Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(26)

Penelope has decided to take umbrage at all the bad English accents. (And bad Scottish accents and bad Irish accents and some that sound like very bad Australian accents.) But Baz has taken to it like a fish to water. He can out-thine the best of them.

I beg them both to walk around for a bit. “You’re not supposed to stay in the car the whole time on a road trip,” I say. “You’re supposed to get out and see things, meet strange people—lotus-eaters and sirens.”

“That’s not a road trip,” Baz says, “that’s the Odyssey. When did you read the Odyssey, Snow?”

“The Mage made me read it—I think he wanted it to rub off on me—and it is so a road trip!”

Baz smiles at me. Like he hasn’t in a while. Like he almost never has, in public—like it’s easy. “You’re right, Snow. Better tie you to the mast.”

He’s wearing a shirt with a whole field of flowers on it. I didn’t know how to dress once we didn’t have to wear uniforms every day, but Baz was apparently spoiling for it. He almost never wears the same thing, the same way, twice.

He’s coming into himself. And I’m coming apart.

But not today. Today I’m someone else entirely. Today I’m just a bloke with fake red wings.

There’s a shop selling crystals and magickal artefacts down the way. Penny wants to stop and make sure nothing actually magickal has snuck in. Across the path is a sword shop—so many people are selling swords here!

Baz follows me into the sword tent. (LONG & BROAD, the sign says.) “You can’t pick up every sword, Snow.”

“I can’t hear you,” I say, trying out a poorly balanced sabre.

“Pray, my lord, my light—thy cannot test every blade in the kingdom.”

That makes me laugh, and him, too. I toss him the sabre, and he catches it.

“I don’t know anything about swords,” he says.

“More’s the pity,” I say. “We could spar.” I look back at the racks. “We could have, I mean.” I suppose I don’t have a sword of my own anymore. The Sword of Mages used to hang at my hip, there whenever I called it. I can’t call it now. I can’t say the spell to summon it. Or—I can say it, but nothing happens.

Baz tried once—held his wand over my left hip and said the incantation: “In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good.”

It didn’t appear.

“I suppose it only works for the Mage’s Heir,” he’d said.

“That’s nobody anymore,” I said back.

Baz throws another sword at me. I scramble to catch it. It’s lighter than I expect, made of foam. He’s holding up one just like it. “This is more my speed,” he says.

“That’s the Master Sword,” I say.

“Perfect for me then.”

“From The Legend of Zelda?”

He still doesn’t get it. Baz isn’t into games. He holds out the foam blade. “En garde, you knave. You reprobate scapegrace.”

I tap his blade with mine. He tries to parry. He’s terrible at this.

I can’t think of anything else Baz is terrible at. He’s someone else here, too.

“You breaketh, you buyeth!” a man shouts at us.

We ignore him, banging our swords and shuffling out into the road. I’m going easy on Baz. Just batting him back. He’s trying to look fierce, but he keeps laughing.

He breaks through my cover just once to tap my leg. “You’re losing it, Snow! Is this how you defeated the hobgoblin horde?”

“You’re more distracting than a hobgoblin,” I say. “Your hair is shinier.”

“‘You have witchcraft in your lips,’” Baz says.

“Is that more Shakespeare?”

“Yeah, sorry. I know you prefer Homer.”

He’s pushing me back into a wooden post. I’m totally letting him. I hold my foam sword up in front of my chest. His is pressed against it. “Check. Mate,” he says.

“That’s completely wrong,” I say.

“I win.”

“I’m letting you win.”

“That’s still a win, Snow. That might even be a more conclusive win.”

Baz’s grey eyes are shining. He smells like sunblock. I’m trying to think of an insult. I’m wondering if I could kiss him. If the other person I am today could kiss the other person he is. Is that legal in Nebraska? Is it allowed at the Faire?

Baz hisses, turning his head and body away from me, like he smells blood.

I turn after him. “What…”

He’s staring at a pack of people coming our way—six or seven of them dressed like vampires, plus a few of the busty women in corsets that you see everywhere. (I still haven’t sorted whether I’m still attracted to women or whether I ever was, or whether I’m some kind of Baz-only-sexual. But the cleavage at this place is abundant, and I’m not mad about it.) “Look,” I say, trying to draw his attention away from the fake vampires, “I know this is—whatever Penny called it, appropriation—but don’t let it get your back up.”

Baz’s lip is curled. The band of vampires swaggers closer. They’re dressed like various bloodsucking stereotypes. A couple of them have capes. One’s a girl, dressed like Captain Hook or something. There’s fake blood splattered all over their costumes. Only their mirrored sunglasses are ruining the effect.