Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(42)

I drive, just in case things get dicey, and Bunce tries to navigate using a map she’s found in the glove compartment. Her mobile’s still in the Mustang. Mine is still offline.

Our main goal is to get away. That Normal was too clever. He might be tracking us. He might even have a magickal way of tracking us. Snow has switched into full-on battle mode; I haven’t seen him like this since the Mage died.

I envy what he has with Bunce. They act like this is their tenth tour of duty together. It makes me realize that Simon had a whole life I didn’t know about back in school. The Mage used him to fight whatever needed fighting—even when Simon was just a kid. (Simon was always just a kid.) And even though his power’s gone, Simon is still perfectly comfortable playing the boy soldier.

I suppose he isn’t a boy anymore.…

I suppose neither of us are.

We intentionally lose ourselves in the mountains. Bunce says there are towns everywhere, so we won’t have to worry about our magic dropping out—what we have left of it. We’ve both been casting ourselves dry. You might wonder how magicians could ever lose a battle against other magickal creatures; our advantage seems so steep. This is how. Exhaustion.

The sun is bright in the Rockies. I’m happy to have a roof over my head, after escaping Nebraska as cargo. But I’m tired, and I swear I can feel that we’re climbing closer to the sun.





SIMON


I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere prettier than this.

The mountains are every colour—grey and blue and almost purple, with slashes of dark green trees, and orange and red rocks.

We pull off the road near a stream, and Baz goes to rinse some blood out of his shirt and hair. (He must have torn the heart out of that skunk.) We left the motel before any of us could shower.

“We should summon our luggage,” Baz says. He’s facing away from us. His shirt is off, and his back is pale and bright, his hair wet and black, dripping down his neck.

“What if that leads them right to us?” Penny wants to know.

“I don’t much care,” he says. “I want my clothes. And my sunglasses. And my mother’s scarf.”

“I suppose I’d like my phone back,” she says.

I’d like them to summon the entire classic convertible, but I don’t think they’d be into the idea.

Penelope and I are sitting on the ground, eating some turkey jerky we found in the Silverado. (I quite like jerky.) Baz walks over to us, buttoning his wet and mangled shirt.

“What are you thinking?” Penny asks, holding out some jerky for him. “‘Lost and found’?”

“How would that even work?” I ask. “Is your stuff going to fly from Nebraska?”

“Maybe,” she says. “I’ve only used ‘Lost and found’ for things that were close at hand, like when I’ve set my keys in the wrong place.”

“Baz,” I say, “what if your flying suitcase kills someone?”

“I don’t think we could summon something that far anyway,” Penny sighs. “Especially not right now. I’m clapped out.”

Baz settles between us on the ground. “I’ve got a better idea.” He holds his wand out to Penny. (He must have rinsed that off, too. Last time I saw it, it was covered in goat blood.) “Give me a hand.”

Penny raises an eyebrow, but she wraps her ring hand around his wrist.

“Follow my lead, Bunce.” Baz closes his eyes. His eyelids are dark grey. He takes a deep breath and then he … starts to sing? “A-ma-zing grace—”

Penny yanks her hand away. “A hymn, Basil?”

Baz sighs.

“We can’t cast a hymn!” she says.

“Not with that attitude…”

“It’s sacrilege!”

“Superstition, Penelope.”

She shakes her head. “And it’s too general. That song’s more of a vibe than a spell.”

“It’s old,” he says. “It’s powerful. The Americans know it.”

I bang my shoulder against his. “Are you guys trying to summon Jesus?”

Penny points at him. “You know I’m tone-deaf.”

“Fortunately,” Baz says, catching her forearm, “the goal isn’t to sing well, just to sing together. Our ancestors cast in choirs.”

He’s got her attention now; Penny’s a fiend for magickal history. “But we’re both spent, Baz.…”

“Harmony is power,” he says.

Penny sighs and wraps her hand back around his wrist. “If this works, my mother will be so impressed, she might grant me a last meal.”

“Lean into it,” he says. “And hit ‘found’ hard. You know intention counts.”

Baz closes his eyes again. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound!” His voice sounds lush when he sings. Deeper and heavier than when he talks. The last time I saw someone cast a song—the only time I’ve seen someone cast a song—it was the Mage. That day. Over Ebb.

Ebb …

The Mage, he—

Well, he never taught us music. How much did he leave behind when he took over Watford? There used to be a drama society, I know, and more of an emphasis on history. Was there a choir, too? It’s like I never got to know the World of Mages, because my mentor turned it upside down before I got there.