We end up in another taxi—cabdrivers really hate taking directions like this—and a half hour later, we’re in Hackney Wick. We get out at a terrace house that’s been split into flats.
“I’m not getting into any more taxis with you unless you show me cash first,” Shepard says, as we walk up to the house. There are two buzzers by the door. “Which apartment is it?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. It’s so strange to think of Simon living here, of him having his own place. Without me.
“Bunce, is that you? Are you all right?” Baz is coming up the walk behind us. His hair is dishevelled, and he looks like he’s been weeping—his eyes are shadowed and shot with grey.
“I’m fine,” I say. “What happened to you?”
“Me,” he says. “Nothing. I’m good as new. Snow won’t let you in?”
“I hadn’t tried yet.”
“Come on up, I have a key.” Apparently he and Simon have patched things up. We follow him upstairs, and he lets us into the flat, switching on the light. “Simon? Are you home?”
Baz looks even worse under the light.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” I ask him.
“I’m fine, Bunce. Snow will be home any minute, I’m sure. He was—”
There are footsteps on the staircase. All three of us turn to watch the door.
Simon comes in, looking even worse than Baz. Like he’s just lost a fight with an ennuisel.
Baz rushes towards him. “Simon?”
Simon is staring at me. “Penelope?”
I rush towards him, too. “Simon, what’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer me. He collapses in my arms instead.
I hold him. I think he’s crying. Baz is standing over us, looking wretched and concerned. “Snow, what happened?”
“Nothing,” Simon says, gulping. “Nothing happened. Just … I’m a fool.”
Baz curls his lip. “Did Smith do this? What did he say to you?”
“Who’s Smith?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know,” Baz says, at the same time that Simon says, “He’s the new Chosen One.”
“Stevie Nicks and Gracie Slick. I let the pair of you out of my sight for a week…”
* * *
There are brand-new dishes from Ikea sitting on the counter. I rinse off some mugs, while Baz tries to make tea without a kettle. He can’t manage the spell. “You are not all right,” I say to him. “And you’re going to tell me why, as soon we have Simon sorted.”
“So…” Baz rubs his eyes. “That’s never, then.”
“Rosie Lee!” I cast.
We take the tea out to Shepard and Simon. They’re sitting on the floor in Simon’s empty living room. Simon’s leaning against the wall, wringing his hands in his hair.
“Here,” Baz says, holding out a cup. “Drink.”
“All right,” I say, sitting next to Simon. “So there’s a guy named Smith who claims to be the Greatest Mage…”
“It isn’t just a claim, Penny—he’s the real deal.” Simon’s being especially strident. “He has a spell to help people reach their full magickal potential.”
I balk: “What does that mean?”
“Magickal power-ups.” Baz sits down at Simon’s other side. “Like Super Mario mushrooms. He’s promised to turn my stepmother into Baba Yaga.”
“Well,” I say, “that can’t be real.” Baz’s stepmum couldn’t spell her way out of a wet paper bag.
“We’ve seen him cast it,” Simon insists. “It works.”
“Yeah, but…”
Simon huffs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “Why is this so difficult for you guys to accept? You all believed I was the Greatest Mage when I showed up out of nowhere!”
“You grew on us.” Baz lays a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Snow—what happened tonight, after I left?”
Simon looks into his cup. “I went out for a pint. With Smith.”
“With Smith,” Baz repeats.
“And he … Well, he offered to fix my magic.”
Baz shoves Simon’s shoulder back, splashing his tea all over. “He what?”
“Great snakes,” I say, mopping at my knees. “Could that work? Would you even want it to, Simon? He could fix you right back into Humdrum territory!”
“Which is why you said no,” Baz says. “Correct?”
“I…” Simon looks at Baz’s face, then at mine, then back at his lap. He sets down his half-empty cup. “It doesn’t matter. It didn’t work.”
Baz is livid. I think his fangs may have popped. “Are you telling us he tried it?!”
