A Hero at the End of the World (13 page)

ST WILLIBROAD’S SCHOOL

Per aspera ad tenebris

Dear Mr and Mrs Mao,

It is my unfortunate responsibility to tell you that your son, Ewan, has once again been issued formal warnings for truancy and breaking the code of conduct. This afternoon he was found with another student in an unoccupied home outside school grounds during a time which he should have been in lessons. They were attempting to assemble and subsequently detonate totemic and ‘quasitotemic’ items.

Your son’s behaviour violated many of the guidelines of accepted behaviour at St Willibroad’s as agreed between the staff and the student body.

• It is reasonable to expect that students will remain on school grounds between the hours of 8:30 and 15:30 in order to minimise disturbances to our neighbours.
  
• It is reasonable to expect that students will maintain 93% attendance unless authorised by their tutor and head of department.
  
• It is reasonable to expect that students are to perform magic in a way which will not endanger themselves or others.
  

As I am sure you are aware, totemic and quasitotemic objects can by law only be produced and modified by a professional alapomancer registered with the Institute of Alapomancy. This is a Serious Safety Issue: amateur and bootleg quasitotemic objects are responsible for 10% of accidental maimings in the UK over the period 2000-2006 (Home Office Figures: for more information please see the booklet available in your local council offices). In addition, the destruction of said totemic objects caused minor damage to the home, which will have to be repaired by the council and paid for through allocated funds.

This is not the first time Ewan has been in violation of the honour code. Nor is this the only time he has been in trouble in conjunction with Oliver Abrams, whose guardians will be receiving a letter very similar to this one. I am aware that being the slayer of Duff Slan may be causing undue stress on your son, and that he may need additional support and resources. As such, we strongly recommend that he begin private sessions with our wellbeing officer, Mrs Christine Lane. It is my hope that this will deter any future antisocial behaviour.

I look forward to your support and co-operation in preparing Ewan for his destiny.

Yours sincerely,

Mr Boris Seabrooke
HEADMASTER

Chapter 12

E
wan Mao, the wrecker of Ralph the Ravager, sat in the waiting room of St Rumwold’s Hospital.

Being a hero and all, Oliver was allocated his own hospital room. Ewan had overheard one nurse say to another that reporters were sat outside the building, waiting for news of his condition—wondering, of course, what had befallen the great slayer of Duff Slan. In the meantime, scores of doctors and nurses had been in and out of his room, which seemed a little melodramatic in Ewan’s opinion.

No one had bothered to give Ewan so much as a second glance. That was fine with him, because it gave him the opportunity to sit quietly off to the side, remembering the way Oliver had grabbed his arm as the medics had placed him onto a stretcher.

“Hi,” Oliver had said, voice slurred from his head injury, “it’s really, really good to see you.” Even now, Oliver was still undermining what should have been Ewan’s greatest moment of triumph by surviving and then reaching out his hand like they were still friends, as though this were all just a misunderstanding and not something Ewan had cleverly (well, kind of) planned.

The worst part was that despite what had just happened, Ewan didn’t feel any different. He had helped kill the evil Ralph the Ravager, the latest scourge of Britain. He was about to learn Zaubernegativum, which would make him powerful. Archie would think he was brilliant and brave; his parents, when they saw what he had become, would regret ever thinking he was an embarrassment.

Ewan had a new job, a new epithet, and new way to channel magic. Things were looking up.

But mostly, he was scared. Terrified, even. It turned out that he hadn’t properly thought everything through when he had agreed to Louise’s plan. He had lied to the police about what had gone on at Hampstead Heath, and he wasn’t entirely sure they believed him. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how he was going to convince Oliver, who had always been a paranoid prat, that he had been an innocent bystander. When he and Louise had been discussing this, all he had wanted was to humiliate Oliver, to make him know that it was Ewan who had used
him
. But now reality was setting in: all it took was a sliver of doubt, and Ewan would be carted off to His Majesty’s Prison at Mount Unpleasant for murder and conspiracy.

His mobile buzzed in the pocket of his jeans, jolting him out of his reverie. It informed him that he had roughly fifteen texts from Archie. He opened the latest one. “
Please tell me that you’re still alive
.”

