Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(6)

I lead Shepard through the living room. Pacey and Priya are playing Nintendo. “Hey,” I say flatly. “This is Shepard.”

Shepard’s ready to launch his usual charm attack, but my siblings just nod and say, “Hey” without looking away from the screen.

Mum’s in the kitchen, standing right under the light, holding Pip’s hand.

Pip’s 10, he’s the youngest. He’ll start at Watford in the autumn.

“Penelope,” Mum says. “How’s that reversal spell you’re working on?”

“It’s promising,” I say.

“Pip’s got a splinter. I thought I’d try reversing an ‘Under my skin.’”

“You’re not casting experimental spells on my hand,” Pip says.

“I’m good with splinters,” Shepard says. “Can I help?”

“What spell do you use?” Mum asks.

“I usually use tweezers,” he says.

She looks up at him for the first time. “You’re Penny’s friend with the urgent problem.”

“Mum,” I say, “this is Shepard.”

He holds out his hand, but she’s already looking back at Pip, holding her wand over his palm.

“No experiments,” Pip says. “I play piano!”

“You never practice,” she says.

“I will!” he swears.

She hitches her wand up in a plucking motion. “No trespassing!”

Pip yelps. A bit of something flies out his hand.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Mum says.

Pip yanks his hand back—“Mum, you’re the worst”—and stomps out of the room.

Mum finally gives Shepard and me her full attention.

Simon says my mother and I are two peas in a pod. “She’s you in twenty-five years, when you give even fewer fucks.” I don’t see it. Mum’s much tougher than I am. And much smarter. And much more confident about her hair.

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” she says to Shepard. “What year were you at Watford?”

“Shepard’s a—an American,” I say, before he can say anything.

Mum’s mouth twitches downward. She’d been so pleased to hear that Micah and I were done. “Martin!” she yelled at my dad. “Penelope has finally grown out of the American!” She must think I immediately replaced him.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask. “I want his opinion, too.”

“He had to run out,” Mum says. “You’re stuck with me. Are you two hungry?” She opens the refrigerator. “There are fish fingers, I think. Is Simon hungry, as well? I probably don’t have that many fish fingers.”

“Simon isn’t here.”

Mum looks over her shoulder. “Isn’t he? Did you have him surgically detached?”

Shepard laughs.

I frown at him, but Mum finally smiles. “I just assumed, when you said ‘urgent, interesting problem,’ that Simon was involved.”

“It isn’t urgent,” Shepard says, like he doesn’t want anyone to fuss.

I huff. “I respectfully disagree!”

“Out with it,” Mum says, leaning back against the counter. She’s rubbing her forehead, like she’s already heard and been exhausted by our problem.

This is how it’s been since Mum took charge of Watford—like she’s always down to her last nerve.

“Well,” I say, “Shepard is cursed.”

“What kind of cursed?”

“He made an unfortunate—”

“Does the curse keep him from speaking for himself?”

I just stop myself from answering her.

“No,” Shepard says, looking directly in Mum’s eyes and squaring his shoulders. I can see he’d like to make this light, the way he makes everything light. But there’s no light way to say it. He’s smiling, and then he isn’t. “I lost my soul to a demon.”

“Oh, Shepard,” Mum says, already disappointed in him. “You didn’t take their sweets.”

“Ah, no,” he says, smiling again. “Only because I wasn’t offered any.”

“Who summoned a demon? Do people just leave the gates open in America? Have you all found a way to frak the Netherworlds?”

“I…” I’ve never seen Shepard at a loss for words. He tips his head down.

“I summoned one.”

She looks appalled. “Why? ”

He winces. “To see if I could?”

“Oh, Shepard. Penelope, where do you find these tragic morons?”

“Mum!”

“Honestly!” She waves at Shepard. “Go on, take off your jacket. Let’s see them. I do wish Dad was here. We’ve only ever read about demon entrapment. There hasn’t been a documented case since the 1800s. An ounce of prevention goes a long way—it’s like cholera.”

Shepard takes off his jacket and looks down at the floor. He’s wearing a T-shirt underneath. The tattoos start at his wrists and wrap around his arms.

They’re incredibly intricate, and it’s hard for your eyes to focus on them.

Sometimes they look like vines, and sometimes they look like writing— writing in an alphabet that uses all the letters we know and about a dozen we don’t.