Carry On

by Rainbow Rowell

  Are they already fighting back?

  It suddenly feels like I’m squeezing between stone walls. They’re closing in on me, pinching around my left arm … around the fire in my hand … the fire.

  “If you crush me,” I yell, “my fire will go out!”

  The crunching stops; I think they’re standing still. They seem to settle in sloppy slabs around me, around my hand. How long do they think I can stand like this? (And why don’t they just move somewhere tropical?)

  “Tell me,” I order. “Who sent you to take me?”

  “Won’t say,” one of them answers. It’s like listening to rocks being broken into gravel.

  “Why not?”

  The wall behind me lurches closer. “Told us not to.”

  I stand straighter. “Well, I’m telling you otherwise.”

  “Kept us warm,” the biggest one says.

  “You don’t look warm.”

  “Kept us warm for a while,” it says.

  “Told us not to talk,” grumbles another.

  “Don’t like talk.”

  I let the fire in my hand go out, and they make a noise like ten thousand teeth grinding.

  “More fire,” I hear. “More firrrre.”

  “I’ll give you more fire when you answer my question!” They’re vibrating. I’m not sure whether it’s from anger or impatience or something else. “Who sent you? Who paid you to take me?”

  “Warmed us,” I hear.

  “Who?”

  “One of you.”

  “Magic ones.”

  “Which one of us? Was it a man? What did he look like?”

  “Like a man. Soft.”

  “Warm.”

  “Wet spot on the pavement.”

  “Green.”

  “Green?” I say.

  The largest numpty unfolds, then crunches down into a pile right in front of me, forcing the others away. “Your headstone!”

  “One of you.”

  “Warm.”

  “Take the vampire brat,” the big one grinds, “keep him in the dark, give him blood.”

  “Hold him till the cold comes and stays.”

  “Fire. Warm. You promised.”

  They’re pressing closer again. “You promised.”

  I restart the fire in my hand, but instead of backing off, they crush closer to it; I can’t even see my wrist.

  “Get back!” I yell. My left arm is sucking away from my shoulder, and my wand arm is pressed up against my ear. “Back off!”

  “Cast Paper beats rock,” someone shouts. Not a numpty—a man!

  “What?!”

  “Paper beats rock—do it.”

  I call out, “Paper beats rock!” And then a specific kind of chaos erupts:

  There’s someone hopping on top of the numpties, slapping them with sheets of newspaper like he’s playing whack-a-mole. They try to heave away, but when he thumps them, they go still. Actually still. The pressure around me stops.

  I look up and see none other than Nicodemus himself standing on top of the biggest numpty, catching his breath.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask him, my mouth surely hanging open.

  He sneers. “I came to save you from numpties.”

  “Did you just put them to sleep with The Guardian?”

  “I did. Why didn’t you?”

  Nicodemus is wearing a cheap blazer over a white T-shirt, black jeans with a wallet chain, and ancient steel-toed Doc Martens. It’s clear what my ridiculous aunt saw in him.

  He reaches down and takes my wrist, pointing my wand at the rock wall that’s trapping my other arm. “Have a break, have a Kit-Kat,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Say it.”

  “Why?”

  He pinches my wrist.

  “Have a break, have a Kit-Kat!” I cast, and the rock crumbles around my arms. “That shouldn’t work,” I say, shaking my hand free.

  The numpties don’t wake up, despite me breaking pieces off them.

  “Stop complaining,” Nicodemus says, “and come on. The newspapers won’t hold them forever.”

  He’s holding out his arm, so I take it, even though he smells like sour blood and cider. He hauls me up until I’m standing on the numpties, too.

  We hop from one to the next, then onto the ground. “This way,” Nicodemus says, switching on a big flashlight.

  I follow him up the mud pathway and out into the daylight. As soon as we’re above ground, I push him away from me.

  “Watch it,” he says. “I just saved your life!”

  “You just ruined my plan—they were about to tell me who kidnapped me!”

  “They already told you,” he snarls. “It was the Mage!”