“
I’m texting you from beyond the grave,
” he fired back.

It was a few moments before he received a reply: “
I can’t tell if you’re serious or not. Zombies can text
.”

As he was about to reply, a woman around his age and with a Government ID clipped to her black blouse walked out of Oliver’s hospital room. She was of middle height, with a heart-shaped face, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and hazel

eyes—which were currently narrowed in his direction.

She stopped a good six feet away from him.

“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was deeper than he’d expected, and she had traces of a West Country accent.

“Me?” Ewan retorted. “Who are
you
?”

“You’re Ewan Mao,” she decided. “What did you do to Oliver?”

His heart skipped a beat. “I didn’t do anything!”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “So you’re saying that Oliver met you for lunch despite not having spoken to you since the fall of Duff Slan five years ago, whereupon he coincidentally got into a magical duel with the leader of the cult we’re currently investigating? All this after lying to me, which he
never
does.”

“
Cult
?” Ewan repeated. “Um, what I mean is, I rung him to meet today because I wanted to talk about the past. We made up. We’re mates now. Ask him,” he continued somewhat desperately.

“Why was it so important for you to make up with him now? Did you know something was about to happen?”

Sweat prickled on his brow. “I-it seemed like the right time…”

She fell silent, her eyes judging him. Nervous, Ewan’s gaze dropped down to her ID card:
SMCA, Agent Sophie Stuart, Fourth Class
, it read, followed by a number and an expiry date.

“Oliver’s fine, by the by,” Sophie said finally. “Since you asked.”

“I was about to,” Ewan said defensively.

“And... he didn’t say a word to me about what went on,” she sighed. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, looking tired. “He doesn’t remember anything of the last fortnight.”

Relief, coupled with disappointment, slammed into Ewan. He managed what he hoped was a concerned look. “Oh.”

“I’ve tried several spells on him, but I can’t restore his memory,” she added. “The doctors refuse to try any counter incantations without first knowing what hit him. Did you hear it?”

Ewan shook his head. “No, there was too much going on at once,” he said truthfully. “I hid behind a tree.”

Whether or not she believed him—and he suspected she didn’t—Sophie finally beckoned him into Oliver’s room. As he followed after her, he caught a whiff of that minging herbal potion that seeped out of dréags’ pores, even stronger than the antiseptic smell of the hospital; to him, it had always smelled like freshly cut grass. He tried hard to keep the grimace off of his face, especially once Oliver came into view.

Oliver was swathed in pristine white bedclothes and sitting up in the bed. The blue thread used in his sutures—one on his temple, and another one snaking up his arm—looked bright against the warm brown of his skin. He looked bemused but more lucid than he had before, when the paramedics had pried his hand off of Ewan’s arm.

He snapped to attention when he noticed them. “Ewan. Sophie said you were with me when I was attacked.”

“You don’t remember? Oh, of course not, you don’t remember anything.” Ewan laughed awkwardly. “Um, yeah, I was there.”

Oliver’s face broke out into a big, crooked grin. “I wish I could remember us making up.”

“Yes, Ewan,” said Sophie, “tell us how that went.”

“Oh, you know,” Ewan began reluctantly. “It was... magical... and fun...” He trailed off.

“I bet I was a right git,” Oliver laughed.

“You’d better believe it,” Ewan said with complete honesty.

“Unbelievable,” Sophie muttered under her breath, her arms crossed again. “Oliver, you shouldn’t be so pleased. Remember, someone died.”

That wiped the smile right off of Oliver’s face. “I know. Believe me, there’s nothing quite like being interrogated by the police when you have a head injury and can barely remember your own name.” Less cheekily, he asked, “What was the person I killed called?”

“Ralph the Ravager,” they both supplied.

“Right.” Oliver paused as if taking that in. He rubbed his eye with the hand without an IV in it. “
Why
did I kill him?”

“He came out of nowhere,” Ewan explained. Nervously, he played with his glasses, trying to find the right place to perch them on his nose. “Babbling about how if he killed you he’d absorb your power.” He looked at Sophie. “Didn’t you say he was evil or something? Maybe he was about to do something evil with it.”

“I never said—”

“That makes sense,” Oliver interjected.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Sophie. She looked annoyed.

