A Hero at the End of the World (6 page)

Sara plonked a cup of tea on the bar. It was purple with yellow flowers, one of the many mismatching mugs she’d brought from the charity shop. Outside, the sky was the same gray color as the bar, and Ewan looked at it as he wrapped his chilled fingers around the nice, warm mug.

“I might’ve agreed to have dinner with him,” he mumbled, holding the tea in front of his mouth.

“Pardon?” Sara asked.

Lino passed behind him. “He said he’s going to dinner with him,” he told her, tugging his oversized red headphones over his ears. He waved goodbye and walked out the door, letting in a gust of cold air.

Sara’s expression turned stern. “Ewan! We do not date customers.”

“It’s not a date.” Ewan took the apron Sara handed him from across the bar. “He wants me to join his club.”

She snorted. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“No, he really does have a club,” he insisted. “They’re into German magic.”

He was painfully aware of the mobile in his pocket, which had on it a text from Archie with an address a half hour’s walk from Eine Kaffee. His plan was go straight home after work and completely ignore any further communication from Archie; he’d ring the police if he had to, letting them know that he was being harassed. The threat of an ASBO on Archie’s undoubtedly spotless record would scare him off.

Instead, Ewan pulled out his mobile and stared at the text so often that Sara threatened to make a new rule banning mobile phones in the shop.

By the end of the day, when he found himself on the pavement, staring at the bus schedule for the number eight bus, he had to admit to himself that he was probably going to go meet Archie.

“Be careful,” Sara warned at closing. “Text me later to let me know that you’re all right.”

“Probably best to assume I’ll be murdered,” Ewan told her.

Much to his surprise, the address he’d been texted didn’t lead him to a home but instead to a pub off of Fleet Street called the Slaughtered Shepherd. It was one of those newer places that had been remodeled to look old so that it could sell mediocre ale at exorbitant prices. It had a shiny mahogany bar and a collection of wooden tables and chairs, meant to look as if they’d been purchased separately over the years, arranged so that there were plenty of nooks and crannies to investigate. The lights were dimmed, and soft music was playing over the speakers.

At first, Ewan wondered why Archie’s mother would want to meet at a pub, of all places, but then the smell hit him: this was a gastropub.

A barman walked past with a plate of gorgeous-looking sausage and mash. Ewan’s stomach growled audibly.

Unconsciously, he took a step in the direction of the sausage, but then he spotted Archie at the far end of the pub. There was an older woman with him who was very obviously his mother. She had the same yellow hair and round eyes, and her high-necked gray dress matched Archie’s waistcoat and trousers; Ewan was glad he’d thought to wear a nice jumper.

Watching Archie impatiently drumming his fingers on the table, he felt nervous. It was a ridiculous feeling, because all he was going to do was eat the Gardener Hobbeses’ free food and tell them to leave him be.

He approached the table.

“Hi,” he said.

Archie looked chuffed that Ewan had actually come, as if he had expected him to stand them up. “Hi.”

Ewan couldn’t think of what to say next. He dropped into the only empty chair at the table; one leg was shorter than the others, and it teetered slightly under his weight. “Hi,” he repeated.

“Are we going to have this all night?” Archie’s mum asked, raising a hand to her temple.

Archie gestured to Ewan. “Mum, this is Ewan Mao. Formerly the slayer of Duff Slan, currently a barista at Eine Kaffee in Soho.”

“Surely the masculine form of barista is ‘baristo,’” Ewan muttered.

“No, it isn’t,” shot back Archie. “Ewan, allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Lady Louise Theodora Sybella Gardener Hobbes, Vice President of the Society for the Advancement of Zaubernegativum.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Louise told him. She offered him a handshake that was little more than the tips of her fingers, while he murmured, “Yeah, same.”

She turned to her son. “Archibald, go order us some food.”

“I’ll have the sausage and mash,” said Ewan, trying not to sound excited. “And a pint of something nice. Bitter, if they have it.”

“Mum,” Archie said in a hushed tone, “I thought I was going to help.”

“You
are
helping.” Louise’s voice hardened. “Now go get us some dinner.”