I’m livid, too; I let Simon out of my sight for a week, and—“You allowed someone to cast an experimental spell on you!?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Simon not-quite-shouts. He’s tearful again. “It didn’t do anything! I’m not a mage! Smith couldn’t fix me because there’s nothing to fix!”
That shuts us up for a minute. I look at Baz, and Baz looks at me. I’m not sure what we’re trying to tell each other. Maybe just, Well, fuck.
I look back at Simon and try to be gentle. “How do you know? Have you tried casting a spell?”
“Yeah…”
“With whose wand?” Baz wants to know.
“With Smith’s.”
“With Smith’s.” Baz is rubbing his forehead. “I’m going to eviscerate him.”
Simon shakes his head. “Smith didn’t do anything wrong. His spell didn’t hurt me, Baz—it just confirms what I’ve known all along. I think I knew it even when I was full of magic. I’m a Normal. I’m nothing…”
As soon as he says it, his head jerks up to Shepard, who’s been sitting quietly beside me. “Oh God, Shepard, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Simon’s eyes get wide. He sits up straight. “Shepard … your tattoos!”
Shepard looks, for once, like he doesn’t want to interfere. He smiles and holds out his arms. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Gone.”
“But what about the curse?”
“What curse?” Baz asks.
“Shepard’s cursed,” Simon says. “He made a deal with the devil.”
“It wasn’t exactly a deal—” Shepard says.
Baz looks offended. “Why didn’t anyone tell me we brought home a cursed Normal?”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” Simon says. “I don’t tell anyone about your curse…”
“Everyone already knows about my curse,” Baz says.
“I’m not cursed anymore.” Shepard rests a hand on my shoulder. “Penelope fixed it.”
Simon and Baz both turn to me.
“You fixed it…” Baz looks wary.
“How?” Simon asks.
“I’ll explain later, it’s really not that—”
Shepard literally leans in front of me to interrupt: “She summoned the demon and browbeat it into letting me off!”
“You did what?” Baz says, in the same tone he’s been using on Simon for ten minutes.
“You should have seen her,” Shepard says. “It was insane!”
“It wasn’t insane,” I correct. “I had a plan.”
“It was more of a hunch,” he says, “but it worked! She Matlocked this demon into submission. It was like watching someone play chess with Death.”
“What’s Matlock?” Simon asks.
Baz is still shocked. “You summoned a demon?”
“I executed a research-based plan,” I say.
“She summoned a demon!” Shepard looks so proud, it’s making me blush. “In her living room! And didn’t even blink!”
Simon leans into me, knocking my shoulder with his. “That sounds like Penny.”
“So no one is cursed…” Baz says.
“Just you, babe,” Simon says.
Baz shakes his head. “We left you alone for a week, Bunce…”
Simon grins at Shepard. “This calls for a celebration! We need to celebrate.”
The rest of us frown at him. “We don’t need to celebrate,” I say. “We need to get t
o the bottom of this spell that was cast on you.”
“There’s no bottom to get to.” Simon is emphatic. “I’m already there. Smith cast a spell on me, it didn’t work—end of story. Literal, actual end of story. I’m not a mage.”
“Snow—” Baz chides.
“Seriously, can we focus on someone else for once?” Simon looks at Shepard. “Shep! You’re not going to hell anymore! And you don’t have to wear a jacket in the middle of June. Do you know how jealous I am?”
Shepard smiles at Simon. Baz and I are looking at each other cryptically again. I think we’re agreeing not to let Simon change the subject like this … (We should really come up with some hand signals or something.)
“Perhaps Snow is right…” Baz says carefully.
I shake my head.
Baz goes on. “If you really outwitted a demon, Bunce, that’s one for the history books.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s very nearly fond.
I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t that impressive.”
“Balls to that,” Simon says. “They’re going to teach a class about you at Watford someday.”
“To Penelope,” Shepard says gently, holding his teacup in the air. “My hero.”
