A Hero at the End of the World (18 page)

Now that Oliver knew what Ewan was capable of, his trust in him had been shattered. The only reason he hadn’t dragged him off to the nick was because he knew that Ewan had—misguidedly—thought he had been saving the world. But that still didn’t stop him from wondering who was in the front room with him; it could have been Louise Gardener Hobbes herself, for all he knew.

Three more minutes, he told himself. Then he would go in there himself and put an end to whatever was going on.

“Ewan,” he called one last time—

And, out of nowhere, Archibald Gardener Hobbes appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

For a moment, all Oliver could do was stare. Archibald looked slightly different in person than he had on the CCH; he was about Oliver’s height, with the blond hair and chiseled jaw of an American film star. His entire outfit, from the tips of his leather shoes to the stitching of his blue shirt, looked as though it had been tailored specifically for him.
Bloody English
, Oliver thought.

Then he thought:
Wait a minute
.

“You,” he cried.

“Hello,” said Archibald. He had a terribly posh accent, the kind that Oliver and Ewan had used to take the piss out of. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Archibald Gardener Hobbes, from the Society for the Advancement of Zaubernegativum. Son of Lady Louise Gardener Hobbes, whom I believe you’ve met.”

“You don’t say?” Oliver replied sarcastically. He stood, the feet of his chair scraping loudly on the kitchen tile floor. “I thought you might be the son of another, different evil mastermind.”

“Well, it’s obvious now that you and Ewan grew up together,” Archie muttered. “Listen here, I’m not here to antagonize you. Ewan needs your help.”

“Jog on,” Oliver said, making a rude gesture. “Where’s your mummy? Can’t she help you?”

Archibald’s face contorted with anger.

Ewan appeared behind him in the doorway. “Oliver,” he barked, “just shut up and listen for a moment.”

Oliver pointed at Archibald. “Do you believe me now?” he demanded. “I told you what Louise Gardener Hobbes was up to, and she sent her son to change your mind?”

Archibald sighed. “I’m afraid that’s not at all what’s happening. Ewan?”

“I—you—” Ewan stopped. He grimaced, looking like he was in very real pain. “You were right.”

At first, Oliver thought he had misheard. “Sorry, I’m what?” he asked.

“Right,” Ewan yelled, his voice echoing through the small kitchen. He waved his arms. “You were right. Louise is up to something terrible, and she’s evil, and I’m a moron. I should’ve listened to you.”

Oliver puffed up. “Thank you, that’s all I wanted to hear.”

“Wow, you weren’t kidding about him,” Archie told Ewan.

Ewan squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, my days. This is a nightmare.”

Oliver looked between the two of them and realized that he was missing something vital. He was beginning to feel like his original plan to confront Ewan and turn him against Louise Gardener Hobbes was going in a direction that he really hadn’t anticipated; he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that Ewan had brought Archibald to him just to apologize.

“If you want my help, you’re going to tell me everything,” he said. “
Now
.”

“So you will help him?” Archibald asked eagerly, his face lighting up.

“Only if I like what he has to say,” Oliver replied, leveling Ewan with a glare.

Yet Ewan did look gutted; his eyes were darting everywhere, and he was slouching, his arms wrapped around himself. As much as Oliver hated him right now—for tricking him, for pretending to be his friend again, for stealing two weeks’ worth of memories, and, more importantly, for being stupid enough to side with evil—he knew that, in the end, he would help him. He wouldn’t be a hero if he didn’t.

“He’s trying to save your life as well,” Archibald said sharply. “It’s only polite that you reciprocate and try to save his.”

“Archie,” Ewan muttered, looking sheepish.

“Fine,” Oliver retorted. “But I want you to know that I’m only doing this because it’s the right thing to do. What’s going on?”

The words tumbled out of Ewan’s mouth so quickly that Oliver could barely follow: “Louise asked me to help her kill Ralph the Ravager. She wanted you to do the actual killing, because you work for the SMCA and no one would arrest you for it, but I’d get the credit. Now she says that she wants to get rid of you, too. She’s going to kill me if I don’t lead you to her.”

“Just to be clear, it was Louise Gardener Hobbes, not Ralph the Ravager, who planned this,” Oliver said once he had processed what Ewan had said. “And it’s because she wanted my power?”

“I don’t know,” Ewan replied sarcastically, “can you think of another reason why someone might want you dead?”

