* * *
“This isn’t like Daphne.”
* * *
“All right, I’ve interrogated Mordelia.”
* * *
“I think I need your help with this, Simon.”
* * *
“Good morning.”
* * *
“Good night.”
* * *
“Good morning.”
* * *
“I miss you.”
* * *
“I don’t need a phone to talk to myself.
I’ll tell you more when I get back to London.”
10
PENELOPE
I used to think I was always right.
I was wrong …
About that.
Which really makes me wonder what else I was wrong about. I mean, if you’re wrong about almost always being right, anything is possible. Maybe you’re almost always wrong. Maybe I am, I mean.
It’s like I’m a detective who’s been solving cases for nineteen years with flawed methodology, and now I’ve had to reopen every one.
How am I supposed to operate like this? How do wrong people do it? (I am a wrong person now. I’m one of them!) How am I supposed to make even basic decisions now that I know how little I know?
I mean—I believed I was in a healthy relationship with a person who had already dumped me; that is a staggering thing to be wrong about.
What other false things do I believe in?
Am I delusional? Am I hearing voices?
“You are definitely not getting your security deposit back.”
“Be quiet, Shepard, I’m trying to think.”
Talk about a giant mistake—this Normal, sitting in my living room. Still completely cursed. And now an illegal immigrant, to boot. Throw another bad decision on the bonfire. I should make a list of them …
It took me sixteen spells, but I’ve finally magicked our living room wall into a giant blackboard.
“You know, there’s a paint,” Shepard says, still not being quiet, “that turns any wall into a chalkboard.”
“Sorry I don’t know where to buy magic paint.” Ah, there’s my chalk. Excellent.
“No, it’s a regular paint…”
I write What we know in big letters on one side of the wall and What we don’t know on the other.
“Penelope, this might not be my place to say—”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t say it.”
He does, of course: “Maybe you should consider getting some sleep.”
I shake my head. “Every time I fall asleep, Simon slips past me.”
“He said he had an appointment.”
“You don’t understand—Simon never has appointments! He never even leaves the flat!”
“I did meet him in America…”
I rub my eyes. They won’t stop watering. “You don’t know anything, Shepard.”
“Better add that to your chalkboard.”
“Oh, I’m planning to.”
He takes the chalk from my hand and writes The human body requires sleep on the left side of the wall.
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I’ve cast the appropriate spells.”
I told Mum that I spelled Shepard stupid and left him at the American embassy. I think she believed me.
It’s more plausible than the truth—that I smuggled a Normal into the country and have been letting him sleep on my sofa for days. I never planned on this. I really thought I’d have Shepard fixed up and headed home within a few hours. But Mum sent me packing, and I can’t even approach my dad—he’ll go straight to my mum.
I stare at the blank blackboard and groan. “Where is Simon? I can’t do this without him.”
“Do you need Simon because he knows about demons?”
“Morgana, no. I need him here to listen to me think.”
“Maybe Baz knows where Simon went?”
“Baz is in the middle of a ‘family crisis,’ apparently.”
“Oh—does he need our help?”
“I don’t know. He’s being cagey.”
Shepard still has my chalk. He writes Where is Simon? and Does Baz need our help? on the right side of the blackboard.
I turn to face him. “You’re really extremely infuriating, do you know that?”
He smiles. Almost like he’s being patient with me. It’s infuriating. “Penelope, you’re honestly the first person to ever say so.”
I rub my eyes again and groan.
* * *
It’s dark when I wake up. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa. If I’m sleeping on the sofa, where is Shepard sleeping? There’s someone sitting near my feet. Something with horns and wings. It’s a demon, it’s the demon—
“Hey,” Simon says, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Hey. Penny. It’s just me. It’s me.”
I’ve sat up. My heart is racing. “Nicks and Slick, Simon!”
“I’m sorry.”
“I thought you were…”
“Shepard was sleeping on the floor,” Simon says. “I told him he could use my bed.”
I fumble around for my glasses. “Why aren’t you using your bed? Where have you even been, Simon?” My glasses are on the floor. “You won’t believe what happened with my mum. Also, you need to text Baz. I think he’s worried about you. He’s been stuck in Oxford all week…”
“Penny, I need to talk to you.”
Simon is sitting sideways at the end of the sofa. His wings are spread out behind the arm, so he doesn’t have to lean on them. It would drive me round the twist to have to sit on those wings all the time. I don’t know how he sleeps.
My gem is tucked into my bra. I fish it out and hold my hand out to him. “I’ve got a new spell to try, to take care of your wings around the house. I think it will only shrink them, but it takes less magic than the others—”
Simon closes a hand over my fist. “Penelope, no. I need you to listen.”
11
BAZ
Penelope Bunce isn’t making any sense.
I’ve come back to London, put on some decent clothes, finally, and headed straight to Penny and Simon’s flat. I’ve decided not to punish Snow for ignoring my texts. (Well, I’m going to evaluate the situation: If he’s a little sorry, then I’m going to punish him a little. But if he’s very sorry, I’m just going to pretend like it didn’t happen. I’ve got bigger problems than him being a terrible boyfriend.) (I’ve got more pressing problems, at least.)