The moment Archie was out of hearing range, Louise folded her hands on the table. Her fingers were covered with heavy rings, including a diamond one that had probably cost more than his parents’ mortgage. Everything about her was beautiful and elegant. “I recently had a visit from your friend Oliver Abrams.”

“He’s not my friend,” Ewan snapped, a bit too harshly. Underneath the table, he clenched his hands around his knees.

“No, I suppose he isn’t,” she replied with a small smile. “I must say, when Abrams stormed into my office, I thought to myself, how very odd that my son met Ewan Mao and Oliver Abrams introduced himself to me, all within a few days of each other. So you can see why I asked Archibald to bring you to me.”

“Maybe,” murmured Ewan, his heart sinking.

It was stupid, he supposed, for him to have thought this was about him. Everything in his life circled back to the great hero Oliver eventually.

“Do you know the story of the Nornir?” Louise asked. “They live within the Well of Wyrd beneath the great Yggdrasil and weave Destiny like a tapestry. They’ve already prophesied that Ragnarök, the battle for the end of the world, will begin when Heimdall blows his horn.”

Ewan nodded. “Right, Headmaster Seabrooke made it compulsory for everyone at school to take swim lessons for when the world would be submerged in water.” He paused. “Thinking back on it now, he might have been mad.”

“You are my Heimdall, Ewan,” Louise said very seriously.

He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “I don’t really understand,” he replied. He glanced nervously at the bar, but Archie was still waiting in the queue, his annoyance visible even from where Ewan was seated. “You wanted to meet me because it’s your destiny?”

She gave him a long, searching look. In the dim light of the pub, her eyes were sharp and glittering. “Normally, I wouldn’t go as far as to claim to know my own destiny, but it’s an odd coincidence, don’t you think?”

He started to stand. “Look, maybe I should be off...”

She held up a hand, and he slowly sank back down. “Let me put it this way: what are you?”

“What do you mean?” Ewan asked, puzzled.

“Why, you were once the slayer of Duff Slan,” said Louise. “So what are you now?”

Ewan opened his mouth. A moment later he closed it without having said anything at all.

“We want to help you. We can help you become someone. You don’t have to let being the slayer of Duff Slan define you for the rest of your life.”

“You don’t even know me,” he said weakly.

She blinked at him in astonishment before reaching out and covering his hand with her much smaller one. “I do know you, Ewan. The whole of Britain knew you. You were the one prophesied to save us from tyranny. You’ve had the best magical training our nation can provide. You were given opportunities no one else had—opportunities that were unfairly taken from you by a selfish, greedy young man who wanted your moment of glory for himself.”

At her words, something Ewan hadn’t felt in a long time began to stir within him, something that, after having been so angry and depressed for so long, he almost didn’t recognize: hope. Put like that, maybe his entire life
hadn’t
been a waste. Maybe he
was
the type of person someone would want on their side.

Their side.

“Wait one bloody minute,” said Ewan. He snatched his hand back. “Are you evil?”

“Here’s your beer,” Archie announced cheerfully as he plunked down a pint in front of him. Beer sloshed all over Ewan’s hands. “I got the sausage, too. The barman said they conjure it right here in the kitchen. Can you imagine!”

“I’m not drinking evil beer,” Ewan protested. He looked at the glass for a moment. “Well, maybe half.”

“Even if we were evil, why would the beer be evil?” Louise asked, sounding annoyed.

Archie swiveled so that he was staring right into Ewan’s eyes. “So anyone who wants to help you must be evil, is that what you think?”

Embarrassment flooded Ewan, and he looked away. “I don’t get
why
,” he told his pint. “Why do you want to help me?”

“How many times must I say this? Because I walked in on the great Ewan Mao making coffee in a dodgy coffee bar behind a ‘specialty bookshop,’” said Archie, making air quotes. “It’d be a pity for your...” He looked Ewan from head to toe. “Natural charm to go to waste.”

“What does
that
mean?” Ewan demanded.

“And I want you to be my Heim—”

“Mum,” Archie cut in, “no one understands that metaphor!”

Would it really hurt to let them try and fix his life? Ewan thought of how his life had gone since Duff Slan’s death, his rapid decline from world savior to capitalist worker bee as everything he had been promised for years had been suddenly taken from him. But what if Louise was right—Oliver had stolen his future, but that couldn’t erase the person Ewan had been. For five years, Ewan had been everyone’s last great hope.

