“No, Snow. I don’t have a death wish. I wish I did—it would make everything easier.”
“Please stop talking like that.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. And then he turns to me, abruptly. “Is that why you kissed me? To keep me from killing myself?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly. I mean, Ididwant to keep you from killing yourself.”
“Why, then?” he asks.
“Why did I kiss you?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess I wanted to,” I say, shrugging.
“Since when?”
I shrug again, and it pisses him off. He wedges another log into the fire.
“Did you want me to?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Why would I want that? Why would that thought even occur to me?‘Hey, you know what would fix this miserable situation with the vampires and my mother and the war and the decline of magic? Snogging my halfwit roommate. The one who will probably fuck my life for good someday. That’s a plan.’”
“You don’t have to be such a prat,” I say. “We’re on the same side here.”
“For the moment,” Baz says. “You’ll help me find out who killed my mother, I’ll kill whoever it is, and then you’ll make sure I get thrown in a tower for it. You’ve already won—as soon as you tell the Mage I’m a vampire, he’ll pull out my fangs and snap my wand. I’ll end up in Covent Garden, licking Nicodemus’s heels. And that’s if I’mlucky.”
Does Baz really think I’d do that? Now? “Those vampires were in awe of you,” I say. “They wanted to put a crown on your head.”
“Are you suggesting I cross over?”
“No. I’m just saying, you were amazing today.”
“You’re not listening to me at all, are you?”
“I am,”I say. “But you’re wrong. Nothing’s going back to normal after this. How could it?”
“Because we’re friends now?”
“Because we’re more than that.”
Baz picks up a poker and jabs at the fire. “One kiss, and you think the world is upside down.”
“Two kisses,” I say. And I take him by the back of his neck.
BAZ
I don’t know what time it is.
The darkness has changed colour in the room, like the sun is sneaking up on us. We’re lying on our backs next to the fire, what’s left of it, holding hands.
Snow sighs and squeezes my hand—and when I yelp, he frowns and holds it up between us: There’s a cross-shaped burn on my palm from when I yanked his necklace off last night. (His cross is on the other side of the room now; Snow took care of it himself this time.)
He brings my palm to his mouth and kisses it.
“I didn’t think you were gay,” I say. Quietly.
He shrugs. Half of Snow’s sentences are shrugs.
