Free Adam of Albion by Kim McMahon, Neil McMahon Page B

have
expected in a million years.
    “You’re
good with girls and I’m not,” Barry said, suddenly redfaced—then ducked back
into his room and slammed the door.

TWELVE
    Adam
hurried down to the back garden and got there just as Artemis was coming out of
the house. She’d put on a wool shawl against the chill—black, of course—which
spread around her like wings and gave her a vaguely raven-like look. The two of
them started walking toward the stable, a hundred yards or so from the main
house.
    As
soon as they were sure they were out of view, she opened her oversized tote bag
and lifted up Orpheus, setting him in a pouch just inside the top rim. He gave
Adam an affable nod and squinted around at the foggy morning, seeming in a good
mood.
    “How’s
it going with the Internet, Orpheus?” Adam asked, thinking that might have something
to do with it. He was right.
    “Plodding
along, plodding along—that’s it doing the plodding, not me,” Orpheus
bragged, and explained that he’d quickly figured out how to bypass Adam’s
netbook and connect himself online directly, wireless. He was a supercomputer,
after all.
    “I’ve
just about absorbed the contents,” he went on. “There’s not much I didn’t
already know anyway, except in the last couple of centuries. And there’s a lot
I know that it doesn’t, I don’t mind saying,” he added—obviously, not minding
it a bit.
    Adam
and Artemis both blinked in astonishment.
    “You absorbed the whole Internet in, like, a few hours?” Adam said.
    “I’d
have done it in, like, a few seconds except it’s so slow to download.”
    The
kids exchanged glances, rolling their eyes. With Orpheus already tossing out
terms like “download,” what came next?  He’d start calling them “dog?”
    Suddenly,
Artemis drew in her breath in a little gasp, with her head swinging sharply to
stare out across the field ahead.
    “Oh,
dear— duck, Orph, quick!” she hissed.
    With
survival instincts honed fine over thousands of years and countless narrow
escapes, Orpheus didn’t either ask why or try to see for himself—he dove down
into the tote so fast he actually seemed to vaporize.
    A
figure had appeared out of the fog, walking toward them—a woman, tall and
spare, with long iron-gray hair. She was dressed in an ankle-length robe or
cloak, and she carried a gnarled, polished walking stick like an Irish
shillelagh.
    “She’s
known as Rainy Jane, because she’s always out walking the countryside, even if
it’s pouring,” Artemis whispered. “Some of the older people believe she has
powers—second sight, healing, that sort of thing. They don’t exactly call her a
witch, although it’s what they think. But she’s never harmed anyone—only
helped. And—well, this is silly, but some even think she’s friendly with the
little folk.”
    “Little
folk?” Adam whispered back, gazing wide-eyed at the stately apparition coming
toward them. Rainy Jane didn’t appear to be hurrying, but she was covering the
ground fast.
    “Oh,
you know—fairies, elves, like that. I must say, I find it rather hard to
believe in them—but then, who’d believe in Orpheus unless they saw him?”
    Some
connection was tugging at Adam’s brain, trying to get his attention. But before
it could, Rainy Jane was within speaking distance.
    “Good
morning, Miss Jane,” Artemis said—respectfully, and even a little timidly. It
was easy to see why. The older woman wasn’t exactly fierce looking, but there
was something about her steady gaze that made you want to be very careful not
to say anything stupid. She wasn’t pretty, but not ugly, either—not at all like
a wrinkled old crone with a hooked nose and long chin. But she was definitely
unusual looking, with a face that was all planes and angles, like skin
stretched over bones. The rest of her almost seemed composed of the elements,
with her cloak a blend of the muted grays, greens, and browns of the fields,
and even her eyes the same color