Chapter Text
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Emotions completely transform us as people. When we're in one emotional state, it's as if we're a different person than we are when we're in another. And no matter how many times we discover the strangers living inside us, the next time always catches us by surprise.
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September (now)
SIMON
“I don’t understand, Snow. Simon. I don’t—What are you saying to me right now?”
He steps out of the shadows, into the moonlight. Shining like a pearl, reaching for me.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is low, too soft. My ears are ringing.
I take a step back. “I don’t know.”
I don’t know anything. Not who I am, not what I’m saying. I just know I want to crawl out of my skin, I can’t breathe. I can’t—I’m not—
“It’s okay. Just… talk to me. You can—” He takes another step. “Don’t you know you can say anything to me?”
“It’s not okay,” I growl. I tear at my hair. I don’t know. Why can’t he see it’ll never be okay? “This—This isn’t working.”
“Oh.” It’s so small, that sound. But there’s so much in it. Too much.
“I’m not like you—I can’t—I can’t give you what you want.”
He shakes his head. His hair falls on his cheeks. It’s too soft, it’s all too soft. “Simon, I don’t want anything from you that you can’t give. I shouldn’t have—I thought…”
Too soft, too understanding. He doesn’t understand.
“Where did you think this was all going? Baz, I’m not—I—”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, just tell me what you need, Simon.” He’s pleading. I can’t. “Just let me—”
“I need—” I can’t do this. “I need you to go!”
His face crumples. He doesn’t go. Like he’s frozen. There, in the moonlight, watching me. Watching me fall apart at the seams. He looks so … It’s too much.
“Just go!” I shout. Why am I shouting? I close my eyes. I clamp them shut. “Seriously. I can’t do this.”
My ears ring. I try to breathe, but I can’t. I can’t. It makes my chest ache.
I try to breathe.
I take a breath.
And when I open my eyes, he’s gone.
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Many of us feel we are not leading the lives we were meant to lead - that we're not living our dreams, that life is passing us by. There's more than one of you in there. So there are many more than one right answer to what your life looks like.
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June (then)
SIMON
“What the hell are we listening to now?”
I don’t know why I’m asking. I’d actually made up my mind not to say anything at all. To go on stewing in the uncomfortable quiet as long as it took.
Now that I’ve decided to use my words, though, what I really should be asking is how I let myself end up here of all places. Trapped in a tiny sports car that smells of stale cigarettes and burnt plastic, halfway between Hampshire and London, with my ex-roommate and former arch-nemesis who, going by his outright refusal to address me directly going on three hours into a four-hour drive, very much still hates my guts.
Not that I’ve spoken to him, either.
What’s there to say? “How’s uni going, did you hear I failed out?” “So, word is you found your mother’s killer and it turns out I was aiding and abetting him for nearly eight years. Who knew?” “Have you heard the good news about my wings and fucking tail?”
The problem with silence, though, is that it makes it impossible not to think thoughts. (Seriously, fuck thoughts.) So, it was a relief when Baz finally cracked and made a move to turn on the stereo system. But I was expecting depressing violin music or one of those mopey ballads I used to catch him listening to in our room sometimes. I wasn’t expecting this.
“I’m surprised you asked, Snow. I didn’t realise we were listening to anything.” His voice is a bit hoarse with disuse, but otherwise he sounds just like he always did back at Watford. Paradoxically pissed off and bored, all at the same time. “I rather assumed you’d gone into a catatonic state from the way you’ve been staring glassy-eyed into space with your mouth hanging open. It’s been so long I’d forgotten that’s an everyday occurrence for you.”
He sounds like he couldn’t care less, but he reaches just a little too quickly for his mobile. I knew it, I knew he hadn’t meant for me to hear whatever this is. It’s been a while, sure, but even in eighteen months I doubt anything short of a lobotomy could make Baz ‘Impenetrable Prince of Darkness’ Pitch change so much that he'd intentionally show even the barest hint of vulnerability. Especially not in front of me.
I snatch his phone right off the mount before he can lay a finger on it.
“Give it back,” he snarls, eyes still fixed on the road. His nostrils flare and he gropes wildly at me with his freakishly long arm.
“No,” I reply, ducking away and dropping the phone into the pocket on the passenger side door. I’m extra careful not to dislodge the audio cable that connects it to the ancient stereo system. “I think I’d like to hear this.”
