A Hero at the End of the World (2 page)

“Ugh,” he groaned without glancing up.

The door to the kitchen burst open and Sara came rushing out, looking desperate to finally make a sale. Her totem, which she had artistically fastened to a hairpin at some point long before he met her, was threatening to fall out of her bun as it unraveled back into a ponytail. “Welcome to Eine Kaffee!”

The customer was a young man around Ewan’s age. He had dimpled cheeks and wavy hair the color of butter, and he was wrapped in a dark pea coat with what looked like a school scarf around his neck. He had the kind of easy, English good looks that had always made Ewan—Chinese, tall and lanky, with a fringe that fell into his eyes and black plastic glasses without which he was legally blind—feel like he stood out too much.

“You all right?” Ewan asked automatically, trying to keep too much of his boredom off his face. “What can I get you?”

The man gazed at them both with disinterest before turning his attention to the menu above the bar. Eventually, after what felt like eons, he began, “I’d like a—”

That was when he really seemed to notice Ewan.

“Aren’t you...?” The man peered up at him with cornflower blue eyes. The way he dragged his vowels spoke of generations of public school, and no doubt inbreeding. Ewan’s mother had always been on at him about his ugly North London accent but at least he didn’t sound like his family had selectively bred for chinlessness. “You’re Ewan Mao.”

“Do I know you, mate?” Ewan asked testily.

“Weren’t you with Oliver Abrams when he killed Duff Slan?” His gaze darted around the shop. “And now you work
here
?”

“That’s right,” said Ewan. “How the mighty have fallen. Coffee?”

The man opened his mouth to say something else—and then looked at Sara sharply, as if he’d suddenly realized that she was there.

“Skinny cappuccino, takeaway,” he said finally.

Ewan felt a tap on the back of his heel as Sara nudged him with her foot. She believed in the ridiculous theory that good customer service would bring people back. He liked to remind her that this was London and that never worked.

“Would you like a fresh scone or biscuit with that?” he asked. His fake smile was beginning to hurt.

“If I’d wanted a scone, I’d have asked for a scone,” was the annoying git’s reply.

Behind Ewan came the sounds of milk steaming and espresso being tamped. He pretended to engage himself with the till as the man stared at him.

“Do you still speak with Oliver Abrams?”

“No,” Ewan replied shortly.

“What a pity. Why not?”

Because he stole my life
, Ewan nearly said. Instead, he snapped, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Sara cleared her throat. Knowing she couldn’t see him, Ewan scowled, but he forced his voice to come out neutrally. “That’ll be two pounds ninety.”

The man paid for his coffee without a fuss, but then, just when Ewan thought he was free, he leveled him with a look. “I’ll be back later.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Ewan muttered, watching the door swing shut behind him. Just what he needed: another crazy Oliver fan.

He felt Sara creep up behind him. “He’s going to murder you.”

“Probably,” he sighed.

¤

“My boyfriend’s playing in Shoreditch tonight,” said Sara. “I need to go get ready. You don’t mind closing by yourself, do you? Ta, you’re brilliant, I love you,” she called as she closed the front door behind her.

“I do mind,” Ewan said to the empty shop as he watched her walk out of sight from out the front windows.

Closing by himself wasn’t much of a chore: he cleaned the espresso machine by hand while casting spells on the broom and mop to clear the floor. But it was lonely without Sara’s folksy music over the speakers or lilting voice as she chattered on the phone to her boyfriend (a tall, tattooed bloke who dressed head to toe in black leather). It was especially lonely knowing that while Sara was rushing off to somewhere hip, he’d be going home, as he did every Friday, to watch the news with his parents before hiding in his room to play video games.

After the machine was clean, Ewan hauled the rubbish out onto the street. It was cold without his coat, and at half four the sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, warning Britain that winter was fast-approaching.

A newspaper was pinned to the lamppost by the wind. Ewan caught a flash of
Oliver Abrams
on its front page. Against his better judgment, he picked it up.

