Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(22)

“But you just got here.”

“I came by to check on you, and now I have. You look a mess.”

“Where are you going?”

She’s walking away. “Work.”

“Vampire hunting? On a Monday afternoon?”

“Something like that. Drink your tea, and mind your business.” She turns back to me. “And—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Eat something.” She winks.





16

BAZ

The good thing about my aunt’s terrible flat is that I can do some light hunting without even leaving the building. I just have to dispose of the empty rodents when I’m done.

Fiona let me move in here after I left Watford. Simon and I didn’t want to live together; that seemed premature—even though we’d shared a single room for eight years. Maybe that’s why it seemed like a bad idea. Some distance seemed prudent.

Still … I didn’t expect to be sleeping in my aunt’s flat every night. I didn’t expect to become so accustomed to the night bus back to Chelsea.

Simon needed time. He needed care. He still startled at bright lights and sudden noises. And prolonged eye contact. He’d get jumpy when we were alone together. He’d actually shudder if I touched him too softly—and not a good shudder. (My kingdom for a good shudder.) On the worst days, on the even worse nights, I used to think about all the bad things that have happened to Simon—just the ones I know about. And then I’d wonder about all the terrible things that have happened to him that I don’t know about. Twenty years of bad things. How long would it take for those painful memories to die back? Or, at least, to wither?

I’d wait.

I was going to wait.

The neighbours are tired of my music again. They’ve come to the door this time. Well, they can push right off—James Blake is a Mercury Prize winner, and this song was written by Joni Mitchell, surely Canada’s finest. They think they’re tired of this song? Once I figure out the magic, I’m going to loop the same two lines again and again:

“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet.”

That’s the part that hurts the most, and I’ve decided that it helps to hurt the most. It sort of maxes out my nerve endings.

They’re knocking on the door. Fuck off.

More knocking. Seriously, fuck off.

I turn up the music. I have to use a spell to do it, because the speakers are already at their limit. “These go to eleven!”

The neighbours are really banging on the door now. I should spell off their hands. I’m not even going to answer the door—I’ll just spell their hands off from here.

Wait … They’ve stopped.

Have they stopped?

There’s no knocking …

No knocking …

I think they’ve given up. Good. Go back to your flat, and get used to this.

This is our soundtrack now. Oh—my favourite part is coming around again.

Sing it, James.

“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy—”

Knocking! Fucking pounding on the door!

I jump off the couch. My head spins. I give myself a moment. More bloody knocking. I plow over to the door and yank it open. My fangs might be out, I can’t be held responsible.

Simon Snow is standing there.

About to knock again.

His hand drops.

“Baz,” he says. He looks down at me. “You haven’t changed.”

SIMON

Baz is still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday. He’s wrinkled looking, and his hair is stringy. “What?” he says. I think that’s what he says. It’s so loud inside his flat, I can’t hear him.

“What?” I shout.

I can’t make out his next sentence.

“What? ” I say again. “Why is it so loud in there?”

Baz walks away from me, into the living room. He turns down the music.

His arms are folded when he comes back, and he’s sneering. “Oh. Snow.

You’re still here. I expected you to run and hide as soon as my back was turned.”

I lift my chin. “I deserve that.”

“You deserve worse. Why are you here?”

I try to sound more steady than I feel. “I came to tell you something.”

He huffs. “You’ve already told me enough.”

“Baz—”

“Unless you’ve thought of another way to say that you don’t want to be with me.”

“Baz, I—”

Baz keeps talking. His top lip is curled so sharply, it looks like someone snagged it with a fishhook. “Because that would be unnecessary, Snow.

Message received!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Also unnecessary!”

“Baz!”

He shouts at me: “I don’t care that you’re sorry! Do you understand that, Simon? It makes no difference to me whether you feel regret or not! You’re sorry? What do I care? What can I do with that? You came here to tell me you’re sorry?”

“No!” I really didn’t. “Listen—”

“Listen? I have been listening. I’ve spent the last year listening, and you didn’t have anything to say to me. You couldn’t assemble a complete sentence until you’d already left me. And now you’re back to say you’re sorry? Guess what? You already put that in your note. It didn’t matter then either!”