  The Mage. The green man. The headstone. The Mage?

  Nicodemus curls his lip, so I can see his missing eyeteeth. “It was the Mage who had you kidnapped,” he says. He keeps moving forward, and I keep stepping back. “And the Mage who let the vampires into Watford.”

  “What?” I stumble in the snow, and catch myself.

  “He made a deal with them,” Nicodemus says, inches from my face. “If they attacked Watford and gave everyone a good scare, he’d let them live in London, unbothered. He wanted me to make the deal, but I wouldn’t, so he found someone else.”

  “The Mage sent vampires to kill my mother?”

  “I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t believe Merlin’s oath coming from me.” Nicodemus shrugs. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think the Mage meant for your mum to die—but I don’t think he minded much. Made everything else easier, didn’t it?”

  I take another step back. “Why are you telling me this now? Why not before? And why are you even here—did you follow me?” I whip my head around, looking for more vampires. Is this a trap?

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Nicodemus says. “He would have killed me! But now it doesn’t matter what he does. He went and arrested my sister, didn’t he? Your Mage. He’s got Ebeneza now. And I need your help getting her back.”

  It was the Mage. It was the Mage all along.

  I mean, I always thought it was him, but I never really thought it was him. How could he? He’s the Mage. How could he just—?

  I make a noise like Snow, a growl that starts in my stomach and triggers my fangs. Then I turn and run for my car.

  Nicodemus runs after me. He grabs my arm. “Wait! I’m coming with you!”

  “You’re not coming with me.”

  “I told you—he has my sister!”

  “What do I care?”

  “I’m going to help you fight.”

  “I don’t want your help, you monster.”

  “Too bad,” he says, yanking me. “You’ll have it!”

  We’re interrupted by desperate yelping: A Normal is out walking his dog, a cross-eyed Cavalier spaniel, and it’s taken an interest in Nicodemus and me, barking madly.

  “Come along, Della.” The Normal pulls on her chain, and the dog nearly chokes herself jumping at us. Bark, bark, bark.

  I could swear it’s saying, “Baz! Baz! Baz!”

  I turn away from Nicodemus and look more closely at the spaniel. “Are you saying my name?”

  “Baz!” the dog barks. “Thank magic! It’s me, Penelope!”

  “Bunce?” It does sound like her. In a yelpy, canine way. “Who turned you into a dog?”

  “Am I a dog?” she yaps. “The spell’s never worked that way before. Baz, you have to come get me!” The Normal is leaning over to pick up his dog, as if I’m a threat to her.

  I am. I grab the dog and hold it up to my face.

  “Hey, now,” the Normal says. Nicodemus hisses at him, and the man lets go of the dog’s chain.

  “Bunce, what are you talking about?”

  “Baz, we can’t let Simon face the Mage alone—I have a really bad feeling about it. I need you to come get me!”

  Simon. Alone with the Mage. With my mother’s murderer.

  “I’m coming.” I shove the anima
l under my arm and look up at the Normal. “I need to borrow your dog.”

  “You can’t just—”

  I hold up my wand. “There’s nothing to see here!” The Normal looks at us, then down at his hands, then gets a cigarette out of his pocket.

  I start running towards my car.

  Nicodemus is right behind me. “I’m coming with you!”

  I keep running. He grabs at my arm again, and I whirl around, starting a fire in that palm. He jumps back.

  The Bunce spaniel yelps at him.

  “I have to save my sister,” he says. “And you could use my help. You know I can’t get in on my own.”

  I tilt up my chin. “I could use your help. And if what you’re saying is true, Ebb certainly could. But I’ll be damned to hell twice over before I let a vampire into Watford. Even a gelded one.”

  77

  AGATHA

  “Oh, thank magic,” Mum says. She’s standing in my doorway in her dressing gown.

  I lift my head up from my pillow. “What?” I fell asleep in my clothes, on top of the blankets. I don’t know what time it is.

