“Looks like you. Sounds like you. Tosses that infernal red ball in the air like you.” He holds me tighter.
“I think I’d know if I were the Insidious Humdrum,” I say.
“I wouldn’t give you that much credit, Simon. You’re exceedingly thick. And criminally good-looking—have I mentioned that?”
“No.”
He leans in like he’s going to bite me, then kisses me instead.
It’s so good.
It’s been so good every time.
I pull away. “I’m not the Humdrum! But why does thinking so make you want to kiss me?”
“Everything makes me want to kiss you. Haven’t you worked that out yet? Crowley, you’re thick.” He kisses me again. And he’s laughing again.
“I’m not the Humdrum,” I repeat, when I get the chance. “I’d know if I were.”
“What you are is a fucking tragedy, Simon Snow. You literally couldn’t be a bigger mess.”
He tries to kiss me, but I hold back—“And you like that?”
“I love it,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because we match.”
*
We make our way out of the forest. Baz knows the way.
It really is stocked with deer just for him. It doesn’t creep me out at all to know that—apparently I can get used to anything.
Apparently he can, too.
“That thing,” I try again. “It isn’t me.”
“Maybe it’s you in the past,” he says. “Maybe you’re a time traveller.”
“But wouldn’t I remember it? If he’s me when I was a kid?”
“I don’t know how time travel works,” Baz says. “It’s not magic.”
“You’re not limping,” I say.
He looks down and shakes out his leg. “It feels better,” he says. “Crowley, Snow, you’ve healed me. I wonder if I’m still a vampire?”
I raise my eyebrows, and he laughs. “Calm down, miracle boy, I’m still a vampire—you still smell like bacon and homemade cinnamon buns.”
“How can I smell like bacon and homemade cinnamon buns?”
“You smell like something I’d gladly eat.” Baz stops and holds an arm out in front of me. “Wait. Do you feel that?”
I stop, too. It’s faint, but it’s there. That parched feeling. That scratch in the back of my throat.
“The Humdrum,” Baz says. “Is he back?”
There’s shouting ahead of us, somebody calling Baz’s name.
I hold my hand above my hip, trying to call my blade. It doesn’t come. I can’t feel my magic anywhere.
Baz has his wand tucked into his pyjamas (of course he does). He whips it out and tries to cast a spell. Nothing happens. He tries again.
“It’s a dead spot,” I whisper. “It’s one of the Humdrum’s dead spots.”
“Basilton!” Baz’s stepmother is screaming and running towards us. She’s wearing her nightgown, and her hair is down. “Malcolm, he’s here!”
“The Humdrum…” Baz looks over at me, as pale as I’ve ever seen him, his face chalky and white in the moonlight. “Snow. Run.”
“What?”
“Go,” he says. “You did this.”
72
SIMON
I could probably walk to London.
If I were wearing shoes.
And if there weren’t all this snow.…
When Baz told me to go, when he blamed the dead spot on me, I wanted to argue. But his parents were running towards us, and they were panicking, and I couldn’t tell what was happening. Had the hole swallowed up their entire house? Their whole estate?
I turned to run back into the forest—but it was on fire. From me. From my magic. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it, because now I didn’t have any.
“Go!” Baz said again, so I did. I ran.
I got to the drive, and my feet were going numb from cold, but I kept running. Down the long, long drive. To the road. Away from him.
I’m still running.
My magic comes back to me all at once and sends me to the ground, shaking. If only I had my wand. Or a mobile …