Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(39)

The only real risk is that the magic will fail somehow before Shepard gets home. I don’t want him to get into any more trouble. (Though I’ve never met anyone with such a nose for it, not even Simon.) (I’m trying not to wonder about the “interesting” thing Simon was texting about. I am not falling back into this routine with him. Not if he hates me for it.) (Evidently Baz was less easily dismissed than I was. Fine. Let Baz be the one who gets repeatedly dumped.)

When I walk out into the living room, Shepard is pulling on a fresh T-shirt. His denim jacket is lying on the back of the sofa. It’s rare to see his arms—he wears that jacket even indoors, even in June. The tattoos trail out from his shirt sleeves, all the way down to his wrists. They’re so ornate, they almost seem to move.

No. They are moving.

I think they’re really moving!

I walk over to Shepard and grab his arm, staring down at the symbols.

“They do that sometimes,” he says softly.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Can’t read Demon.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Sometimes it sort of flashes—like, tingles—before things start to change.”

I watch the symbols shift and turn, winding around his arm. There must be some rhyme, some reason …

“It’s kind of cool-looking, huh?”

I look up at him. “No. Shepard. It isn’t cool. It’s horrid. I lament your inability to tell the difference.”

He flashes a smile at me, pulling his arm away and sliding it into his jacket. “I’m going to miss your lamenting, Penelope Bunce. And your derision. And the way you occasionally threaten to turn me into a frog. Will you threaten me by text every once in a while? So I know you’re doing okay?”

I fold my arms and watch him shove the T-shirt he was wearing into his backpack. His watch has three dials on it, and there are crystal bracelets on his wrists. I’m not sure I can let him walk out of here, knowing everything he knows.

He adjusts the collar of his jacket and cocks an eyebrow at me. “You’re not thinking of rebooting my memory, are you?”

“I’m thinking about it, but I won’t follow through.”

“I’m already sworn to keep your secrets.” He smiles at me. “And I would anyway.”

Look, I’m not blind. Shepard’s got a lovely smile—warm and wide, full brown lips, a hint of dimples—but he uses it on absolutely everyone for every occasion. I refuse to be affected by it.

I remain stern. “I thought our secrets were valuable currency on the magickal dark web, or wherever it is you hang out.”

“I wouldn’t have so many unusual friends if I couldn’t keep their secrets,”

he says.

“How could you possibly be keeping any magickal creature’s secrets?

You never shut up about them!”

“I only tell you about the not-secret ones, Penelope!”

“You told me you met a river phoenix. Those are the rarest of the rare.

Are you saying that wasn’t supposed to be a secret?”

“I didn’t tell you any identifying details!”

I’m rolling my eyes. I should just stare at the ceiling until Shepard leaves, to conserve my energy. “I’m not going to spell your memory,” I say.

When I look back at him, he’s smiling wider than ever. “Thanks, Penelope … I didn’t want to forget you.”

I pull out my phone and hand it to him. “Here, type in your phone number.

I’ll send you your boarding pass. You’ve got your passport, right?”

“Yeah, it’s not going to turn into, like, a leaf or something when I get out of range of you, is it?”

“Why would it turn into a leaf?”

“I don’t know. Magickal reasons.”

“No. You’ll be fine. I mean, call me if you have any problems, but you’ll be fine.”

He laughs.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“The idea of me calling you with my problems.” He puts his backpack on.

“You don’t have to leave yet—your flight isn’t for hours.”

“I think I want to kick around London for a while. Who knows when I’ll get back?” He’s smiling at me again. With his eyes, as well. I decide to be slightly affected. This is sort of a special occasion.

“Shepard,” I say, “I’m sorry I brought you here—”

“Hey. Stop. We’ve been through this. It was an adventure, and you know how I feel about those.” He puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulls two pieces of yellow chalk out of his pocket and holds them out to me. “I saved these from Chalkmageddon. Seemed like you might want them later.”

I look down at the chalk.

Then back at up at Shepard.

I grab his hand.

“Wow,” he says, “you really want to break this chalk.”

“Shepard— wait. ”

He looks down at me, his tongue on his bottom lip, like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I could try to tell him, but it would take a while.

“You don’t have to leave yet,” I say. “So, we, um—Well, we may as well see if we can make some progress.”