Baz whines and unfolds until his back is arched.
“What?” I demand. “What do you give them?”
The Humdrum shrugs. “Nothing. I give them some of my nothing.”
Baz lifts his face to me, all pupil and fang. He takes a step forward. “Get away, Simon. I’m hungry.”
“I give them some of my nothing,” the Humdrum says again, “and then they’re drawn to the biggest of all somethings—you. And then you give me more nothing. It’s a great game.”
Baz keeps coming for me. I stand my ground.
“Get away, Simon! I’m hungry!”
“What are you hungry for, Baz?”
“For you!” he shouts. “For magic, for blood, for magic—for everything. For you. For magic.”
He’s shaking his head so fast, it blurs.
There’s a tree between us, and Baz rips it from the ground and tosses it aside.
“Wicked,” the Humdrum says. “I’ve never tried it with one of these before.”
Baz ploughs into me like a steel gryphon. I catch him in my arms and roll to the ground.
He’s much stronger than I am—but I’m made of magic right now, so there’s no crushing me. We thrash around on the ground. I hold his head in both my hands, pushing his jaw away.
“I’m so hungry,” he whines. “And you’re so full.”
“You can have it,” I say, trying to look in his eyes. “Baz. You know you can have it.”
I push on his chin and grab at his hair, holding him back—but I let my magic go.
I let it flow into him from my every pore. Baz sobs and abruptly stops fighting. It feels like I’m pouring water into an empty well.
It goes.
And it goes.
Baz’s body sags against mine.
“Wow…” the Humdrum says. “That’s even better than fighting.” He feels close. I look up, and he’s standing right over us, rock solid in the moonlight. “When did you learn to do that? It’s like you turned on a tap.”
“Did you take his magic?” I shout at the Humdrum.
“Did I take his magic?” he repeats, like it’s a hilarious question. “No. I don’t take anything. I’m just what’s left when you’re done.” He grins, like the cat with the canary, and it’s an expression I’ve never seen on my own face.
“Simon!” Baz is shouting beneath me. I look down—he’s glowing now, too. His fangs are gone, but he still looks like he’s in pain. He’s squeezing my triceps. “Enough!”
I let go of him and roll away. But the magic is still pouring out of me, through me. It is like a tap. I concentrate on turning it off. When it feels like the magic’s staying inside me again—when I stop glowing—I get up on my hands and knees. “Baz?”
“Here,” he says.
I move towards his voice. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” He’s lying on the ground. “I just feel a bit … burnt.”
“Are you on fire?”
“No,” he says. “No. Burnt on the inside.”
I look around, but I don’t see the Humdrum. Or hear him. Or feel him sucking at my breath.
“Is he gone?” Baz asks.
“Seems like it.” I collapse next to him.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Baz gropes for me with his arm, and when he feels me, he wraps his arm around my neck and shoulders, weakly pulling me towards him. I move closer until my head falls on his chest.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
“Yeah. You?”
“Tip-top.” Baz coughs, and I push my face into his chest. “What was that?” he asks.
“The Humdrum.”
“Simon, are you the Insidious Humdrum?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
BAZ
I feel burnt out.
Incinerated.
That kid—it was Simon—emptied me somehow. Like he pressed my magic out or down.…
And then Simon filled me up again with fire.
I feel like a phoenix rebirthed itself in my lower intestines.
Simon’s hiding his face in my chest, and I hold him tighter.
It was Simon. Like seeing him again for the very first time. Crap jeans and dirty T-shirt. That rawness in his skin, that hunger in his eyes. When I saw him step out from between the pines tonight, I wanted to kick him in the knees—it was definitely Simon.
Simon—the grown one—is trembling, so I wrap my other arm around him, too. My arms feel hollow, but Simon feels solid through.
Simon Snow is the Humdrum.
Or … the Humdrum is Simon Snow.
SIMON
“Did I take his magic? No. I don’t take anything. I’m just what’s left when you’re done.”
I’m lying on Baz, and he has both arms around me. And I keep trying to shake the Humdrum’s face out of my head. (To shake my face off his head.)
“I give them some of my nothing … and then you give me more nothing.”
I sit up and rub my eyes. “Do you still need to hunt?”
“No,” Baz says. “I was finishing up when he found me.”
I move into a crouch, then stand, holding out my hand to him. “Did he say anything? Before he attacked you?”
Baz takes my hand and pulls himself up. He doesn’t let go. “He said, ‘You’ll do.’”
I close my eyes, and my head drops forward. “He used you. He used you against me.”
“Everyone does,” Baz says softly. I feel his arm slide, slowly, gently, back around my waist.
I slouch into him. “I’m sorry.”
BAZ
If Simon Snow is the Humdrum … that makes him a villain. A supervillain.
Can I be in love with a supervillain?
SIMON
Baz is shaking, and I think he might be crying—which would make sense, after what just happened. I open my eyes and lift up my chin.
He’s not crying—he’s laughing.
He’s laughing so hard, he’s falling against me.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Are you in shock?”
“You’re the Humdrum.”
“I’m not,” I say, trying to push him back by the shoulders.
“I’m dead, not blind, Snow. You’re the Humdrum.”
