“You should stay right here with me. It’s not like you’re gonna get a UTI…”
“A what?”
“Do you need to get up?”
I don’t need to. I just—“No.”
His arm goes snug around my middle. “Then stay…”
“All right.”
He kisses my mouth. And then my chin. And my nose. And there’s something easy about him that I’m not used to. That I didn’t expect.
“Snow…”
“I kinda want to tell you that you have to call me ‘Simon’ when we’re covered in spunk, but I don’t think I actually care anymore.”
I move my fingers up into the back of his hair until I find some long enough to tug. “Snow … why aren’t you freaking out?”
He sighs. “Honestly?”
I pull his hair again.
“Because you told me what you wanted, Baz. I liked feeling like I was doing something for you.”
“You weren’t doing it for you?”
“No, I was, sort of in the background. Up front, I was doing something for you. I had a mission.”
“A mission…”
“You’re making it sound bad. It wasn’t bad. It was good, the best it’s been so far.” He kisses me. “Don’t make it bad.”
Is that what I’m doing? Making it bad?
I’m lying in bed with Simon Snow. No—I’m lying in bed with Simon. With Snow. He’s holding me. Kissing me. He said he loves me. He’s trying out pet names. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. How could I make this bad?
I tuck my head into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and let my arms move into a hug. “Simon…”
He hugs me back; he’s taking all of his cues from me.
“It was so good,” I whisper. It comes out as a concession, even though I meant it as a compliment.
He laughs a little, just enough to make his chest hitch. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s agreeing with me. “Next time will be even better.”
“Next time you can do it for you.”
“No way,” he says. “We’ve finally figured this shit out—you’re driving from now on.”
“I wouldn’t say we’ve figured anything out; we didn’t even get undressed.”
At that, he pushes away from me and manhandles me onto my back, straddling my thighs and scrabbling at the bottom of my T-shirt. He’s laughing, so I laugh, too.
“A mission…” I say.
His wings are spread above us. Simon’s chest is wider than mine and softer, and his pectoral muscles actually bulge—it used to be from all the sword work, but now I think it’s the wings. His chest hair is so sparse, it looks accidental.
He gets my shirt off, then grabs my hands, holding them over my shoulders. “Next time we go to Ikea,” he says, “we’re getting a lamp. I can hardly see you.”
“I could use my wand…”
“Keep it in your trousers, Merlin.”
I laugh, genuinely. He laughs, too. It makes his wings flap.
“I love you,” I say. I may as well say it, I’m thinking it. It’s all I ever think. I’m an “I love you” gun with the safety off, a finger constantly on the trigger.
Simon lets go of my hands and settles down on top of me, his head on one of my shoulders, his hand on the other, his fingertips gently drawing circles. “I love you,” he says. “It’s good.”
* * *
I wake up to someone knocking on Snow’s bedroom door.
“Baz? Are you in there?” It’s Penelope. She’s whisper-shouting.
“Yeah,” I say. My voice is rough. I try again. “Yes.”
“Your aunt is here.”
“What?”
The door opens a crack. “Your aunt Fiona,” Penelope hisses.
Fiona. What is Fiona doing here?
I climb over Simon, sticking a knee in his wing. He groans, rubbing his face. His bedroom is dark, even at—I check my phone—10 A.M. Fuck. Where’s my shirt? Where’s my wand? There it is. I point it at myself. “Clean as a whistle!” (Uch. I despise “Clean as a whistle.” Now I feel grimy and metallic all over.) Where is my shirt …
“Basil!” someone shouts. That is definitely my aunt.
“For fuck’s sake, Fiona,” I mutter.
“Fiona?” Simon croaks.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, grabbing one of his hoodies off the floor.
I walk through the living room, where Shepard seems to be eating a dozen Pret a Manger sandwiches. Bunce is at the front door, frowning at my aunt, who’s standing just inside the threshold. Fiona waves her fingers at me. “Good morning, Nephew. I’m taking you to get a cuppa.”
