A Hero at the End of the World (12 page)

“Isn’t that Oliver Abrams?” one of the women at the next table whispered loudly, followed by the shutter sound of a camera as her friend snapped a picture.

Ewan stilled, the last piece of his biscuit slipping out of his fingers. The dog beneath him gobbled it up. Heart pounding and palms sweating, he glanced to the side, the direction in which everyone else around them was staring.

It was, indeed, Oliver. He was standing before the café in a leather bomber jacket and his old school scarf, which appeared to be fraying at the ends. He looked exactly the same as the photo that had been in the newspaper, though now he had a five o’clock shadow. There was a black flat cap perched on his head. He was heavier and broader than when they’d been in school together, and instead of looking paunchy and old he came off as rugged and debonair, like the man with everything: looks, money, and fame.

“Ewan?” Oliver said handsomely.

In his ear, Archie whistled. “
He’s even more fit in person
.”

“It’s great to see you,” Ewan said, stepping around the tables. The Americans were openly staring at them.

“Same here, mate,” Oliver replied. He threw him a very wide, white-toothed smile. “You look... you look the same.”

That innocuous statement annoyed Ewan far more than it should have. It had been five years since they’d seen each other, and in that time he’d grown a few more inches, his skin had cleared up, and, although he was no Oliver, he thought he’d become a reasonably attractive bloke. He even had designer eyewear now (Gok Wan brand).

Oliver gestured toward his mouth. “You have crumbs all over your face.”

“Ta,” Ewan said flatly, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

“Should we—?” Oliver started to ask. He pulled out the chair of the empty table in front of him.

But Ewan stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I thought we’d walk and talk.”

Brow furrowing, Oliver replied, “Oh, yeah, okay.”

They headed up the hill that overlooked much of the Heath and gave a lovely view of the gray London skyline. There were a handful of people out, cycling, walking, flying kites, even a group of teenagers levitating themselves and laughing loudly, their voices carrying with the wind. The grass was still mostly green, but the foliage was rapidly turning red and gold, and the air was crisp and beginning to bite.

“I haven’t been here on my own in ages,” Oliver said wistfully, breaking their silence as they trotted down the other side of the hill. “The last time was for a case—remember when the Order of the Golden Water Buffalo tried to summon that portal to another universe?”

“No, I don’t.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “It was in all the papers.”

“Well, I’ve been engaged,” Ewan snapped. He forced himself to calm down and added, more evenly, “Let’s go this way.”

He led Oliver off the path and along the grass toward the distant tumulus, where legend said that Boudicca was buried. The eerie circle of tall trees surrounding a mound was where they had pretended to be Romans and Britons when they were kids. (Oliver had always had to be the Roman commander). Every so often the Corporation of London built a fence around the tumulus, but it never lasted more than a few months, torn apart by pixies, cockatrices, and other woodland creatures.

This particular part of the Heath had always had a medieval sort of look about it, especially in the colder months, when the trees remained green and leafy but the rolling hills around it turned gold. From this point, it was easy to forget that they were in the middle of a city of millions.

“This brings back memories,” Oliver mused as they stopped outside the circle of trees. He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled at Ewan.

Unexpectedly, a warm glow filled Ewan. Oliver wasn’t behaving as he had expected at all; in fact, he seemed almost as if he wanted to be friends again. Perhaps he
had
come to apologize for what he’d done all those years ago.

“So what are you doing now?” Oliver asked.

Ewan began, “I was a baristo in Central London, but now I—”

“That’s so interesting,” Oliver interrupted in a tone that suggested it was anything but. “I’ve been working on a new case. It involves Zaubernegativum.”

Ewan’s stomach felt like it dropped down to his feet. He took a step back, panic-stricken, but Oliver didn’t break his gaze. “Uh, I think I’ve heard of that,” said Ewan haltingly. “Isn’t that when your magic comes from, um, from the universe?”

A jogger zoomed past them with a glowing blue orb hovering over her head to light her way as the sun waned, the afternoon creeping into evening. A happy-looking dog raced after her, its tongue hanging out.