“You think I have natural charisma?” he asked Archie, horrified to realize his voice sounded reedy and full of hope.

Archie shrugged.

“Yes,” Louise agreed, leaning forward, her hands gripping her napkin, “my attractive, unattached son finds you
very
charming.”

“Oh my God,” said Archie.

In that moment, Ewan did the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

“All right,” he said, his shoulders slumping. “How are you going to help me?”

“Firstly, I want you to come work for me,” Louise announced. She sat back, looking satisfied. “It just so happens that I have a special project that needs a new... assistant.”

“What happened to Sergio?” Archie asked, frowning. “Was he fired?”

“It did involve fire, yes,” Louise answered without taking her eyes off Ewan. “I can guarantee that I can offer better salary and benefits than your current position at the café. What’s your salary?”

“I don’t want to say,” Ewan mumbled, gazing down at her diamond ring. “Do you have a something to write with?”

Archie took a biro out of his satchel and handed it to Ewan, who promptly scribbled his yearly wages onto his napkin. When Louise had a look, she said, “Dear Geat.”

Archie craned his neck. “How do you even live?”

“We’re in a recession,” Ewan retorted, crumpling the napkin in his fist.

“I’ll triple your current—well, I don’t really want to call it a salary,” said Louise, wrinkling her nose. “Then we’ll give you personalized, one-on-one training on how to channel your magic through Zaubernegativum. One day, with our help, you will become even more powerful than that vile Abrams.”

That piqued Ewan’s interest. Zaubernegativum would make him more powerful than Oliver? Was that even possible without killing someone?

“But you need to do one thing for me first. See that family over there?”

Louise nodded to her right. At a table by the wall was a couple not much older than Ewan with a bouncing toddler; they were happy and smiling, like a family in a cereal advert. They were noticeably out of place, shining like a light out of the darkened corner of the pub.

Ewan hesitated. “What about them?”

“They sicken me,” Louise told him matter-of-factly. “I want you to do something about it.”

He stared at her, aghast. “I’m not murdering anyone!”

Louise looked comically surprised. “
Murder
them? Goodness me, Ewan, I simply wanted you to conjure up something amusing. I want to see if you remember your training.”

“I can’t believe your mind went to murder,” Archie said in disdain. “That’s very telling.”

“Well, I,” Ewan sputtered, cheeks burning, horrified at himself. “Piss off.”

Ewan’s stomach twisted into knots as he wracked his mind for something he could do to the family that was both harmless and within his power range. He had never been good at incantations that were stronger than basic home spells. Even though he had been trained by some of Britain’s best in close combat magic, he had never really been able to do more than

knock someone over or create a distraction.

That was it. He was
brilliant
at distractions.

There was one prank that he and Oliver had played in their last year of primary school that had nearly got them expelled. They’d thought it hilarious, but none of their teachers had agreed. He had been sent home more often in that year than any other, including the year Duff Slan had sent a squadron of vampire bats to kill him.

Sometimes Ewan missed school.

He pulled all the energy he could from his totem and into himself, much more than he usually took when doing simple spells at work or home; he grabbed as much as he could from some of the inanimate objects around the pub until power was roaring inside him. He felt his face grow and sweat prickle on his brow. All of it he aimed at the happy family. Under his breath, he chanted, “
Cicenu, cicenu, feserhaman be feserhaman, flíehath
,” which roughly translated into, “Chickens, chickens, feather to feather, fly,” or something thereabouts. The actual meaning of the words wasn’t as important as the combination of them.

At first nothing happened. Then there came a sound not unlike a pop, and one by one the family turned into white, fluffy, human-sized chickens.

The pub went silent. Ewan slowly sank down in his chair as far as he could (which, unfortunately, was not very far).

The now-wingéd mum and dad looked at each other and bocked in alarm.

Someone shouted, “
Chicken
!”

“It was the first thing that came to mind,” Ewan said defensively at Louise and Archie’s open-mouthed goggling. He pulled his seat in as a group of people squeezed past him to run to the chickens, trying to trap them. From the family’s table arose a great squawking.