“That wasn’t me! Why are you laughing?”
Baz keeps laughing, but he’s also giving me a sneery grin. “I’m laughing because you’re the Chosen One,” he says giddily. “But you’re also the greatest threat to magic. You’re a bad guy!”
“Baz. I swear. That wasn’t me.”
“Looks like you. Sounds like you. Tosses that infernal red ball in the air like you.” He holds me tighter.
“I think I’d know if I were the Insidious Humdrum,” I say.
“I wouldn’t give you that much credit, Simon. You’re exceedingly thick. And criminally good-looking—have I mentioned that?”
“No.”
He leans in like he’s going to bite me, then kisses me instead.
It’s so good.
It’s been so good every time.
I pull away. “I’m not the Humdrum! But why does thinking so make you want to kiss me?”
“Everything makes me want to kiss you. Haven’t you worked that out yet? Crowley, you’re thick.” He kisses me again. And he’s laughing again.
“I’m not the Humdrum,” I repeat, when I get the chance. “I’d know if I were.”
“What you are is a fucking tragedy, Simon Snow. You literally couldn’t be a bigger mess.”
He tries to kiss me, but I hold back—“And you like that?”
“I love it,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because we match.”
* * *
We make our way out of the forest. Baz knows the way.
It really is stocked with deer just for him. It doesn’t creep me out at all to know that—apparently I can get used to anything.
Apparently he can, too.
“That thing,” I try again. “It isn’t me.”
“Maybe it’s you in the past,” he says. “Maybe you’re a time traveller.”
“But wouldn’t I remember it? If he’s me when I was a kid?”
“I don’t know how time travel works,” Baz says. “It’s not magic.”
“You’re not limping,” I say.
He looks down and shakes out his leg. “It feels better,” he says. “Crowley, Snow, you’ve healed me. I wonder if I’m still a vampire?”
I raise my eyebrows, and he laughs. “Calm down, miracle boy, I’m still a vampire—you still smell like bacon and homemade cinnamon buns.”
“How can I smell like bacon and homemade cinnamon buns?”
“You smell like something I’d gladly eat.” Baz stops and holds an arm out in front of me. “Wait. Do you feel that?”
I stop, too. It’s faint, but it’s there. That parched feeling. That scratch in the back of my throat.
“The Humdrum,” Baz says. “Is he back?”
There’s shouting ahead of us, somebody calling Baz’s name.
I hold my hand above my hip, trying to call my blade. It doesn’t come. I can’t feel my magic anywhere.
Baz has his wand tucked into his pyjamas (of course he does). He whips it out and tries to cast a spell. Nothing happens. He tries again.
“It’s a dead spot,” I whisper. “It’s one of the Humdrum’s dead spots.”
“Basilton!” Baz’s stepmother is screaming and running towards us. She’s wearing her nightgown, and her hair is down. “Malcolm, he’s here!”
“The Humdrum…” Baz looks over at me, as pale as I’ve ever seen him, his face chalky and white in the moonlight. “Snow. Run.”
“What?”
“Go,” he says. “You did this.”
72
SIMON
I could probably walk to London.
If I were wearing shoes.
And if there weren’t all this snow.…
When Baz told me to go, when he blamed the dead spot on me, I wanted to argue. But his parents were running towards us, and they were panicking, and I couldn’t tell what was happening. Had the hole swallowed up their entire house? Their whole estate?
I turned to run back into the forest—but it was on fire. From me. From my magic. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it, because now I didn’t have any.
“Go!” Baz said again, so I did. I ran.
I got to the drive, and my feet were going numb from cold, but I kept running. Down the long, long drive. To the road. Away from him.
I’m still running.
My magic comes back to me all at once and sends me to the ground, shaking. If only I had my wand. Or a mobile …
I could hitchhike—would anyone pick me up? Would anyone be driving down this road, in middle-of-nowhere Hampshire in the middle of the night? On Christmas Eve? (Father Christmas isn’t real—the Tooth Fairy is.)
I’m kneeling in the snow at the side of the road. I can do this, I think. I’ve done this before. I just have to want it. I have to need it.
I think about getting away, about getting to Penny, I think about my magic filling me up and shooting out my shoulders. And then I feel them tearing through Baz’s pyjamas—
Wide, bony wings.
There are no feathers this time; I must have been thinking about the dragon. These wings are red and leathery with grey spikes at the hinges. They spread out as soon as I think about them, and pull me up out of the snow.
I tear off the remains of my flannel shirt, and I don’t think about how to fly; I just think about where I want to go—Up. Away.—and it happens. It’s colder up here, so I think about being warm, and my skin starts to flicker with heat.
Baz’s house is below me now, in the distance. The fire I started is still burning; I watch the smoke pouring out of the forest, and try to move closer—but I can’t. I’m made of magic, and there’s no magic there anymore.
I hover in the sky.
I think about putting out the fire. The clouds are full of freezing rain—so I think about pushing them towards the forest, and they go.
And then I think of Baz telling me to go, so I do.
And then I stop thinking.