  “Mitali Bunce just called. Simon and Penelope have run off to who knows where, and I thought you might be with them.”

  “No—they’ve run off?”

  “She hopes they’ve just run off, that they weren’t taken.” Mum’s voice breaks. “After last night.”

  “Mum, what’s wrong?”

  “There’s been another attack,” she says. “That horrible Humdrum—he attacked the Pitches. Ate everything. It’s such a shame. It was the grandest estate in magic.”

  “But Simon—,” I say.

  “What dear? Did he tell you something?”

  * * *

  They’ve gone to find the numpties. I’m sure of it. It’s exactly the sort of thing they’d do. Run off to confront a pack of ogres without talking to their parents or asking for help …

  I think about telling my mother. That Simon was at the Pitches’ last night. That he and Penny—and Basilton Grimm-Pitch—were plotting together.

  But Mum would just ask why I hadn’t told her sooner.

  And then I think she’d tell me to keep my mouth shut. That no good could come of getting involved now, with the whole World of Mages on the brink of war, or possibly over it.

  My dad’s at an emergency Coven meeting, Mum says. And the Mage is holed up in his tower, communing with the stars or something.

  I can tell she’s relieved that I’m not with Simon and Penny, but also weirdly concerned. “Agatha, is everything, you know, tickety-boo with Simon?”

  “Aside from the fact that he’s missing?”

  “You know what I mean, darling. Between you. The two of you.”

  “We’re fine,” I assure her.

  I’m not about to tell her that we broke up. I don’t even know whether Simon’s alive; I’m not telling my mother about my ruined prospects until I absolutely have to.

  I get some leftover party food—a Diet Coke and some soggy artichoke crostini—and go back to my room. I fell asleep last night before my parents’ party, and they never woke me. They must have decided I needed the rest.

  I take a bite of bread. There’s nothing I can do about this. Any of it.

  I don’t even really know where Simon is. “Out chasing numpties” isn’t helpful. What else do I know—that he might be with Baz? That he and Baz are friends now? That’s not a clue.

  I still can’t believe they’re friends.

  I can believe it of Simon; he’ll make friends with anyone who’s willing. Anyone who doesn’t mind the risks of befriending a human wrecking ball. But what’s in it for Baz?

  All Baz has ever wanted from Simon is his demise. Baz would do anything to get Simon out of his way.

  Anything …

  What if this is all a trick?

  What if Baz is luring Simon to the numpties? The way he lured me into the Wood that night …

  Well. He didn’t quite lure me. I followed him. But still. But still …

  Baz is a vampire.

  Baz is a villain.

  Baz is a Pitch.

  My phone is on my nightstand. (I’m allowed to have one at home.) I pick it up and text Penny.

  Your mum is looking for you. Everyone’s worried.

  And:

  Are you fighting numpties? Do you need help? I could get help.

  Then:

  Are you with Baz? I think it might be a trick. That he’s trying to hurt Simon.

  And then:

  You could have at least left a note. That seems pretty basic.

  I throw the mobile down on the bed and pop open my Diet Coke. The photo of Lucy and Davy is stuffed under my pillow. I pull it out.

  What would brave, bold Lucy Salisbury do in a hopeless situation like this?

  Hot-tail it to California like a rational human being, apparently. Leave it to the heroes.

  If Baz has turned on Simon, there’s nothing I can do to help.…

  But I can’t just sit here, doing nothing, damn it! (Damn him.) (Damn them all.) Even when I’m not involved in their stupid drama, I’m still involved—I still have to play my part.…

  And this is the part where I always scream for help.

  * * *

  My mother’s on the phone when I slip out. I take the Volvo.

  78

  BAZ

  It took me a good bit to figure out that Bunce was just possessing the dog—that she wasn’t trapped inside its body. I’ve never even heard of such a thing. I’m certain it isn’t legal.

  The real Bunce, terrifying mage that she is, is hiding behind a hedge in Hounslow, waiting for me.

  I’m on my way to get her.

  “I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t so cagey about your mobile number!” she yaps from the back seat.

