Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(103)

“Count yourself lucky,” I say, reaching for the vinegar. “It was unnatural.

Impossible to control. Well…” I look up at him. “Maybe you could have controlled it. I could barely hold a wand.”

“Do you miss it?”

I pick up a chip. “My wand?”

“Your magic.”

“I mean…” The chip is burning my fingers. I drop it.

“You must,” he says. “You had more magic than anyone, and then…” He swirls his glass. “Phoof. Nothing.”

Do I miss my magic?

It wasn’t mine, was it? And I was never any good at it—I regularly scorched the earth just trying to make it work.

Do I miss going off? No.

And I don’t miss the way other mages treated me. They could never see past my power.

Do I miss casting spells? Merlin, half the time they backfired. I suppose the other half of the time, they didn’t …

I could make fire. And air. And water.

I could melt butter and boil tea.

I could have wings when I wanted them.

I could protect everyone. Every time. Nothing was impossible for me when I had magic—no war couldn’t be won.

Do I miss it?

“Yeah,” I say. “Every second of every day. It’s like I’m missing a hand.

Like—I have two hands, and I should be happy about that, but I used to have three, you know? And now I can’t even figure out how to tie my shoes. Fuck yeah, I miss it. All the time.”

Smith is smiling at me. Which really doesn’t seem appropriate, the bastard. He looks well pleased with himself. “Simon…” He’s practically grinning.

“For fuck’s sake, Smith, I just poured my heart out. Have some compassion.”

He grabs my wrist. “No, Simon, I—” He shakes my arm, still grinning at me. “I can help you.”

“I can tie my shoes. That was just hyperbole.”

He laughs out loud. “Simon, I can fix your magic!”

My mouth is open, but I’m not saying anything. I sit back against the wall of the booth.

Smith moves his hand down to mine and clutches it. “I can make you a magician again.”

“How…”

“My spell,” he says. “I could cast it on you.”

“But I’m not a mage—”

“You were the greatest mage—”

“That was never true—”

“It was literally true!” He squeezes my hand. “You may not have been the Chosen One, Simon, but you were the most powerful magician our world had ever known. Don’t tell me you weren’t a mage…”

“Smith…”

His eyes are shining. He’s looking at me like we’re old friends. Like he knows me inside and out. “I didn’t cast the spell tonight,” he says, “because I was saving it for you. I knew you wouldn’t want to be part of the spectacle tomorrow, onstage…”

“I don’t know what to say…”

He picks up my other hand and laughs. “Say yes!”

I shake my head. “I gave magic up to make things right.”

Smith’s face goes soft. He holds our hands between us. “Simon, you made the ultimate sacrifice so that our world could heal. Now let me heal you.”





58

SMITH

One day at a time, Evander always says. One chapter.

This is my Simon Snow chapter. ( Simon Snow, what a name! What an advantage. He even sounds the part, I’m almost jealous.) This is where I heal him. Where I prove my power.

I’m not like those who have come before me. The false prophets. I’m not like him. He failed them. (Good name be damned! Good hair. Scarlet wings.) My power won’t fail.

My plan won’t fail.

I’ll fix their fallen idol, I’ll show him every mercy—I’ll restore him to glory.

I’ll restore the whole World of Mages to glory.

I’m the one the prophecies are all about. I’ll make this place like it was in the legends. With heroes. With miracles. With magic.

This is my story.

This is my Simon Snow chapter.

Once upon a time, I met an injured soldier.

Once upon a time, I took his hands in mine.

He’ll look very good standing next to me in the White Chapel.

He’ll sound very good spreading my good news.





59

SHEPARD

There’s a doorway to hell on Penelope’s floor. She pushed the couch aside to make room.

I rub my eyes. “I thought you said I was stupid to do this in my own house.”

“This is a rental,” she says. “Get started.”

I told Penelope I wouldn’t read the ritual out loud. And then she said, “Fine, I’ll read it.” And then I said, “I’m not letting you propose to a demon!” And she said, “Then I guess you’re reading it.” So here I am, standing above a doorway drawn with my own blood, holding the instructions Ken gave me two years ago.

“This is a very bad idea,” I say.

“Your favorite kind.”

“Penelope…”

She steps up to stand beside me, at the foot of the bloody door.