HERO OLIVER ABRAMS
PROMOTED AT HOME OFFICE

O
LIVER ABRAMS
, the slayer of Duff Slan, was recently promoted to Third Class at the Home Office’s Serious Magical Crimes Agency, only one year after joining. “This is one the fastest promotions we’ve had,” Deputy Special Agent Wiggins told
The Hedge
. “It’s almost unprecedented for a twenty-two-year-old to be a Third Class. However, Agent Abrams was crucial in stopping the Order of the Golden Water Buffalo from opening a portal to an unknown universe, and the SMCA wishes to recognise his bravery.”

“Disgusting,” Ewan muttered under his breath.

But even as he said it, he felt a pang. Since they were children, Ewan and Oliver had planned on joining law enforcement together. Working for the Home Office—within the great black tower that rose out of the north bank of the Thames, its motto,
vivite quasi crasmorituri
, carved into the archway above the entrance—was a privilege to which few could aspire. With Oliver’s preternatural bravery and Ewan having saved the world and everything, they would have been allowed in for sure, and upon entrance would have quickly scaled the ranks and become secret agents and gone on all kinds of terribly exciting adventures, traveling the world and uncovering conspiracies and fighting evil. And here Ewan was, dragging out the rubbish, covered in coffee grounds, while Oliver’s face was on the front page of Britain’s best-selling paper.

Under the headline, Oliver was smiling broadly for the camera. He had a youthful, handsome face and skin the color of chocolate. He’d never had a spot in his entire life, his teeth were perfectly straight, his shoulders were broad, and he usually kept his sleeves rolled up to show off the strong muscles in his forearms. All through school, girls (and a few boys) had sighed when he’d walked by, his tie loose and thrown over his shoulder, his grin bright. Ewan’s only point of vanity was that he had always been the taller of the two of them, but his was a gangly, not an intimidating, tallness.

Oliver had never had braces or eyeglasses. Oliver had never had to leg it to the loo between lessons and wipe grease off his face. Oliver had always had people asking to sit with him at lunch and to play football with him after lessons. Oliver had still made perfect scores on all his exams, even after missing weeks of lessons in the final battle to kill Duff Slan. Oliver was now the hero Ewan always should have been, and no one remembered
him
except a handful of historians and crazies.

Ewan was caught up miserably staring at the newspaper when from behind him came:

“Mao.”

Alarmed, Ewan let go of the rubbish bag and spun around—only to see the posh customer from earlier leaning against the lamppost.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Ewan demanded.

“Sorry.” The prat didn’t seem all that apologetic. He extended his hand. “Archibald Gardener Hobbes.”

“Of course you are,” said Ewan. He looked exactly like a man named Archibald Gardener Hobbes would look.

Archibald—and there was no way Ewan was calling him that—made a face. Sadly, it didn’t make him look any less ridiculously handsome. “You know, it’s customary in this nation for people to shake hands during introductions.”

“Not when they’re being stalked.”

That got him a scoff. “Yes, you’ve caught me. I’ve nothing better to do with my time than stalk someone whose name only comes up at pub quizzes when they need an obscure pop culture reference.”

“Right.” Ewan could feel his face burning, and his ears buzzed with humiliation. “Sorry.”

This time it was Ewan who extended his hand. He expected Archibald’s grip to be damp and limp, so the strong handshake he received made him jerk forward in surprise. Up close, Archie (Ewan had already, pettily, decided to call him Archie) had massive blue eyes and smelled faintly of lavender.

“Speaking of which, you must be proper gutted that Oliver Abrams got the credit for killing Duff Slan,” Archie said.

“He’s the one who killed him,” Ewan replied automatically, trying to free his hand from Archie’s viselike grip. “He should get the credit. You some sort of journalist or something?”

“No,” said Archie.

“Right,” Ewan replied, suddenly realizing he was standing alone on an empty side street with a nutter, “I should really...”

“What are you?” Archie interrupted. “Dréag? Pyro? Devourer?” he asked at last, his gaze pinned on Ewan’s totem pouch.

Devourer
wasn’t exactly a derogatory word, though not the Royal Academy of Magical Orthography’s preferred term, but it sounded like it was, coming from Archie’s mouth. What he meant was that Ewan was an alapomancer, someone who channeled his magic through a totem. His was currently tucked away in the leather pouch he wore around his neck as per the Institute of Alapomancy’s guidelines. Most people carried theirs this way, unless you were like Sara and fancied yourself an artist and a rebel. There was no telltale line around Archie’s neck.

“How much power do you have left?”

