“It’s no trouble,” Niamh says. “We’ll just try again. Wash your hands, Miss Wellbelove.”
“I—”
She gives me a pointed look, so I close my mouth and go to wash my hands in the sink.
Simon hands Niamh the scalpel and crouches to pick something else up from the floor—a large saw.
“I’ve got this,” she says, taking it from him. “Sit down, Mr. Snow.” She mumbles a spell, and the room rights itself, all the sharp tools flying up onto a tray.
Simon sits at the end of the exam table, looking numb and exhausted. It’s the look that used to mean he’d just blown all his magic at once—the look he’d get right after he came to, a burned-out husk. I can practically smell the ozone. (Merlin, Simon used to stink of magic. It turned my stomach.)
Niamh joins me at the sink, pulling another face at me and nodding her head towards Simon. I still have no idea what my role is here, but when she nods his way again, I walk over to him.
Simon glances up at me, then folds his arms over his chest—as if I haven’t seen him like this before. I mean, I suppose I haven’t. Not with the wings. And Simon’s thicker now than he used to be. I can’t see his ribs.
But I know all this golden skin … I’ve counted these moles.
It’s a strange feeling to look at someone’s chest and know it’s nothing to do with you anymore, but still to remember kissing every inch.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.
“Sorry,” I say. “I can go.”
“No,” he says. “Please.”
Just as Niamh says, “No. I need your help.”
“Sorry,” Simon says again, to Niamh. He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs miserably in his neck.
“Nonsense,” she says. “I startled you. We’re going to start fresh…”
He nods. I stand there uselessly—I don’t know what we’re starting.
“Now I’m going to extend just the left side,” Niamh says, gingerly touching Simon’s wing.
Simon flinches—and nearly stabs her in the throat with one of the stony spikes that poke out at the peak of each wing. Niamh frowns at me. She has a fantastic face for frowning: long and wide, with a nose that looks like a prosthetic an actress would wear to win an Oscar. “Miss Wellbelove,” she says.
Simon’s face is pale. His jaw muscles are popping out of his cheeks, and his hands are knotted in fists on his thighs. Niamh tugs at his wing again, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
I touch his hand. “Can I—”
His eyes jerk up to mine, and he nods, clamping my hand in his. I take his other hand, too, and he squeezes it.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. It just”—he shakes his head again—“feels wrong to be touched there.”
Niamh has his left wing spread out. It takes up most of the small exam room. She’s got a bottle of iodine and a cloth. Has Simon been injured? I mean, recently? Penelope and Baz healed all his bullet holes in the desert. Simon and I haven’t really talked since …
Well, ever. We didn’t talk after the Mage died. And we didn’t talk much in San Diego. And we haven’t talked at all since we got home. I didn’t even ask him what my father wanted the other night.
Niamh swabs the back of his wing with her cloth, and his whole body clenches. “All right?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” Simon says, white-knuckling my hands. “Niamh’s a vet student,” he tells me.
I nod. “I know.”
“Lucky for me.” He’s trying to smile. His face is so pale that his skin looks yellow, and there are purple circles under his eyes.
“Lucky for me,” Niamh says flatly. “I’d never get a chance to dissect an actual dragon’s wings.”
Dissect?
Simon’s still trying to smile at me. “Don’t worry. She’s going to take them off first.”
Oh. He’s having the wings removed. Finally. That makes sense. If I woke up with dragon wings—and a bloody tail—I’d have them taken off before breakfast. Simon’s had wings for more than a year, and he doesn’t even have magic to hide them. Still …
I remember him flying towards me, over the sand. That look on his face, like he wouldn’t leave without me. The way he lifted Baz up and away from the fire. Even with no magic.
“Where’s Baz?” I ask him. “And Penelope?”
Simon shakes his head, jaw rigid, then turns to speak to Niamh. “I guess I am a rare opportunity,” he puffs out. “It’s not like a dragon will ever show up at A&E with an injured wing…”
“If a dragon loses the use of a wing,” she says, scrubbing him with the disinfectant, “the other dragons kill it.”
