Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(35)

“I’m an American,” the goat-man says. “Fourth generation. My family came here to get away from the likes of you.”

“Magicians?” she asks.

“Indians?” Snow says.

“The fucking English,” the goat replies.

I clear my throat. “Apologies,” I say to the polecat. “We didn’t realize we were entering any zone. We don’t know the rules here.”

The goat-man is patting me now, and being significantly more skeevy. I could probably snap his neck—I might even take the polecat down before he can shoot me, I am very fast—but there are other shadows lurking behind them. Who knows what sort of warped menagerie is out there? How many man-things with shotguns?

“So,” I say, ignoring the goat breath, “we’re terribly sorry. We’ll move along now.”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” the polecat says. “And the law is very clear on this matter: No Speakers in the Quiet Zone, not outside of the reservation or off the interstate. The Normals in these parts, few as they are, are ours.”

“We don’t want your Normals,” Bunce says.

“Your kind never gets enough,” the polecat says, spitting again. “If we let you go your merry way, that sends a message. That we’re not holding up our end of the bargain.” He aims his gun at Simon. “You look more like one of us than one of them. What are you? Red devil? Spite sprite? Were-adactyl?”

Simon’s jaw is set. His cheeks are dark, even in the bright lights. He’s watching the goat-man check my back pockets. Again.

The polecat looks over at the goat’s hands. “For God’s sake, Terry. Get your giggles on your own time.”

And then Simon goes off.

He’s less explosive than he used to be—but no less a spectacle.

He tosses my wand over his shoulder with his tail, catches it in his right hand, then slams it into the goat’s neck. The goat falls into me like a stack of wet bricks, and I shove him off, thinking only of the gun.

Bunce had the same thought. She’s lunged at the polecat. They’re both on the ground, clinging to the barrel of the shotgun. I pull the polecat away from her, and his gun goes off—for the last time. I seize hold of it and break it over my knee. (It doesn’t hurt.)

“Don’t let him bite you!” someone shouts. “He’s were!”

“As if I’d want the likes of you in my surfeit,” the polecat snarls. He’s a foot shorter than me, and he’s pawing at my chest with long, sharp claws. I drop the gun and grab him by his furry wrists. I don’t have a plan. I think I’m trying not to kill him.

I can see Simon in my peripheral vision, fighting someone/something that looks human, with hands that glow red. Simon is flapping above her, kicking her in the back, trying to avoid her red magic.

“Hey, vampire!” someone shouts. I ignore it.

Then I hear Penny yell, “Baz!”

I turn and see the Normal behind the wheel of his truck. Penny’s in the passenger seat, leaning out the window. “Come on!”

When I look back down at the polecat, he’s grinning. I catch a whiff of some hideous funk, and then I’m surrounded by it. I let go of his arms and shove him away from me.

“Baz!” Penny yells again. She’s still got her window open. Something small and hairy is scrabbling at her door. The truck is driving away. I run after it, shouting Simon’s name.

It’s easy to catch up. It’s easy to wrench the creature away from the cab. To leap into the truck bed. I’m standing in the back, screaming for Simon.

He’s still fighting. Kicking. Flying.

There’s a gunshot. Then three more. Then—

“Simon!”





28





SIMON


I’ll be damned and drawn and fucking quartered before I watch some devil-eyed goat feel up my boyfriend right in front of me.

Baz was trying to talk us out of this disaster, but it was never going to work—these creatures came for blood, they said so. Plus I recognized their vibe. They’ll take anything we’ve got, shake us down for information, then put our heads on pikes.

I like their chances. All three of us are deeply off our game. Penny and Baz are hamstrung and blinkered without their magic. Baz is probably the most powerful being here. But he thinks like a magician, not a vampire. Without his wand, the fight’s gone out of him—he wants to talk. Well, we’ll never talk our way out of this.

We don’t even know what we’re dealing with; is this a posse or an army? None of us know the first thing about American magickal creatures. I’m not even sure what that animal with the rifle is—a badger?

The Mage always said America was a constant threat to the World of Mages. America is decentralized, unorganized, magickally lawless. The magicians here don’t even talk to each other if they’re not related. It’s every mage for himself.

“Mavericks and terrorists,” the Mage said. “No sense of community, no common goals. Half of them using their magic to wash the dishes, half of them living like debauched sultans.

“I blame the vernacular. Wholly unstable! Too much in flux! Their dialect is like a river stripped of its natural bends and shallows—their spells expire before they ever master them.