Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(89)

I stand up and make a show of heading back into the flat. Like, case closed. “I mean,” I say, without turning, “I know you think you know everything there is to know about the magickal world, but I don’t even know that, and I’m smarter than you, and I’ve spent my whole life studying it.”

“I can’t afford the airfare, Penelope.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t have a passport.”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“Is that a spell?”

I stop at the sliding door, looking at his reflection in the glass. “Come to London and find out.”





SIMON


The Pacific Ocean is warmer than the Atlantic.

This bit of it, anyway.

I’m sitting out on the sand, with my boots off and my jeans rolled up. The jeans got wet, anyway. Penny will dry them. She’s been plastering me with spells since we got out of the dead spot—I came out here partly just to give her a break. And to try to clear my head.

I had this idea about America.…

That I’d find myself here.

That’s why people get in a convertible and hit the road without a map. That’s the promise. That you’ll finally see yourself when you don’t recognize the scenery.

Maybe it worked.

I fell for the blue sky and sunshine—then this country dragged me behind it, kicking and bleeding. I failed every test. I fell. I fell short. And only someone else’s spells got me back on my feet and breathing again.

It’s time for me to stop pretending that I’m some sort of superhero. I was that—I really was—but I’m not anymore. I don’t belong in the same world as sorcerers and vampires. That’s not my story.

Dr. Wellbelove said he could remove the wings. And the tail. Whenever I’m ready. I could go back to school then, or get a job—I think I’d rather get a job. Earn something for myself. Pay my own rent.

It feels good to think about.

It feels like—shit, I’m crying. It feels awful, but it feels clean.

There’s a wave crashing towards me. Sometimes they start out fierce, then lose their nerve before they get to the beach.

This one doesn’t blink.





BAZ


Simon’s sitting on the beach, like a boy in a music video. White T-shirt, rolled-up jeans. Head full of sun.

There’s a wave headed for him, he must see it, but he doesn’t move until it comes up over his legs. His head falls back. I think he might be smiling.

I take off my socks and shoes and leave them on a rock, then find my way down to him. He looks up when my shadow reaches him, closing one eye against the sun. “Hey.”

I smile. “Hey.”

Another wave is coming our way. I hop back to avoid it. Simon laughs. The wave breaks a few feet away from him.

I decide to join him on the sand—I can spell myself dry later. I sit a bit behind him, on slightly higher ground.

He glances back at me. “Oh, hey,” he says like he’s just remembered something. He leans back to reach in his pocket, and takes out a wad of blue silk.

“That’s my mother’s scarf!” I reach for it.

He opens his hand. The scarf threads through his fingers as I pull it away. “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot it was in my pocket.”

“I thought I left it in the hotel room.”

“You did.”

I fold the scarf, gently. Snow watches for a moment, then looks away.

“Well,” I say. “Now you can say you drove across America.”

“Not really.” He folds his arms over his knees. “We started in the middle, and I was in a coma from Nevada to California.”

“You didn’t miss anything.”

He hunches forward, hanging his head. “I wanted to see those ancient trees, the sequoias.”

“They’ll still be here when you come back.”

He shakes his head. “Not coming back. You can send me a postcard.”

“Me? I don’t think I’m ever leaving Camberwell after this. Possibly to visit my parents at Christmas. I’ll decide in December.”

He looks back at me. The way he’s sitting, his face tilted, he looks like a child. He looks like the Humdrum. “You don’t have to leave with us, you know.”

“What?”

He turns back to the sea. “I saw you … with Lamb. I heard you.”

“Snow…”

“He’d let you stay there.”

“In a glam-rock hotel in Las Vegas? No, thank you.” It’s the wrong thing to say. But everything Simon’s saying is already the wrong thing. This is a wrong conversation.

He raises his hands, frustrated. “Baz, I was there! You—you fit in.”

“I was trying to fit in.”

“You’re like them! And he could show you how to be more like them; you wouldn’t have to go looking for answers in books. Baz, we’ve read all the books. All mages know about vampires is how to kill them!”

“Knowledge I have very recently put into service.”

Simon growls and turns towards me, one leg dropping into the sand. “Baz, you wouldn’t have to hide anymore!”