“There is a certain uncanny valley factor,” he admitted, “but we shouldn’t hold that against her.”
She agreed, but they decided not to unpack, just as a precaution, and they chose the two rooms closest to the stairs in case they needed to make a quick escape.
They spent the remaining hour and a half before dinnertime touring the cottage. Babs said nothing was off-limits, and that they were free to examine and handle the many antiques. It took them most of that time to explore a single room, picking through the knickknacks.
“Do you think all this stuff is magic?” asked Helen. “Just waiting for the right person to come along?”
“Good question. I have no idea.” He held up a six-pack of Billy Beer. “But probably not. Then again, does it have to be magic? It’s like that teapot the fates gave me. They said it would be helpful against a dragon and it was, even if it wasn’t magic.”
“No, they didn’t say that. They said the teapot couldn’t hurt.”
“But it did help us escape.”
“No, you helped us escape by using it as a distraction. You could’ve just as easily thrown a rock. There was nothing unique about the teapot that made it the right tool for that job. And the fates practically said that they get a lot of credit for stuff they don’t do.”
Troy played with an old marionette, making the wooden puppet dance a jig. “But I did use the teapot, so they do get credit for that one.”
“Do they? What if you had used a rock? You’d still have that teapot, and if some day it came in handy, you’d think how fortuitous. And if you stuck it in the back of your closet and never thought about it again, you wouldn’t say the fates were slacking on the job.”
He made the puppet nod, cup its chin in a thoughtful pose. “I can’t argue with you.”
“Will you stop that?”
The simple wooden puppet held up its hands in mock innocence. “Stop what?”
She grinned at the puppet, then at him. “If you don’t stop playing with that, I might have to reassess your cool factor.”
“Really? What’s my cool factor now, pray tell?”
The puppet cupped its face and looked eagerly at her. It had no eyes, but he somehow conveyed everything through body language.
She laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never picked up a puppet before.”
“Oh no. I love puppets. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a puppeteer for a while.”
Helen feigned a shocked stagger. “Oh, gods above, please tell me that’s not true. You’re not cool at all. You’re a dork!”
“Puppets aren’t dorky. They’re an ancient and venerated art.”
Achilles, a Slinky wrapped around his head, whined at Helen’s hooves. She bent down and untangled him.
“Whatever, dork.”
“You’re just jealous because you haven’t mastered the art of ventriloquism.”
“Ventriloquism? Well, I take it all back. You’re clearly more awesome than I realized.”
He handed her the crossbars. “Go on. Try it. It’s a lot of fun.”
She attempted to make the marionette dance, but it only looked as if it were having a spasm. It was fun watching the little wooden figure convulse.
“You’re moving it too much, Hel. You need to use small gentle movements.”
Troy put his hand on hers and guided her.
It felt weird, though not bad. Troy had touched her before, but this was different somehow. It might have been feelings she wasn’t comfortable with or the strange intimacy of trying to bring a semblance of life to a block of wood. Her hands tingled, and it wasn’t because of curses.
She stopped watching the puppet and looked at him as he intently focused not on the puppet, but on their hands.
“There you go, Hel. That’s better. See, not so hard, right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Dance, puppet, dance.”
Troy looked into her eyes so suddenly she was too surprised to look away. She swallowed, though her mouth was terribly dry.
“Hel…”
Warmth ran up her thigh, and she jumped, breaking contact, destroying the moment. If there had been a moment. She wasn’t so sure about that.
She rubbed her hands together. He did the same.
“Hel…”
Now this was a moment. She had no doubt about that. She was terrified of whatever he might say next.
Achilles barked, shattering the awkward pause. She didn’t know if she should be grateful for that or not.
The puppet danced. No one was holding its strings. The warmth in Helen’s pocket remained.
“I guess some things here are magic,” he said.
She pulled the warm amulet from her pocket. She pointed it at the puppet.
“Stop.”
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.”
24
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 sal
e, 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 h
ands 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.
25
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.”
Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest Page 19