Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(27)

I feel something against my wings and crank my head back. Baz is kissing me. Well, he’s kissing the wings. Down one side. Slowly. And … Up … The other.

It feels like he’s kissing the inside of my ear. Or the back of my throat.

I shudder.

Baz puts his arms around my waist, and holds me there.

“You’ll get Betadine on your mouth,” I say.

His voice is low: “Probably needs it.”

It’s too much. My skin is crawling, and my wings are flinching. I’m worried they’re going to fly out, like someone opening a spiked umbrella in his face. I pull his hands apart at my stomach and turn around. His lips really are orange; it makes me laugh.

“We should take a shower,” I say.

Baz raises an eyebrow.

My cheeks get hot. “I mean, we should both take showers. Like you said.

Can I—I mean, this is your aunt’s place, right? Does she have a shower?

Would she mind?”





18

BAZ

Snow has never been to my flat, not in all the time we’ve been together—too far from his beloved sofa, I assumed. Also, I suppose there was the risk of my aunt trying to kill him if she found him here. (Fiona still hasn’t forgiven Simon for being the Mage’s No. 1 henchman and for helping to arrest some of my second cousins.) (I mean, fair enough.)

He’s standing in my bedroom door now, probably thinking about how little there is to take in: A couple of racks of clothes. My violin. The down duvet and pillows from my room in Hampshire.

Since I left Watford and moved to London, I’ve spent most of my free time at Simon and Penny’s place—I even studied there. All I really needed here was a bed.

I dig out some clean clothes for Simon to borrow and point him towards the bathroom connecting my room and Fiona’s. He can have the first shower.

While he’s in there, I make him a plate of ham sandwiches. I should eat, too—and I should probably hunt again. More substantially. But I don’t want to walk away from Simon right now. What if he’s not here when I return?

I hear it from the kitchen when the shower stops. It takes me back to Watford. To lying in my bed, knowing Snow had just finished his shower.

Bracing for him to come out, all damp and surly. Telling myself that I wasn’t going to look at him. That I wasn’t going to care. And always doing both.

When I walk back to my bedroom, Simon is dressed and sitting tentatively at the edge of my mattress. Damp. Nervous. He looks like a dog who knows he isn’t supposed to be on the bed.

He’s wearing one of my old football shirts. (Have I manipulated this whole scenario just to see Snow in my Watford shirt? Perhaps. Take it up with the courts.) He must have pulled his wings in tight again, because he’s got the shirt stretched over them. They’re hanging out below the hem. It doesn’t look comfortable.

I motion at his back, walking closer. “I can fix that shirt for you—”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“I don’t mind.” I don’t. Then it would be his shirt, and he might wear it again. My name on his back, my number. I’ve already got my wand out and pointed at him.

Simon lifts up his hands, suddenly distressed. “Baz, no. ”

“Oh,” I say, looking down at my wand. “Is this bad? Do you not want me to … magic? Around you?”

His hands drop. “No, I mean—Yeah, of course you can, you know, magic.

I just—” He shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “You know what? Go ahead. Do it. I’d like to spread my wings out a bit anyway.”

“If you’re certain.”

Simon takes my wrist and points my wand at his chest, so I cast the spell — “Like a glove!” —and the shirt refits itself around his wings. It looks very tidy. I can reverse the spell, too, but even when Penelope and I help Simon like this, he ends up cutting himself out of his clothes later; he won’t ask for our help getting undressed. (I should have just cut vents in the shirt for his wings, to make it easier for him. I could do that with magic, too.) He arches his back and sighs. His wings unfurl behind him.

I remember thinking at first that it was too bad Simon gave himself dragon wings. He could have gone with something far more elegant. Pegasus wings —soft, white feathers tipped with sky blue. Or green fairy wings that shimmer in the moonlight.

But in the moment that he needed to fly, Simon summoned brute force and sharp edges. Red leather and bony black spikes. Now it’s ridiculous to think of him with anything else. Simon Snow with white feathers—absurd. He’d look like a cartoon angel. Or a Victoria’s Secret model …

“Is it all right that I’m sitting here?”

I shake my head. Then switch to nodding it. “Of course,” I say. “Make yourself at home. There are sandwiches in the kitchen. The kettle’s on.”

“Right,” Simon says. “Thanks.”

I nod again, backing towards the bathroom door. “I’ll just be a minute.”

The bathroom is still steamed up from Simon’s shower, and I swoon a little, thinking about him in here, even though it smells like he used my aunt’s shampoo. (Smoke and mirrors, how did I survive sharing a room with Simon Snow through my entire adolescence?) (Oh, yes, I remember: furious wanking. Furious everything.) I wash up more thoroughly than usual.