Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(109)

(We should really come up with some hand signals or something.) “Perhaps Snow is right…” Baz says carefully.

I shake my head.

Baz goes on. “If you really outwitted a demon, Bunce, that’s one for the history books.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s very nearly fond.

I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t that impressive.”

“Balls to that,” Simon says. “They’re going to teach a class about you at Watford someday.”

“To Penelope,” Shepard says gently, holding his teacup in the air. “My hero.”

Simon raises his cup. “Mine, too!”

“A very fierce magician,” Baz says, toasting. “I don’t mind saying.”

My cheeks feel very warm. And my eyes are burning. This really isn’t the time for this. “It was no trouble. I didn’t even have to get out my gem.”





62

BAZ

We celebrate by ordering pizza and listening to Penelope and Shepard argue about exactly how she managed to get him out of what was apparently a beastly awful engagement.

I’m not surprised that Bunce vanquished a demon with only a Normal for backup, but she still should have asked for our help. We definitely could have used hers. Keeping Snow out of trouble is a two-man job. I can’t do it by myself—look what happened tonight.

What did happen?

Simon doesn’t seem … materially damaged. But he was already emotionally compromised; the last thing he needed was the shiny new Chosen One kicking him while he was down.

What a feather that would have been in Smith-Richards’s cap—if he’d patched up the old golden boy and paraded him in front of the entire World of Mages. What an endorsement.

Now no one will know that Smith-Richards failed. Only Simon, and he blames himself.

Thank magic Bunce came back when she did. Snow is soaking her up like sunshine. It’s going to take them two weeks to catch up on the week they spent apart. After an hour or so, I excuse myself from the merry reunion to hunt. Simon attempts to come along, but I don’t want to pull him away from Penelope. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”

I don’t have to go far. Snow lives near a canal now, and the rats are abundant. I may even catch an otter. I decide to stuff myself while I’m out here. Sometimes, if I fill myself to the brim, I can skip hunting for a whole day. I can pretend I’m still human.

It doesn’t really mean anything that Smith-Richards’s spell failed … We don’t even know what his spell does or how it works. This isn’t conclusive proof that Simon was never a mage …

As much as he’d like that, I think. It would help him settle into this Normal life he’s trying to build for himself. He’s got me playing Normal, too. I’ve already stopped offering to cast spells around the flat.

Bunce hasn’t got the memo yet. She’s had her gem out every five minutes since she arrived. She tried to spell the pizza delivery person, but I insisted on paying. (“Thank God,” Shepard said. “She’s gone full Butch Cassidy this week.”)

When I get back to Snow’s flat—after seven rats and a badger—Bunce has spelled the floor soft and conjured up sleeping bags. “Penny and Shepard are staying over,” Simon says. Shepard is already curled up in the corner sleeping the sleep of the recently uncursed.

“I think I’m going to bed,” I say. “I’m clapped out.”

“Oh, so you stay the night now…” Penelope teases.

I cock an eyebrow. “Oh, so you fraternize with Normals now…”

“I—”

“We’re not blind, Bunce.” She’s been blushing at Shepard all night, and he’s clearly had a crush on her since Colorado.

Simon grins. “Wait, really?” he whispers. “You and Shepard?”

Apparently, I’m not blind. I leave them to it. I take a quick shower, then spread Simon’s new striped sheets on his bed. He’s not in here to feel oppressed by my magic, so I cast a spell to quickly wash them. It takes me three tries. My hands are trembling, and I can’t say the spell with any conviction … Maybe it’s good that Simon doesn’t want me casting spells in his flat. I’m too rattled to get one out.

I crawl into bed, pulling the sheet up over me.

I’m cold. And unpleasantly full. And I feel like there’s a car parked on my chest.

Since we left America, I’ve been trying to decide what I’m culpable for …

I don’t feel bad for killing the vampires who took Agatha. (They were a nasty bit of work, good riddance.)

But what about those vampires at the Renaissance Faire? I thought they were murderous—but at the time, I thought all vampires were murderous.

Were they really going to drain those women dry? Or were they merely going to tap them for a few pints, the way Lamb did to that man in the alley?

And does the latter get a pass?

What if they were a group of bloodless friends enjoying a day out with their fully blooded girlfriends, sharing a consensual sip in the shade …

No, I don’t think so. The girls screamed.

The point is—we killed those vampires without any sort of evaluation.

We didn’t hesitate. (Just like my mother didn’t hesitate.) (Vampires are dead.