This is where I heal him. Where I prove my power.
I’m not like those who have come before me. The false prophets. I’m not like him. He failed them. (Good name be damned! Good hair. Scarlet wings.)
My power won’t fail.
My plan won’t fail.
I’ll fix their fallen idol, I’ll show him every mercy—I’ll restore him to glory.
I’ll restore the whole World of Mages to glory.
I’m the one the prophecies are all about. I’ll make this place like it was in the legends. With heroes. With miracles. With magic.
This is my story.
This is my Simon Snow chapter.
Once upon a time, I met an injured soldier.
Once upon a time, I took his hands in mine.
He’ll look very good standing next to me in the White Chapel.
He’ll sound very good spreading my good news.
59
SHEPARD
There’s a doorway to hell on Penelope’s floor. She pushed the couch aside to make room.
I rub my eyes. “I thought you said I was stupid to do this in my own house.”
“This is a rental,” she says. “Get started.”
I told Penelope I wouldn’t read the ritual out loud. And then she said, “Fine, I’ll read it.” And then I said, “I’m not letting you propose to a demon!” And she said, “Then I guess you’re reading it.” So here I am, standing above a doorway drawn with my own blood, holding the instructions Ken gave me two years ago.
“This is a very bad idea,” I say.
“Your favorite kind.”
“Penelope…”
She steps up to stand beside me, at the foot of the bloody door.
“You promised you’d stay in the kitchen,” I say.
“No, you asked me to stay in the kitchen. Shepard, do you trust me?”
I look down at her. She redid her ponytail and cleaned her glasses to prepare for the ritual, and put on, I swear to you, a gray cape. Her brown eyes are set deep and pinched fierce, and her lips are still puffy from kissing me. She’s got her purple gem in her fist.
“I do,” I say.
She stands on tiptoe to kiss me again. “Summon the demon,” she says, “and then stay out of my way.”
It’s different, speaking the ritual out loud now that I know it’s a proposal. (It’s embarrassing.) Maybe the demon won’t come this time—maybe there’s a different ritual for summoning your demon fiancée. I read the summons all the way to the end, then look down at the door …
And just like before, it opens.
The demon walks through like it’s climbing up stairs. It looks the same as it did last time. Sometimes like a woman. Sometimes like a bear. Sometimes like a hole.
It steps into Penelope’s living room, and there’s a feeling in my head like a heavy bass note playing on cheap speakers. I try to shake it off.
“Shepard,” the demon says warmly, and my head buzzes again, “my betrothed. Did you need to speak to me?” It looks very much like a woman at the moment. Smiling. Sincere. Its arms outstretched. It’s wearing very expensive-looking stilettos and a silk pantsuit. (Is it really wearing that? Or am I projecting it somehow? When I try to focus on its face, my head throbs.)
“Hi,” I say, “how are you?”
Penelope is already stepping between us. “Shepard doesn’t need to speak to you today. I do.”
The demon stops short and frowns at her. “And who are you?”
“I’m his advocate.”
It looks back at me. “You need an advocate, Shepard?”
“This is concerning the contract,” Penelope says crisply. She sounds very officious.
“The contract…” The demon’s eyes glow. (The woman’s eyes, the bear’s eyes; there’s a pair of eyes burning red in a black hole.) My tattoos start to swirl and itch.
Penelope looks unfazed. “It’s invalid, I’m afraid.”
“You should be afraid!” The demon turns to me. “Who is this mortal, Shepard? Who dares question our engagement?”
“I—”
Penelope steps between us. “Your arrangement is with Shepard Love?”
“Yes,” the demon growls.
“That isn’t this man’s name.”
The demon lurches closer to Penelope. “He lied to me?”
Penelope presses her lips together and tilts her head. “He didn’t fully disclose—”
“That is a lie!” the demon shouts. My head is full of static.
“Well”—Penelope shrugs, unimpressed—“whatever it is, it voids the contract.”
The demon looks at me over Penelope’s head. “I will disembowel you if this is true.”
“You could disembowel him after the wedding,” Penelope says, “if he is unfaithful; infertile; or if his face displeases you. The terms are clear. But providing false information merely invalidates the engagement.”
“Where does it say that?” the demon asks.
“Right above his wrist. ‘The agreement is null and void, and any favours or gifts shall be returned’—”
It huffs. “He didn’t ask for any favours!”
“That makes it easy, there’s nothing to undo.”
The demon looks especially bearlike and holelike for a moment. “This man called me of his free will!”
“I did,” I say, “I’m sorry.”
Penelope’s elbow catches me in the stomach.
“There were no tricks,” the demon goes on, “no entrapment! I wasn’t even looking for a husband!”
“We don’t dispute that,” Penelope says.
The demon jabs a paw into Penelope’s shoulder. “He summoned me with a time-tested, legally sound marriage proposal.”
“We stipulate to that fact.”
“He offered his name—and much else that I didn’t require!”
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask to see some identification,” Penelope says. “Or attempt any due diligence.”
The demon huffs white smoke into Penelope’s face. “I could kill you both!”