Simon raises his cup. “Mine, too!”
“A very fierce magician,” Baz says, toasting. “I don’t mind saying.”
My cheeks feel very warm. And my eyes are burning. This really isn’t the time for this. “It was no trouble. I didn’t even have to get out my gem.”
62
BAZ
We celebrate by ordering pizza and listening to Penelope and Shepard argue about exactly how she managed to get him out of what was apparently a beastly awful engagement.
I’m not surprised that Bunce vanquished a demon with only a Normal for backup, but she still should have asked for our help. We definitely could have used hers. Keeping Snow out of trouble is a two-man job. I can’t do it by myself—look what happened tonight.
What did happen?
Simon doesn’t seem … materially damaged. But he was already emotionally compromised; the last thing he needed was the shiny new Chosen One kicking him while he was down.
What a feather that would have been in Smith-Richards’s cap—if he’d patched up the old golden boy and paraded him in front of the entire World of Mages. What an endorsement.
Now no one will know that Smith-Richards failed. Only Simon, and he blames himself.
Thank magic Bunce came back when she did. Snow is soaking her up like sunshine. It’s going to take them two weeks to catch up on the week they spent apart. After an hour or so, I excuse myself from the merry reunion to hunt. Simon attempts to come along, but I don’t want to pull him away from Penelope. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t have to go far. Snow lives near a canal now, and the rats are abundant. I may even catch an otter. I decide to stuff myself while I’m out here. Sometimes, if I fill myself to the brim, I can skip hunting for a whole day. I can pretend I’m still human.
It doesn’t really mean anything that Smith-Richards’s spell failed … We don’t even know what his spell does or how it works. This isn’t conclusive proof that Simon was never a mage …
As much as he’d like that, I think. It would help him settle into this Normal life he’s trying to build for himself. He’s got me playing Normal, too. I’ve already stopped offering to cast spells around the flat.
Bunce hasn’t got the memo yet. She’s had her gem out every five minutes since she arrived. She tried to spell the pizza delivery person, but I insisted on paying. (“Thank God,” Shepard said. “She’s gone full Butch Cassidy this week.”)
When I get back to Snow’s flat—after seven rats and a badger—Bunce has spelled the floor soft and conjured up sleeping bags. “Penny and Shepard are staying over,” Simon says. Shepard is already curled up in the corner sleeping the sleep of the recently uncursed.
“I think I’m going to bed,” I say. “I’m clapped out.”
“Oh, so you stay the night now…” Penelope teases.
I cock an eyebrow. “Oh, so you fraternize with Normals now…”
“I—”
“We’re not blind, Bunce.” She’s been blushing at Shepard all night, and he’s clearly had a crush on her since Colorado.
Simon grins. “Wait, really?” he whispers. “You and Shepard?”
Apparently, I’m not blind. I leave them to it. I take a quick shower, then spread Simon’s new striped sheets on his bed. He’s not in here to feel oppressed by my magic, so I cast a spell to quickly wash them. It takes me three tries. My hands are trembling, and I can’t say the spell with any conviction … Maybe it’s good that Simon doesn’t want me casting spells in his flat. I’m too rattled to get one out.
I crawl into bed, pulling the sheet up over me.
I’m cold. And unpleasantly full. And I feel like there’s a car parked on my chest.
Since we left America, I’ve been trying to decide what I’m culpable for …
I don’t feel bad for killing the vampires who took Agatha. (They were a nasty bit of work, good riddance.)
But what about those vampires at the Renaissance Faire? I thought they were murderous—but at the time, I thought all vampires were murderous.
Were they really going to drain those women dry? Or were they merely going to tap them for a few pints, the way Lamb did to that man in the alley? And does the latter get a pass?
What if they were a group of bloodless friends enjoying a day out with their fully blooded girlfriends, sharing a consensual sip in the shade …
No, I don’t think so. The girls screamed.