I really would. A soothing voice crackles over the tinny speakers, spouting the kind of platitudes I recognise as therapy-speak from my brief stint in magickal trauma counselling last spring. Why on earth would Mr. Above-It-All be listening to this?
“Many of us feel stuck - stuck at work, stuck in the wrong city, stuck in life.”
Baz huffs in annoyance and puts his hand back on the wheel. I’m a bit disappointed at how easily he gave up the fight, if I’m honest, but wins are hard to come by these days, so I’ll take it.
“When that happens, we often end up asking ourselves, what should I do?”
“Feeling stuck, are we?” I needle him. I feel the tiniest bit guilty, but then I remember this is Baz we’re talking about. And even if I decided a long time ago he probably isn’t completely evil, he’s still a tosser, and being unkind to him comes naturally to me in a way not much else does anymore. There’s nothing natural about me these days, is there? I’m half a fucking dragon now.
“I offered you a ride, Snow,” he replies stiffly, never taking his eyes off the road, “not in-flight entertainment.”
“You didn’t offer me anything, you git,” I counter. “I know you don’t want to be doing this.”
He’s got nothing to say to that. It wasn’t even his idea, it was his stepmum’s.
Daphne Grimm had pretty much insisted after the dust-up with Smith Smith-Richards this afternoon. I was surprised Baz allowed it. More to the point, I was surprised to see Baz there at all, wringing his hands in the front row when I burst into the White Chapel, and even more so that he was one of the only magicians who didn’t call me a fraud or point a wand at me when I broke up the festivities.
But he was there, and then after, he was still there, skulking in the shadows, frowning at me from the edge of the courtyard as his stepmum approached me. I tried to say no, that I’d get back to Camberwell on my own, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Surely you can’t mean to fly, Mr. Snow?” she asked, clearly aghast at the idea. “And we can’t have you hobbling home alone on a Midland train during the rush hour. Not when you’ve just saved us all from … ” And then she started crying a bit. I’ve no experience fending off pushy, concerned mums—let alone pushy, concerned mums who are crying—so I said yes.
Besides, Miss Christy’s spells didn’t take and my wings were still a bit torn up. I could catch a quick nap and maybe even bleed a bit on his fancy leather interior. It seemed like a better option than waiting Christ-knows-how-long for Penny’s mum to be done with her emergency Coven meeting.
I would have chosen differently had I known I would have to be alone with Baz. The plan was to drop Mrs. Grimm in Hampshire first and then double back to London. Something, something, the children needed her and his father was falling apart, and sure, she did seem legitimately upset, but I’m pretty sure it was actually a plot of Baz’s, to get back at me for accepting the ride and inconveniencing him with my presence in the first place. It would be just like him to trick me into a confined space with him for hours and hours so he could drive me up the wall with his special brand of mute condescension. That, and he made a point of not announcing it until I was packed into the tiny backseat thirty miles down the M25 in the opposite direction of home with one hell of a wing cramp.
Baz clears his throat, pulling me out of the memory, and then takes a deep breath in through his nose. He even adjusts his tie, like he’s preparing to give a bloody speech at the House of Lords or something.
“As Daphne no doubt told you, she and I are very appreciative of what you did today. It’s only proper that we demonstrate our gratitude. Ipso facto, I have absolutely no problem doing this.”
Ipso fuck that. As if silently judging your travel companion is the behaviour of a person who has absolutely no problem. I let out a huff, rolling my eyes.
The voice in the stereo fills in for my non-response.
“What's my ideal life? Where should I live? What should I do?”
I sigh, staring out the windscreen. Maybe listening to this is worse than the quiet after all. If Baz can’t answer these questions, then I sure as shit can’t. (Typical, really. Of course my brilliant plan for trying to get at him blew up in my face. It’s like the polecat all over again, only this time it’s existential despair stinking the place up.)
“Seriously, Snow.” Baz glances over at me, suddenly tentative. “And quite honestly … you looked as though you needed a—”
“I didn’t need anything, thanks very much,” I growl, cutting him off. Because there it is, the pitying look, the one everyone gives me eventually. I hate it. It’s too much, Baz of all people feeling sorry for me. How pathetic am I?
