Carry On (21 page)

There's dust on his chair. On my mother's chair. And thick dust on the computer keyboard—I don't think he even uses it. He's not the sitting, typing type, the Mage. He's always stalking around or swinging a sword, or doing something to justify his Robin Hood costume.

I open his top drawer with my wand. Nothing here … Dried-up office supplies. A phone charger.

My mother kept tea in this drawer, and mint Aero bars and clove drops. I lean in to see if I can smell them—I can smell things other people can't. (I can smell things
no
people can.) (Because I'm not a person.)

The drawer smells like wood and leather. The room smells like leather and steel and the forest, like the Mage himself. I open the other drawers with my hand. There aren't any booby traps. There's nothing personal at all. I'm not even sure what to take for Fiona. A book, maybe.

I hold my flame up to the bookshelves and think about blowing, just setting the whole room on fire. But then I notice that the books are all out of order. Obviously out of order. Stacked, instead of set on their shelves—some of them lying in piles on the floor. I feel like putting them back, sorting them by subject the way my mother used to. (I was always allowed to touch her books. I was allowed to read any book, as long as I put it back in its place and promised to ask if something confused or frightened me.)

Maybe I should take advantage of the fact that the books are out of order: No one will notice if one goes missing—or several. I reach for one with a dragon embossed on the spine; the dragon's mouth is open, and fire spews out forming the title:
Flames and Blazes—The Art of Burning.

A shaft of light widens on the shelf before me, and I jerk around, sending the book sailing, pages flapping. Something flies out as the book hits the floor.

Snow is standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he demands. His blade is already out.

I've seen that sword in action enough, you'd think I'd be terrified—but instead it's reassuring. I've dealt with this, with Snow, before.

I must truly be exhausted, because I tell him the truth: “Looking for one of my mother's books.”

“You're not supposed to be in here,” he says, both hands on his sword.

I hold my light higher and step away from the shelves. “I'm not hurting anything. I just want a book.”

“Why?” He looks down at the book lying between us and rushes forward, abandoning his stance to beat me to it. I lean back against the shelves and swing one ankle over the other. Snow's crouching over the book. He probably thinks it's a clue, the thing that will blow my conspiracy wide open.

He stands again, staring at a small piece of paper in his hand. He looks upset. “Here,” he says softly, holding it out to me. “I'm … sorry.”

I take the paper, a photograph, and he watches me. I'm tempted to shove it in my pocket and look at it later, but curiosity gets the best of me, and I hold it up.…

It's me.

Down in the crèche, I think. (Watford used to have a staff nursery and day school; it's where the vampires struck.)

I'm just a baby in this photo. Three or four years old, wearing soft grey dungarees with bloomer bottoms, and white leather boots. My skin is the shocking thing: a stark reddish gold against my white collared shirt and white socks. I'm smiling at the camera, and someone's holding my fingers—

I recognize my mother's wedding ring. I recognize her thick, rough hand.

And then I can
remember
her hand. Resting on my leg when she wanted me to be still. Holding her wand precisely in the air. Slipping into her desk drawer to get a sweet and popping it into her mouth.

“Your hands are scratchy,”
I'd say when she cupped one around my cheek.

“They're fire-holders' hands,”
she'd say.
“Flame throwers'.”

My mother's hands scuffing my cheek. Tucking my hair behind my ears.

My mother's hands held aloft—setting the air of the nursery on fire while a chalk-skinned monster buried his teeth in my throat.

“Baz…,” Snow says. He's picked up the book and is holding it out to me.

I take it.

“I need to tell you something,” he says.

“What?” Since when do Snow and I have anything to tell each other?

“I need to talk to you.”

I raise my chin. “Talk, then.”

“Not here.” He sheathes his blade. “We're not supposed to be here, and … what I have to tell you is sort of private.”

For a moment—not even a moment, a split second—I imagine him saying,
“The truth is, I'm desperately attracted to you.”
And then I imagine myself spitting in his face. And then I imagine licking it off his cheek and kissing him. (Because I'm disturbed. Ask anyone.)

I
“Make a wish!”
the flame out of my hand, tuck the photo into the book, and the book under my arm. “Lucky for us,” I say, “we have our own suite at the top of a turret. Private enough for you?”

He nods, embarrassed, and gestures for me to walk ahead of him. “Just come on,” he says.

I do.

 

39

SIMON

I'd just caught my enemy red-handed, breaking into the Mage's office. I could have got him expelled for this.
Finally.

And instead I gave him the thing he came to steal, then asked him if we could have some alone time—all because of a baby picture.

But the look on Baz's face in that picture … Smiling just because he was happy, with cheeks like red apples.

And the look on his face when he saw it. Like someone blew a horn and all his walls crumbled.

We walk back to our room, and it's awkward; we don't have any experience walking with each other, even though we're usually headed in the same direction. We keep our distance on the stairs, then move even farther away as we cross the courtyards. I keep wanting to get my sword back out.

Baz has worked himself up to a full-on strop by the time we get to our room. He slams the door shut behind us, sets the book on his bed, then crosses his arms. “Fine, Snow. We're alone. Whatever you have to say—say it.”

I cross my arms, too. “All right,” I say, “just … sit down, okay?”

“Why should I sit down?”

“Because you're making me uncomfortable.”

“Good,” he says. “You should be glad I'm not making you bleed.”

“For Christ's sake,” I say. I only swear like a Normal when I'm at my wit's end. “Could you just calm down? This is important.”

Baz shakes his head, exasperated, but sits at the end of his bed, frowning at me. He has these droopy dog eyes that always look like they're peeking out from under his eyelids, even when his eyes are wide open. And his lips naturally turn down at the corners. It's like his face was designed for pouting.