“How did you even find me here?”
“I found you when you were buried under a bridge in a numpty den—did you think you could hide from me in Hackney Wick? Come on.” She looks serious. “I’ll bring you back soon.”
“All right,” I say, glancing back at Bunce and nodding like, It’s fine, I’ll be fine.
As soon as the door is shut behind us, Fiona smirks. “You live in some sort of unfurnished commune now?”
“Are we really having tea, or do you need me for a crime? I can’t be your getaway driver if you won’t let me sit up front.”
“We’re really having tea,” she says. “There’s a café up the street.”
There is. I let Fiona buy me tea and banana cake. We find a table, and she casts a spell so no one can hear us talk. I haven’t said anything yet.
“I know you want me to apologize…” she says, pushing her hair behind one ear. “And I don’t think I can.”
Colour me surprised. Why am I even here …
Fiona holds her paper cup in both hands and frowns down on it. Her hair falls back over her eyes. My aunt’s hair is the same colour as mine, nearly black, with a skunk stripe at one temple—I’m not sure if it’s natural or if she did it with magic to look cool. She’s normally wearing too much eyeliner and bright red lipstick, but not today. She looks tired without it. And less sure of herself.
“When your mum died…” Fiona shakes her head, then looks up at me, her eyes shining. “Your mum was the better of us, she always was. She was clearly our dad’s favourite”—she huffs a laugh through her nose—“and it didn’t even bother me, because she was my favourite, too. She was just so class, Basil. Smart, powerful …
“She always did the right thing, and she always said the right thing. The only time she ever pissed off our parents was when she married your dad—a lowly Grimm!—but that turned out to be the right thing, too.”
Fiona smiles at me, the very picture of rueful. “Do you even know how cool that was? That Natasha married badly, for love, and then proved to the whole World of Mages that she and Malcolm could be unstoppable together?”
I didn’t know that. I pick at my banana cake.
“And then she had you,” Fiona goes on. “And you were exactly the sort of child your mother would have—Crowley, you were such a charmer. Curious and headstrong and thoughtful. So thoughtful, even as a toddler. I remember looking at you and thinking, Well, of course Natasha has had the best possible baby. Isn’t that just like her?
“She was so good at everything that I had to go all the way to China to get out from under her shadow…” Fiona looks down at her tea and laughs again. Her eyes are brimming. “I suppose it did bother me sometimes.”
She bites both her lips and looks lost for a moment.
“When your mum died…” she says again. She wrinkles her nose, shaking her head. “I knew that I’d never be able to replace her. No one would.”
She looks up at me, wiping one eye with her thumb and the other with her knuckle.
“You had the best mum, Baz—you lost the best mum—and I knew that your dad and I would never make up for it.” She smiles, her lips tight and twitching and trying to turn down. “But we had to try, right?
“When I hear you tell me what a shit aunt I’ve been, I think, Well, yeah, I’ve always been shit compared to Natasha. If she were here, sh
e would have done a much better job with you!
“But she isn’t here.” Fiona’s voice breaks. A tear slides down her cheek. “She isn’t here,” she says more softly.
“And I’m not sorry that I tried to be…”
I look down at my tea and wipe my eyes on Snow’s sleeve. “I’m not sorry either,” I whisper.
Fiona sniffs. She blows her nose into a napkin. “All right,” she says, sounding more like her cock-of-the-walk self. She leans over and picks up her handbag, a giant, black leather thing with fringe. She opens the flap, and takes out a vintage tape recorder. She sets it on the table between us. “Found this under my bed.”
I sit up straight and reach for it. “Is that—”
“That’s it, all right. Don’t push any buttons until you find the girl.”
I pull my hands back. “Is there a spell?”
Fiona shakes her head. “The original spell should still be working. ‘Caught on tape.’”
“Fuck, that’s savage.”
“It was a real chore finding someone who could cast it.”
“So I just take this to Philippa and…”
“Push play.”