He looks at me sceptically and I jut out my chin in his direction. “I don’t. Especially from the likes of you, so you can cut this whole concerned act right the fuck out.”
His jaw clenches. “Of course you don’t need anything, Snow.” He turns fully to fix me with a sneer, voice dripping with sarcasm. (That’s more like it.) “You’ve clearly got it all figured out. But allow me to offer you something anyway. A bit of advice.”
“Oh yeah, sure,” I snort, throwing my hands in the air. “Why not? It’s not like this drive could get any worse.”
He rolls his eyes at me before turning haughtily back to the road. “If this is so distasteful to you, maybe next time you’ll try rubbing your two remaining brain cells together to figure out how you’re getting home before you swoop in to save the day. Perhaps then you won’t have to be such an absolute nightmare to someone who’s just trying to do you a favour. And while we’re on the topic of your apparent career as a superhero—” He pauses to survey me head to toe, infernal eyebrow cocked in judgement. “Your look, if we can even call it that, could use significant work. I know you aren’t the Greatest Mage anymore, Snow, but who are you supposed to be now? Curry-Stained Trackies Man?”
“Oh, sod off.” I strategically reposition my hand to cover the biggest stain on my trousers. “I’m not a bloody superhero, you complete arse.”
He looks at me doubtfully. “Then what were you doing there?”
“Someone called me for help,” I mumble, because okay, sure, I can hear how it sounds. “But that doesn't mean—"
“And who, pray tell, do we have to thank for sending up the Simon Snow Bat Signal?”
“There is no—”
“No, no, of course not,” he muses. “How foolish of me to even suggest it, the curry stains in your trackies-shaped logo could never be conveyed with mere light and shadow. Tell me, have you got one of those old timey telephones that glows when it rings instead?”
“Jesus, do you want to know who it was or not?”
“Obviously,” he replies, like he wasn’t the one just actively derailing the conversation.
“Fine then.” I cross my arms over my chest. “It was Ebb.”
(She does that from time to time, calls with little missions to lure me off the sofa and away from my ciders and sadness. I know she blames herself for what happened to me. For not realising what the Mage was up to, or for not getting there in time to stop him, on the winter solstice when he dragged me up to the top of the White Chapel and—)
“Ebb your girlfriend?”
“Ebb the goatherd.”
“Well, that makes sense then,” he replies with a flourish. “Naturally you’d put on your best outfit for her.”
“Merlin, you bell end, usually she just needs my help mucking out the goat stalls or clearing out a hinkypunk infestation. And she said it was an emergency, so I just flew straight there. Sorry I didn’t stop to, like, gel my hair to high heaven and put on a ridiculous fancy suit that costs more than a year’s rent for a normal person. You were there to rescue your stepmum right? So, who’re you supposed to be then, Posh Prick With A Stick Up His Arse Man?”
Baz turns to me, mouth open to respond, but then seems to think better of it and turns back to the road. His hand twitches away from the steering wheel to fuss with the cuff of his toffee brown jacket, and I catch him scanning his reflection out of the corner of his eye in the rearview. Vain bastard. As if he has anything to be self-conscious about. He looks like a fucking model for designer watches and he’s not even wearing one.
“Clearly not,” he finally replies, cool and calm as ever.
For all his snark about how I look, he’s a bit dishevelled himself. (Which makes sense, with his stepmother nearly having had her magic stolen, or destroyed, or whatever was about to happen to it when I stepped in between her and Smith’s spell.) But in typical Baz fashion, he manages to make it look good. Intentional somehow, the loosening of his tie, the rumpling of the bright blue shirt he’s got on under his suit, the way a lock of hair has fallen across his forehead, escaping from its carefully slicked back style.
He looks miles better than I do, that’s for sure. (Nothing new there.) He looks miles better than he did the last time I saw him, thin, and pale, and limping out the door of our room in a strop. He also looks like he’s done with talking.
Back to acting like I’m a parcel he’d rather not be delivering, then. Fine. I’d shut the stereo off too, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I lean my hot cheek against the cool passenger side window and watch the trees pass by along the side of the motorway.
“How do I figure out that one best solution to my life? And how would I know if I did? How can I be sure? It turns out, these normal questions are counterproductive to getting us unstuck. They place an unbearable pressure on us, the pressure to know how things are supposed to turn out.”
