He laughs. “Well, that’s a new development. At first I was just visiting people in their homes. But some of my friends felt I could have a bigger impact if I got organized. That’s when the meetings started. Eventually”—he ruffles his hair again, looking around—“this. A foundlings’ home, how could I resist? Orphan makes good.”
“Have you recovered from last night?” I ask, still very crisp. “The cure seems to really take it out of you.”
Smith-Richards sighs. “Yeah, it does. I can sort of help people’s magic, just by touching them—” He holds his hand out to me. “You can try it if you want.”
“That’s all right,” I say. “Conserve yourself.”
He rests his hand on his thigh. “But the spell makes me feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m still getting the hang of it. I’ve only cast it a few times now. I’ve been working on a way to focus my talents.”
“You mentioned the first person you healed,” Simon says, somehow miraculously back on track, “Jamie.”
“Jamie,” Smith-Richards repeats warmly. “He was one of the first people who really believed in me. I mean, he trusted me to cast this totally new, weird spell on him.”
“And it worked?” Simon asks.
Smith-Richards grins. “It totally worked. Jamie … He didn’t even have a wand when I met him. Full-blooded magician. Had never cast a ‘Clean sweep.’ Wasn’t even allowed at Watford. And now he’s fully fluent.”
“That’s amazing,” Simon says.
Smith-Richards is beaming at him. Literally. The sun has moved behind Smith-Richards’s head and is lighting him up like a saint.
“Could we meet Jamie?” I ask.
“I’d love to meet him,” Simon says earnestly.
“Yeah”—Smith-Richards looks excited—“I’d love for you to meet him, too.”
Simon scoots even farther off the sofa, ready to spring up. (Directly into Smith-Richards’s lap.)
“Should we call for him?” I ask.
“Oh…” Smith-Richards sits back in his chair. “I’m sorry. Jamie doesn’t live here. But I could text him? And arrange something? Maybe at the next meeting?”
“That’d be great,” Simon says.
There’s a knock at the open door. We all look up. That same girl is standing there, still looking scared of Simon.
“Hey, Pippa,” Smith-Richards says. “Is dinner ready?”
She nods.
“Thanks. I’ll be right down.”
She hurries away.
“You really ought to stay for dinner,” Smith-Richards says. “Daphne would be glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” I say, “but I don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her.”
“All right.” Smith-Richards reaches for my hand again, then claps Simon on the shoulder. “Let’s exchange numbers, in case something comes up.”
“Sure,” Simon says, getting out his phone.
Smith ends up doing the typing. “I’ll see you at the next meeting, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Simon says, “for sure.”
“And Simon—let yourself be comfortable. If you want to keep the wings put away, I get it. But we’re all magicians here. You don’t have anything to hide.”
Simon is blushing. “Okay, um … thanks.”
Smith-Richards walks us to the door.
44
SMITH
Simon Snow.
Here.
Like someone out of a story.
A fallen angel. A prodigal son. A returning hero, Achilles tendon sliced in the war.
He looks the part.
(Can he see how people look at him? Can he see how they see him?)
The wings were a genius twist. Scarlet wings, what a visual. He’s a stained-glass window waiting to happen—I’m almost jealous.
I mean, I am, a little … jealous.
But I’ll get there. Who knows what destiny holds for me? Who knows how my legend will build? There will be windows someday and statues. Full-colour plates in gilded books.
One day at a time, Evander always says. One chapter.
My godfather raised me with all the old stories. We travelled the world, but he kept the World of Mages alive in me. What a world! What glory! I hardly recognized it when he brought me home to London …
This is how magicians live now? Among the Normals? Like the Normals? Afraid of them?
What’s the point of being magickal if you have to fill your days with mundanity?
(Can they even see themselves? Do they see how they look?)
In the stories, there are castles. There are feats of power. Dragons!
In the World of Mages, there’s almost nothing. A school. A few clubs. Dishwashing spells.
I give them a lifetime’s worth of power, and they make chocolate bars. (Maybe I should just hand out chocolate bars…)
At least they haven’t forgotten all the old stories. They still know who I am. They’re still waiting for me.
The Chosen One.
The Greatest Mage.
The Power of Powers.
The one who will come to save them from the greatest threat to the World of Mages.
I will save this world.
And Simon Snow will help me.
45
SHEPARD
Penelope doesn’t even have to cast a spell to find her dad; she’s got a key that will take her right to him. There’s a piece of yarn looped through it. “My mum made this,” she says. “When I was a kid, they made me wear it around my neck.”
She hangs the key over a map of London. “Mum meets with the Coven tonight, so we should be able to catch Dad alone.”
“What’s the Coven?”
“Not even a little bit your business.”
The key twitches. “Not at home…” she says. “Not at work…”
It settles near the British Museum. I’ve always wanted to go to the British Museum.
“Come on,” she says, “let’s try to catch him.”