Oliver frowned at the woman’s back, but said to him, “We learned about it in sixth form, Ewan.”

“I don’t remember that at all.”

“That’s not surprising,” Oliver muttered.

The contempt in his voice broke through Ewan’s fear. “Are you calling me thick?” he demanded, his voice trembling with anger.

Oliver threw his head back and groaned. “This again? We’ve had this conversation at least once a year since we were six.”

“Oh, have you been spending the last five years talking about this with some other Ewan Mao?” Ewan countered. “Because
I
haven’t seen you in years.”

“I’ve been busy saving Britain from destruction. Singlehandedly, as I recall.”

“Yeah, we’re really safe now, aren’t we,” Ewan said, stung. “Things are
so
different from when Duff Slan was in power.”

That seemed to strike a nerve: Oliver’s eyes widened, and his throat worked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted. “You haven’t been in the middle of it. Things
have
changed—granted, not loads, but... but it
is
different
,
okay? I’ve been doing all I can to make sure of that. It’s why I came to meet you.”

“Ha,” Ewan crowed, crossing his arms over his chest. Then Oliver’s words hit him. “Wait, what now?”

“
Oh dear, that’s not good
,” Archie murmured in his ear. Ewan’s head snapped up; he’d forgotten that Archie was listening in.

Oliver’s expression darkened. “I know what you are,” he said, pointing at Ewan accusingly.

“Since when are you a homophobe,” said Ewan.

“What?” Oliver asked.

“What?” Ewan replied.

Oliver shook his head as if bewildered. “What I mean is, I know you’re one of the Sazzies.”

At first, Ewan thought he had misheard him. After all, the likelihood that Oliver had figured out what Ewan and Louise had planned was nil. But when what Oliver said finally hit him, a wave of terror raced through him—followed by a flash of venom.
Of course
Oliver knew. Oliver knew
everything
.

The thought left Ewan with a bitter taste in his mouth. But there was one important thing that Oliver couldn’t have an inkling about.

Intellectually, Ewan knew that telling Oliver everything was a bad idea. But he wanted to so very, very badly. Oliver had walked into Ewan’s trap; Oliver had thrown their friendship away, and
this
was what he had gotten out of it: being a pawn in someone else’s master plan.

“Did you know that I’m here speaking to you at Ralph the Ravager’s bequest?” Ewan asked proudly. “He—I mean,
we
—knew you’d come if I asked.”

A loud protest erupted in his ear. “
What are you doing, are you mental? You’re ruining everything
,” Archie yelled. Ewan wrenched out the earphone and jammed it into his trouser pocket.

A knowing look crossed Oliver’s face. “You know the Sazzies are evil, right?”

“They’re not evil,” Ewan protested.

Oliver gazed at him with disbelief written across his face. “Ewan, their leader is named
the Ravager
.”

“Now you’re just being judgmental,” he said.

Oliver moved forward, his expression intense. “So this means you know what they’re up to. Do you have evidence of what Louise Gardener Hobbes is trying to do? She was trying to send that power
somewhere
—where? What’s her plan?”

Ewan stared at him. “What are you on about? I’m not talking about Louise. I’m talking about myself. About
my
plans.”

“Your plans?” Oliver laughed. “You’re taking the mick.”

It was as if Oliver couldn’t even
imagine
him as an evil mastermind. “But,” he replied a tad desperately, “I have so much anger and jealousy—”

“Anger and jealousy?” Oliver echoed, eyed widening. He put a comforting hand on Ewan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Ewan, you were my best friend. One of my only true friends. Yes, there were all the women and the parties and the fun times that you weren’t invited to, but I loved you like a brother. I’m absolutely gutted that I made you feel like you were unimportant.”

Ewan looked down at the hand on his shoulder, and then back at the sincere brown eyes before him. Oliver’s expression turned hopeful, and Ewan knew he was waiting for him to say he was sorry, that he had cocked up, that of course he’d go with Oliver to the Home Office to give a detailed account of everything the Gardener Hobbeses were doing—not that he really knew anything, of course. He wasn’t even entirely sure what Oliver was talking about.