Ha! As if knowing how you want things to turn out even matters. As if it makes a single lick of difference.
I may not have known much, but I knew I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to turn myself into some kind of mutant freak show. I didn’t want my mentor to turn out to be a murderer. Or to lose my magic, or my home, or my entire purpose in life.
In my experience, things’ll turn out the way they turn out, no matter what anyone wants.
So, what’s the point in wanting anything at all?
BAZ
I’ve wanted this for so long. To see him again.
This is not how I imagined it would go.
I thought maybe we’d run into each other on the street, or at a party. (If I ever went to one. It could happen.) And I’d be gracious, asking if he was well and apologising for his misfortune, and he’d be rude because he hates me. But ultimately he’d say he was doing really well, fuck you very much. And then I’d finally know he was okay.
Instead, we ran into each other rescuing my stepmother from a cult. I was too caught off guard to be gracious or even directly approach him, and proceeded to manipulate the whole scenario to get Snow alone with me in a car so I could have a second chance at Plan A. I then proceeded to again fail to be gracious, or to in fact say anything at all, and then when I finally did screw up the courage to open my mouth it took all of thirty seconds for him to goad me into telling him he’s a fucking mess.
Worst of all, he is a mess. A sad one, at that.
He’s clearly not okay, and my telling him so is the last thing that’s going to make it better.
And now Simon Snow is sitting in the passenger seat of my aunt’s car, gone back to staring listlessly out the window. His curls have fallen across his eyes, and his big red leathery wings are tucked up behind him like a headrest for demons. It looks uncomfortable.
He looks uncomfortable, in general.
He was always so sure of himself, back at school. Even when he had absolutely no idea what was going on—so all the time—he carried himself with a certainty of purpose. (In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak, et cetera.)
I used to think nothing could hurt him, but something clearly has.
As if I don’t know what it was. I wasn’t there (I should have been there), and I may not have all the details, but it hardly takes a genius to figure it out. Giving up his magic to defeat the Humdrum. Witnessing the Mage's untimely demise at the hands of the Humdrum. (The Mage's outing as a scheming murderer.)
The Mage, full stop.
Still, it wasn’t completely out of the question that Snow had taken it all in stride. He’d seemed to do that with everything else that bastard threw at him over the years. And I needed him to be okay, because then it couldn’t be my fault he wasn’t. I could stop wondering whether, if I’d been less of a bully, maybe he would’ve come back to Hampshire with me for Christmas. Maybe none of this would’ve happened.
Instead, I left him there, and when I came back to school after break, he was just gone. And I couldn’t reach out, even if I’d had the courage to. Not when our very last conversation ended with him saying he’d gladly leave Watford for good if he could finally be done with me. I could give him that. He deserved to get at least one thing he wanted in life.
So I’d hoped when he barrelled his way into the White Chapel, shoulders set and chin jutted, it meant the rumours of what a sorry state he was in had been exaggerated. He didn’t look quite like I remembered. His skin was paler. And where once he was all hard lines, he’d grown soft. But he was still broad and strong, and as glorious as ever in battle, flying into action with those wings like he was born to it.
And brave. At least, I thought it was bravery that made him selflessly throw himself between Daphne and Smith-Richards’ curse at the time. Now, though, I’m not so sure. I’m not sure he even cares anymore what happens to him. Is it still considered brave to throw yourself into danger when you’ve completely given up on life?
I looked for him, after the battle was over. Ostensibly to thank him, but when I spotted him sitting all by himself on a small bench outside the Weeping Tower, hunched over and staring into the middle distance, I just … couldn’t. He looked like he wanted to crawl right out of his skin. Or maybe like he already had, like he wasn’t even in there at all.
And he went on like that. Taciturn and withdrawn, even as the crowd turned from fearful to grateful, praising him for his courage and ingenuity. Even as Daphne delivered the offer of a ride I’d all but begged her to make. He was so unresponsive that she gave up trying to make small talk. I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, but when I snuck a glance at him in the rearview, he was awake. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t there. He didn’t even notice me looking, just went on staring without seeing. And aside from a cursory goodbye to Daphne, he’s been that way ever since.
Right up until a few minutes ago when he finally emerged from wherever he’s been hiding. To mock me for deigning to listen to a psychology podcast.