Simon flinches.
“Out of mercy,” she says, pulling his wing taut again.
“Right,” he says.
“That’s savage,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “They are dragons.”
Simon swallows. “I met a dragon once.”
“I’m not surprised,” Niamh says. “Look here—I’m already done with the back of this one. I told you it’d be quick. I’m moving to the front now.” She manoeuvres herself around his wing and starts on the paler leather there.
Simon jumps again. He yanks my hands against his chest—sweet Circe, he’s chilled through. I can’t remember Simon’s skin ever being cold. He used to be a furnace. When I’d sit next to him to watch a film, he’d sweat through his shirt and mine, and his arm would stick to my neck.
He may not be in pain, but he is suffering.
I lift my chin at Niamh. “Why do you have to disinfect his wings if you’re just going to cut them off?”
“Surgical procedure,” she says.
“But you wouldn’t be able to disinfect an animal this way. In the field.”
She narrows her already narrow eyes at me. “I would try.”
Simon squeezes my hands. “It’s all right, Agatha.”
It isn’t all right. He’s trembling. Simon doesn’t tremble. “He’s clearly uncomfortable.”
“Well, it is an amputation,” she says. “Uncomfortable is rather our best-case scenario.”
I lift my chin higher. “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired, Miss—Niamh.”
“No one has ever complained, Miss Wellbelove.”
“Have you worked on any talking animals?”
“I’m not complaining!” Simon says.
“Look…” Niamh releases Simon’s wing, and it snaps closed so tight, it’s practically flat against his back. She frowns at the wing, then frowns at me. “Look,” she says again, more calmly. “I’m going to take good care of your boyfriend, I promise. Your father never would have asked me to do this if he didn’t trust me.”
I let go of Simon’s hands—just as he’s letting go of mine.
I step away from him. “I—”
“It’s all right.” Simon has sat up straight. He’s squared his shoulders. He still looks badly shaken, but he’s spreading his left wing out again and holding it mostly steady. “I trust you, Niamh. I can get through this.” He looks at me. “It’s all right, Agatha.”
“Of course,” I say to him, my voice mild again. “I’m sorry.”
“No…” Simon shakes his head. His shoulders fall a bit. “You shouldn’t be. I mean—Agatha. I’m sorry. You know?”
Oh.
No.
Not now. Not …
Now I’m shaking my head. And I’m crying. For heaven’s snakes and hell’s, too—I told myself I was done crying over Simon Snow.
He holds a hand out to me, and what am I supposed to do, not take it? He reels me in close. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Stop.” I’m still crying.
“Agatha, I—”
“Simon, I beg you, please don’t choose now to start talking about your feelings.”
The door to the exam room opens. We both look up—Niamh is stepping out.
“Niamh!” Simon says. “Don’t go. Please.”
&nbs
p; “I can give you a moment.” She frowns at us. (That might just be her face; she’s trying to be kind, I think.)
“No,” he says. “I don’t want to lose my nerve.”
“Fat chance of that,” Niamh says. “I’ve seen you in action.”
“Oh?” Simon looks like he’s trying to place her.
“I was at Watford, a few years ahead of you.” She glances at me, as if to say, You, too. “You saved my life once.”
“That’s everyone at Watford,” I say. “And in the whole World of Mages.”
“True enough,” she agrees. She smiles tightly at Simon.
“Please,” he says. “I’m all right.”
Niamh frowns at us more intently, then steps back into the room. She motions towards his wing. “Shall I?”
“Yeah. Just ignore my jumping around, I can’t help it.”
She picks up the iodine and starts again on the inside of his wing. He shudders, but doesn’t pull away. I hold his hand steady.
“Fascinating,” Niamh says—to herself, I think. “It’s like the inside of a lamb’s ear. Covered in fine hair.”