I can’t believe Fiona has had this under her bed for years …
No. I can believe it.
I gingerly lift the tape recorder off the table and look up into my aunt’s eyes. They’re brown. My mother’s were grey, like mine. “Thank you,” I say.
“Nah, don’t thank me. I mean, really, considering the circumstances.” She reaches over and takes a chunk out of my banana cake, narrowing her eyes at my chest. “‘Watford Netball’? Do boys play netball at Watford now, or are you shacking up with a bird?”
I look down. Fucking Snow. Did he steal every one of Agatha’s school jumpers?
“I have to get going.” Fiona is standing up, brushing crumbs off her T-shirt.
I stand up, too.
She ruffles the top of my hair. “I won’t let out your room right away…”
“Fiona…”
“Seriously, Baz, don’t thank me. I already feel like a twat.”
“What were you looking for that day at Watford?”
She looks at me for a second, then rubs her face with both hands and sighs. “I was looking for my mother’s wedding ring. Your mum used to wear it, on her pinkie. I didn’t figure she’d miss it now.”
“A wedding ring…”
Fiona folds her arms, like she’s ready for me to lay into her, and she doesn’t fucking care.
I do just that: “Are you serious? You’re marrying that sleazy Kurt Cobain wannabe?”
“That’s not how I’d describe him…”
“His name was stricken from the Book, Fiona!”
“Well.” She shrugs with both arms. “I’m not the Book, am I.”
“You called him a ‘two-bit gangster.’ You said he was shitty, even for a vampire!”
“I was angry,” she says. “But the truth is … he makes me happy. He always did.” She huffs. “Are you going to turn me in?”
“Does he still drink people?”
“No…” She rocks her head from side to side, like she’s equivocating. “Not in the traditional sense.”
“Are you going to let him Turn you?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Your mother would roll over in her grave!” As soon as she says it, she winces at me. “Don’t worry,” she says gently. “I’m not going to cop your look.”
“This is outrageous, Fiona, even for you. Is it happening soon?”
Her hands are on her hips. She looks like she’s trying to decide whether to be honest with me. “Yeah,” she says, after a moment. “I think so.”
“Well…” I shake my head and roll my eyes, giving in. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks, Basil.”
“I can’t believe you tried to rob my mother’s grave!”
“Ah, she wouldn’t have missed it! The ring wasn’t there, anyway. Or at least I couldn’t find it. Not in her rooms, either.”
I make one last appeal: “I know I didn’t know her, but I really don’t think my mother would want you to marry Nico.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t. But she isn’t here, Baz. My mum and dad are gone, too. And I can’t—We’ve got to make decisions for the living. You know?”
I do.
* * *
When I get back to Snow’s flat, the new sofa has been delivered, and the three of them are christening it with sandwich crumbs.
Simon smiles at me. His hair is wet. “Shepard got breakfast. We saved you some.”
I shake my head. “I have to go … do something.”
“But you just got back.”
“I know,” I say. I can’t talk to Snow about this. It’s too much. “But I have something else now. To do. I just came back for my phone, and—”
“Great snakes!” Bunce exclaims. “That’s the tape recorder, isn’t it?”
I look up at her, speechless. Fucking Bunce.
“What tape recorder?” Snow asks.
She turns to him and points her thumb at me. “Don’t you remember when Baz attacked you with a tape recorder? Fifth year. Out on the Lawn.”
“Shit,” Simon says to me. “That’s it! The one you used on Philippa.” He’s on his feet, reaching for it.
“Simon, no!” I shout. “Don’t touch it!”
64
SIMON
The tape recorder is sitting on the floor, where my coffee table would be if I had one. Baz is on the sofa, looking somehow paler than usual. I’m rubbing his back. I can’t stop touching him, to be honest, even though this definitely isn’t the time.
“But you didn’t steal Philippa’s voice,” Penny says. She’s sitting on his other side. Shepard moved to the arm of the sofa to make room. “Miss Possibelf said it would come back.”