Which I’m not embarrassed about, for the record. I only reacted the way I did because I wasn’t certain which episode had started playing. If it had been the one about the socio psychological implications of sex robots, I think I might have spontaneously combusted.
As it was, Snow was the one who lit up. I’m not even sure why, but suddenly, he was there again, trying to rile me up like we hadn’t missed a beat since Watford. And it was too easy to fall back into our old routine. To egg him on, for good or ill. Especially when he’s being so infuriatingly stubborn. (Especially when it’s the only thing short of smashing his way through a leaded glass window that’s made him come alive.)
I spent so many years training myself to go for the lowest possible blow. It’s a reflex now, to reach with practised ease for the worst thing I can possibly say to him. It was on the tip of my tongue. “Is it really so impossible for you to make yourself presentable, Snow? Would it kill you to make an effort?” But it is impossible for him, isn’t it? He can’t hide what he is now, not like I can. What if it would kill him to try?
So I held myself back. Instead, we’re listening to an American researcher talking about ways to get unblocked when you’re stalled, how to figure out what to do with your life and move forward when you feel trapped by circumstance.
It’s a bit on the nose. Maybe that’s what made Snow call me out on it earlier. But he said he wanted to hear it. (Perhaps he can find some comfort in it.)
“Most of us think: There is one exclusive, unique, optimal version of me. And I'm supposed to already know it, and I'm probably already too late.”
Snow pulls on his hair nervously and lets out a small hollow laugh I’m certain I wasn’t meant to hear. (Or maybe not.)
“Invisible Mind,” I blurt out, too loudly by half.
Snow sits up and narrows his eyes in my direction. “What?”
I turn off the stereo. “You asked me what we were listening to. It’s a podcast. About … what makes people do the things they do.”
Snow’s only response is a small grunt of acknowledgement. He turns back to the window.
“They interview scientists and sociologists and regular people who’ve been through relevant experiences and I—Well, I discovered it when I was researching what to do about Daphne’s little sojourn into the world of … discipleship.”
This isn’t entirely true.
I first listened to it when it was recommended to me by a classmate in my Financial Management tutorial at Oxford last term. “Can I email you something?” he’d said, after maybe the fifth time I coldly rebuffed one of his offers to meet up outside of class. When I opened the message later all it said was, “heard this and thought of you” followed by a link to an episode about the growing epidemic of male loneliness.
It was a harsh take on the abysmal state of my social life and mental wellbeing, but he wasn’t wrong. (Except for the part about a lack of close, warm connections being related to illness and premature death. Finally, a beneficial side effect of vampirism: be as lonely as you want forever without it literally killing you!)
But creatures like me don’t get to have friends, not really, not when we can’t show anyone who we truly are, and I no longer had any need of minions. So I carried on as I was. Alone. And the next time he and I had tutorial together, I found somewhere else to sit.
But Snow doesn’t need to know any of that.
“The Smith-Richards, thing, you mean,” he finally says.
“Yes.”
“And?” He looks at me like I’ve interrupted him in the middle of solving world hunger instead of studying the passing shrubbery.
“Right. Well, I was at the end of my rope. I’d finally tracked her down after weeks of searching half of England—”
“Oh yeah. Sounds just awful. Cruising ‘round all summer like James Bond on a mission in a vintage sports car. But like, if he was a total dick and his daddy paid for the car.”
“James Bond is a dick, Snow. And are you actually jealous right now? My mother was missing for snakes’ sake.”
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug.
“Furthermore, not that I actually care what you think, but I borrowed this car from my aunt.” (Well, technically I blackmailed her skidmark of a boyfriend into letting me use it by threatening to let Fiona rot in the Coven lock-up, but Snow doesn’t need to know that part either.)
“No, you’re right, the fact that it’s her car does make it much less cool.”
“You’re missing the—” I catch myself. I won’t be deterred by cheap shots at my aunt. Especially since I can’t exactly argue with them. I take a breath and start over. “As I was saying, I found Daphne at one of Smith-Richards’ meetings. It was obvious that charlatan was selling her and everyone else a bill of goods. As if some smarmy son of a graphic designer was actually performing miracles and asking nothing in return. But I couldn’t make her see reason. She simply didn’t want to hear it.”