Oliver scowled at him.

“Back on topic,” Archibald—Archie—said, clapping his hands. “Have you noticed any increase in your abilities since the Lord Ravager died?”

“Only that I can talk to birds,” said Oliver, remembering the park.

They both looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

“But I do have amnesia,” he pointed out pettily. “So for all I know, I could talk to birds before.”

“I assure you, you can’t talk to birds,” Archie said.

It was all coming together: it made perfect sense to Oliver that Gardener Hobbes would want to take his power to complete the spell that her cult members had failed to carry out, the one that was meant to transfer their energy to somewhere else. Ewan had been her pawn when she needed Oliver to kill Ralph the Ravager, and now she was finished with him. Oliver felt a spark of satisfaction.

“Is there a place where Gardener Hobbes would meet you alone?” he asked Ewan. “Our next step is to charge her with—”

“No,” Ewan interjected loudly. “She wants me to take you to her.”

“I’m going to have to confront her eventually, if we’re going to do something about this,” Oliver pointed out, exasperated. Sometimes he felt like shaking Ewan. “Let’s do my original plan and have her meet you, then I’ll swoop in and save the day.”

“What about your friend Sophie?” Ewan asked. “Shouldn’t we ask her to do it? Then we won’t have to worry about walking into Louise’s hands.”

Oliver glanced away. “No, let’s keep her out of this.”

“Wait,
what
original plan?” Archie interrupted. “Were you up to something even before I came to you with this—came to you in defiance of my own mother?”

“No!” Ewan replied, as Oliver said, “I’m afraid your mum’s going to jail for a long time, especially once Ewan testifies against her.”

Archie’s face creased with anger. “You were going to send my mother to Mount Unpleasant like a
common criminal
?”

“Your mum’s evil,” Oliver retorted, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re lucky sending her to prison is
all
I’m doing.”

“Well, I was sort of hoping you’d kill her...” Ewan muttered, looking uneasy.

His voice trailed off when Archie’s jaw dropped. “You were hoping
what
?” Archie demanded.

“She’s a monster,” Ewan replied.

“I can’t believe I almost kissed you,” Archie announced, his voice quivering.

“Er, what?” Oliver asked.

“You,” Archie seethed, shoving Ewan, who stumbled back, “are a
terrible
mastermind.”

Ewan rubbed the spot on his chest where Archie had pushed him. “Sorry I’m not an evil genius like Mummy Dearest.”

“Framing you for the murder of Abrams is hardly genius, given that you seemingly walk into traps left and right!”

“You should know, since you helped trap me,” Ewan spat.

Archie’s face fell. “How can you think that?”

“Come on, you had to have known,” said Ewan.

“Oh, right, just like you had to have known she was using you to get to Abrams here,” Archie countered.

As Oliver watched Ewan and Archie argue, it hit him that Ewan, the best friend Oliver had ever had, the boy he had known since he was seven years old, had become someone he no longer recognized. He didn’t know who this bloke in front of him was.

“Sod this,” Oliver said. “Ewan, you sociopath, you’re under arrest.”

Ewan goggled at him. “You can’t arrest me for hoping someone would die.”

“No, but I can arrest you for conspiracy.”

“Oh,” Ewan said, drawing out the word.

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose, spinning away from them both. He should probably arrest Archie, too, for good measure. With them in custody and willing to act as witnesses, he wouldn’t need to wait for authority from the Crown before knocking on Louise Gardener Hobbes’ door.

He looked around the cozy kitchen. It was there that he’d learned how to cook noodles, burned his hand on the stove making beans on toast, and had so many cups of tea and plates of biscuits after school. He’d had probably thousands of dinners at that table—

That table which had been cleared when he hadn’t been looking.

“Where’s the tape?” he asked, alarmed. A bad feeling washed over him.

“No,” he heard Archie say desperately, “you really don’t want to do—”

“
Thorn stingum man in forhéafod
.”

As Oliver turned, an aggro spell hit him dead in the back. He staggered backwards as it radiated through him, travelling from his forehead and back down through his spine. It didn’t hurt, but it tingled—and suddenly, everything from the past fortnight came back to him in vivid detail, from his commendation to Ewan’s phone call to his row with Sophie.

Oliver reached up and touched the stitches on his temple. He had got that gash when Ralph the Ravager had sent a rock flying at his head.

