Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(8)

It sounds like crap to me. Even magicians can’t live forever, and we’ve got thousands of spells on our side. “Living is dying,” my father says. He’s the best magickal doctor in England. He can cure anything that can be cured. But he can’t cure death. Or as he says, “I can’t cure life.”

I try to be bored by the talk, but I’m irritated. I’m irritated by everyone nodding along to this nonsense. Do they really think they can cheat death with tropical juices and positive thinking? It reminds me of the Mage.

Which reminds me of that night on the Tower.

And Ebb.

I stand up. I tell Ginger that I’m going to find a bathroom, but I just want to get away. I end up in an empty room on the other side of the main floor, a library with a big window overlooking a golf course.

I was supposed to be at a festival this week. I bought body paint and sewed feathers onto my bikini. It was going to be ridiculous and brilliant. Not like this—ridiculous and sad.

I dig around for the emergency fag I keep in my purse. I never really smoked back in England. Simon and Penny hated it, and, like I said, my dad’s a doctor. But then I moved to California, where literally no one smokes, and having a cigarette now and then feels like toasting the Queen.

I’ll bet whoever owns this house would flip their shit if I lit up.

I hold the cig between my fingers and cast, “Fire burn and cauldron bubble!”—one of three spells I can manage without a wand, and the only one I can cast under my breath. (A rare talent I carefully avoided cultivating once I saw how much it pleased my mother.) The tip lights up. I inhale, then blow the smoke directly onto a shelf of books.

“Got one of those I could bum?”

I look back at the door. There’s a man standing there. Wearing a stupid figure-eight pin.

“Sorry,” I say, “it’s my last one.”

He steps into the library. He’s a little older than me—a little young by NowNext standards, but as clean-cut and cross-trained as the rest. I like the idea of befouling one of them. A cigarette could ruin his whole programme for the week. He’ll have to confess and cleanse and maybe even fast.

“You can have a drag,” I say.

He leaves the door open, which I appreciate. (Fucking men, always trying to trap you alone.) And comes over to lean against the shelves next to me. I hand him the cigarette, and he takes a deep inhale.

“You’ll never be immortal now,” I say.

He laughs, choking a little on the smoke. Some leaks out his nose. “Damn,” he says. “I had so many plans.”

“Tell me one.”

“To cure cancer with gene therapy.” He’s being sincere, I think.

“Sorry, darling, you’ve got the wrong room. Your lot’s next door.”

“You’re not buying it?” he asks.

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I heard there would be lymphatic massages and vegan cupcakes.”

“There will be,” he says. He’s smiling.

I sigh, blowing smoke just past his face. “I’m here with a friend.”

He nods, looking at me. He’s admiring my hair. Which happens. My hair is long and light blond. “Butter blond,” Simon used to call it. No one I know here eats butter.

“You’re buying it,” I say, looking at his pin. “Or bought it.”

“Founded it,” he says.

“Really?” He can’t be more than 25. “Huh. Were you a teenage phenomenon?”

“Sort of.”

I glance at the bookshelves around me. They’re all modern books, lots of paperbacks. Nothing leather-bound just for show.

“You don’t seem impressed,” he says.

I shrug. “I know the type.”

My fag has burned down to the filter. I look around for somewhere to stub it out. He lifts a bronze dish off the desk; it’s some sort of award. “Here.”

“I’m disrespectful,” I say, “but I’m not rude.”

He laughs. He’s a bit good-looking when he laughs. “It’s okay. It’s mine.”

I stub out my cigarette. “This is your house?”

“Uh-huh. Does that impress you?”

“Morgana, no. What does someone your age need a golf course for?”

“I like golf,” he says. “And I like having a big house. For weekends like this.”

“It takes all kinds, I suppose.”

“You can be cynical if you want.”

“I am.”

“But cynicism doesn’t accomplish anything.”

“Untrue,” I say. “Cynicism saves lives.”

“Never.”

“There are so many things that will never kill me because I wouldn’t be caught dead doing them.”

“Like what?”

I brush ash off my dress. “Mountain climbing.”

“Is that cynicism or cowardice?”

“Honestly—” I pause. “What’s your name?”

“Braden.”

“Of course it is…” I mumble, taking him in. “Honestly, Braden, I’m too cynical to care.”

He takes a step closer. “I’d like to change your mind.”