“Maybe you should’ve called me in, Baz.” He says it lightly, but there’s an edge underneath that’s sharp enough to wound. “I’m a walking, talking cautionary tale about the dangers of worshipping false idols, aren’t I?”
“Snow, that’s not—”
He talks over me, working himself up. “No, you’re right, that wouldn’t’ve worked either. Probably would’ve joined up myself, given what he had on offer. What with my track record of being a gullible moron who blindly trusts completely wrong people, amirite?”
Snow laughs darkly and starts fiddling violently with a handle under the dash that controls the MG’s fresh air vent until it slams open with a screech of metal on metal.
I wince. “The entire World of Mages followed him, Snow.”
His overgrown curls bounce wildly as he whips his head around to glare at me. “Not you. Not your side. Imagine that, your cuckoo bananas aunt is smarter than I am, what a lark that must’ve been for you.”
“It really wasn’t.”
“I don’t hear you denying that I’m an idiot though, do I?”
I get the distinct impression he wouldn’t want to hear it if I did.
“It’s not a question of intelligence, Snow. That’s what I learned. It’s called cognitive dissonance. Even the smartest person can be taken in when they want very badly to believe something is true, or when they’ve taken some irreversible action that’s left them vulnerable.”
“That’s never happened to you, though.”
“Not as such, no … But look at your precious Bunce. She’s hardly a fool, she bested me for top of the class. And she believed in the Mage too, just like you and everyone else.”
“That’s just ‘cause she believed in me.” Snow sags back against his seat. “I’m sure she would’ve figured it all out sooner if I hadn’t been dragging her down like a lead weight.”
“Aleister Crowley, I take it back. Fiona looks like a member of Mensa compared to you. Is that what you want to hear?” I throw my hands in the air, and immediately slam them back on the wheel when the car veers dangerously into the next lane.
“Guess that depends what Mensa is, doesn’t it?”
“Guess you’d better Google it then.”
Snow narrows his eyes at me suspiciously. “Why’re you telling me all this anyway?”
“You asked, if you’ll recall.” Because you clearly need someone to talk to. “And it’s incredibly tiresome, watching you mope.” Because you seem hopeless, and I’m still in love with you. “And … technically we’re still on a truce, aren’t we?”
He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. “Don’t think so, no. Pretty sure that ended the day you solved your mother’s murder without my help.”
And then Snow reaches out and flicks my left ear with his index finger. Hard.
“What the fuck!”
He holds his hand up between us, making a show of flexing it experimentally. “See, spell’s no longer in effect. That was a full-on act of aggression—yellow card at least—and my hand isn’t cramping in the slightest.”
“You’re a complete arsehole.” My ear stings painfully, but not half as his outright rejection.
It’s worth it though, to see Snow’s eyes sparkle at having gotten one over on me. He seems revitalised, and doubly so with the light of the setting sun streaming in behind us, setting his curls aflame and skin aglow. For a second I can almost believe that the only thing holding him back from reaching his full potential is a lack of sunsets and pointless bickering in his life.
“Don’t take it personally," he says. "I mean, actually do. You’re a complete wanker.” He leans back a bit, out of the sun and into the shadow of his seat back. All at once he’s pale and drawn again, almost ghostly against the red leather interior of the car. “But so am I. I’m not much fun to be around these days.”
“Never were, as far as I’m concerned,” I lie. As if finally being allowed to bask in his glow for the brief weeks our truce lasted wasn’t the pinnacle of my existence. (The bar's in Hades, but still.) I know I shouldn’t poke at this further, but I need to. I need to know who is around him these days. I need to know if anybody’s taking care of him at all. “Are you saying that’s why Bunce wasn’t with you today? Finally drove her off for good, did you?”
“What? No, you sod.” Well, that’s a relief. “She was out when I left. No idea where, though. Last week she was off summoning a demon to negotiate with it for her boyfriend’s soul.”
“The American?” I ask, incredulous. (I don’t know why this surprises me more than the demon.)
“No. Well, technically yes, but no. A new American. A Normal, actually. She met him a few weeks ago, on holiday.”
“She did what?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re telling me she bargained with a demon for the soul of some American Normal she met last week?”
“A few weeks ago. But yeah.”
“Well, I double take it back then, you’re both idiots.”