73
PENELOPE
My little sister, Priya, was the one to get the door. She was waiting up for Father Christmas—and doing a hell of a job, too; she made it until four in the morning. I think she outlasted Mum and Dad.
Priya heard the knocking and thought that it was Father Christmas himself. We don’t have a fireplace; she must have thought he had to come through the front door.
When she opened the door, Simon fell in, and she shrieked.
I don’t blame her. He looked like Satan incarnate. Massive red-and-black wings. A red tail with a black spade at the end. He’d cast some sort of spell on himself that made him glow yellow and orange, and he was covered in snow and debris, and wearing the filthiest, fanciest pyjama bottoms.
Mum and Dad heard Priya scream and came thumping down the stairs. Mum screamed, too. And then Dad shouted, and then apparently he had to keep Mum from throwing curses—she thought Simon was possessed or enchanted or that he’d gone full Lucifer.
The rest of us came running down the stairs then (except for Premal, who didn’t come home, even for Christmas)—and I saw Simon and ran to him. It didn’t occur to me to be scared of him.
That snapped Mum and Dad back to normal.
Mum started casting warming spells, and Dad got a bowl of hot water and a cloth to clean Simon up. We ended up putting him in the shower. He was so exhausted, he could hardly stand. He couldn’t even tell us where he’d been. I assumed he’d made it back to Baz’s house, but I didn’t want my parents to know that we’d left Simon on the road in the middle of the countryside on Christmas Eve.
I helped my mum and dad give him a shower, and nobody cared that I was seeing him naked. Then we put him in some of Mum’s trackies, and she tried to tuck his tail down one leg.
I kept casting, “Nonsense!” until Mum told me to shut up.
“It’s not working, Penny.”
“But it worked last time.”
“Maybe it’s not a spell,” Dad said. “Maybe he transformed.”
“Maybe he evolved,” Priya said from the bathroom doorway, “like a Pokémon.”
“Go to bed, Priya,” Dad said.
“I’m waiting for Father Christmas!”
“Go to bed!” Mum shouted.
Mum was casting spells, too. “As you were!” and “Back to start!”
“Careful, Mitali,” Dad said. “You’ll turn him into a baby.”
But none of Mum’s spells touched Simon. She tried casting spells in Hindi, too. (She doesn’t speak Hindi, but my great-grandmother did.) Nothing worked.
They put Simon in my bed, and Dad thought they should call the Mage, but Mum said they should wait to see what Simon wanted them to do.
(Simon seemed conscious, but he wasn’t saying anything. And he wouldn’t make eye contact.)
My parents were still arguing about it after they left my room and shut the door. “Go to bed, Priya!” my father shouted.
I climbed onto the bed next to Simon and laid my ring hand over his red wings.
“Nonsense!” I whispered.
“Nonsense!”
74
SIMON
I wake up on Christmas morning in Penelope’s bed.
She’s sitting next to me, staring at me.
“What?” I say.
“Thank magic! I was worried you’d never speak again.”
“Why?”
“Because you weren’t talking at all last night. For heaven’s snakes, Simon, what happened to you?”
“I…” I’m lying on my stomach. I try to roll onto my back, but can’t—the wings must still be there. Just thinking about them makes them spread out again, and they knock Penny over.
“Simon!”
“Sorry!” I say, trying to p
ull them back. “Sorry.”
Penny takes the edge of one wing and rubs it between her thumb and forefinger. “Are these permanent?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Not intentionally.”
“We coated you in spells yesterday, and none of them did anything.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me, my parents. Do you even remember coming here?”
“Sort of … I remember flying. I didn’t recognize London. From above. So I had to go to the Eye, then sort of half-fly down the streets to find your house. I’ve only ever come here before on the Tube.”
“I wonder if anyone saw you.”
“I don’t know. I tried to think about being invisible—”
“You what?”
I close my eyes now and think about the wings. I think about how I don’t need them anymore. I feel the magic welling up in me. (The magic is always welling up in me lately. Always coming up the back of my throat.) I think about how I don’t want to fly, then I think about pulling the wings back into my back.
When I open my eyes again, Penny is staring at me, her hand empty where the wing had been. She looks spooked. “What did you just do?”
“Got rid of the wings.”
“What about the tail?”
I reach down and feel a ropy, leathery tail. “Jesus.” I think hard about getting rid of it, and it zips through my hand, scratching my palm on its way back into my body.
“Why did you even have a tail?” Penny asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer, sitting up. “I must have been thinking about that dragon.”
“Simon…” She’s shaking her head. “What happened last night?”
“The Humdrum,” I say. “He attacked me at Baz’s house. He tried to use Baz against me.”
“He created the biggest hole in Great Britain!”
“What?”
“My dad got the call this morning. All of Hampshire is gone.”
“What?”
“Dad and the team are there now, but the Pitches told them they can’t come on their land. They’re calling it an act of war.”
“By the Humdrum?”
“By the Mage,” she says. “They say he’s controlling the Humdrum—maybe even that the Mage is the Humdrum. The Old Families have convened a Council of War, no one knows where. Mum says the Mage is looking for you, but she’ll be damned if she tells him you’re here. Unless you want her to tell him. Do you want her to tell him?”
Carry On Page 32
