Any Way the Wind Blows

by Rainbow Rowell

  “A few days or a few months?”

  I lower an eyebrow at her. “You’re going to get lung fungus. And the worst part will be that everyone will know you got it from vaping.”

  She sneers over my shoulder. “Take care of my nephew, Simon Snow.”

  Simon is already sneaking out the door.

  “Take care of my aunt, whoever you are!” I shout.

  40

  SHEPARD

  For the first time in two years, I know exactly what the tattoos on my arms say. Debbie translated the incantation that Ken gave me, too—most of it.

  Now I know what I said that day, to summon the demon.

  I finally see how I ended up like this.

  I never thought I’d get this far or understand this much—and it only happened because of Penelope Bunce. Who isn’t speaking to me and won’t even look at me.

  I don’t blame her.

  I shouldn’t have lied. It didn’t start as a lie … It just happened … That day on Agatha’s balcony, with Penelope’s hand on my collar. I just thought, I’m probably never going to see this girl again, and I’m never going to meet another girl like her, and the last thing I want her to know about me is that these tattoos are a fucked-up engagement ring.

  I sit across the aisle from Penelope when we get on the train. To give her space. She doesn’t say anything, just stares out the window. She’s got the end of her ponytail in one hand, and she’s twisting it.

  Penelope’s look today is a giant purple T-shirt with the neck cut out—so it lies wide and open on her shoulders—and a flared denim skirt that just grazes the tops of her knees when she’s standing. She’s sitting now.

  I don’t think Penelope thinks about her skin. Or her hair. I don’t think she twirls her ponytail around her fingers because she knows I’m watching. I don’t think she thinks about me looking at her at all—so I try not to.

  I don’t think she thinks about me liking her …

  So I try not to do that either.

  I should have told her the truth. All of it. As soon as she offered to help me. Definitely before I got on the plane. I should have known that Penelope was smart enough to crack this—that she’d get to the bottom of my mess before I could come up with a good way to break it to her. Because there is no good way to break it. There’s no version of the truth that doesn’t make me seem worse than foolish. Worse than cursed. Worse than taken.

  When we get to her stop, I follow her off the train. Then I follow her to her flat. She unlocks the door and holds it open for me.

  “I’ll just get my backpack,” I say.

  “Sit down, Shepard.”

  I’m not sure why she wants me to sit, maybe so that she can chew me out some more. Anyway, I do it.

  She stands in front of me and holds out her hand. “Let’s see it.”

  I’m not sure what she means. My arms?

  “The translation,” she says, snapping her fingers.

  “Penelope—”

  “I didn’t spend all afternoon in some sort of spider-woman’s nest, so that I could not see the information we came for.”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the folded-up translation. It’s two pages long. Penelope takes them from me and unfolds them. “Calligraphy,” she says. “Why not.”

  She starts reading.

  “Right,” she says, nodding. “This is a prenuptial agreement…”

  She reads a bit more. “Oh, good job, Shepard, it’s an eternal contract. No divorce in your future. No adultery either, not if you value your eyelashes … That’s … picturesque…”

  She keeps reading.

  She raises an eyebrow and makes a noise like, “Pffft.”

  She flips to the second page. “What’s this? Half the words are missing.”

  I’m sitting with my knees wide and my elbows on my thighs, my head hanging low. “That’s the spell I got from Ken. The summoning spell. Debbie left out everything that made her nervous.”

  Penelope’s quiet. She’s reading.

  “This is a marriage proposal…” she says.

  I don’t say anything.

  “Shepard,” she says, “you weren’t forced into an engagement. You proposed to a demon.”

  I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

  “This is so much more idiotic than I thought.”

  “All right…” I sit up and grab the papers from her hand. “I know! This is why I lied to you—because I didn’t want you to know what a fool I am.”

  Penelope’s face is hard. “I prefer fools to liars.”