“Watch it, she did win. And he seems nice,” Snow admits, though it’s somewhat begrudging. He lets out a long sigh. “She’s very efficient at finding love and solving problems when I’m not around to slow her down.”
Penelope Bunce is worse than an idiot if she's gone and left Snow to his own devices in the state he's in. Can't she see how badly he needs her? I doubt Snow would take kindly to my saying so, though, so I don’t.
My hesitation stretches out between us and we lapse into uneasy silence. I go back to focusing on the road and Snow goes back to watching the trees pass by in a blur as the day turns to dusk around us.
My hand twitches toward the stereo controls, until I remember I can’t even distract myself with my driving playlist because Snow still has my phone. (That, and perhaps “Adagio for Strings” isn’t the mood we need right now.) I pick some lint off my sleeve instead.
“Ugh,” he groans suddenly, startling me badly enough that I nearly sideswipe a Subaru. “Let’s have it then.”
“Have what?”
Snow pulls my phone out of the car door and shakes it at me.
“Play the podcast, if it’s so bloody informative. My thera—” He clears his throat. “I’ve heard of it before, alright? Cognitive dissonance.” He puts the phone back in the dashboard mount and looks at me meaningfully. “And it’s got to be a better way to pass the time than watching the lights along the motorway come on.”
“Right.” I unlock my phone and skip to the episode in question before turning the stereo back on. “Enjoy.”
Snow curls up against the passenger-side door as the host’s soothing narration starts. It starts with the story of a group of people who believed singing Christmas carols would summon aliens to take them away to a better life.
“You might think the carolers were stupid, or hopelessly gullible,” the host continues. “Yet, the psychological phenomenon that had them in its grip turns out to be surprisingly common. You have certainly experienced it in your own life.”
Snow listens. I do too, though I don’t take in much. I'm focused on him, braced to jump in at a moment’s notice if he hears something that upsets him. He doesn’t, though, just goes on listening calmly, and when I turn to check my blind spot for the merge onto the M25 a half-hour later I realise he’s passed out cold.
For the first time ever in my memory, he’s peaceful in sleep. Completely still, features slack and smooth in the blue-tinted glow of the satnav.
This will probably be the last time I see him. I’ll never watch him sleep again, unless I make a practice of turning up to offer him rides across the countryside. Which I won’t.
So I watch him. I watch as his chest rises and falls gently in the yellow-orange light of the passing sodium vapour streetlamps. I catalogue every mole and freckle on his face, the divot of his upper lip, the curve of his cheek, the sweep of his neck down to his broad shoulders. I turn down the volume on the stereo just enough that I can hear the sound of his breathing.
I pay the road so little attention it’s a minor miracle I manage to keep the car on the motorway. But I do. (Thanks again, vampirism, for the depressingly useful ability to multitask while acting like a pathetic creep.) The episode ends as we’re passing through Chiswick, and the one from earlier, about getting unstuck begins to play.
“Many of us feel we are not leading the lives we were meant to lead—that we're not living our dreams, that life is passing us by.”
I shut it off.
SIMON
When I wake up to the sound of Baz’s voice and the smell of his posh soap, for a moment I think I’m back in our room at Watford. For a split second I think the last year and a half was all just a bad dream, and I’m flooded with warm relief.
But it doesn’t last.
“Rise and shine, Snow. End of the line.”
I peel my cheek off the leather upholstery (or maybe off my leather wing) and rub the sleep from my eyes. When I open them, we’re in front of my building, parked at the kerb. There is sad violin music playing on the stereo now.
“Sorry. I guess I fell asleep.”
“What do I care?” Baz shrugs, without looking at me. “You’re better company when you’re unconscious anyway.”
“You’re better company when I’m unconscious.” I run my hand through my hair and wipe a bit of drool off my face with the back of my hand. “But I wanted to hear the ending of the story, the one with the woman and the Italian bloke who was chatting her up online. Did she send him the money?”
“What do you think, Snow? She sent him the money and shipped him twenty-five laptops besides.”
I shake my head. “Merlin, she had two master's degrees.”
He tips his head toward me. “I told you. It doesn’t matter when you need to believe.”
“Huh.” I have so many questions. How did she feel after? How did she deal with the shame? What did he do with all the laptops? And I’m about to ask them when I realise what I’m doing. Starting a conversation with Baz. Prolonging my time stuck with him in this car, just as I’m finally free of him. Why am I so eager to be insulted and condescended to by him when I’ve barely been able to speak more than two words to Penny in months?
