“Yeah. Your mum gave Ebb her job.”
Baz is just standing there like he wants to punch something—or suck it dry.
“Well, where is he now?” he asks. “This Nicodemus?”
“Ebb doesn’t know. She’s not supposed to talk to him. She’s not supposed to talk about him, even.”
Baz sneers again, then reminds me that he actually is a supervampire—a supervillain: “Doesn’t know, does she? Well,” he says, “we’ll see about that.”
I put my hand on his chest. I don’t have to step any closer to reach him. “No,” I say firmly. “Ebb doesn’t know where Nicodemus is. We’re not talking to her again.”
Baz swallows and licks his grey-pink lower lip. “I’ll talk to the goatherd if I want to, Snow.”
“Not if you want my help.” I keep my hand on his chest because I feel like he still needs to be held back, but I can’t believe he’s letting me do it.
His hand flies up and closes over my wrist. (As if he’s read my mind.) (Is that a vampire thing?) “Fine,” he says, shoving my wrist down. “Then how do we find Nicodemus?”
“I haven’t thought it through that far. I came here as soon as I left Ebb’s.”
“Well, what does Penelope think?”
“I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know—I told you, I haven’t talked to her. I came straight here.”
Baz seems confused. “You came straight here?”
“Would you rather I waited to tell you after Christmas break?”
He narrows his eyes and licks his lips again. I put my hands on my hips, just to have something to do with them. “What about you?” I ask. “Have you made any progress?”
He looks away. “No. I mean, I’ve been reading a lot of books about vampires.”
I stop myself from saying, “Self-help?” “What have you found out?” I ask instead.
“That they’re dead and evil and like to kill babies.”
“Huh,” I say. “Did it say anything about salt and vinegar crisps?” Baz eats them on his bed when he thinks I’m asleep, then brushes the crumbs between our beds.
He glares at me, then moves away, walking towards his desk. “No one knows anything about the vampires,” he says, fiddling with a pen. “Not really. Maybe I should just go talk to them.”
There’s a knock at his door, and it swings open.
“You’re supposed to knock!” Baz snaps before the girl even steps inside. It’s his sister, I think. She’s too young for Watford yet. She looks like his stepmother, dark-haired and pretty, but not like Baz and his mother—they’re drawn in bolder lines than this.
“I did knock,” she says.
“Well, you’re supposed to wait for me to say ‘come in.’”
“Mum says you have to come down for dinner.”
“Fine,” he says.
She stands there.
“We’ll be down soon,” he says. “Go away.”
The girl rolls her eyes and lets the door close. Baz goes back to thinking and fiddling with the pen.
“Well,” I say, “I’d better head back. Send a message if you hear more. You can try to call, but I don’t think there’s anyone answering the school phone over break.”
“What?” He scowls up at me.
“I said, send a message if—”
“You’re not leaving now.”
“I told you everything I know.”
“Snow, you came in on the last train, then you walked for an hour. You haven’t eaten all day, and your hair’s still wet—you’re not going anywhere tonight.”
“Well, I can’t stay here.”
“You haven’t burst into flames yet.”
“Baz, listen—”
He cuts me off with a hand. “No.”
55
BAZ
Snow was a wreck at dinner.
Which I might have enjoyed if I wasn’t so desperate for him to stay.
Everything on his plate seemed to confuse him, and he alternated between staring at his food miserably and vacuuming it up because he was clearly ravenous.