“Of course it does. Everyone wants my power.”

Ewan bit the inside of his cheek.

“And some people,” Sophie said hotly, “want
revenge
for you having received your power.”

“But I’ve never met this Ralph,” Oliver said, looking confused. “Why would he want revenge on me?”

Sophie glowered pointedly at Ewan. He felt a terrified buzzing throughout his body, and he had the sudden urge to blurt out everything, no matter what the consequences. Had he been hit by a spell while he had been paying attention to Oliver? Had the SMCA known what he had done this whole time, and had he walked straight into their trap?

“Oh, wait,” he said, digging into his pocket for his mobile, which was vibrating with an SMS alert. “Sorry.”

There was a new text from Archie: “
WHAT’S GOING ON
?
Are you at the hospital? Who else is with you?
”

Ewan had nearly forgotten about the pin in his scarf. He had adjusted it a few times while waiting for news of Oliver, and the pin had been tucked away into one of the folds. As discreetly as possible, he pulled it out and pushed it into his pocket next to the earphone.

“If you don’t stop picking at your stitches, you’ll scar,” he heard Sophie admonish as he typed back, “
Can’t talk at the mo. Ralph the Ravager is dead, and Oliver has amnesia
.”

“Aren’t scars sexy?”

“Only if visible signs that you’re an idiot are sexy.”

Ewan glanced up to see them smiling at each other. The way that Oliver looked at Sophie, full of warmth and feeling, his eyes soft, said everything. He would have thought that Oliver, being the slayer of Duff Slan and a megalomaniacal arsehole, would have had a supermodel girlfriend, but he supposed Sophie was pretty in an ordinary sort of way.

“Come on, you know I’m gorgeous,” Oliver joked, and Ewan rolled his eyes.

Ewan was saved from having to listen to more terrible flirting by the doctor, who briefly tapped on the doorframe on his way in. He had an apprehensive expression on his face, and in his hands was a large envelope sealed with a medallion of red wax. Even from where he was standing, Ewan could make out the impression that had been pressed into it: it was a lion in the same heraldic style as the backdrop on Sophie’s ID.

“Oliver, this came for you,” said the doctor, handing the envelope to Oliver.

Sophie intercepted it, practically snatching it out of the man’s hands. “Who’s it from?” she asked, giving it a long look over before passing it along to Oliver.

“I can’t really say.” The doctor made an expansive gesture with his hands. “It was a sort of shadow in the shape of a man?”

“Oh,” said Oliver, nodding knowingly, “it must’ve been my governor.”

“How kind of him to come all the way to the hospital,” Sophie mused.

Oliver slid his nails under the wax, breaking the seal. “This says I’ve been put on sick leave until further notice,” he read, looking bemused. “I’m to be checked by a doctor before I can return to work.”

“I’m a doctor,” said the doctor.

Ewan startled. “You think he should go home?” he asked. “He was just in a ruddy duel!”

“I feel fine,” Oliver insisted. “Except for the amnesia and the terrible sense of foreboding.”

But the doctor shook his head. “I’d prefer if you stayed in hospital at least overnight for observation, Oliver. It’s not uncommon for a battle between two powerful people to result in dehydration, headaches, and even shock. Furthermore, I’d also like for you to have an x-ray to rule out any skull fractures; we’re not entirely sure of the cause of your memory loss, but it could be the result of hitting your head, which may lead to brain swelling.”

That sounded serious. Sophie must have thought so, too, because she spun on Oliver, her face set. “You’re staying.”

“But—” Oliver began.

Sophie patted his arm. “I’ll come first thing tomorrow.”

A stab of fear went through Ewan. Clearly, Sophie wanted to be alone with Oliver to tell him of her suspicions.

“I can take him home in the morning,” Ewan blurted.

“See, Ewan can come,” Oliver said, waving a hand in his direction. “There’s no need to be here that early in the morning.”

She visibly gritted her teeth. “Then I’ll stay the night.”

“I’m afraid visiting hours are almost over,” the doctor said. “We’ll open again tomorrow morning at eight.”

“The both of you should go home,” Oliver prodded gently. He settled back into the pillows. “I’m not going to die in my sleep.”