Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(39)

His clothes are a bit odd. I wonder if he was in costume for the Renaissance Festival. He’s wearing green, wide-wale corduroy trousers, worn down to just stripes at the knees, and a denim jacket with a dozen different enamel pins and badges. He’s got a long, lanky face, too—can a face be lanky?—and gold-rimmed John Lennon glasses. He’s still covered in dust.

“I mean, I don’t know everything,” he says. “But, from what I can tell, the Quiet Zones happen naturally. No people? No spells. Some of these magickal creatures were the first immigrants. They had plenty to get away from back home, right? So they came to the Great Plains, and, yeah, there were native Speakers and creatures here already, but there was also a hell of a lot of room. It wasn’t till the Irish and the German Speakers showed up that there was real trouble. At some point, everyone agreed to mostly stay out of each other’s hair. The Quiet Zones were left to the creatures. The Speakers didn’t want them anyway; they stayed close to the Talkers.”

“What’s a Talker?” I ask.

“What you’d call a Normal. Me.”

“Right. So … we need to stay in well-populated areas?”

“As a rule, yeah. I mean there are magickal creatures everywhere these days; there are too few quiet places left to contain them. But that’s good news for you. Western Nebraska is the only Quiet Zone east of the Rockies. There are a few more between here and California.” He looks at me. “Is that where you’re headed? West?”

I don’t answer.

“I know you’re not really on holiday. Is this a mission—is it a quest?”

“If it were a mission, we’d be better prepared.”

“Are you on the run?”

“We are now,” I snap.

He leans forward, hanging on to the steering wheel. “I could help you. It’s not just the Quiet Zones you have to worry about. Like I said, there are only a few of those. But the magickal rules change every five miles around here. And the bosses. You could piss off somebody much worse than Jeff Arnold.”

“Who’s Jeff Arnold?”

“That were-skunk.”

“His name is Jeff?”

“What’d you think his name was—Flower?”

“How do you know so much?” I hold my ring hand up again. “Are you really a Normal?”

He lifts up both hands, letting go of the steering wheel. “Completely. I’m the most basic bitch possible.”

That makes me laugh. Just a little, I’m not sure why. I’m very tired.

He laughs, too. Probably relieved. Don’t get too relieved, Normal. I’d still stop your heart if I thought you were dangerous.

“Then how do you know so much?” I repeat.

He looks at me again, like he’s being serious—like he wants me to think he’s serious. “By being the sort of guy who follows witches and vampires off the main road.”

“That was incredibly stupid of you,” I say.

“I know.”

“We could have killed you.”

“Right, I know.”

“We could still kill you, at any moment.”

“Trust me,” he says. “I get it.”

“Then, why? Do you work for someone?”

“Dick Blick.”

“Who’s that? Another skunk enforcer?”

“No. It’s a shop. We sell expensive paints and pencils.”

“This is so frustrating—you’re not telling me anything!”

Baz hears me raise my voice and looks in from the back. I shake my head. Baz nudges Simon, and Simon looks in on me, too. I give him the thumbs-up, which is our personal code for “Everything’s fine.” (It’s a very obvious code, but you only need a sneaky code for when you’re not fine.) “I’m telling you everything,” the Normal says. “I’ve answered every single question.”

“So—how do you know about witches and vampires?”

“Everyone knows about witches and vampires!”

“How do you know about us?”

“I don’t know about you, Witch Girl. I want to. It is actually killing me not knowing. Three new Maybes show up, practically in my backyard, and go all Buffy the Vampire Slayer in front of half of Sarpy County—oh my God, is that what you are—slayers?”

“No, and what did you just call us—‘babies’?”

“Maybes. Magickal beings. It’s what people like me call people like you.”

I’m holding my forehead to keep it from exploding. “American Normals have a name for us?” For the Grace of Slick, this is an actual catastrophe.

“Not all Normals. Normals like me.”

“Like you.…” I purse my lips. “Do you mean irritating or foolhardy?”

“Normals who know about magic. I’m part of an online community—”

“Fuuuck meee.” I droop back against the seat.

“Hey.” He looks over at me. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“Everything, apparently. My mum was right about America. Also the Internet.”

“Did you think you could keep us in the dark forever?” The Normal’s getting passionate. Either this is coming from his heart, or he’s extremely cunning. “The world is full of magic! Look around you, these fields are full of pixies! You expect us to just ignore it?”