Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(69)

I always thought it was safer that way. If I let the animals live, they might end up like me. (Can a vampire Turn a rat? Or a deer? Or a dog? I’d rather not find out.)

When I’m thirsty, this isn’t really a decision. I just drink till there’s no more to drink. I haven’t ever tried to stop.

I’ve never tasted human blood before. I’ve had low-risk opportunities, of course; in football, there’s blood everywhere—plus, I smashed Simon’s nose with my forehead once, and he practically bled into my mouth.

But I’ve never wanted to cross that threshold. Like, you can say you’ve never tasted human blood or you can say that you have. And once you have, what does it matter whether it’s one person or fifty?

And what if one taste wasn’t enough? What if I couldn’t stop thinking about it? (I already never stop thinking about it.)

What then? What options would that leave me? The way I understood it, mass murder or mass conversion.

But maybe I haven’t understood anything.

Vampires hate to Turn people, Shepard says. Vampires are capable of “sips.”

I could call my father, I thought to myself, while I was lying there in the empty bath. And my father would pretend I’m not a vampire at all. And then I could pretend, too. And that would be such a relief.

But then Bunce was at the door again. She came into the bath and made it rain magickally counterfeited hundred-dollar bills over my head. “Go buy something to wear on your vampire date,” she said. “Hurry. I have to pee.”

So now I’m walking up the Strip, dipping in and out of casinos to see what’s on offer. There are luxury boutiques in nearly every one. I’m not sure who shops at these places—none of the tourists are wearing Gucci. Perhaps this whole street caters to vampires.…

I buy myself a few more suits. Plus clothes for the drive. A few changes for Simon. I see a dress that would look lovely on Bunce, but they don’t carry her size. I buy it anyway. We can alter it with a spell.

I’m stealing.

We haven’t paid for anything in a real way since Omaha.

Will the bills fade away in the register? Or on the way to the bank? Will this very nice shop assistant be fired? Will they trace any of it back to me, to us? Does it matter?

My father would be so ashamed.

Wouldn’t he? Or would he perhaps understand? What would he say if I called him right now? Would he swoop in to help us?

No.

He’d summon me home.

“Let Agatha Wellbelove’s parents worry about whatever nonsense she’s got herself into. You can’t be tangled up in this sort of thing, Basilton—with these sort of people. You’re—well, you’re vulnerable. It’s bad enough that Nicodemus Ebb has shown his face again. We don’t need anyone asking questions about you.”

Aunt Fiona might listen.…

I call her instead, on impulse. Standing outside of a Prada. Standing next to a giant ornamental vase.

She doesn’t pick up.

It doesn’t matter. What could Fiona do? She couldn’t get here before 2 P.M.

I walk back to the Katherine Hotel, laden with bags. A pale young man holds the door for me. I’m about to step in when I see something blue tumbling towards me on the wind—my mother’s scarf.

I drop my bags to catch it.



* * *



When I get back to the room, Bunce and the Normal are having a séance. Holding hands on the bed, with a candle floating between them.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say.

Bunce falls back on the pillows, frustrated. Shepard catches the candle before it hits the bed.

“It’s fine,” she says. “It’s not working. Wherever Agatha is, she’s too far away for my spells to snag.”

Bunce doesn’t mention the other possibility, so I don’t either. “Where’s Snow?” I ask. He was still asleep when I left this morning.

She picks up her mobile. “He said he needed some fresh air. I told him he’d have to leave the state to find some—”

“You let him leave the room by himself?”

“I’m not his keeper, Baz.”

“You bloody well are! It’s your one job, Bunce.”

“I couldn’t stop him!”

“This city is literally crawling with vampires, Penelope. It’s not safe for anything that bleeds.”

“Which is why I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours in this hotel room. But you know Simon—he still acts like he’s got an A-bomb strapped to his chest.”

“Next time, spell him to the bed. Use a ‘Stay put.’”

“Keep your sexual habits to yourself, Basil.”

The door to the hallway opens. I whip out my wand. Bunce holds up her fist.

It’s Simon.

He’s cut his hair.…

He comes in, self-conscious, looking at the floor. His hair is cut short on the sides, the way he’s always worn it—but the stylist left most of his new length on top. It’s an extra generous spill of curls. More golden than ever from all these days in the sun.

That haircut cost more than his entire wardrobe.

“Look at you,” Bunce says. “You’re a brand-new man.”

He shrugs. “Are we ready?” To me: “Is your phone charged?”