Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(56)

The water has returned to Shepard to say good-bye. He’s promising to come back as soon as he can. To visit her headwaters at La Poudre Pass. “Shhhep,” she implores of him, “won’t you blow up the dam forrr me?”

“Not this time,” he says. “But I’ll continue to think about it.”

“It would be betterrr for everryone.”

“Everyone but me,” he says. “But I’ve got it on my list of long-term goals.”

“That would be terrorism!” I say.

“Liberrrashhion,” the river disagrees.

“Magic save us from radicals,” I say, sounding, to my dismay, pretty much exactly like my mother.





41





BAZ


Sometimes Bunce’s boldness is just arrogance. She harangues Shepard all the way back to the truck. As if there’s no way the guards will see through our magic, and like the river definitely won’t change its mind and sweep us all off the top of the dam.

“Why did you throw litter into the water?” Bunce asks at full volume.

“Because she gets bored,” Shepard says. “People used to drop all sorts of things into her. Newspapers, matchbooks, divorce papers. Now all she gets is chemical runoff and iPhones that break as soon as they touch her.”

“How does one even meet a river?”

“By introducing oneself.”

“Is that right, Shep.”

Simon is flying just above us, still taking advantage of being unnoticeable.

“You should fly more,” I say, when he touches down near the truck.

“Sure,” he says. “Up Regent Street, through Piccadilly Circus.”

“We could go to the country. There’s still my family estate.”

“I’d probably show up on Google Maps.…”

“I’d magic you before we got there.”

Simon shrugs.

Penny is waiting for me to get in the cab. “Come on, Baz, let’s go.”

Simon takes my elbow. “Ride with me,” he says, looking at the place where his hand is touching my arm. “There are stars.”

His hair is hanging between us in wet ringlets. I lean forward and bump his head with mine. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

I can’t see him smile, but I think it’s there.

He swings up into the back of the truck, and I follow. Penny sighs and gets in the cab. She’ll have to argue with Shepard without leaning over me. (I’m not worried about her safety; I’ve cast three intention spells on the Normal—he means us no direct harm.) There’s a sleeping bag spread out back here, and Simon lies down in it, carefully leaving room for me. I’m still crouching, looking around. The truck starts, and I lose my balance.

“Come here,” Simon says.

I really hate riding back here. I feel like a cup of tea left on top of a moving car. “This is so dangerous,” I say, kneeling. “What if we hit a bump?”

“You’ll be fine, you’re Kevlar.”

“What about you?”

“Wings.”

I look down at him. The truck has already picked up speed.

“Baz,” he says, reaching out to me. “Come here.”





SIMON


Come here.

Come on.

Please.

Give us this.





BAZ


I lie down next to Simon, and his left arm slides under my waist. The truck is hard beneath us, and you can feel every piece of gravel under the wheels—but it’s better lying down, letting the wind blow over you, not through.

Even though the day was scorching, it’s cool now, almost cold. Simon tightens his arm around me. He’s not as hot as he used to be. (Literally. He’s a less combustible combustion engine.) But, Crowley, he’s still so warm.

I try not to think about how long it’s been since I felt him like this. Against me, shoulder to knee. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll hold on too tight. I’ll do whatever I did in the first place to scare him away.

He points to the sky above us, black as pitch here in the desert and filled with twinkling stars. I see them, Snow, I’m not blind.

When his right arm drops, he winds that one around me, too. I close my eyes.

What is this? Why is he letting me this close?

Is this a real change? Or just a middle-of-the-night, middle-of-the-desert exception?

Am I only allowed to hold him when we’re on the run?





SIMON


Baz’s hands finally come to me. Up the back of my shirt. Familiar and cold.

You’d never think you could crave someone cold, that you’d find yourself always moving closer to them because of it. But Baz is the kind of cold I want to cover.

(His hands are feather light on my back. Feather light and chilled through.) I want to warm him by hand. By heat, by cheek, by stomach.

I bring my wings up around us and press him into the truck bed, pressing myself into every grey inch.

When was the last time …

No. Don’t think about the last time.

Don’t think it might be now.

Don’t think.

I’m wet from the river spirit. My nose is the same temperature as Baz’s chin.