Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(17)

“Fuck. ” He shudders. “You’re killing me, Snow.”

I’m killing me, too. There won’t be anything left of me after they take off the wings. “I’m sorry.”

BAZ

“I’m sorry,” Snow says. Like that’s a thing … Like that’s a thing that matters.

I push him away with my wand, then pull it back, out of his hand. He lets go.

His cheeks are red, and his chest is flushed and blotchy. The arrow end of his tail is lying on the ground. His wings have fallen.

There’s nothing left for me to say. How can I convince him that we’re a good thing if he doesn’t believe in good things?

It makes me so angry. I’m. So. Angry. I’ve never hated him more. I want to break my knuckles on his chin, I want to cast off his tongue, I want to shove him down a thousand flights of stairs—and then I want to catch him.

“I love you,” I say. (And I know it’s a not a thing. I know it doesn’t matter.)

I turn away from him then, and tuck my wand in my pocket. It’s only anger making my legs move. I can’t believe he’s doing this, I can’t believe I’m leaving. I can’t believe this is it—that this is how we’re ending.

It wasn’t the Mage. It wasn’t the War. It wasn’t the Humdrum.

I stop at the door. I look back at Simon one more time.

“I never thought I’d be the first thing you ever gave up on.”





14

AGATHA

For the first few days I was home, my parents let me hole up in my room without bothering me.

I didn’t tell them what happened with Braden and the NowNext. I’m not telling anyone. Penelope can fill out the proper paperwork if she wants; her mother is practically running the World of Mages these days.

I keep expecting a summons. Or for someone to show up and take my official testimony about the incident. The American Incident. I don’t think I’ll be arrested. I didn’t intentionally break any rule—it’s legal to kill vampires —and Penelope’s the one who counterfeited our plane tickets. If anyone deserves to be arrested, it’s her. As per usual.

My parents are starting to worry about me now … My father keeps stopping by my room to talk about his day or to see if I’d like to come down for dinner. My mother keeps asking if I’d like to go shopping.

I would not.

I’m doing exactly what I’d like to do: I’m lying in bed, watching cat videos and ignoring Ginger’s text messages, while I twirl my wand first in one hand and then the other.

I dug it out of my top drawer as soon as I got home, and I haven’t set it down since. It’s teak with a red Bakelite handle. It belonged to my grandfather, my mother’s father. He died before I was born, which is why his wand was available. He wasn’t much of a magician. Neither am I.

That’s all right. I don’t need to be. I just need to keep this wand on me, and I need one spell at the tip of my tongue.

I’m not letting it happen again.

By “it,” I mean “kidnapped by megalomaniacal vampires.” And I also mean “hidden at the bottom of a well because someone was mad at my boyfriend.” And: “chased by werewolves.” As well as: “treed by a direhog.”

Never. Not again. Not one more time.



The next person who touches me is ash. The next thing to look at me funny …

There’s a stuffed bear sitting on my dresser. One of its eyes is hanging by a thread. Simon gave it to me. He won it for me at a funfair.

I point my wand at it— “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!”

The bear dissolves in a satisfying puff, coating my dresser in soot. Good.

Now it matches my duvet and the rug. I may have to leave my room soon; I’m running out of things to point my wand at.

“Agga, darling…” My dad has opened my door and is standing there with his arms folded. I don’t snap at him. He probably knocked. “Why don’t you get dressed,” he says cheerfully.

“I am dressed.”

“Why don’t you get changed, then. I need your help with something.”

Well.

This is a dreary scenario. My parents apparently have limits. They’ve taken charge.

I have a job now.

I’m to go to work every morning with my father, and then hang about his surgery, taking orders from literally everyone. So far today, I’ve hoovered the waiting area, kept an eye on two toddlers whose mother might have shingles, and learned how to empty the bins. Now I’m answering the phone while the receptionist monitors me to make sure I’m doing it correctly. I’ve hardly seen my father at all. His waiting room has been full all day.

My dad’s the only magickal doctor in this part of England. He went to Normal medical school, too, so magicians come to see him for every sort of ailment.

There isn’t a magickal veterinarian in the World of Mages (the only one died a few years ago), so Dad also sees a lot of farm animals and pets. He’s got an intern now who’s studying to be a magickal vet. A hulking Irish girl with a face like a battleship. She made me clean Exam Four three times before she was satisfied.

“Miss Wellbelove.” Crowley, there she is again— Niamh—looming in the doorway to summon me for some grim new task.