We get into a cab, which I predict she won’t pay for. Penelope plays fast and loose with goods and services. I feel so guilty about it that I can’t make eye contact with the driver.
She keeps holding the key over the Maps app on her phone to keep track of her dad.
“Why can’t you call him again?”
“I can’t risk him telling my mum.”
“Won’t he tell her anyway? Eventually?”
“I’m going to plead my case in person.” She frowns at her phone and mumbles, “Or spell him if I have to.”
“You’d do that to your own father?”
She shrugs. “Well, I haven’t yet—He’s moving again!” She leans forward and raps on the Plexiglas screen between us and the driver. “Here is fine!”
The driver lets us out at the corner. Penny knocks her gem on his credit card reader and says, “Fair enough!”
“Do you ever pay for cab rides?” I ask her, as the taxi drives away.
She’s scanning the street. “I only take cabs when it’s an emergency.”
“So, that’s a no…”
“There he is!” She starts waving.
There’s a small, gray-haired white man crossing the street ahead of us. I guess Penelope did say she was biracial. Her mom’s Indian, I think.
“Dad!” she calls.
The man looks up. He gets across the street and waits for us.
“Penny,” he says. “Your mother’s been calling you.”
“Dad … I need your help.”
* * *
We end up at a coffee shop, and Penelope’s dad buys us scones with jam. (The scones over here are more like biscuits. They sell them everywhere, and it’s perfectly acceptable to order them at any time of day. They give you a cup of butter and sometimes your own little bottle of jam. I really don’t think English people realize how great it is to live here. The sandwiches alone are on another level.)
Mr. Bunce is rubbing his eyes. He’s got a tired face. Up close, his hair is more blond than gray. “
Penny … you know I can’t keep secrets from your mother.”
“I’m just asking you not to mention this,” she says. “I’m not asking you to lie about it.”
“That sounds like a lie of omission,” I point out. “People hate those just as much.”
She goggles her eyes at me. “Shepard.”
Mr. Bunce is looking at me. One side of his mouth is quirked down, but it still seems like he’s smiling. “You’re the American, huh? Martin Bunce.”
“Shepard,” I say, holding out my hand.
He takes it. “Whereabout in America?”
“Omaha,” I say. “Nebraska.”
“I know where that is. I’ve done some work in Ohio.”
“Nebraska is a lot like Ohio. Similar vibe.”
“Well, let’s have a look at them,” he says, gesturing at my jacket.
I look around the coffee shop. Penelope rolls her eyes and holds out a fist—“There’s nothing to see here!” I take off my jacket.
“May I?” Mr. Bunce asks.
I nod, holding out an arm.
He takes it gently in both hands. “Look at that, that’s beautiful…” He twists my arm a bit, so he can see the whole thing. “Huh … Mitali said this was a curse. This isn’t a curse.” He looks up at my face. “It’s a handfasting.”
“Dad”—Penelope looks shocked—“I didn’t know you could read Demon!”
“I can’t.” He traces his hand along one of the swirls. “But I can tell from the patterns. You see these same patterns in a lot of ancient marriage rituals.”
“Dad studies marriage and family magic,” she tells me.
“It’s a hobby,” he says.
“We’ve had the contract translated,” she says.
“Have you?” He looks up from my arm.
Penelope elbows me. “Show him.”
I reach back into my jacket and get out the papers.
Mr. Bunce puts on his reading glasses and takes a look. “So you found someone who could translate a Demonic ritual … Do I want to know who?”
“Nope,” she says.
Her dad lowers his eyebrows. “Penelope,” he says, like he’s constantly having to lecture her for this sort of thing. Then his eyes get big, and he looks up at me. “Shepard—this is the summoning ritual you used?”
I nod. “We had that translated, too.”
“So you … proposed to a demon?”
“Unintentionally, sir.”
Mr. Bunce turns back to the ritual and shakes his head. “Nicks and Slick, what a predicament…” I must look miserable, because he pats my hand and says, “Well. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You couldn’t have known what you were getting into.”
“Well, he did know he was summoning a demon…” Penelope says.
Her dad shoots her another reproving look. “It’s remarkable that you have a translation,” he says to me. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Do you mind if I take photos?”
“Go ahead.”
He gets out his phone.
“We need to find a way out of this,” Penelope says.
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Bunce agrees. He’s taking very careful photos. “Hold that paper flat for me?” I spread out the papers.
“Dad.”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t you have any ideas?”
“Well.” He blows out a long breath and sits back in his chair. “I mean, there’s more legend than actual scholarship. I’ve read about people promising their souls to demons in exchange for power or wealth or some sort of intervention … What did you get out of it, Shepard?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I didn’t ask for anything.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Penelope is rolling her eyes.
“No, that’s good,” her dad says. “It would be harder to get out of the contract if you’d spent the money or cured your cancer.”
“Could we argue that I didn’t know what I was doing?”
“We could,” he says, “but it’s not like there’s a judge and jury to hear the case.”
“Then how can I possibly get out of this?”
