Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(74)

I close my eyes. Can I? I hear my own heart, faint and always a few beats slow. I hear Lamb’s, a similar dirge. Ah … there. I can hear it—and I recognize it.

“Simon,” I say, my eyes flying open.

In that moment, Lamb’s empty chair lifts up and slams down into the floor. One of the wooden legs seems to tear itself off and fly towards Lamb’s chest. His fangs are out. He grabs the leg midair and raises it like a club— “No!” I shout, catching Lamb’s arm.

Just as the door to his flat flies off its hinges.

Bunce is standing there, with the Normal, holding out her purple gem.

“Hands in the air, bloodsucker, or I’ll burn this whole city to the ground.”





53





SHEPARD


The vampire holds the stake in the air, giving Penelope some thousand-year-old stink eye. She doesn’t budge. He drops it.

I can hear Simon flapping around.

Baz dodges in front of Lamb, holding his hands out to the room. “Snow, I swear I’ll throttle you.”

“What is this, Baz?” Lamb sounds more confused than threatened. “Are you in league with these mages?”

“No.” Baz is still blocking Lamb from an invisible Simon. “Not ‘in league.’ They’re my friends, they’re trying to protect me—which I do not require. What part of ‘thumbs-up’ don’t you people understand?”

Simon shouts back: “What part of ‘Don’t leave with him’ don’t you understand?”

“I’m fine!”

“You’re in a vampire’s bedroom!”

“I am a vampire!” Baz says. “And this is a studio!”

“A vampire,” Lamb says, then looks at Penelope. “A mage…” He looks at me. “A…”

“Bleeder,” I say, waving. “Name’s Shepard.”

Lamb nods and looks over Baz’s shoulder, where Simon is disturbing the atmosphere. “And what is this?”

“His boyfriend!” Simon snarls.

Huh. I wasn’t sure. I mean, I wondered.…

Baz covers his face.

“Boyfriend?” Lamb repeats. “What about Agatha?”

“There isn’t a simple explanation for any of this,” I cut in, smiling. “But there is an entertaining one. And I swear, no one here means you any harm.”

A vase topples off a table near the spot where Simon is flapping.

I keep smiling. “Maybe we could all sit down and talk?”



* * *



Fifteen minutes later, we’re all sitting on Lamb’s couches. Well, except for Simon, but that seems fair. He did break the only other chair. Lamb keeps looking over at the pieces and frowning, like he’d really rather fix his fancy chair than deal with any of us.

Lamb’s much less vampirey-looking than Baz. (I’ve been thinking that Baz must come from a long line of vampires—a Transylvania original, with that long black hair and widow’s peak. But I guess that isn’t how vampirism works.…) Lamb’s got a soft face and a head full of soft, shiny hair. He looks exactly like you’d expect an English person to look if you’d only seen them in Jane Austen movies—sort of pencil-drawn and pretty. He’s pale, of course, and gray around the eyes. But he’s not as gray all over as Baz. Not as drained and ghostly.

If this is what a vampire is supposed to look like, then maybe Baz is a vampire with an iron deficiency.

Lamb’s definitely not scared of us. Even though we have magic and numbers on our side. He’s treating us like four kids who just confessed to throwing a baseball through his window.

Baz is making our case: “I was telling you the truth. Agatha is my friend. We’re just trying to find her.”

Lamb frowns some more. “How can you be friends with mages? They hate us.”

“We grew up together,” Penelope explains. “We didn’t know Baz was a vampire for years.”

“I knew,” Simon says.

Baz shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Literally nothing you say is helpful.”

Lamb looks right through Simon. “Did you grow up with them, too, invisible boy?”

“He’s not usually invisible,” Baz mutters.

“A vampire, two mages, and a Bleeder.” Lamb sighs and stands up. Every one of us flinches. “I’m going to need a cup of tea.”

“Oh, thank magic,” Penelope says at the same time as Simon says, “Tea?” and Baz says, “Crowley below, please let us have some.”

I always accept food and drink from Maybes, though it can be a risky business. (My mother would be horrified if I ever turned down food as a guest in someone else’s home.) But I’m surprised to see this bunch being so polite. I turn to Penelope, sitting next to me on an antique loveseat. “You’re not worried about being poisoned? Or scalded?”

“I’ll worry after I have my tea,” she replies.

Lamb brings out a tray. Simon gets a plastic casino mug. The rest of us get china.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lamb says, pouring Penelope’s tea, “and I can’t come up with a single reason to help you. Or even to keep listening.”