I walk over to my book bag and pull out a notebook. I wrote down as much as I could the day after Baz's mum came to see me; I thought I was writing it all down to share with the Mage.

I sit on my bed, facing him, and he reluctantly shifts to sit across from me.

“All right,” I say, “look. I don't want to tell you this. I don't even know if I should. But it's your mum, and I don't think it's right to keep it from you.”

“What about my mother?” His arms unfold, and he leans forward, grabbing at my notebook.

I whip the notebook away. “I'm telling you, okay? Just listen.”

His eyes narrow.

I'm stupidly flustered. “When you were gone—you were gone when the Veil lifted.”

He guesses it immediately—his nostrils flare, and his eyes go a little wild—he's so fucking smart, I don't know how I'm ever going to get the best of him.

“My mother…,” he says.

“She was looking for you. She kept coming back. Here. Where were you that she couldn't find you?”

“My mother came through the Veil?”

“Yeah. She said she was called here, to our room, that
this
was your place. And she was pretty hacked off that you weren't here. Wanted to know whether I'd hurt you.”

“She talked to you?”

“Yeah. I mean—
yes.
” I run my hands through my hair. “She came looking for you and scared the living shit out of me, asking if I'd hurt you. And then she said that the Veil was closing.…” I look down at my notebook.

Baz grabs it from me, scanning the page hungrily, then hurls it back at my chest. “You write like an animal. What did she say?”

“She said that…” My voice falters. “That her killer walks. That you should find Nicodemus and bring her peace.”

“Bring her peace?”

I don't know what more to say. His face is in agony.

“But she
killed
the vampires,” he says.

“I know.”

“Does she mean the Humdrum?”

“I don't know.”

“Tell me again.”

I look back down at my notes. “Her killer walks, but Nicodemus knows. Find Nicodemus and bring her peace.”

“Who's Nicodemus?” Baz demands. Fierce and imperious, just like his mother.

“She didn't say.”

“What else?” he asks. “Was there anything else?”

“Well … she kissed me.” My hand jerks up, and I brush my fingertips over my forehead. “She told me it was for you, to give to you.”

He clenches his fists at his sides. “Then what?”

“Then she left,” I say. “She came back one more time, that same night, the last night before the Veil fell”—Baz looks like he wants to choke me—“and she was different, sadder, like she was crying.” I look down at my notes. “And I couldn't see her that time, but she said,
‘My son, my rosebud boy.'
She said that a few times, I think. And then she called me by my name and said she never would have left you. And then:
‘He said we were stars.'”

“Who said? Nicodemus?”

“I guess, I don't know.”

Baz squeezes his fists tight, and his voice comes out of him in a tight roar. “Who.
The fuck.
Is Nicodemus.”

“I don't know,” I say. “I thought
you'd
know.”

He gets off the bed and starts prowling about the room. “My mother came back. She came back to see me. And you talked to her instead. Unbelievable.”

“Well, where
were
you? Why couldn't she find you?”

“I was indisposed! It's none of your business!”

“Well, I hope your secret trip was worth it!” I shout. “Because your mother came for you! She came and she came and she came—and you were off planning your hopeless rebellion!”

He stops pacing, then charges towards me, his hands reaching for my neck. And I'm more scared for him than I am for myself, even though I know he wants to kill me. Because if he touches me, he'll be cast out. The Anathema.

I jump to my feet and catch his wrists. They're cold. “Baz, you don't want to hurt me. Do you.” He strains against my grip. He's panting with rage. “You don't want to
hurt
me,” I say, trying to push him back. “Isn't that right? I'm sorry. Look at me,
I'm sorry.
”

His grey eyes focus, and he steps back, snatching his arms away. We both glance around the room, waiting for the Anathema to kick in.

There's a knock at the door, and we both jump.

“Simon?” I hear Penny say.

Baz arches an eyebrow, and I can practically hear him thinking,
Interesting.
I shove past him and open the door. “Penny, what're you—?”

She's been crying. She starts again—
“Simon”
—and rushes into my arms. I slowly put my arms around her and look up at Baz, waiting for him to raise the alarm.

He shakes his head, like it's all too much for him. “I'll leave you alone,” he says, sliding past us out the door. I hate to think of how he'll use this against Penelope, or me—but right now I've got Penny sobbing into my shirt.

“Hey,” I say, patting her back. I'm not good at hugging, she knows that, but she must not care right now. “Hey, what's wrong?”

She pulls back and wipes her face on her sleeve. She's still wearing her coat. “My mum…” Her face is all crumpled. She wipes it on her sleeve again.

“Is she okay?”

“She's not hurt—nobody's hurt. But she told me that Premal came yesterday.” Penny's talking too fast, and still crying. “He came for the Mage with two more of his Men, and they wanted to search our house.”

“What? Why?”

“The Mage sent them. Premal said it was a routine search for banned magic, but Mum said there's no such thing as a routine search, and she'd be damned to Slough before she let the Mage treat her like she was an enemy of the state. And then Premal said it wasn't
a request.
And Mum said they could come back with an order from the Coven”—Penny's shaking in my arms—“and Prem said that we're at war, and that the Mage is
the Mage,
and what did Mum have to hide, anyway? And Mum said that
wasn't the point.
The point was civil liberties, and freedom, and not having your 20-year-old son showing up at your house like Rolf in
The Sound of Music.
And I'm sure Premal was humiliated and not acting like himself—or maybe just acting
more
like his tosser self than usual—because he said he'd be back, and that Mum had better change her mind. And Mum said he could come back as a Nazi and a fascist, but not as her son.” Penny's voice breaks again, and she covers her face in her arms, elbowing me in the chin.

I pull my head back and hold on to her shoulders. “Hey,” I say, “I'm sure this is just something that got out of hand. We'll talk to the Mage.”