But now I’m here, and Bunce is telling me that Snow isn’t here—that he’s left—and that we aren’t supposed to look for him.
“Have you been bewitched?” I turn to Shepard, standing in the kitchen doorway. “Has she been bewitched?”
Shepard shakes his head. He looks uncomfortable. Shepard should look uncomfortable—why is he still here? Snow told me that Shepard was only staying for a few days; Penelope owes him a favour of some sort. I assumed he’d be off breaking bread with dragons by now.
“I don’t have time for this, Bunce. Just tell me where Simon is.”
“He left you this note,” she says, proffering a yellow envelope.
I open it, and take out a matching card. Where did Simon get stationery? Did he purchase stationery for the purpose of writing me this confounding note? It hardly counts as a note, anyway. All it says is, Baz, I’m sorry.
“He’s sorry?” I hold the note up to Penelope. “What does that mean?”
She won’t look at me. “He doesn’t want to see us right now.”
She isn’t making sense. This doesn’t make sense.
“What?”
I think Bunce has been crying. Her eyes are red, and she looks haggard. “He says he needs time,” she says.
“Time isn’t something a person needs, Penelope. Time is a constant.”
“You know what I mean—”
“No. I don’t. I don’t know what any of this means! Are you telling me that Snow moved out?”
Her chin is wobbling. “I think he’s lost,
Baz.”
“Because you lost him, Bunce!” I’m charging into Simon’s bedroom. “I left him with you for a week, and you lost him!”
She’s right—Snow’s things are gone. He didn’t have much, but it’s all gone. His duffel bag, his books, all of his grotty T-shirts with the slits cut down the back.
Penelope has followed me as far as the doorway. “I didn’t lose him—he decided to leave. Simon is an adult.”
“Oh, for snake’s sake. He is not. He’s a walking catastrophe!” I turn to her, my palms held out in frustration. “You know that! You taught me that! The only thing for it is to never let him out of your sight. Come on.” I point past her. “Put on your shoes. Let’s find Snow.”
“No.” Bunce’s arms are folded. She’s crying.
I’m not crying. This is all too ludicrous to cry about. “What do you mean ‘no’? Why aren’t you making any sense tonight?”
Bunce looks like she hasn’t slept or brushed her hair since the last time I saw her. She shakes her head, and her bedraggled ponytail swings from side to side. “No, I’m not going to chase him. No, I’m not going to make him come back. No, I’m not going to make him do anything. If Simon wants space, I’m going to give it to him.”
“Space, is it? Did he say he needs space?”
“Yes.”
“People don’t need space, Penelope!” I’m shouting. “They need people! Simon needs us!”
“That’s what I always say, Baz!” She’s swinging that ponytail again. She’s shouting, too. “‘Simon needs me’—that was always my excuse!”
“Your excuse for what?”
“For doing whatever I wanted! For making him do what I thought best. I was more like a commanding officer than a friend.”
“You kept him alive.”
“Barely! I kept him alive after goading him into danger.”
“I wouldn’t say you goaded him,” I mutter. “Snow never needed goading.” I hate how little sense she’s making. I hate this note. I hate Snow’s messy handwriting; it looks like a child’s. I hate the view I have of his empty wardrobe.
“Baz, I’m not going after him. I promised him I wouldn’t.”
“Bunce…” I hate this.
“No.”
I hate it. “Bunce, please.”
“I know it’s different for you,” she says. “Maybe it’s worse.”
I hate—
I don’t—
We landed at Heathrow, and I went off to get Fiona. Simon offered to help, but I said I didn’t need it. I kissed him good-bye. That felt like a risk, saying good-bye; I wasn’t sure where we were with each other at the moment. But it seemed fine. I said I’d text him. He said … What did he say? “See ya,” I think. Nothing was any different than it’s been. Nothing was any better, but nothing was any worse.
He’d said those awful things in America. On the beach. But that was in America. And that was about me, not him, about whether I was happy. (I’m not happy, but I’m smart enough to realize that losing Simon would only make it worse.)
And there were other moments in America. Better moments. Before the beach. In the desert. In the back of Shepard’s truck.
I don’t believe Snow would just leave without telling me. That he would leave me without telling me.
“He left me a note, Penelope. After everything we’ve … We’re … He’s my … And I’m supposed to just … ‘I’m sorry’? What am I supposed to do with this?”
Penelope is crying, fat tears running down her red cheeks. “I don’t know, Basil. Maybe it’s true what they say—if you love someone, set them free.”
“That isn’t a truth, it’s just a spell! When I was six, my shoelace got caught in an escalator, and my Aunt Fiona cast it to get me clear. Simon needs us, Penelope.” I take her by the shoulder. “We have to find him. Let’s go.”
She steps away from me. She shakes her head. “No. He needs me to let him make his own decisions.”
I let my hand fall.
I nod.