Unconsciously, Ewan clutched his totem. He’d never had another one. “That’s a tad personal, don’t you think?”

Archie clucked his tongue. “I’ve heard sorting out a new one is a terrible ordeal. So much paperwork. Have you ever thought about switching?”

Ewan lowered his voice. “Do you mean necromancy?”

There had been a boy in his year who’d done necromancy. He’d been odd, to say the least; he used to bring undead squirrels to lesson, but the teachers couldn’t do anything about it because of the Freedom of Magical Expression Act. They’d smelled terrible, and one had bitten the librarian.

Archie wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be crass,” he said. “I’m talking about Zaubernegativum.”

“Oh,” Ewan replied, confused and vaguely disappointed.

With a flourish, Archie pulled a business card out of his satchel and presented it to him. Ewan took it reluctantly, wondering what strange new horror he was about to endure.


Archibald Gardener Hobbes, Lead Guitarist, Plastic Wizard Kings
,” he read aloud. “Plastic Wizard Kings?”

“Oh, no, wrong card,” Archie muttered. A handful of receipts fluttered to the ground as he dug through his satchel. “That’s for my band.”

“Archibald isn’t a very rock star name,” Ewan pointed out. “Maybe you should change it to something cool, like Flash. Or Ace.”

Archie squinted up at him. “Ace? I’m not taking advice on how to be
cool
from—oh, here it is. My mum’s card.”

An identically sized card, this time a pale yellow, was handed to him:
Lady Louise Gardener Hobbes, Vice President of the Society for the Advancement of Zaubernegativum
.

Ewan frowned at it. “What’s Zaubernegativum?”

“It’s our magical practice.”

Ewan had never heard of it. “Why’s it German?”

“We were formed in the nineteenth century.” Archie rolled his eyes. “Everything was in German.”

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but what’s this got to do with me?”

“Perhaps I believe that the man who was prophesied to defeat Duff Slan should be doing better things with his life than making coffee.”

“We also make tea,” Ewan pointed out.

Archie took a step closer, forcing Ewan back. “Weren’t you promised greatness?” His eyes shone with intensity, and Ewan had the uncomfortable realization that this was a sincere proposal. “Don’t you think you deserve the same things Oliver Abrams does? Zaubernegativum can help you.”

“Oliver was the one who killed Slan,” Ewan repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, and with that, the last of his patience evaporated. “Just to be clear: you waited three hours out here until I was finished with work just to ask me to join your secret zubernaut club?”

“Zaubernegativum,” Archie corrected.

He dug a brochure out of his bag and handed it to Ewan. It was titled
How Zaubernegativum Can Change Your Life.

“We call ourselves Sazzies. You know, Society for the Advancement of—”

Ewan cut in, “Whatever it bloody is. Do you know what you can do really do to help me, with all of my pain over Oliver and whatnot?”

Archie leaned forward, his expression eager. “What?”

“You can leave me well alone. I don’t want to change my magic source. I don’t want to join any secret societies. I don’t want any excitement. All I want in life is to work a minimum wage job, live in my parents’ spare room, put on fifteen stone, and have a heart attack before my fortieth birthday.”

For the first time, Archie seemed taken aback. He stared at Ewan with a mixture of pity and disbelief. “That’s rather grim.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life,” retorted Ewan. He kicked the rubbish bag on his way back inside the shop. “I don’t want to see your face again.”

“But—” Archie began. “Mao, wait!”

Ewan closed the door and locked it.

Chapter 2

O
liver Abrams would also help to destroy the universe, though, to be fair, his part in this would be somewhat more deliberate.

Weeks before that would happen, however, Oliver had a typical weekday morning. He woke up at six, got in a quick run, and had a healthy breakfast of muesli. Before stepping outside his door, he did a search incantation, seeking out any traps that might have been laid out for him the night before. Since killing Duff Slan, he’d suffered attacks from a number of people thinking they could slay him and absorb his—and, thus, Slan’s—power. He already had wards on his flat, but one could never be too careful.

After that, Oliver headed to work at the Serious Magical Crimes Agency in the menacing headquarters of the Home Office in Westminster. Once past security, he took the lift up to the floor for the Department of Unusuals, where he booted up his PC while making tea for himself and his partner.

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