot forward, everybody.”

Tabitha rolls her eyes while I roll up my sleeves and prepare for the mother of all scavenger hunts.

Suddenly, Kayla lands in the center of our little circle. She drops to one knee. Dust and sticks billow up around us in the small shockwave of her landing. I look up trying to work out how far she just jumped down. But I have to keep on looking up and up and up and on second thoughts, maybe I don’t want to know. I’m going to be up there soon.

“Found it,” she says.

Tabitha gives me the finger again and heads off up the steep incline. After a moment, I follow.

The sunrise is glorious. Almost hymnal. We’re camped up on the mountain outside the tunnel entrance. It took Kayla five minutes to climb up to it. Took the rest of us closer to five hours, lugging our backpacks of equipment. The last hour wasn’t the most fun. And considering the mountain had already handed our asses to us we thought we’d wait to give ancient Peruvian magic a break until morning. But this morning, this mountain daybreak... yesterday’s exhaustion was worth it. Most definitely worth it.

The apple tree is still growing here. It’s gnarled, mostly dead, and it wouldn’t be too hard to confuse its two growing apples with walnuts, but it is still here. It’s almost more impressive for being in such a state. If it was a disco song I think it’d be Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.” But it’s not. It’s an apple tree.

I sit with my back to it and use the satellite phone I lugged up the slopes to call Shaw back in England. Let her know what’s happening.

“Good morning.” Shaw’s voice is brisk and surprisingly clear after I fumble my way through a couple of security passwords I was given. “How’s the search for the temple going?”

“Sitting right outside it,” I say.

“Excellent news.” Shaw sounds genuinely pleased.

“We’ll be heading in shortly,” I say.