Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(105)

With skin a color my eyes can’t see. And hair like horns, like hair, like a hole.

Penelope takes a breath to say something.

“Quiet,” the demon says. “I’m thinking.”

I really want to apologize or smooth this over somehow. Maybe I should offer the demon something to drink. Penelope must smell it on me; she presses her lips together and shakes her head, hard.

“We’ll amend the agreement,” the demon says, “clarifying his name and the consequences for further dishonesty.”

“I’m not your advocate—” Penelope starts to say.

“Indeed you are not,” the demon snaps. “I was not informed that I’d need representation.”

“—but I’d advise you to take this opportunity to protect your assets.”

“My assets are perfectly secure.”

“I regret to inform you,” Penelope says, sounding a lot like someone who works at the DMV and doesn’t feel any regret at all, “that this man comes to you with many debts.”

“He disclosed no debts!”

“He wasn’t asked to!”

“Any debt he owes in this world will be meaningless in mine!”

“He has promised someone else his firstborn,” Penelope regrets to inform it.

“His firstborn…” The demon widens into a hole that consumes the couch.

Its voice is a devastation. “Shepard, how could you!”

“I wasn’t planning on having kids,” I mumble.

“Also his thirdborn,” Penelope adds. Crisp as hell. “As well as countless other debts and promises, some of them owed beyond death to creatures who live nearly forever.”

The demon rises from the couch and seeps towards me. “I told myself I was done with this earth … When is it ever worth the trouble?” I can taste the demon’s bitterness, like a mouthful of dirt, and my head won’t stop ringing. Penelope is feeling it, too, I think. She keeps twitching her head when the demon isn’t looking.

It’s closing in on me. Penelope moves between us, but the bear woman hole bear passes right through her.

It looms over me. “But you…” the demon says, taking me by the chin.

“You were different. You took me off guard. To call one such as me and ask for nothing more than my hand…”

It caresses my cheek. Claws fingers emptiness. “I was moved.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I would have given you eternity, Shepard,” the demon thrums. “I would have built you a throne.”

It sighs so low it feels like gravity. Like its breath is pulling us down, down, down. A ceramic dish on the table crumbles into dust.

“I should have asked to see some ID,” it says. “I normally do ask for references…”

It looks up into my eyes. And down into them. Its gaze surrounds me. “The contract is void,” it says. My forearms itch and tingle. I stand very still. “You are no longer my betrothed. Your debts are not mine. And you have no claim on immortality.”

The demon turns its attention to Penelope. “You, however…”

Penelope doesn’t flinch.

“You are very clever and very brave, and I like your knees.” The demon’s voice is honeyed now, like the lowest string on a double bass. “My powers are great,” it hums, “and I’m pleased to inform you that my hand is available.”

Penelope flinches. “Are you…”

“Is there anything you want in this world, young advocate?”

Penelope shakes her head. “No.”

“Very well,” the demon says, turning heavily away from us. “Call me if you change your mind.” It opens the door in the floor, and descends on two feet and four and like a sinking void.

I look down at Penelope. She’s staring at my arms.

At nothing but smooth brown skin.





60

BAZ

It takes forever to get to my aunt’s flat, even casting spells on traffic.

I run from the taxi, up the stairs, and open the front door with my wand instead of my key. Fiona’s in the living room. She jumps up from the sofa when I burst in.

“Fucking hell, Basil!”

There’s a man still sitting on the sofa—Nicodemus, the vampire. I run past them into Fiona’s room.

“What are you doing!” she shouts after me.

Her room is a disaster. The whole flat looked like this when I moved in … Clothes up to your knees. Unopened mail in stacks. Teacups full of cigarette butts and ashed-out incense. I go for the closet.

“Baz, seriously, get out of my room!”

“Where is it, Fiona!” I’m throwing shit out of her closet. Shoeboxes.

Tights. Cut flowers that have never wilted.

“It’s still at Watford! I couldn’t find it!”

“At Watford?” I look over my shoulder. Fiona has followed me into the room. “The tape recorder?”

She looks pissed off and confused. “The tape recorder? No—what tape recorder?”

I go back to her closet. Vials of oil. Boxes of herbs. Bras. A wand I’ve never seen before. A bong made out of a lamp. A lamp made out of a bong.

She’s pulling at the back of my shirt. I ignore her.