  “I’m not actually a liar,” I say, folding up the papers and shoving them back into my jacket. “I mean, I am literally. In this case. But I’m not. Generally. As a person. I’ll just get my backpack—”

  “I believe you.”

  I look up. Her face is still hard.

  “What do you believe?”

  “I believe that you didn’t mean to lie to me.”

  My hand is still in my jacket pocket. I take it out. “You do?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Just…” She turns to one of the chalkboard walls. “Don’t do it again, okay?”

  I nod slowly. Even though she can’t see me. “Okay.”

  She picks up her chalk. “Don’t lie to me, and don’t leave anything out.”

  “Okay,” I say again.

  “Don’t surprise me.”

  “I wasn’t trying—”

  She whips around, with her hands on her hips. “Just assume I want as much information as is possible, in every situation!”

  “I can do that.” I’m nodding too eagerly. “I want that, too.”

  Penelope looks up into my eyes, and it feels like a warning. It feels like she’s giving me another chance. But only this once.

  “Let me see me the translation again,” she says.

  I hand her the papers. She sticks each page to the chalkboard with a spell—“Sticking point!”

  “Now that we know the terms,” she says, “we can look for a way out.”

  41

  SIMON

  My flat looks emptier now that I’ve asked Baz to stay here. All I’ve really got is the mattress. “I can get furniture,” I say, looking around. “I can get one of those poles.”

  Baz has dropped his bags just inside the door. He’s texting someone. He glances up from his phone. “A pole?”

  “For your clothes. For clothes. Mine are just…” Mine are just in a heap on the bedroom floor. “I was going to buy furniture anyway.”

  “Did someone die and leave you their fortune?” Still texting.

  “Well … actually…”

  He looks up again. “Did someone die, Snow?”

  “Who are you texting?” I ask.

  “My other boyfriend. The one who texts back.”

  I grab for his phone. He holds it above me. If I weren’t wearing a hoodie, I could fly up and reach it.

  “I’m texting Bunce,” he says. “Like I have time for another boyfriend … Your dysfunction is a full-time job.”

  I shove him back—then think better of it and pull on his shirt, reaching for the phone again. “You’re texting Penny? Is she texting you back?”

  He puts the phone in his jacket pocket, slapping my hand away. “She texted me back to say that she’s trying to respect your needs. I told her you needed a kick in the arse; that I’ve already delivered it; and now we need her help.”

  “We do need her help,” I say.

  “I know. I told her to call.”

  I push my hand through the front of my hair. I hope she does.

  Baz bumps me with his elbow. “Who died, Snow?”

  “Oh.” I smooth my hair down again. “The Mage.”

  “Right,” he says. “I was there.”

  “Right, but … Well, he left me his money. In his will.”

  Baz looks surprised. “Your helping him off this mortal plane didn’t affect that?”

  “Not according to Dr. Wellbelove.”

  Ba
z laughs. “So the Mage paid for this flat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the Mage bought that mattress?”

  “Indirectly.”

  Baz grabs me by the waist and starts shoving me backwards towards the bedroom. He kicks off his shoes between shoves.

  “Hey!”

  “Shut up, Snow, I’m going to have my way with you on the Mage’s bed.”

  He pushes me through the door, and I fall back onto the mattress. Baz grabs one of my legs and takes my trainer off by the heel.

  “Is that a turn-on?” I watch him take off my other shoe. “The Mage’s bed?”

  “Yes,” he says, throwing both shoes towards the door. “Because I hate him, and anything that would piss him off is a turn-on.” He climbs over me.

  I swallow and hook my arms around his neck. “So that’s what this is, spite?”

  “Hm-mm.” Baz kisses my neck. “Spite. Look where the Mage’s golden boy is now…”

  “Depowered,” I say. “Deposed. Hackney Wick.”

  Baz sits up, right on my stomach. I grunt and try to push him off.

  “I meant”—he smacks my side—“in a homosexual relationship with one of his worst enemies.”

  “Right,” I say, still grunting. He’s crushing me. “He’d hate that part, too.”