  PENELOPE

  I’m hiding in our neighbour’s garden. I can’t go home because I know if Mum’s there, she won’t let me leave. And I have to leave—I can’t let Simon face the Mage alone. He might already be at Watford. He probably just thought about teleporting and arrived there.

  I really blew it with Simon.

  He was going to let me go with him, I think, after Baz stormed off. But then I tried to talk him down—I tried to reason with him.

  “Maybe Baz is right,” I said.

  Simon was pacing around my bedroom, swinging his blade, and he stopped to shoot me a scornful look. “Seriously, Penny? Numpties?”

  “No, not about the numpties—but, Simon, think it through, what’s going to happen when people find out about you?”

  “I don’t care about people!” he growled.

  I shushed him. My little brothers and sisters were still downstairs. “You care about the Mage,” I said. “What’s going to happen when he finds out you’re stealing magic?”

  “I’m not stealing it!” he whispered.

  “Whatever you’re doing!” I whispered back. “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know! The Mage will decide.”

  That’s when I probably should have given up. But instead I stood in front of him and reached for his hand. He let me take it.

  “Simon,” I said, “maybe we should just go.”

  He looked confused. He clenched his sword in his other hand. “Penny. That’s what I’m saying. We have to go.”

  “No.” I stepped closer to him, squeezing his hand. “I think this might be our only chance to … to leave.”

  He looked at me like I was mental.

  I kept at it: “Everyone has already connected you to the Humdrum. When they figure out what’s actually happening, even the people who care about you—you’re a threat to everyone, Simon. To our whole world. Once they find out … Maybe this is our last chance to leave. We could just … go.”

  He shook his head. “Go where, Penny?”

  “Wherever we have to,” I said. “Away.”

  SIMON

  Away. There is no away.

  There’s only
here and Normal. Did Penelope think that would be an escape for me—to run away from magic?

  I don’t even think it’s possible. I am magic. And whatever I’m doing, running away won’t stop it.

  “I have to fix this,” I said. “It’s my job to fix it.”

  “I don’t think you can,” she said.

  I let go of her hand. “I have to. It’s why I’m here.”

  But maybe that’s not why I’m here. Maybe I’m just here to fuck everything up.…

  It doesn’t change what I have to do next.

  PENELOPE

  “I’m going to talk to the Mage,” he said.

  “Simon,” I begged, “please don’t.”

  But he’d already stopped listening to me. Dark red wings were unfolding from his shoulders, and that arrowlike tail wound its way down his thigh.

  He looked at me with his jaw set. And then he took off.

  That’s when I called Baz.

  He pulls up now in a burgundy sports car. I climb out from the bushes, and Baz has already leaned over to open the car door.

  There’s a little cross-eyed dog in the back seat. I break my possession spell, and it yelps.

  79

  LUCY

  We snuck back into Watford on the autumn equinox.

  “He’ll be born at solstice,” Davy said, pulling me up the hole in the floor into the old Oracle’s room, at the top of the White Chapel.

  “Or she,” I said.

  He laughed. “I suppose that’s right.”

  I climbed onto the wood floor. “How did the Oracles get up here?”

  “There used to be a ladder,” he said.

  The room was round, with curved stained glass windows and an intricately painted domed ceiling—a mural of men and women holding hands in a ring, looking up at a field of foiled stars and ornate black script. I could only make out some of it—In time’s womb. Shakespeare. “How did you find this place?”

  Davy shrugged. “Exploring.”

  He knew Watford like no one else. While the rest of us had flirted and studied, he’d roamed every inch.

  I watched him draw a pattern on the floor with salt and oil and dark blue blood. (Not a pentagram—something else.) And I pulled my shawl around my shoulders and legs. We hadn’t brought anything with us. Blankets or pillows. Or mats.

  Davy had a stack of notes, and he kept going back to them.

  “You’re sure of everything?” I asked for the twentieth time this week. He’d been more indulgent with me since I agreed to this.