I nod. “The Mage said so, too.”
“Right,” Baz says, kneading his forehead, “the Mage definitely, always told you the truth. Philippa never got her voice back! She’s living in Smith’s compound, waiting for him to fix her.”
“You saw her?” Penny asks.
“Yes.” He looks at me. “We both did—the girl who answered the door, the one who doesn’t talk.”
“The cute one? With the short hair?”
Baz groans.
“I thought her name was Pippa,” I say.
“Philippa still can’t talk?” Penelope’s appalled. “Oh, that’s awful. That means her magic never came back.”
“Yeah, I know,” Baz says, like he’s in pain.
“Wait,” Shepard says to Penny, “you can’t do magic if you can’t talk?”
“Well, you can’t go to Watford,” she explains. “In the old days, you couldn’t even get in with a stutter.”
Shepard shakes his head. “There must be magicians who do magic without speaking…”
“I’ve heard it’s possible. I’m surprised you don’t know a whole crew of them.”
Baz is back to holding his head.
“Maybe Smith can help Philippa,” I say.
Baz hisses and stands up. “I can help her.” He looks down at the tape recorder. “Fiona never took out the tape.”
I look at it, too. It’s got to be older than we are. “So Philippa’s magic is right there?”
“Her voice is.” He swallows. “I’m going to give it back to her—and then I’m going to let her spell me into oblivion.”
I stand up and take his arm. “Well, I’m not letting her spell you into anything.”
Penelope stands, too. “Me neither.”
“We’ll have to hurry,” I say, “if we want to catch Philippa before she leaves for Smith’s meeting at Watford.”
“‘We’?” Baz pulls away from me. “There’s no ‘we.’ You’re not all coming.”
“I can stay here,” Shepard offers.
Penelope frowns at him. “Oh no, I’m not letting anyone in this room out of my sight, ever again.”
“You know what? Fine. I do
n’t care anymore.” Baz leans over and lifts the tape recorder with both hands, cradling it like it’s a porcelain egg. “Let’s just go.”
He looks beaten. He’s standing there with his hair all matted down on one side, wearing a Watford hoodie I never gave back to Agatha and his “Clean as a whistle”-d pyjama trousers.
I clear my throat. “Don’t you want to, um … change?”
Baz looks down at himself and groans again.
* * *
Apparently this is another occasion that calls for a suit. Three pieces. A shade of brown that gleams red in the light. Baz buttons his white shirt all the way to the top, and puts on a shiny purple tie. (Why did he bring neckties and three-piece suits to my flat? What was he anticipating?) Then he dumps an entire duffel bag full of shoes onto the floor.
“Should we talk about this?” I ask.
“No.” He lays the bag on my bed and carefully sets the tape recorder inside.
I keep trying: “We’re about to do something huge; shouldn’t we talk about it?”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Simon Snow?” He flicks his wrist, and his wand slides into his palm—he’s wearing his holster. He points at the tape recorder. “Safe as houses!”
I touch his arm. “Baz…”
He turns on me, eyes flashing. “Simon. She hasn’t had magic. For five years. And it’s my fault. I can’t talk until I fix this. I can’t even breathe … All right?”
I take in his wild eyes, his bloodless fists. “Yeah,” I say. “All right.” I squeeze his arm. “Let’s go, then. Let’s fix it.”
I’m wearing a T-shirt with slits down the back for my wings. I pick the Watford hoodie up from the floor. “It’s too hot for this,” I say. “Just hide the wings, would you?”
Baz has the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “With a spell?”
“Yeah. I’m tired of wearing hoodies and trench coats, and it’s not like I’m gonna fly to Camden…”
“All right,” Baz says softly. He snaps his wrist, then aims his wand at my wings. “Now you see it, now you don’t!”
Baz’s magic is hot, it normally burns a little bit … But not today. I don’t feel anything. I glance over my shoulder—my wings are still there.
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