Of course I still wanted to go to Watford …
… once I’d seen my father. Once my stepmother had wept over me. Once I’d slept for twelve hours under a new barrage of healing spells.
I stayed in bed a fortnight.
They all tried to talk me into staying longer.
Even Vera, my old nanny was brought in to apply some guilt. (Vera’s a Normal. She rationalizes all our strangeness by pretending we’re in the Mafia. Father spells her innocent whenever it gets to be too much for her.)
But after two weeks, I got up out of bed, packed my bags, and went and sat in the front seat of Fiona’s car.
“I’ll steal it if I have to!” I shouted up the drive. “Or I’ll steal a bus!”
There was no way that I wasn’t going back to school—this is my last year. Last year in the tower. Last year on the pitch. Last year to torment Snow before our antagonism turns into something more permanent and less entertaining.
My last year at Watford, the last place I saw my mother …
I was damn well going back.
Aunt Fiona stomped out in her heavy black Doc Martens boots (clichéd) and opened my door. “Back seat,” she said. “Front seat’s for people who haven’t been kidnapped by fucking numpties.”
*
I can feel Snow staring at me all through Greek—actually feel it. He’s so worked up, his magic is leaking out all over the place.
Sometimes when he gets like this, I’m tempted to pull him aside. “Deep breaths now, Snow. Let it go. Some of it. Before you start another fire. Whatever it is you’re worried about, this won’t help.”
I never do, though. Pull him aside. Or talk him down. Instead I just poke him until he goes off.
That’s what Snow does best. He doesn’t plan or strike—he just goes off, and when he does, he takes down everything in his path.
He’s half a fucking numpty himself. The Mage gives him mittens and blankets, and Snow goes off in whatever direction the Mage points him in. I’ve seen it. I’ve probably seen it more than anyone but Bunce.…
The way Snow starts to blur and shimmer. Like a jet engine. The way sparks pop and flare in his aura. The light reflects in his hair, and his pupils contract until his eyes are thick blue. He’s usually holding his sword, so that’s where the flame starts—whipping around his hands and wrists, licking up the blade. It makes him mental. His brain blinks out, I think, about the time he starts swinging. Eventually the power pours off him in waves. Flattening, blackening waves. It’s more power than the rest of us ever have access to. More power than we can imagine. Spilling out of him like he’s a cup left under a waterfall.
I’ve seen it happen close up, standing right at his side. If Snow knows you’re there, he shields you. I don’t know how he does it, I don’t even know why. It’s just like him, really, to use what little control he has to protect other people.
The Minotaur is droning now. Conjugating verbs I’ve known since I was 11.
I can feel Snow’s eyes on the back of my head. I can smell his magic. Smoky. Sticky. Like green wood in a campfire. The people sitting around us are getting stupid and drunk from it. I watch Bunce try to shake it off—she’s glaring at him. He’s glaring at me.
I turn my head just enough to let him see my lip curl.
31
SIMON
I go back to our room as soon as lessons are over for the day, but Baz isn’t there. His clothes are in his wardrobe. His bed is made. His bottles and tubes are back on the bathroom counter.
I open the windows even though it’s freezing out; I’ve been overheating all day. Penelope practically had to hold me down at breakfast. I wanted to rush over to Baz and demand to know where he’d been. I wanted—I think I just wanted to make sure it was really him. I mean … It’s obviously him.
Baz is back.