“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.
A loose coat fell over the creature’s bowling ball eye, and it stumbled blindly. Its arms flailed. It smashed an antique mirror and crushed a writing desk. The monster groped, groaning and gurgling, as Troy and Achilles watched from the other side of the room.
Achilles looked up at Troy and barked softly.
“OK, so you were right,” said Troy. “Something is wrong here.”
The coat monster roared as it shook its body with such force that loose raincoats, hats, and an encyclopedia were flung across the room. The castoff bits squirmed and wriggled across the floor. Except for the encyclopedia. It fidgeted in a small hopping circle. The coat fell from the monster’s eye, and it fixed Troy with a glare.
His choices were limited. He could run for it, but the monster was sure to give chase. Or he could stand his ground and hope that magic sword trumped fabric monster. In the brief moments he had to consider, he knew running wasn’t a choice. He couldn’t find Helen if he was fleeing.
Troy held his blade before him with his feet firmly planted in a wide stance, but most of his weight on his toes, ready to move. He looked the monster in its bowling ball without blinking.
“I’ve never had the opportunity to slay a monster before,” he said. “Want to be my first?”
The monster tilted its head-like protrusion to one side and stepped back. He was amazed that had worked, but he was also smart enough not to let his surprise show.
“Where’s Helen?” he asked.
The monster chuckled. It opened its jaws to reveal teeth made of brown loafers and ran a fuzzy yellow scarf across its lips.
“If you’ve hurt her—”
The monster charged. It expected Troy to attempt to avoid the attack, but he moved forward to meet it and thrust his sword deep in the center of its mass. The creature shrieked and came toppling down on him.
Troy swung his sword and struggled free of the mass of old clothes threatening to smother him. He jumped to his feet and stabbed at the pile of apparel covering the floor. Seven seconds later he noticed Achilles watching from the corner of the room.
The monster, whatever it was, however it had been animated, was dead. Or close enough. Troy stabbed it a few more times to be sure. He plucked the shredded remains of a fedora off the tip of his sword.
“Better safe than sorry. Right?”
Achilles hopped through the remains of the beast and ran into the closet. Without the monster in the way, the door now opened onto a spiral staircase winding downward.
“What were you guarding?” Troy prodded the bowling ball. “One way to find out.”
He wasted a minute trying to free the shield embedded in the wall, but he wasn’t strong enough. He gave up and descended the staircase. Achilles followed close behind. At the bottom a sitting room waited. It smelled of gingerbread and decay. Plastic covered the furniture. It was a sensible precaution to keep the mummified corpses from decomposing on the fabric. The five desiccated mummies (and the skeleton of their dog) caused Troy to retch.
Up to now the quest had had its dangerous moments, but aside from the death curse hanging over their heads, it had seemed like a grand adventure. The grim scene changed all that. The walls wer
e adorned with portraits, some of them decades old and faded with age. The smiling families chilled him in a way the corpses hadn’t.
His first thought was of Helen. He hadn’t gotten the chance to tell her how he felt yet, and he wondered if he ever would. The thought bothered him more than the idea of dying.
He was getting ahead of himself. Helen could take care of herself. She was stronger and tougher than Troy. He wasn’t dead yet.
A voice echoed from somewhere. Helen’s voice. Achilles’s ears perked up, and he scratched at an innocuous-looking door. Troy kicked it open and steeled himself for battle.
There weren’t any monsters. Just a cozy kitchen with an art deco design straight from the thirties. Blue and white tile. Bright-green refrigerator and oven, both twice as large as ordinary appliances. A table and chairs made of chrome and vinyl. Babs stood over the sink in the middle of washing her hands. A large burlap bag writhed at her feet.
“Let me out of here, you crazy bitch!” screamed Helen.
Babs rinsed her spiderlike hands. “Oh dear, how inconvenient.”
Troy pointed his sword at Babs. “Let her go.”
The old woman cackled. “I can’t do that, young man. It’s been ages since I’ve enjoyed fresh minotaur. You don’t expect me to deprive myself of such a delicacy, do you?”
The bag stopped twitching. “Troy?”
“I’m here, Hel! Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.”
“She’s stronger than me!”
To demonstrate, Babs hefted Helen off the floor with one hand and threw the bag over her shoulder as if it were a bag of packing peanuts. Babs’s spindly, withered form didn’t as much as slouch under the weight. “How did you get past my monster?”
“Magic sword,” said Troy. “And I’ll use it on you unless you drop that bag right now.”
Babs snickered. She twisted her head in his direction. The motion was too smooth, as if the old woman’s neck operated on a well-oiled gear.
“You threaten me with magic, but I am magic. No enchantment of mortal or god can harm me. The sharpest blade cannot pierce my wicked flesh. The mightiest club cannot part the hairs on my gray head. And I cannot die because I do not live.”
Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest Page 20