Penelope, unbelievably, steps forward. “You could, but that isn’t what you agreed to do in the case of inadequate disclosure.” She takes another step. “You agreed to invalidate the contract!”
The demon points at me, right over Penelope’s head. “I could elect to honour our covenant, regardless! I will come for you at the appointed hour, and take you on the long journey to my home, where we will be married for all my brethren to see. You will be immortal, because I will take you to a place where your kind cannot live or die.”
Penelope folds her arms. “You could choose to flout the law and disregard the contract … Perhaps your word is as worthless as his.”
The demon howls—the whole building vibrates—and then lumbers across the room to sit on Penelope’s couch. It looks like a woman again. Beautiful. With skin a color my eyes can’t see. And hair like horns, like hair, like a hole.
Penelope takes a breath to say something.
“Quiet,” the demon says. “I’m thinking.”
I really want to apologize or smooth this over somehow. Maybe I should offer the demon something to drink. Penelope must smell it on me; she presses her lips together and shakes her head, hard.
“We’ll amend the agreement,” the demon says, “clarifying his name and the consequences for further dishonesty.”
“I’m not your advocate—” Penelope starts to say.
“Indeed you are not,” the demon snaps. “I was not informed that I’d need representation.”
“—but I’d advise you to take this opportunity to protect your assets.”
“My assets are perfectly secure.”
“I regret to inform you,” Penelope says, sounding a lot like someone who works at the DMV and doesn’t feel any regret at all, “that this man comes to you with many debts.”
“He disclosed no debts!”
“He wasn’t asked to!”
“Any debt he owes in this world will be mean
ingless in mine!”
“He has promised someone else his firstborn,” Penelope regrets to inform it.
“His firstborn…” The demon widens into a hole that consumes the couch. Its voice is a devastation. “Shepard, how could you!”
“I wasn’t planning on having kids,” I mumble.
“Also his thirdborn,” Penelope adds. Crisp as hell. “As well as countless other debts and promises, some of them owed beyond death to creatures who live nearly forever.”
The demon rises from the couch and seeps towards me. “I told myself I was done with this earth … When is it ever worth the trouble?” I can taste the demon’s bitterness, like a mouthful of dirt, and my head won’t stop ringing. Penelope is feeling it, too, I think. She keeps twitching her head when the demon isn’t looking.
It’s closing in on me. Penelope moves between us, but the bearwomanholebear passes right through her.
It looms over me. “But you…” the demon says, taking me by the chin. “You were different. You took me off guard. To call one such as me and ask for nothing more than my hand…”
It caresses my cheek. Clawsfingersemptiness. “I was moved.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I would have given you eternity, Shepard,” the demon thrums. “I would have built you a throne.”
It sighs so low it feels like gravity. Like its breath is pulling us down, down, down. A ceramic dish on the table crumbles into dust.
“I should have asked to see some ID,” it says. “I normally do ask for references…”
It looks up into my eyes. And down into them. Its gaze surrounds me. “The contract is void,” it says. My forearms itch and tingle. I stand very still. “You are no longer my betrothed. Your debts are not mine. And you have no claim on immortality.”
The demon turns its attention to Penelope. “You, however…”
Penelope doesn’t flinch.
“You are very clever and very brave, and I like your knees.” The demon’s voice is honeyed now, like the lowest string on a double bass. “My powers are great,” it hums, “and I’m pleased to inform you that my hand is available.”
Penelope flinches. “Are you…”
“Is there anything you want in this world, young advocate?”
Penelope shakes her head. “No.”
“Very well,” the demon says, turning heavily away from us. “Call me if you change your mind.” It opens the door in the floor, and descends on two feet and four and like a sinking void.
I look down at Penelope. She’s staring at my arms.
At nothing but smooth brown skin.
60
BAZ
It takes forever to get to my aunt’s flat, even casting spells on traffic.
I run from the taxi, up the stairs, and open the front door with my wand instead of my key. Fiona’s in the living room. She jumps up from the sofa when I burst in.
“Fucking hell, Basil!”
There’s a man still sitting on the sofa—Nicodemus, the vampire. I run past them into Fiona’s room.
“What are you doing!” she shouts after me.
Her room is a disaster. The whole flat looked like this when I moved in … Clothes up to your knees. Unopened mail in stacks. Teacups full of cigarette butts and ashed-out incense. I go for the closet.
“Baz, seriously, get out of my room!”
“Where is it, Fiona!” I’m throwing shit out of her closet. Shoeboxes. Tights. Cut flowers that have never wilted.
“It’s still at Watford! I couldn’t find it!”
“At Watford?” I look over my shoulder. Fiona has followed me into the room. “The tape recorder?”
She looks pissed off and confused. “The tape recorder? No—what tape recorder?”
I go back to her closet. Vials of oil. Boxes of herbs. Bras. A wand I’ve never seen before. A bong made out of a lamp. A lamp made out of a bong. She’s pulling at the back of my shirt. I ignore her.
“What are you looking for, Baz!”
I wheel on her, pushing her off. “The tape recorder you gave me in fifth year!”