“You look like hell,” I whisper to Simon.
He smiles. “Thanks.”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“I don’t know. Utah?”
“Are you caught up in some new trouble?”
“No,” he says. “I mean, nothing new.”
“Simon…”
“Nearly done,” Niamh says. She must be rushing it. (Which won’t matter at all—she’s just cutting them off. I can’t believe she doesn’t have a spell for this.) She moves to the joint of Simon’s wing, the place where it juts out of his back.
He looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin.
“You’re sure this doesn’t hurt?” I ask.
“It’s more like someone is sticking their finger down my throat,” he says. “Or shoving something wet into my ear. Every instinct I have is screaming, No!”
“I wonder if you’ll have phantom pains when the wings are gone,” Niamh says.
Could she be less helpful?
“What did Simon save you from?” I ask her, hoping for a better topic.
“Paindeer,” she says.
He nods, still wincing. “Oh, right … On the Great Lawn?”
“No, but I was there for that one, too. This was on the lacrosse field. During a practice.”
I remember both those attacks. The Humdrum rarely repeated himself, but he fucking loved paindeer.
“They cornered us, against the fence,” she says. “Some of us were casting spells, but we were too scared to do much good—” Simon is hunching forward over his knees again. Niamh lifts her cloth from his wing. “Is it better if I’m gentle or firm?”
He clears his throat. “Firm, I think.”
She goes back to it, scrubbing harder. The whole room smells like iodine. “You came out of nowhere,” she says. “I don’t think you used any magic at all. You had that sword…”
Simon nods. “I remember that day. Agatha was playing.”
I was. It was my first year on the team … Did I play lacrosse with Niamh?
“The whole herd of them went after you,” she says. “We thought you were gone from this world, Mr. Snow. We were all screaming for you to run.”
“I don’t remember that part,” he says. Why should he remember that part? Why should one near-death experience stand out from all the others?
“I’ve never seen anyone fight like that,” Niamh goes on. “You didn’t stop swinging till they were gone.” She stands up straight, holding his wing out to check her work. “It was the most foolhardy thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Simon is looking down, past our joined hands. Maybe he’s trying to remember.
“Right,” Niamh says. “Let’s do the other wing now. I’ll make quick work of it.”
Simon pulls his left wing in, and Niamh helps him extend the right. She frowns at it—maybe that’s just her thinking face—running her hand along the bony ridge. “You did save our lives, though. Thanks for that.”
15
BAZ
“Hello, Basil, you look wretched.” My aunt sails past me into the kitchen.
She didn’t come home last night. Which means there was no one here to tell me to get up and wash my face and stop listening to the same James Blake song again and again. (I think the neighbours tried—they were banging on the ceiling around 2 A.M., I ignored it.)
I’ve been lying here on the sofa, uselessly, in a little tribute to Simon Snow. This is apparently what you do when you feel terrible, and you never want to feel better.
I’d say that I’ve been reliving everything Snow said to me last night—but he didn’t say much, did he? It doesn’t take long to relive: “We’re done, this is over, I hate the sight of you.”
So I’ve been reliving all of it, our whole story. Every night I stayed awake to watch him fall asleep, every time I threw a punch just to touch his face …
I always knew Snow would ruin me. I thought he’d do it with his hands. That he’d run me through with that bloody sword. (Ha. Like Simon Snow would ever settle for a flesh wound.) He had to get me close to finish me off. Our relationship was the killing blow.
Did Simon ever love me? I’m not sure.
Would it be worse if he never loved me—or if he loves me still, but doesn’t want to be with me?
As soon as I decide which is worse, I’ll know which is true.
Fuck, this is bad. It’s so bad. It hasn’t been bearable for even a breath.
