Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(47)

Fuck.

I try to shout, but choke instead. My chest still burns from the gunshots. I need to eat. I need to drink. I am under every sort of weather.

Simon is tossing around again. The woman turns to look at him. “Fool kitten. Gone and made a dangerous friend. You’ll suffer for it.”

What is she? A fairy? An elf? Does America still have those? Are these the Undying Lands? My mother would know. She could name every sort of magickal being and creature, even the lost and the dead.

The woman lifts her head. She smells something.

I smell it, too—something human. A Normal.

“Shepard!” the woman says out loud. She’s smiling.

“Margaret!” It’s the Normal we left in Denver. I can’t yet see him, but I recognize his voice and his scent. He must have been working with this woman all along.

The Normal steps over me, and the old woman holds out her arms, ready to embrace him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” he says, hugging her.

“Too warm.” She’s petulant. “Can’t sleep. Too warm all the time now.” She’s butting her head against his shoulder. Down his arm. “You’ve brought me something. Can smell it.”

He laughs and holds out his palm.

She grabs whatever he has in it—rings—and slides them on her already crowded fingers. “Too good to me, Shepard. Good boy. Good man.”

“I see you’ve met my friends,” he says.

The woman frowns and steps away from him. “Not your friends. Now and Next.”

“I thought so, too,” Shepard says. “First spotted them back in Omaha. But they can’t be part of the Next, Margaret. I watched these three slay half a dozen vampires in cold blood.”

“No! How cold?”

“Frigid.”

I can’t believe the Normal’s defending us. I can’t even believe he recognizes us—Bunce spelled him so hard, he shouldn’t recognize his own reflection.

“Have turned against their own kind, maybe.” The woman looks down at me, nudging my hip with her boot. “This one is their work. Finally come. The hybrid.”

“Is he?” Shepard goggles at me for a second. “I wondered if—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know … I really think it’s a coincidence, Maggie. I think they’re just tourists.”

She spits. It lands, hot, on my cheek. “Tourists?!”

“They don’t know any of the rules,” he says. “They drove right into the Quiet Zone just to see Carhenge.”

“Supposed to be spectacular,” she says. Begrudgingly. “Seen photos.”

“I agreed to be their guide. We were just getting to know each other when a posse tried to round us up.”

The woman crouches to look at me, stroking her chin. She has six rings on her pinkie finger. One of them is Penelope’s.

“Mages,” she sneers. “Reckless kittens, hybrids. Next Blood trouble and trash … Poachers, Shepard. This one killed my ram.”

“He was probably thirsty,” Shepard says. “I drank from your stream once, remember? Before we met?”

She stands up and frowns at him some more. “But you are a good boy—an innocent. Not a knight. Not a mage. Not a bloodeater.”

“Let’s hear what they have to say,” Shepard says. “If you don’t like it, you can still eat them.”

“Wouldn’t eat him,” she says, glaring at me. “Rancid.”



* * *



Shepard ungags Simon first. “Thank you,” I hear Simon say. “I owe you one.”

“Friend,” Shepard says, “you owe me so many, we need to draw up a contract.”

He unties my gag next and helps me sit. “No spells,” he says softly. “She can shut you down from a distance.”

I nod.

“Found this on him,” the woman says, holding up my wand. “Probably stolen. Heffalump tusk. Extinct.” She tosses it over her shoulder.

Bunce starts making demands before her gag is even off: “Who are these NowNext people? What are they up to? They have our friend!”

“Now we’re talking,” Shepard says, helping her sit up.

“Unhand me!” Bunce shouts. He does. She falls over. “You have to tell us—our friend is in danger!”

The white-haired woman (is she a woman?) sits down again on the other side of the fire. “Needn’t must. You will do the telling.”

“Anything,” I say. “Anything you want to know.” I look over at Simon. He nods at me, like he’s all right. His hands are still tied. And his ankles. And his wings. But he’s fine.

“Tell Maggie why you’re here,” Shepard says, sitting down next to the woman by the fire.

I try to take charge; I’m the only one of the three of us with any tact. “We’re on holiday,” I say. “We are tourists.”

“What about this friend?” Margaret demands.

“We were coming to see her—”

Bunce interrupts me: “We wanted to check on her, we were worried about her—and then she left a message for us yesterday saying she was with the NowNext. They’re going to extract her. You have to tell us—”