“Why?”
“So that we know that it wasn’t a fluke,” he says.
“It was a fluke. You were fighting a dragon, and I was helping you—it was a fluke squared.”
“Merlin, Baz, don’t you want to know?”
“Whether I can tap into you like a generator?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he says. “I let you do it.”
“Are you going to let me do it again?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter if it was a fluke!”
Snow’s still sitting on my bed. “All right,” he says. “Maybe.”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe I’d do it again,” he says. “If it were a situation like today—if there were lives at risk, and this might be a solution, an option other than, you know, going off.”
“What if I turned it against you?”
“My magic?”
“Yes,” I say. “What if I took your magic, cast it against you, and settled Baz versus Simon, once and for all.”
Snow’s mouth is hanging slightly open. His tongue shines black in the dark. “Why are you such a villain?” He sounds disgusted. “Why have you already thought of that?”
“I thought of it when I was still rhyming at the dragon,” I say. “Didn’t you?”
“No.”
“This is why I’m going to beat you,” I say.
“We’re on a truce,” Snow says.
“I can still think antagonistically. I’m thinking violent thoughts at you constantly.”
He grabs my hand. I want to pull it away, but I don’t want to look scared—and also I don’t want to pull it away. Bloody Snow. I’m thinking violent thoughts at him right now.
“I’m going to try now,” he says.
“Fine.”
“Should you be casting a spell?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “This is your experiment.”
“Don’t, then,” he says. “Not right away. But tell me if it hurts.”
“It didn’t hurt before,” I mutter.
“It didn’t?”
“No.”
“What did it feel like?”
“Stop talking about feelings,” I say, shaking his hand. “Hit me. Or charge me. Whatever it is you want to do.”
Snow licks his bottom lip and closes his eyes halfway. Is this how he looked this afternoon? Crowley.
I feel his magic.
At first it’s a buzz in my fingertips, then a rush of static up my arm. I try not to squirm.
“Okay?” he asks. His voice is soft.
“Fine. What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Opening? I guess?”
The static in my arm settles into a heavy thrum, like electrical sparks catching into flames. The discomfort goes away, even though the licking, flaming feeling gets stronger. This I know what to do with: This is fire.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Grand,” I say.
“What does that mean—does that mean you could use it?”
I laugh, and it comes out more good-natured than I mean it to. “Snow. I think I could cast a sonnet right now.”
“Show me,” he says.
I’m so full of power, I feel like I can see without opening my eyes. Like I could go nova if I wanted to and have my own galaxy. Is this what it’s like to be Simon Snow? To have infinity in your chest pocket?
I speak clearly: “Twinkle, twinkle little star!”
By the time I get to the end of the next phrase, the room around us is gone, and the stars feel close enough to touch.
“Up above the world so high!”
Simon grabs my other hand, and my chest opens wider. “Merlin and Morgana,” he says. “Are we in space?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Is that a spell?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
We both look around us. I don’t think we’re in space; I can breathe just fine. And I don’t feel like floating away—though I am teetering on the edge of hysterical. So much power. So many stars. My mouth tastes like smoke. “Are you holding back at all?” I ask him.
“Not consciously,” Snow says. “Is it too much?”
“No. It’s like you completed the circuit,” I say, gripping his other hand. “I feel kind of drunk, though.”
“Drunk on power?” he asks.