Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(110)

They’re death. )

Simon doesn’t feel guilty about it; he’s killed too many things to wear every soul around his neck like a stone. Penelope doesn’t feel guilty; she’d raze all of Las Vegas if she had the chance. I don’t know what I feel … I don’t know what I’m responsible for, in America.

But I do know that I stole Philippa Stainton’s voice.

She was just a girl, an innocent girl. And, yes, I was just a boy, but I was far less innocent—I knew I was carrying something dangerous that day.

I stole her voice.

And I stole her magic.

And I stole her life as a magician. That’s on me.

And I can’t fix it. I can’t—I can’t breathe under it. I don’t know how to carry it. And it’s only been a few hours. (For me. Years for her.) How am I going to get through the rest of my life feeling this way?

Simon comes into the bedroom after an hour or so, walking softly. He thinks I’m asleep. He pulls his Watford hoodie over his head and drops it on the floor. He isn’t wearing anything underneath. He rolls out his bare shoulders, and his wings slowly loosen and unfurl, purplish black in the dark.

He spreads them wide, arching his back, and lifting his chin to stretch his neck. He looks …

“Come to bed,” I whisper.

He looks over at the bed, squinting. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Not yet. Come to bed.”

“Haven’t showered yet.”

“It’s all right. It’s your bed.”

He unbuttons his jeans, still squinting at me. His eyes aren’t as good as mine in the dark. “Are you sure?”

I hold the sheet open for him.

He pushes his jeans down and kicks them away, climbing into the bed beside me. I bring the sheet back up over him, and he scoots closer, shifting a bit to get his wings settled behind him. He’s warm, and he smells like a pub.

Like cider and fish and a little like pizza.

I slide an arm around his waist. “Did you make up with Bunce? Has she moved in?”

He shrugs. He’s still shifting and wriggling closer. “I apologized like you said I should.”

“And?”

“And she said we don’t need magic to be friends.”

“Wise girl.”

Simon brings a knee up over my thigh. “She said she only has two and a half friends, and she can’t afford to lose any.”

“Am I the half, or is Agatha?”

“You’re both three-fourths.”

“Fucking Bunce.”

Simon touches my chin. “You smell good.”

“Soap,” I say.

“Where’d you go tonight?”

“Hunting.”

“Before that.”

I shudder, and he moves even closer, nose to nose, bringing a wing around us.

“Do you need a blanket?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just stay close.”

“Where’d you go, Baz?”

“I realized I’d left something at Fiona’s…”

“What?”

I shake my head. “Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m done in.”

“Yeah.” He brushes my hair away from my face. “I thought you were asleep.”

I run my palm up his back and between his wings. He’s so warm. He smells like blood, but I’m too sloshed for the smell to sting. “Did you feel anything when he cast the spell?” I don’t feel like saying Smith-Richards’s name right now, here.

Simon shrugs again. “I felt his magic. The way you do when someone casts a spell on you.”

“What does his magic feel like?”

He nestles even closer, his chest rubbing against mine, through my T-shirt.

“I’m so tired of magic,” he says.

“Did it hurt?”

“No. It made me feel … full.”

“Full?”

“Like I was a bubble popping.”

I pull Simon in tighter. “I’m really angry with you for letting him cast that spell on you.”

“You don’t look angry.”

“You can’t see me.”

“You smell good,” he says again.

“It’s soap. What spell did you try to cast? To test your magic?”

Simon twines his fingers in my hair. “I tried a few. It was humiliating.”

“Which ones did you try?”

“I just said it was humiliating…”

“All right.” I sigh. I’m wrung out. So is he. We can talk about this tomorrow. I’m glad to have tomorrow at least. I’m glad to be here tonight.

It’s just … “It’s just … Simon, how do you know his spell didn’t work?”

He makes a fist in my hair. “Because I felt it. I felt it not working.”

SIMON

Smith’s building was quiet. Everyone was still out celebrating his big announcement. He took me into his office, and we sat in two folding chairs, facing each other.

“What are you going to do first?” he asked. “When you get your magic back?” He was wearing a shirt the colour of his eyes, with a little scarf that made him look like he spent the day on a racing sailboat. Maybe he did.