I thought I was ready for it—losing him. I thought I’d been bracing for it, for months. But I couldn’t know how awful it would be. And I have a feeling it’s just starting, that I’m still in the slow-motion part of it—that scene in a film where someone takes a bullet, then it takes ten seconds for their face to fall and another eternity before they clutch their chest. I’m in that scene, and my hand hasn’t even reached my heart yet. I’m still opening my mouth to scream.
“Turn off that music!” Fiona shouts from the next room. “No emo shit in my flat.”
I am emo shit. “This is electronic soul,” I mutter.
“It’s crap!”
I sit up and rub my face with my shirt. I should corner Fiona while I have a chance. I should make sure she doesn’t get arrested again. I should talk to her about Daphne. The world hasn’t stopped turning just because I’m dead and slowly dying. It could still get worse.
I stand up, and the blood drains from my head. I give myself a second, then walk into the kitchen. The kettle’s on, and Fiona’s reaching into the fridge.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“Working. I do have a job.” My aunt is a vampire hunter now. The Coven gave her a warrant card. At some point, I should probably talk to her—I should probably talk to someone—about what I’ve learned about vampires. (The fact that they may not all be murderers. That some of them are more like sexy bedbugs.) If I thought Fiona was any good at vampire hunting, I’d make it a higher priority.
I lean heavily on the open refrigerator door, resting my elbows on it. “That’s why you’ve ignored my texts all week? Too busy working?”
She stands up, holding milk in one hand and ham in the other. She’s got a plum in her mouth. She shrugs.
I relieve her of the milk. “Fiona.”
She spits out the plum. “Is this about your stepmother? Christ, is that what’s got you all cut up?”
“What do you know about Daphne? Have you spoken to her?”
Fiona drops the ham onto the counter and starts slapping together a sandwich. “What I know is that your father’s marriage isn’t any of your business.”
“I’ve been talking to Mordelia—”
“Who is not my blood relative.”
“Well, she’s mine, and she hasn’t seen her mother in weeks. From what I can tell, Daphne’s either joined a cult or run off with another man.”
“Neither would surprise me.” Fion
a gets out two mugs and goes for the kettle. “You know, under the old laws, your father is still married to your mother; those children aren’t even legitimate…”
I drop into a chair at the kitchen table, rubbing my forehead. “Curses, you’re impossible. Daphne is a lovely person.”
Fiona “pffft”s and sits across from me with her sandwich. She shoves a mug of tea in my direction. “Doesn’t make her your business. You can’t interfere in a marriage, Baz, legitimate or otherwise. If Daphne and your father are having troubles, that’s for them to work out.”
I press my fingers into my eyes.
“You really do look frightful,” she says, still chewing. “Do you need to, you know…”
I need to replace every single person in my life with someone more functional, is what I need. “Do I need to what?”
“You know…” she says.
Is my aunt asking me if I need to get laid?
She pushes her eye teeth over her bottom lip. “You know.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
She holds up both her hands, in surrender. One is holding a ham sandwich. “Just looking out for you. No need to get chippy.”
“No, I don’t need to you know.” I do, actually, but this isn’t something we just talk about. “I need you to focus. What if Daphne’s got herself into real trouble?”
Fiona rolls her eyes and takes another bite. “Your stepmum’s fine. She isn’t the first person to have their head turned by the latest Chosen One. You know plenty about that.”
I sit up. “Wait. What do you mean.”
Fiona stops chewing. “Nothing. It was just a figure of speech.”
“Figure of bollocks. What do you know, Fiona?”
She sits back, sighing, and working her tongue at her teeth like something is stuck there. “It really isn’t our business, Basil.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She sighs again. “All right … Well…” She sighs one more time. “I’ve heard your stepmother might be caught up in one of those Chosen One groups.”
“What Chosen One groups?”
“Is this actually news to you?”
“I don’t even know enough to know what you’re talking about!”
Fiona leans over the table. “The whole World of Mages thought your boyfriend had come to save them from a bad end, that he fulfilled thousands of years of prophecy…”
Any Way the Wind Blows Page 6