I look at Bunce the way I used to look at her—when she was my worst enemy’s best friend.
“Fine then. Perhaps he just needs me.”
12
SIMON
There’s a goblin in my stairwell. Not even in disguise. Just sitting there, picking his teeth with a dagger. He better not have eaten my landlady.
I’ve only had this flat for a day. It’s a house that’s been split in two. The landlady’s got the main floor, and I’ve got the upstairs. I convinced her that I’d be a quiet tenant. No drugs. No parties. (Goblins are worse than parties.)
“Hello, Mage Prince,” the goblin says. He’s red-lipped and green-skinned. Dead handsome, like every goblin.
“I’ve tried to tell you lot that I’m nobody’s prince…”
“Word on the street is, you’ve lost your blade.”
I shrug. There’s a price on my head—the goblin who brings it back to their council or whatever gets to be king.
This one thinks he’s got a fair shot at it. He gets to his feet, almost lazily, and points his dagger at me.
I shoot my right hand out to the side and grab a broom that’s leaning against the wall.
“You have lost your blade!” the goblin cries, absolutely delighted.
He runs at me, and I wallop him in the gut so hard that the broom handle cracks. He doubles over—but comes up quickly, swinging his dagger at me.
My wings are strapped down under my shirt, and my tail is tucked away. (I’ve just been to see Dr. Wellbelove at his practice.) It sort of feels like fighting with one hand tied behind my back.
I’ve still got the end of the broom handle, so I use it to bat the goblin’s hand away from me.
He keeps coming.
I decide to let him. The Mage taught me this—that sometimes the best way to get under someone’s guard is to let them get close.
The goblin runs at me, and I grab the wrist of his dagger hand, spinning around behind him, so I can crush him against the wall, my chest to his back. I hold the splintered broom handle in my other hand, an inch from his eye. When he tries to turn away from it, I use my face to grind his head into the wall. I bang his wrist against the wall until he drops the dagger, then I step on it.
His eyes are open, staring at the splintered broom handle.
“If you leave now,” I say, right into his ear, “I’ll let you keep your eye.”
He bares his teeth. “Another gob’ll be right behind me. All of London knows you’ve lost your blade.”
I nudge the broom handle closer to his eye. “Yeah, but you’re going to tell them I don’t need my blade—cuz now I’ve got yours.”
He closes his eyes, still trying to wrench himself away from me. Fortunately goblins aren’t any stronger than people; you just have to stay away from their teeth.
“Do you understand?” I say, slamming his body hard against the wall.
He starts to nod his head—which is a terrible idea.
I move the broom away. “Watch yourself. Just say it out loud.”
“Yeah,” he pants. “I understand.”
“If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
“Why aren’t you killing me now?” he asks. A bit narky for someone in his position. “Wouldn’t that send the same message?”
I huff into his ear.
Because I’m tired, I think. And because for all I know, you’ve got a goblin wife and goblin kids, or a goblin boyfriend, and I’d like a life—I’d like a week—with a lower body count.
“Because I’m tired of washing goblin blood out my jeans,” I say.
I heave him back by the collar and shove him towards the door.
He glances over his shoulder at me, like he still can’t believe I’m letting him go.
“Seriously,” I say. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you. Even if I just accidentally run into you at Tesco.”
The goblin runs away.
I lean over and pick up his dagger. (Too bad I can’t keep it. Goblin gear
is always cursed.)
Does this mean I have to find a new flat?
* * *
I bolt and chain my front door. I don’t have any furniture to shove against it, so I decide to use the broom handle like a wedge—that should slow someone down, at least. Then I call and order myself some pad thai from the place down the street.
I take off my trench coat. There’s nowhere to hang it, so I toss it on the floor. And then my shirt. I go into the bathroom to unstrap my wings. I’ve been using two belts. The leather chafes, and the buckles bite into my chest, and if I pull them too tight, I can’t breathe. But if I don’t hitch them tight, my wings work themselves loose and push out the back of my coat—which is too fucking hot to wear in the middle of summer. Honestly, it’s not worth leaving the flat.
I won’t have to deal with this after tomorrow.
I get the belts off and drop them on the floor, then try to crane my head around to see the spot where my wings actually attach to my shoulders. I can’t quite manage it. But I can feel the joints there, the two knots where my skin goes from soft to leathery.
I can’t see my tail either. But I can touch the place on my back where it comes out of me. I pull the tail out of my jeans and wrap my fingers around the base, feeling the bones inside shifting. Dr. Wellbelove says the tail’s connected to my spine. He doesn’t want to remove it outright—he’s afraid of nerve damage—so he’s leaving an inch or two. I’m going to look like a docked terrier when he’s done with me, but at least I’ll be able to wear normal jeans again.
The wings will be gone completely. (His intern wants to dissect them, and I said that’s fine.) I’ll have long scars down my back when it’s over. Dr. Wellbelove was sorry about that, but I don’t care—I’m already covered in scars. I’ve been magickally patched up too many times to count, and most healing spells aren’t cosmetic.
Any Way the Wind Blows Page 4