“Boo-hoo,” Ewan told him. “I’m crying on the inside.”

Oliver’s face crumpled.

“And now you have to defeat Ralph the Ravager,” said Ewan.

“I have to what now?” Oliver asked.

“
Áscúfan ond scúfan
.”

Ewan let out a burst of magic in Oliver’s direction, sending him flying backwards and into the tumulus. Grass fanned around Ewan in a circle, and several thin branches snapped off nearby trees. He’d nearly knocked off his own glasses; Oliver’s flat cap went rolling off somewhere into the grass.

The air around him crackled as he pulled in more energy; though he might have had only a fraction of Oliver’s power, Ewan
dared
him to get back up and try something.

Abruptly, birds in the surrounding trees cut off mid-song, and the temperature around him dropped. The last rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon. Gooseflesh prickled on his arms.

From outside the grove, he watched as Oliver pushed himself up on his elbows. His face was creased with rage. “What the ever-loving—?”

And then, suddenly, Ralph the Ravager was there, stepping out of the trees that circled the tumulus. His wizened body was draped in an old-fashioned black suit, as if he had stepped out of a daguerreotype, drenched in sepia. A cold breeze blew across Parliament Fields.

“Have you been there the whole time?” Ewan asked.

“Ralph the Ravager!” gasped Oliver, climbing to his feet.

“It is time for you to die,” Ralph the Ravager wheezed, “so that I may absorb your powers and spread Zaubernegativum across the globe.”

“I’ll defeat you,” Oliver announced boldly, “because I am Oliver Abrams, the slayer of Duff Slan.”

“Oh, get off your high horse,” Ralph the Ravager said.

¤

Ewan ducked behind a thick tree as spells began flying back and forth. One hit the other side of the tree, and the entire trunk vibrated against his back, scattering leaves everywhere. His glasses fell off and rolled into the grass. Somewhere in the distance, a person screamed.

Unable to see anything, Ewan stretched out his hands and fumbled through the grass for his glasses.

From behind him came a chant that he didn’t recognize. Next there was a whistling sound, and then his vision tinged black. A terrible, blood-curdling scream cut through the air. Ewan threw himself flat on the ground, like they’d been taught to do in school when someone was throwing aggro spells around.

It was silent by the time he found his glasses again. He raised them up toward the last bit of sunlight to inspect them, blowing off specks of dirt before slipping them back on.

He blinked to clear his vision, and the world snapped back into focus. Half a dozen massive blackbirds, each roughly the size of his own head, were perched on the ground in a half-circle around him.

Ewan yelped and jumped back.

The sentries tilted their heads at him.

“Could you give a warning next time you’re going to sneak up like that?” he demanded. He waved his arms. “Shoo!”

They scattered and took flight. He knew he didn’t have long before what they had seen, whether the entire ordeal or merely the final moments of Oliver and Ralph the Ravager’s duel, was reported back to the Government. Coppers would be there any minute. Or, worse, the SMCA.

“Oliver?” he called over his shoulder. “Oliver, can you hear me?”

There was no response.

He screwed his eyes shut. It was fine, he told himself. Dead bodies wouldn’t hurt him. Unless they had been enchanted with a spell, but manipulating the dead only worked about ten percent of time, or so he had been taught in his Magical Ecology module. And it wasn’t as if Oliver were dead anyway; he was probably hurt and needed Ewan to rescue him.

The first thing Ewan saw when he stepped into the tumulus was Ralph the Ravager lying on his side, strewn over the roots of a tree. His arms were twisted behind him and his neck was angled in such a way that Ewan knew instantly that he was dead. Ewan’s stomach roiled violently with nausea; he swallowed it down and looked away. It had been a long time since he’d seen a dead body.

A few feet away from him lay Oliver, facedown in the grass.

Ewan covered his mouth with his hand. “Oliver?” he whispered.

Abruptly, Oliver rolled over, looking around in confusion. He had a gash on the side of his face; blood was smeared on his scarf and on the shoulder of his torn jacket. “Why’m I in the park?” He recoiled. “Is that a dead body?”

“Um,” Ewan replied, “what?”

Part 2