Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(15)

He unchains the door but doesn’t open it. He’s looking at the floor. “I can’t do this with you,” he whispers.

“Too fucking bad, Snow. Let me in.”

He turns away from me, flinging the door open with his tail. I try to follow, but the threshold pushes me back.

“You know I need an invitation,” I hiss.

Snow glances over his shoulder, like maybe this is his reprieve. But he flicks his tail at me, motioning me in.

It’s enough. The pressure in the doorway eases, and I storm in, slamming the door behind me. I told myself I’d be calm when I found him. Warm.

Understanding. But all I am is angry—I’m livid—with him, with Bunce, with myself.

I turned my back for five minutes, and literally everything fell apart. This is why I haven’t turned my back on him in a year! This is why I’ve been rushing home from class to sit next to him on the sofa. Because I couldn’t trust him. I could never trust him …

The room is empty. Snow is standing at a window, looking at the closed curtains. His jeans are riding low, and his tail is tucked between his legs. His wings are hitched up around his ears. For some reason, there’s a dagger tucked in his back pocket. “All right,” he says, “so you found me. I can’t hide from you.”

“You bloody well can’t.”

“So what do you want me to say?”

I come up behind him. “I want you to explain what’s going on!”

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even raise his voice. “You know what’s going on, Baz. I’ve already told you.”

“You haven’t even answered my texts, Simon!”

“I told you, I keep telling you…” He sounds so flat, like none of this affects him—like I don’t affect him.

No. Unacceptable. Untenable. I always affect him.

I grab his bare shoulder. “You never tell me anything!”

Snow whips around, nearly clipping me with his wing. “I told you I’m done!”

“Done what?” Done with me, he means. I know that’s what he means.

“Done!” he shouts, his wings spread wide. “I already told you. Christ I—I tried to tell you! Done … pretending!”

“Pretending what?” I shout. Like I don’t know. Like it isn’t already killing me.

“Pretending … this, Baz. Us. Pretending I can…”

I’m dying.

I’m dying, this is death.

Simon’s in my stomach, he’s in my heart, and he’s punching.

“Use your words, Snow. For fuck’s sake.”

SIMON

I can’t do this with him.

I can’t say this. It will slit my throat to say it, it will slice its way out, and then he’ll cut me down—I won’t survive it. (I was never going to survive this. Everything I am is nearly gone. Finish me off, Baz.) “Use your words,” he sneers. (That’s right, that’s my boy.) He’s wearing jeans and a navy shirt. I think that’s his favourite colour—a blue that’s almost purple. It makes his skin glow like a pearl. His top two buttons are unbuttoned, he never bothers with them anymore. His throat is bright. His throat is mine. There are scars beneath his hairline. I’ve fit my teeth over them.

“You know,” I say again. “I’ve already told you.”

He steps into my space. Taller than me. His hand comes up, and I think he’d grab my shirt if I was wearing one. He’s grabbed me like this before.

He’s shoved me against a wall. He’s loomed over me, his breath cold on my face.

“What have you told me?” He curls his lip. “What have you actually ever told me, Snow?”

“That this isn’t working! I’m not a magician!”

“And I told you, I don’t care!”

“Well, I do—I care! Do you think I like being a charity case?”

Baz is rolling his eyes. “No one treats you like a charity case.”

“I can’t even leave the house without your help. Without Penny’s.”

“We don’t mind helping!”

I throw my hands up. “You’re not listening—you never listen!”

“I always listen!” He jabs a finger at me. “You never talk!”

“I’m talking now, all right? I’m telling you. I’m done with magic! I’m done with mages! I can’t—You’re both—I can’t live with you!”

“We don’t have to live together, Simon. We don’t live together.”

“I can’t even be with you! I hate it.”

“You hate being with me?”

“Yes, all right?” I’m screaming. “Are you happy? I hate being with you! I hate your fucking wand! I hate how easy it all is for you! I hate looking at you!”

“You hate looking at me.”

God, yes, I do. I do. I hate the sight of him.

All I see is what I’ve lost—who I was. His match. Someone who might someday deserve him.

My hands are in my hair, pulling. I’m shaking my head. “What are we even doing, Baz? Where did you think this was all going?”

He steps back. “I thought…”