Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(30)

I can only imagine what Simon and Baz did. They have wings and fangs and superstrength between them. Baz has an actual magic wand.

Hopefully it was all so obvious and over the top that no one will believe it was real. No real magicians would be so careless.

Morgana the mighty, everyone’s going to see this. All our friends. Our teachers.

Micah’s going to think I went directly off the deep end as soon as he dumped me.

I suppose I did.





24





BAZ


I should be very upset right now.

Bunce is a wreck in the back seat; you can see the waves of guilt and fear and shock rolling through her. Appropriately! Our parents are going to cut out our tongues when we get home. We’re definitely facing a trial before the Coven. Undoubtedly. The moment we’re back on British soil.

But we’re very much not on British soil now, are we?

And Simon Snow doesn’t have any parents.

His euphoria is contagious. Beyond contagious—enchanting.

I can still feel his mouth on mine, his arms around me. For the first time in so long. Maybe for the first time ever like that. So heady and carefree.

It’s like the day we turned back the dragon on the Watford lawn—but on that day, I had to pretend I wasn’t soaring inside. That I wasn’t absolutely shimmering from his magic and attention.

Simon’s still grinning—a half hour out of Omaha—letting the wind whip his hair into his eyes. Penny finally spelled his wings away so that he could put on his seat belt. (We got a few odd looks on the freeway.) He keeps reaching over to squeeze my shoulder or my arm. And it isn’t a question. There’s no hesitation. He’s just touching me because he’s happy. Because he’s high. And because I was there, I’m part of it, what’s making him happy.

He grabs the back of my neck and squeezes, shaking me gently back and forth. When I look over, he’s laughing.

They’re going to stone us when we get home. They’re going to strike our names from the Book.

But not until we get home.

If we get home.

America is endless. We may never run out of roads.



* * *



We pull over eventually, at a motorway service station. To use the loo and buy more terrible sandwiches.

Bunce and I are the first ones back to the car. “We must need petrol,” I say. “We haven’t filled up once.”

“I’ve been charming the tank,” she replies, frowning at her dinner. “How do Americans mess up sandwiches?”

“They’re dry and soggy,” I say, taking a bite. “At once.”

“How much trouble do you think we’re in?” She looks up at me, closing one eye against the setting sun.

“All of it,” I say.

“Maybe no one will see.”

“More people were videoing us than not videoing us.”

“I’ve been trying to think of a spell.…”

“To erase the Internet?” I set my sandwich on the car bonnet and start wrapping my scarf around my hair again. “You’d have to cast a holy book and sacrifice seven dragons.”

“So it’s not impossible.…”

“Give it up, Bunce. We are well and truly fucked.”

“Then why aren’t you more upset?”

Simon swaggers out of the shop, holding a bag. “I’ve found a way around the sandwich problem,” he says. “Beef jerky! This place sells at least thirty different kinds.”

He reaches into my jeans pocket for the keys. “My turn to drive.”

I spin away from his hand. “Is it?”

He holds my hips against the car and digs the keys out. We’re both laughing.

Bunce is watching us.

Simon gets into the driver’s seat, and Penny steps closer to me. I still haven’t managed this scarf. “We’ll be home in less than a week,” she says. “We have to think of something.”

The car starts. The radio is already blaring.

“Where are we sleeping tonight?” Simon asks.

I slide past Penny and get in the car. “We’ll know it when we see it.”



* * *



I was being poetic earlier, when I said that America was endless. But Nebraska really is endless. As big as England and as empty as the moon. I’ve never seen the sky look so black.

Cornfields give way to scrubby grasslands and rocks. We think we see pixies just after dark—flashes of light in the tall grass. But when we pull over and get closer, they turn out to be little phosphorescent beetles. “Fireflies,” Simon says. “I think.”

He and I wade into the grass, watching the bugs slowly blink on and off. They’re so sluggish in the air, it seems like you could almost catch one—and then Snow does catch one. He holds it out to me in his cupped palms, and I put my hands around his and look.

“Are they magic?” I ask.

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

The firefly gets bored of inspecting Simon’s palms and flits up between our bowed heads—we both jump. Then we try to catch another one, chasing each other as much as the blinking lights.

Even Bunce stops brooding long enough to join us. She squeals when she catches a beetle, dancing around like a pony. “Wolla-la-laggh! I’ve got it! I can feel its wings!”