“Why would I give you a tape recorder? That’s a shit gift.”
Of course she doesn’t remember. Of course she doesn’t. “The one you gave me to steal Simon’s voice!” I yell.
Fiona puts her hand on her forehead. “Ohhhhhhhhh, the tape recorder. Fuck, that took a lot of magic—and it didn’t even work.”
“It worked.”
“Mmm.” She clicks her tongue. “Don’t think so. Your man was just here, and I heard him talk.”
“It stole a girl’s voice, remember? Philippa Stainton’s.”
“Philippa Stainton … She’s not one of ours, is she?”
“FUCK!” I shout, kicking Fiona’s bong. It shatters. “Just—where is it!”
She laughs. “Where’s a tape recorder I gave you ten years ago?”
“It was five years ago.”
“Well, I don’t know, what did you do with it, Baz?”
“I gave it back to you, Fiona!”
She shrugs. “What was I supposed to do with some girl’s voice?”
“Why…” I fall back against the wall, leaning over and holding my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick. “Why did you ever give it to me…”
“You know why—it was meant for Simon.”
“I didn’t know what it would do to him!”
“You knew we were at war!”
I look up at her. “He was fifteen, Fiona…”
“And the Mage was already using him against us!”
“I was fifteen, too!”
“Yeah, and you were five when they killed your mother!” She puts her hands on her hips and her tongue in her cheek and laughs one cold syllable: “Hnnh. Don’t try to make me feel guilty about this … We were at war.”
“I wasn’t at war, I was at school.”
“You wanted to help.”
“I wanted to make you happy, I wanted to be a good Pitch! Whatever that means…”
“You know what it means, Basil. You always have, even when you were small. I could always trust you to keep an eye on the Mage.”
“Fiona…” I’m holding my head now. “Anything I said when I was ten was just me parroting your words back to you. I wasn’t being a good soldier or a good spy; I just wanted your attention!”
She shakes her head. “I don’t feel bad about giving you that tape recorder; do you want me to feel bad?”
“Yes!” I stand up. “I stole an innocent girl’s voice! She lost her magic!”
“Shit happens, Baz!”
“I happened, Fiona! I’m the shit!”
“Well, I’m not sorry!” she shouts.
“You should be!” I scream back. “I was a child, and you used me!”
“And it fucking worked—it was children who brought down the Mage!”
“It was Simon who brought down the Mage! And it wouldn’t have happened if I’d stolen his voice…” I kick at a pile of clothes.
There’s nothing here. Not for me.
I leave Fiona in her room.
Nico is still sitting on the sofa. He jerks to his feet when I come in.
I snort. As if I’m going to open that box right now, the one labelled, My fuckup vampire-hunter aunt is hooking up with a vampire fuckup. No, thank you. I have enough on my plate.
I’m not a child anymore.
Fiona doesn’t get to tell me what it means to be a good Pitch.
I don’t think I care.
61
PENELOPE
The tattoos are gone.
Shepard holds out his arms, and I run my fingertips up the inside of one forearm. They’re gone.
“Penelope…” he says. “You did it.”
I did it. Shepard isn’t going to hell … At least not that version of it.
“Penelope!” Shepard sounds a little delirious. He picks me up and spins me around. “You did it!”
“I mean”—I hold on to his shoulders—“yo
u did help.”
“You’re an absolute madwoman! You summoned a demon in your living room. You’re an entire crazy train!”
I frown down at him. “I wouldn’t say crazy … I had a plan.”
“A crazy plan.” He sets me down, still holding me. “What if it hadn’t worked?”
“I was pretty sure it was going to work.”
“Yeah, but it might not have…”
I shake his shoulders. “Stop second-guessing me, Shepard! The proof is in the pudding.”
“You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, kissing me. “You’re an F5, easily. Maybe an F6.”
I let him kiss me. I like it when he kisses me. “We broke the curse…” I murmur.
“You broke the contract,” he says.
“It was never valid.”
He pulls away, grinning down at me. “Should I be hurt that you got me out of this by convincing that demon that I was more trouble than I’m worth?”
“I merely presented the facts.”
He kisses me soundly, then starts laughing, purely from joy, I think. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Shepard.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m probably going to slay your friend Ken.”
* * *
Once we’ve cleaned up the doorway and moved the sofa back, it’s imperative that I talk to Simon.
I try to text him, but his phone is dead. (It only holds a charge for a few hours—he needs a new one.) “Come on, Shepard,” I say.
Shepard’s standing in the middle of the living room, looking down at his arms. “Where are we going?”
“To talk to Simon.”
“I thought you didn’t know where he was.”
“Pfft. It’s almost impossible to hide from someone you love.”
Shepard pulls on his black-and-white shoes without unlacing them. He reaches for his denim jacket, but I catch his hand. He looks at the jacket, then laughs. I may never get over how good it feels to know I’m largely responsible for this.
There’s a picture of me and Simon on the refrigerator. I hold my fist over it, cast “Winter, spring, summer or fall!”—and my gem starts tugging me out of the kitchen before I’ve even said his name.
Any Way the Wind Blows Page 30
