It’s a spectacle in there. Blood all over the airbag. And the body. And me.
I go through the goblin’s jacket, but don’t find anything besides a packet of gum and a carpet knife. This doesn’t feel like the Humdrum’s work—there’s no itchy sign of him in the air. I take a deep breath to make sure.
Probably just another revenge run, then. The goblins have been after me ever since I helped the Coven drive them out of Essex. (They were gobbling up drunk people in club bathrooms, and the Mage was worried about losing regional slang.) I think the goblin who successfully offs me gets to be king.
This one won’t be getting a crown. My blade’s stuck in the seat next to him, so I yank it out and let it disappear back into my hip. Then I remember my bag and grab that, too, wiping blood on my grey trackie bottoms before I open the bag to fish out my wand. I can’t just leave this mess here, and I don’t think it’s worth saving anything for evidence.
I hold my wand over the taxi and feel my magic scramble up to my skin. “Work with me here,” I whisper. “Out, out, damned spot!”
I’ve seen Penelope use that spell to get rid of unspeakable things. But all it does for me is clean some blood off my trousers. I guess that’s something.
The magic is building up in my arm—so thick, my fingers are shaking. “Come on,” I say, pointing. “Take it away!”
Sparks fly out of my wand and fingertips.
“Fuck me, come on…” I shake out my wrist and point again. I notice the goblin’s head lying in the grass near my feet, back to its true green again. Goblins are handsome devils. (But most devils are fairly fit.) “I suppose you ate the cabbie,” I say, kicking the head back towards the car. My arm feels like it’s burning.
“Into thin air!” I shout.
I feel a hot rush from the ground to my fingertips, and the taxi disappears. And the head disappears. And the fence disappears. And the road …
*
An hour later, sweaty and still covered in dried goblin blood and that dust that comes out of airbags, I finally see the school buildings up ahead of me. (It was only a patch of that dirt road that disappeared, and it wasn’t much of a road to start with. I just had to make my way back to the main road, then follow it here.)
All the Normals think Watford is an ultraexclusive boarding school. Which I guess it is. The grounds are coated in glamours. Ebb told me once that we keep casting new spells on the school as we develop them. So there’s layer upon layer of protection. If you’re a Normal, all the magic burns your eyes.
I walk up to the tall iron gate—THE WATFORD SCHOOL is spelled out on the top—and rest my hand on the bars to let them feel my magic.
That used to be all it took. The gates would swing open for anyone who was a magician. There’s even an inscription about it on the crossbar—MAGIC SEPARATES US FROM THE WORLD; LET NOTHING SEPARATE US FROM EACH OTHER.
“It’s a nice thought,” the Mage said when he appealed to the Coven for stiffer defences, “but let’s not take security orders from a six-hundred-year-old gate. I don’t expect people who come to my house to obey whatever’s cross-stitched on the throw pillows.”
I was at that Coven meeting, with Penelope and Agatha. (The Mage had wanted us there to show what was at stake. “The children! The future of our world!”) I didn’t listen to the whole debate. My mind wandered off, thinking about where the Mage really lived and whether I’d ever be invited there. It was hard to picture him with a house, let alone throw pillows. He has rooms at Watford, but he’s gone for weeks at a time. When I was younger, I thought the Mage lived in the woods when he was away, eating nuts and berries and sleeping in badger dens.