Yeah, nope, screw this. “Well, fuck you very much for the stupidly long ride,” I say abruptly. Baz just looks at me for a beat. I wait for his comeback, but he just keeps looking at me, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. I turn away, reaching for the door handle, and offer one last parting shot. “See you never, I hope.”
As I’m pushing the handle down, Baz grabs my arm. “Snow. Wait.”
I turn back. When I see he’s got his wand pointed at me, I flinch.
“No—your wings,” he says. “You can’t just waltz up the pavement like that. Let me spell you.”
“No.” It comes out too fast, too loud. I grope around awkwardly at my feet for my rucksack until I remember I forgot it when I rushed out of the flat earlier. Shit, my trench coat is upstairs. I look up at Baz, resigned. “Actually, yeah, fine … Penny usually uses “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for”.”
Baz nods, then asks if he can use “There’s nothing to see here” instead, because apparently he’s too cultured for the cultural zeitgeist. He says the words and I brace for the burn of his magic, but it never comes. I glance over my shoulder—my wings are still there.
Baz looks embarrassed. “I don’t understand … It must be the stress. I— That’s never happened to me before. Let me try again.” He starts to lift his wand, but stops when I shake my head.
“No. Just—do you have anything I can borrow? To cover up?”
Without a word he briskly unbuttons his jacket, slides it off and presents it to me. “How about this?”
I hesitate for a moment, and then, just as I decide to reach for it, Baz shoves it at me. Our fingers brush. His hand is so cold. I pull my hand away sharply, and the jacket along with it.
“Thanks,” I grunt, flustered.
I struggle to pull the jacket on, over my tucked-in wings. This is ridiculous, me trying to squeeze into Baz’s fancy suit—I’m probably ruining it, it would definitely be too tight in the shoulders even without the wings—and I can feel my face getting hot. Mercifully, Baz turns away when I start fussing with my tail, trying to force it down the back of my trackies.
“How’s that?” I ask when I’m finally done.
Baz turns back to me with an indecipherable expression on his face. “You look good,” he says in a low voice. He clears his throat. “I mean. Covered up. At least enough to make it inside without drawing attention.”
“Right.” There’s something in the way he’s looking at me that I can’t place. “Well, bye then. I’ll … get this back to you.”
He turns abruptly back to the steering wheel, placing his hands on it. “See that you do. I’m told it costs more than a year’s rent for a normal person.” His brow furrows. “And … you’d better give me your number. So I can let you know when I’m sending someone round to pick it up.”
And I must be still off kilter from sleep, because before I get out of the car, I program my number into his phone.
… …
When I get upstairs the flat is still empty.
I know I'm the one who told her to go do her own thing, live her own life, but I’m still half disappointed Penny’s not home yet. The other half's relieved I won’t have to be the one to explain what happened today to her. Hopefully she’ll have heard all about it from her mum and dad by now. (Hopefully Shepard will have too, because I’m not in the mood for his enthusiastic brand of questioning right now.)
I take Baz’s jacket off straightaway and head to my room. After rifling around on the floor for a minute, I find a clothes hanger hiding under a mouldering towel. I put the jacket on it and hang it up on the hook on the back of my door.
I’ve just laid down on the sofa with a can of cider in hand when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I ignore it. It’s probably Ebb, checking in on me again.
Then it buzzes twice more in quick succession. I pick it up.
“3 unread messages from Unknown Caller,” it reads.
I click on the notification.
“Snow, this is Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”
I snort. “Surprised he didn’t include the Tyrannus,” I say, to no one. The second message is, predictably, a threat.
“I hope you realise I know where you live now. If you’ve given me a fake number, I promise you I’ll send a chimera to your flat.”
And the third one is a link. I recognise the main URL: “invisiblemind.org.”
I click on it and it takes me to an episode. Not the one we listened to today, like I thought it might. A different one entitled “How Rude: The Toxic Effects of Witnessing Incivility”.
What the hell is this supposed to be? I don’t have to wait long for the answer. Another message notification pops up on my screen.
This fucker. This absolute prick.
“Heard this, and thought of you.”
I grin in spite of myself.