Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(29)

He pulls at my fingers. His eyebrows are down. Like he’s thinking hard, or trying not to. “I guess,” he says after a moment, “we just go along until I feel like running away. And then I stay and fight instead.”

“Who are you fighting in this scenario?”

“Myself, I suppose.”

I nod, in part to hide how discouraged I feel all of a sudden. It won’t help to say so.

“Baz?” Simon says eventually.

“Yeah.”

“Can we take a nap?”

“Oh.” I sit up, away from him. “I mean, yeah.”

“It’s just”—he looks apologetic—“I haven’t slept since … I don’t know, really.”

“Yeah, me neither.” I take his cup and reach for the plate. “You take the bed. Fiona won’t be surprised to see me on the sofa—”

“No. Baz. ” He grabs my arm. “Stay.”

“But your wings…” Simon almost never lets me sleep next to him. He says it’s because he thrashes around. “I thought you didn’t want to impale me.”

He’s making an effort to smile. “I won’t toss much during a nap. Besides, you’re pretty hard to kill.”

I take a breath to think about it, but I don’t get much thinking or breathing done. “All right,” I say out loud. Then I say it a few more times to myself.

Right. All right.

I set down our dishes and look around. I don’t have to close the shades—I keep them closed all day—but I turn off the lamp next to my bed, then stand up and pull back the duvet. Simon catches on and pushes it down, tucking his feet under. I slide in next to him, and tug it up over us. It’s strange to be under the covers like this. Him in joggers, me in jeans. It’s strange because we don’t do this. We never quite got to this stage. The boyfriends-being-boyfriends stage. Naps and cuddles and wearing each other’s clothes. Simon lies on his side, with his wings behind him, and pulls the duvet up under them as far as it will go.

“You need a special blanket with wing slots,” I say.

“Like a Snuggie for demons.”

“Or angels. Do your shoulders get cold?”

He shakes his head and stretches his right wing out, wrapping it snugly around us. It reminds me of Utah, of the back of Shepard’s truck.

“It’s only a few more days,” he says. “Then I can pull the covers up all the way. I’ll be able to wear normal clothes again—I’m gonna buy myself a leather jacket to celebrate.”

“Very cool,” I say. “You’ll look like Danny Zuko. Or a bad boy celebrity chef.”

“I know you’re making fun of me, but I am going to look really cool…”

He shifts his wing back behind him and wraps his arm around me instead. I find a way to slide one arm under his neck. We’re breathing each other’s air.

It’s a little claustrophobic.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks softly.

“No,” I whisper.

“Me neither.”





“But don’t move,” I say. “Not yet.”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

I wake up, and my right arm is dead. No blood in it at all. I pull it out from under Simon, and roll over, shaking it out. My throat is on fire, I ignore it.

I wake up, and the room is blood red.

The sun is shining, and Simon’s wing is spread over my head.

I wake up, and the room is pink. The sun is setting. Simon’s wings are behind him, his arm is around me. He’s pulled me in tight, my back to his chest, our hips nested together. He’s breathing heavily on my neck. I can’t remember ever being this warm.

Sleep finger-walks up the back of my skull and pulls me under again.

I wake up, and it’s dark. Simon’s arm is around me. My back is against his chest. His breath is harsh and uneven on my neck. He’s awake.

“Simon?”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough.

“What time is it?”

“Don’t know,” he says into my hair. “Didn’t want to move.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the middle of the day.”

“Maybe not.” He tucks his hand under my ribs and pulls me even more snugly against him. He’s rubbing his face into the back of my head. “You smell so good, Baz…”

I close my eyes. I let him move me.

“So good,” he says, pushing my head forward. “I can’t get enough of it. I can’t swallow it. And it … it doesn’t help to hold my breath…”

He inhales again. Unsteadily. Then he’s biting my scalp, his mouth wide and wet in the hair above my neck. “So good…” I think he says. “So good.”

He bites right at my hairline. He’s found the scar there before, stretched and faded. “If it were me,” he rasps, “if I were you…”

He bites and bites.

“I’d drain you fuckin’ dry, Baz, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

My fangs break though my gums—that happens, it’s all right, I try to suck them back. I try to turn, but Simon holds me fast against him.

I let him.