Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(47)

“Simon … Are you certain you want to get involved in this? It is magic. ”

He looked back at me, like I was being silly. “It’s your stepmum. ”

I smiled. I watched him send his texts. “I can make a few calls tomorrow morning,” I said. “Ask around. See if anyone knows anything.”

“Shouldn’t we get started now?” He was sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to go.

I held my hand out to him. “No. Nothing will change overnight. Let’s just sleep.”

He looked surprised. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Snow.”

He bit his lip for a moment, then took my hand and folded his wings. “All right. We’ll rescue Daphne tomorrow.”

I pulled him down beside me, and laid my head on his chest again.

“Tomorrow.”

The next morning—this morning—while Simon made toast, I sat at the kitchen table and called someone I could trust to be honest with me.

“Hello, Dev.”

“Well, if it isn’t Basilton Pitch. Did you take a break from getting your cock sucked and remember that you have friends and family?”

“Took a break from sucking cock, actually.”

Simon’s head spun around. I shrugged, apologetically, and turned away from him in my chair.

Dev sighed. “You don’t call, you don’t write.”

“I’ve been busy studying. Haven’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Uni is a ball-ache. As it turns out, pledging allegiance to the Mage twice a week and working on my diction did nothing to prepare me for higher education.”

I snorted. “I’ve heard the new headmistress is making people do maths.”

“Unacceptable! Cares she not for tradition?”

“What’s next,” I said, “geography?”

Dev’s voice dropped, confidentially. “Niall’s brother says it’s worlds better down at Wats these days. They can have mobile phones. And they brought back the admissions test. Old Bunce has some standards.”

I decided to push on while Dev was being sincere; it only happens biannually. “Say, have you been hearing this twaddle about a new Greatest Mage?”

“Aw. Poor Baz. Threw it all away for the Chosen One, and now you have to start over.”

“So you have heard about it.”

“Crowley,” Dev swore, “it’s all my grandmother talks about. She follows one of them on Facebook.”

“On Facebook? What do they call themselves?”

Dev sounded amused: “Baz, are you actually interested? Have you found religion?”

“Nah. I have a friend who’s all caught up in it. I want to make sure they’re not in any trouble.”

“A friend, eh? Well, it’s not me, and it’s not Niall. Has Simon Snow joined a saviour cult? That’s rich.”

“You don’t think there’s anything to all this, do you?”

“Do I think the Greatest Mage has been hiding out in Swansea, and my grandmother was the first to know? No, dear cousin, I do not. I think some greedy tosser wants to make sure I don’t inherit her Aston Martin.”

“Your poor grandmother,” I said.

“My poor car,” he replied.

“So, it’s all a financial scam?”

“Grandmum’s Facebook saviour? Assuredly. But better him than the Chosen wanker Máire Clark is following around.”

“Máire Clark, is that someone I know?”

“Year ahead of us at Watford. Dark hair. Good legs. The Mage arrested her dad for insider dealing.”

“Oh right.” Máire. Scottish. Sat near me in Magic Words.

“She’s obsessed with some ‘miracle worker.’ Volunteers at his compound.

The guy bleeds from his palms, spits doves, the whole bit.”

“What’s the difference between miracles,” I asked, “and good old-fashioned magic?”

“Don’t ask Máire,” Dev groaned. “She’ll gnaw your bloody ear off—and her legs won’t even be a distraction for you.”

“So, what’s that one called? Máire’s miracle worker?”

“You’re actually invested in this, aren’t you?” This was a real treat for my cousin, I could tell. “Which of your friends has gone off the deep? Is it Wellbelove? Because I could find religion with Wellbelove. I could bleed from the palms, if you catch my meaning.”

I pretended that I didn’t. Once Dev starts on Agatha, he never stops. “Will you send me the name of your grandmother’s guy?” I asked. “And Máire’s, too. Could you find out?”

“Yeah, yeah. Will you come out to the pub with us? Before term starts?

You can even bring Snow. I heard he’s slowly turning into a dragon; can he still have a drink? Can he still take it up the—”

I cut him off. “Who told you that, the dragon thing?”

“My grandmother. She saw it on Facebook. Is it true?”

At the moment, Simon was sitting across from me, eating toast. There was melted butter running down his wrist. I held out a napkin.

“He can still have a drink,” I said.