He rubs his chin. “Well, you could appeal to the demon himself.”
“Herself,” I say.
“Herself,” he amends. “Demons are historically very law-abiding. They love signatures, terms, contracts…”
Penelope looks surprised. “They do?”
“Oh yeah,” her dad says. “That’s how they get you.”
“So we have to find a legal way out of the engagement?” she asks. “We can’t just break the curse? Or dissolve it? Or kill the demon?”
Her dad frowns at her. “Promise me you won’t try to fight a demon.”
“Is there scholarship on that?”
“No,” he says.
“What about…” She’s rubbing her chin, too. “Could we find someone else to marry the demon?”
I hold up my hand between them. “I’m not damning someone else.”
Penelope cocks her head. “You never know, we might find someone who’s into demons…”
“No,” I say.
“Well,” she says, “I’m not ruling it out.”
“I don’t suppose you’d been married before?” her dad asks me.
“No.”
“That’s too bad. Any children?”
“No.”
Mr. Bunce covers the lower part of his face with his hand, like just holding his chin wouldn’t be thoughtful enough. “Hmmm…” He shifts his fingers down. “Previously baptized?”
“No. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.” He sighs, then gathers up the papers, folds them, and gives them back to me. “Thank you for sharing these with me, Shepard.”
“Dad…” Penelope is getting distressed. “Wait. We need a plan.”
“Well, I’ll keep thinking about it,” he says. “I’m going to do some reading.”
“What’s Shepard supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Nothing dangerous, I hope.” Then he smiles at me and nods towards Penelope. “You might want to find different company, Shepard.”
“Dad,” she says, “I need to fix this.”
“And I’ll do my best to help,” he says. “I’m sorry I don’t have any solutions off the top of my head. It’d be easier if I could consult with your mother—”
“You can’t!”
“I know. I won’t. Just … don’t do anything to make this worse.” He seems to remember something. “Where’s Simon? Is he already off fighting the demon?”
“He’s…” Penelope shrugs. “He got his own flat.”
Mr. Bunce’s face falls. Like this is worse news than my engagement. “That doesn’t sound like Simon. Did you have a row?”
“No,” she says, looking down at her scone, “we’re fine. It’s not like we were going to spend our whole lives in each other’s pockets…”
“Could have fooled me,” her dad says.
46
SIMON
Baz is lying on my bed when I get out of the shower.
He brought pyjamas with him from his flat. I wonder if this is what he always sleeps in—cotton trousers and a T-shirt. I usually sleep in my pants, but I’ve been wearing joggers while he’s here. Baz let me borrow his pyjamas once, on Christmas Eve …
This was easier when it started.
This thing with Baz.
We were so caught up—with the Mage and the visitations and finding out who killed Baz’s mum. It’s always easier to make a decision when your back’s against the wall, and there’s a knife at your throat. No time to think; just do. Grab the thing you need. Grab the thing you want. Steal the kiss.
I’d live like that all the time if I could.
I’d make all my decisions jumping out of second-storey windows.
You know that phrase, “out of the frying pan, into the fire”? People say that like it’s a bad thing. But what’s the alternative—out of the frying pan, onto the counter?
Out of the frying pan, onto the sofa.
Baz kept trying to have a normal relationship with me, after I lost my magic. He’d bring me dinner and try to get me to watch films. Maybe that’s what he wants now … I’m more than a bit worried that I was only able to move forward with him these last few days because the fear of losing him was like having a knife to my throat. What happens when the danger fades?
“Are you air-drying?” Baz has sat up. He’s frowning at me.
The towel is hanging from my hand. I bring it up to my hair.
“Are the wings hard to clean?” he asks, still frowning.
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re a pain. I can only spread them out one at a time in the shower.”
Baz looks like he’s thinking. “I don’t have to sleep in the bed every night…”
I scrub at my hair. “Well, I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor.”
“I could cast a spell to soften it, it’d be fine…”
I let the towel drop around my neck. “Do you not want to sleep in the bed?”
He shakes his head. “No. I … I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I sigh. “You’ve got to stop questioning me. I’m holding on by a thread.”
He looks down. “Sorry.”
That came out wrong. I throw the towel into the bathroom and climb onto the bed beside him. “Hey, no … I’m sorry.”
Baz looks up at me, pushing his damp hair back behind his ears. “Simon, are you sure you want me here?”
“Christ, I just told you not to question me.”
“Yeah, I know, but you also told me you’re holding on by a thread. I don’t want to put you in that position.”
“I’m always holding on by a thread! I thought the important thing was that I’m holding on!”
“Right.” He rubs his face. “Right. It is. I’m sorry. I wish I were more confident. I’m not really built for this.”
I breathe out a laugh.
He scowls at me. “What?”
“How can you be insecure, Baz? You’re the most arrogant person I’ve ever met.”
“They run on different tracks.”
I laugh again.
“I’m going to sleep in your bed,” he says, like it’s a legal declaration.
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