“Why aren’t you unconscious?” Ewan demanded, looking bewildered. “I hit you with the same shatterblock that the Lord Ravager used on you. You’re supposed to be unconscious and with your memories wiped.” To Archie, he added, almost proudly, “I looked it up.”

“You can’t hit someone with the shatterblock spell twice, you gormless idiot,” Archie groaned, burying his face in his hands. “All you’ve done is reverse the effects of the last one.”

Oliver had a sour taste in the back of his throat.

“Well,” said Ewan, “this is awkward.”

“You—you attacked me,” Oliver said.

“Yeah, I—oh, look over there.”

Oliver glanced back over his shoulder, and Ewan legged it, his footsteps heavy in the hall between the kitchen and the door.

Livid, Oliver started after him—but Archie stepped in front of him, his arms out and his face set firmly. Oliver shoved him aside with enough force that he heard the spice rack wobble.

“Ow, you git,” Archie shouted at his back.

He burst through the front door. Ewan, having much longer legs than him, was already down the road and turning the corner. A tiny corner of Oliver’s mind was impressed by how quick he was, given his height and the fact that he hadn’t seen him run in about ten years.

Without hesitation, Oliver went after him, chasing him up through the market, his brogues slipping on the slick street. There was a sizeable crowd out, but he kept his eyes planted on the back of Ewan’s head. Around him, the bright colors of the market blurred as he blinked cold rain out of his eyes.

“Oi,” a pedestrian said as Oliver bumped shoulders with him, “watch yourself.”

Far ahead of him, Ewan darted right across the green, heading for the street. Cars slammed on their brakes and horns screeched as he dashed across the road. Oliver lost precious seconds waiting for traffic to pass; finally, the walk signal turned green, and he bolted into where he had seen Ewan disappear: Walthamstow Central Station.

Shoving his way through the queue to get into the Underground, Oliver slammed his Oyster card on the yellow reader. But the light flashed red and the ticket barrier gates remained shut.

His card was out of money.

“
Thissum wordum sele gethafunge
,” Oliver chanted, temporarily breaking the antitheft ward.

He started to climb over the barrier when a station attendant shouted, “Oi!” and grabbed him roughly by the arm, pulling him back.

“Serious Magical Crimes Agency,” he bellowed. “I’m chasing a suspect!”

Abruptly, the hand holding him let go, and he surged forward, banging his knee on the ticket barrier. He scrambled over the gate, gritting his teeth through the burning pain that reverberated through his leg.

Frantically, he looked around, ignoring the brightly colored advertisements framed in aluminum, the whiteboard updating commuters on the status of the Tube, the helpful Transport for London guiding signs. Finally, he spotted Ewan, who, at a head taller than the rest of the crowd, was still visible as he boarded the escalator.

“Someone get that man,” he yelled, limping and pointing.

The only passenger who so much as gave him a glance was an older woman who looked more annoyed that he had gotten out of paying his fare than that he was upsetting her routine. None of the other people around him reacted to any of his shouting, and he watched, dismayed, as Ewan disappeared into the crowd on the lower floor, heading for the one of the platforms.

“
Londoners
,” Oliver muttered in disgust. His footsteps echoed loudly through the tiny, white-tiled corridor as he headed further underground.

He barreled down the moving steps, shoving his way past a lot of tourists standing on the wrong side (“Stand on the right,” he growled into their very startled faces). Finally, nearly at the floor, he spotted Ewan, who looked back up at him, his expression cloudy.

Oliver kept scrambling down the escalator, but it was too late: he could hear the train coming. He’d never reach Ewan in time.

“Stop,” he shouted, watching helplessly as Ewan slid into the crowd, most of whom were legging it for the train.

“Stop,” he repeated. “
Die icstille on deathe
.”

The word had barely left his lips when he felt something radiate out of him, as if he were the center of an explosion. Everyone in front of him collapsed, the escalator shuddered to a halt, and when he glanced back over his shoulder, the people behind him were unconscious on the steps. Bodies fanned out around him in a circle.

He took the last three steps down to the floor, searching for a tall, Chinese man in a battered winter vest over a hoodie. His footsteps echoed loudly in the eerie silence. Down by the Tube map was a bloke with thick black hair, but when Oliver flipped him over, his face was unfamiliar.