  Baz rolls off of me onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. “How much money did he leave you?”

  “Enough for rent for a couple years. Less, if I buy furniture. But I’m going to get a job.”

  “It’s all right,” he says. “I don’t care about furniture.”

  Baz’s dark hair is curling around his neck. It’s just long enough to brush his shoulders now. I wonder how long he wants it. I push some of it behind his ear. Not because it looks bad. I just want to touch it. Is this what people do? They just keep talking and touching?

  “I want a job,” I say.

  “What kind?”

  I shrug. “Whatever. Maybe a builder will hire me. I’m a hard worker.”

  Baz is looking down at me. Frowning slightly. “You don’t want to stay at university?”

  “I really don’t.”

  “You’re not stupid,” he says.

  I shrug again. Maybe I am. It doesn’t matter. The lock of hair has fallen over his ear. I tuck it back—Baz catches my hand. He brings it to his mouth and kisses the inside of my wrist, without looking away from my eyes. It makes me feel … I don’t know. I pull my hand away and stretch my arms over my head. One of the joints in my wings pops. They’re still bunched up under my T-shirt.

  “Here,” Baz says, pushing up the bottom of my hoodie. I sit up and take off all my layers. He sits up, too, and gives me room to stretch out my wings. He’s smiling at me. “You look like a bird, preening.”

  “I can’t help it.” I’m still stretching. “They get cramped.”

  He lies down again, on his back. I take the position he had, propped up on an elbow beside him. I’m still shaking my wings out behind me.

  Baz reaches a hand up and pets my chest. I don’t have much hair there, not like him—he’s got a proper spread across his pecs and a black stripe down his belly. Now that I’ve got fat, I look like a baby when I’m bare-chested.

  “You don’t have to wear a shirt on my account,” he says, still petting me. “If you’re uncomfortable.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

  “I mean … you should feel at ease in your own home.” He pinches the chub over my ribs.

  I grab his wrist. “Thanks,” I say, watching him laugh. And then, because I’m holding his wrist, I kiss it—it feels especially cool on my lips. “Are you cold?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re the one who’s half undressed.”

  “I’m fine, it’s warm in here. But you’re cold.” I kiss his wrist again. Then chafe it with my thumb.

  “I don’t really get cold…”

  “Like you can’t feel the cold?”

  “No, I can. It just doesn’t usually bother me.” Baz looks troubled for a second. “Unless I’m sick.”

  “When do you get sick?”

  “Almost never. But … I was sick after the numpties. I was cold then.”

  I kiss his wrist, harder. Then his palm. I hold his hand over my face, kissing it—it isn’t enough. I bring his hand up around my neck and lean over him, rubbing my face in his cheek. “I should have found you,” I say. “Your aunt should have told me you’d been kidnapped.”

  “Snow, you hated me then.” He’s stroking the back of my hair. “You probably would have sent the numpties a thank-you note.”

  I pull back. I find his grey eyes. “I would have slaughtered them. I was out of my head with worry.”

  “You hated me,” he says again, more softly.

  “Yeah … but I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.”

  “I’m hard to hurt,” he whispers. “You said so yourself.”

  “No.” I move closer. Our noses bump when I shake my head. “I said you were hard to kill.”

  Baz closes his eyes and pulls my forehead down to his. His mouth is open for me when I kiss him. His tongue is cold.

  Is this what people do? Do they just keep talking? And touching?

  I get lost fast when we’re kissing. I want more of it. All of it. I want the lethal dose.

  My hands are on Baz’s arms. Then they’re on his shoulders. Then they’re, I don’t know where, everywhere. It isn’t enough—I need his skin. And then I need more. He doesn’t have enough skin for my hands. I don’t have enough room in my lungs for the way his hair smells …

  I’m holding Baz now, tight enough to bruise.

  I’m biting him hard enough to break.