The point is—we killed those vampires without any sort of evaluation. We didn’t hesitate. (Just like my mother didn’t hesitate.) (Vampires are dead. They’re death.)
Simon doesn’t feel guilty about it; he’s killed too many things to wear every soul around his neck like a stone. Penelope doesn’t feel guilty; she’d raze all of Las Vegas if she had the chance. I don’t know what I feel … I don’t know what I’m responsible for, in America.
But I do know that I stole Philippa Stainton’s voice.
She was just a girl, an innocent girl. And, yes, I was just a boy, but I was far less innocent—I knew I was carrying something dangerous that day.
I stole her voice.
And I stole her magic.
And I stole her life as a magician. That’s on me.
And I can’t fix it. I can’t—I can’t breathe under it. I don’t know how to carry it. And it’s only been a few hours. (For me. Years for her.) How am I going to get through the rest of my life feeling this way?
Simon comes into the bedroom after an hour or so, walking softly. He thinks I’m asleep. He pulls his Watford hoodie over his head and drops it on the floor. He isn’t wearing anything underneath. He rolls out his bare shoulders, and his wings slowly loosen and unfurl, purplish black in the dark. He spreads them wide, arching his back, and lifting his chin to stretch his neck. He looks …
“Come to bed,” I whisper.
He looks over at the bed, squinting. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Not yet. Come to bed.”
“Haven’t showered yet.”
“It’s all right. It’s your bed.”
He unbuttons his jeans, still squinting at me. His eyes aren’t as good as mine in the dark. “Are you sure?”
I hold the sheet open for him.
He pushes his jeans down and kicks them away, climbing into the bed beside me. I bring the sheet back up over him, and he scoots closer, shifting a bit to get his wings settled behind him. He’s warm, and he smells like a pub. Like cider and fish and a little like pizza.
I slide an arm around his waist. “Did you make up with Bunce? Has she moved in?”
He shrugs. He’s still shifting and wriggling closer. “I apologized like you said I should.”
“And?”
“And she said we don’t need magic to be friends.”
&nb
sp; “Wise girl.”
Simon brings a knee up over my thigh. “She said she only has two and a half friends, and she can’t afford to lose any.”
“Am I the half, or is Agatha?”
“You’re both three-fourths.”
“Fucking Bunce.”
Simon touches my chin. “You smell good.”
“Soap,” I say.
“Where’d you go tonight?”
“Hunting.”
“Before that.”
I shudder, and he moves even closer, nose to nose, bringing a wing around us.
“Do you need a blanket?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just stay close.”
“Where’d you go, Baz?”
“I realized I’d left something at Fiona’s…”
“What?”
I shake my head. “Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m done in.”
“Yeah.” He brushes my hair away from my face. “I thought you were asleep.”
I run my palm up his back and between his wings. He’s so warm. He smells like blood, but I’m too sloshed for the smell to sting. “Did you feel anything when he cast the spell?” I don’t feel like saying Smith-Richards’s name right now, here.
Simon shrugs again. “I felt his magic. The way you do when someone casts a spell on you.”
“What does his magic feel like?”
He nestles even closer, his chest rubbing against mine, through my T-shirt. “I’m so tired of magic,” he says.
“Did it hurt?”
“No. It made me feel … full.”
“Full?”
“Like I was a bubble popping.”
I pull Simon in tighter. “I’m really angry with you for letting him cast that spell on you.”
“You don’t look angry.”
“You can’t see me.”
“You smell good,” he says again.
“It’s soap. What spell did you try to cast? To test your magic?”
Simon twines his fingers in my hair. “I tried a few. It was humiliating.”
“Which ones did you try?”
“I just said it was humiliating…”
“All right.” I sigh. I’m wrung out. So is he. We can talk about this tomorrow. I’m glad to have tomorrow at least. I’m glad to be here tonight. It’s just … “It’s just … Simon, how do you know his spell didn’t work?”
Any Way the Wind Blows Page 31