  It’s only okay because he isn’t human—he isn’t, and I am. And my hands are on his neck now. My hands are on his stomach. He’s cold, and it isn’t enough. Where is this going? What’s it all for? I want to kiss him. I want to come on him. But it won’t be enough. It won’t be enough, and then what? My hands are—

  My hands are in the air. Baz is holding my wrists.

  “Simon,” he hisses.

  I try to kiss him, I’m lost. (I’m lost, I’m lost, nothing is enough.)

  “Simon,” he says. “Stop.”

  I let go—the only way I can manage, by going limp. Baz shoves me off of him, and I fall on my side.

  “Sorry,” I gasp. I try to cover my eyes, but he’s still holding my wrists.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “Just, I don’t know, breathe.”

  I try.

  I try.

  I’m trying.

  All right.

  I’m breathing.

  I’m trying.

  All right.

  When I open my eyes again, I see Baz lying on his side next to me. His hair is a mess. He looks worried.

  “Sorry,” I say. My eyes are burning. Christ, next I’ll be crying.

  Baz lets go of my wrists and holds my face instead. “It’s fine—I’m fine. I mean, if you still had your magic, I think I’d be dead…”

  I laugh, but only because I feel so pathetic. “You think I’m going off?”

  “Yeah … I don’t think you have gears, Snow. I think you only go full throttle.”

  I laugh again, miserably, and then the weeping starts—I knew it would. I try to turn my face away. “I’m sorry, Baz. I’m never going to get this right.”

  “Shut up,” he says. “We’ve only just started trying.”

  I close my eyes. Now is when I’d leave. Normally. Now is when I can’t leave. I need to ride this out. I need to keep riding this out.

  He rubs my cheeks with his thumbs. “I like your flat,” he says.

  I laugh. It’s ridiculous. He keeps wiping away my tears.

  I’m breathing. The pressure is fading in my head. The heat is leaving my eyes. I’m breathing. I’m tired. “What if it never gets better?” I say. “What if I never get better at any of this?”

  Baz runs his thumb from the bridge of
my nose to my temple and back. “What if every kiss leads us here?”

  My eyes burn again. “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  I open my eyes. “Okay?”

  He shrugs. “I’ll take it.”

  “Don’t fuck with me.”

  He wraps one hand around the back of my neck. “I’m not fucking with you! I’ll take it. I’m a traumatized vampire. I never thought I’d have a normal relationship. I thought I was going to marry some girl, and sneak out at night to sleep with strangers and drink their pets.”

  I roll my eyes. “When did you think that?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Pretty much from age thirteen to … however old I was the night you kissed me.”

  “Fuck, Baz. You deserve better.”

  He shrugs again, then squeezes my neck. “I’ll take it. I’ll take you.” He kisses my mouth quickly, and I let him shift our bodies closer.

  I wind an arm around him.

  (I’m breathing. I’m still breathing. And I’m still here. So is he.)

  “I never thought I’d have a normal relationship, either,” I say.

  Baz snorts. “Because you were going to have a royal wedding. There were going to be commemorative tea towels when you and Agatha tied the knot.”

  His shirt is hitched up to his chest. His jacket is long gone. I rub his stomach with my free hand. “Nah. I mean—I always figured something would get its teeth in me before I’d ever get to settle down.”

  “Something like the Humdrum?”

  “Maybe. Whatever ended up being the Greatest Threat to Magic. That’s what the job was—to go down fighting.”

  “Huh.” Baz is playing with the curls at the top of my head. “I wonder if anyone has told Smith-Richards.”

  He’s being too gentle. I shudder and shake my head, pulling away.

  Baz lowers an eyebrow, watching. He waits for me to relax next to him again, then puts his hand right back in my hair. He rubs his fingertips into my scalp. It’s better. It’s good.

  I close my eyes and lean into him. “You really don’t think he’s legit?”

  “Smith-Richards? Circe, no.”

  “But we watched him cure someone.”

  “We watched him do something. I agree with Lady Salisbury—you can’t cure someone of weak magic.”