“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, walking ahead.
“Baz, I thought—I thought you might need someone to talk to.”
“Nope, I’m good.”
“But—”
He stops and sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Look… Agatha. We both know that whatever you and Snow are squabbling about, you’ll soon work it out and be back to your golden destiny. Don’t complicate it.”
“But we’re not—”
Baz has started walking again. He’s limping a little. Maybe that’s why he isn’t playing football. I keep following him.
“Maybe I don’t want a golden destiny,” I say.
“When you figure out how to sidestep destiny, let me know.” He’s walking as fast as he can with his limp, and I decide not to run to keep up with him. That would look appalling.
“Maybe I want something more interesting!” I call out.
“I’m not more interesting!” he shouts back, without turning his head. “I’m justwrongfor you. Learn the difference.”
I bite down on my bottom lip and try not to cross my arms like a 6-year-old.
How does he know he’s wrong for me?
Why does everyone else think they know where I belong?
38
BAZ
Snow has been staring at me all day—for weeks now—and I’m just really not up for it. Maybe Aunt Fiona was right; I should have stayed home longer and rested up. I feel like complete shit.
Like I can’t get full, and I can’t get warm—and last night, I had some sort of attack in the Catacombs. It’s so fucking dark down there. And even though I can see in the dark, I felt like I was back in that stupid numpty coffin.
I couldn’t stay underground any longer. I caught six rats, banged their heads on the floor, tied their tails in a knot, then brought them back upstairs and drained them in the courtyard under the stars. May as well have sent an engraved announcement to the whole school, telling them I’m a vampire. A vampire who’s afraid of the dark, for Crowley’s sake.
I threw the rat carcasses to the merwolves. (They’re worse than rats. I’d drain every one of them if the taste didn’t stay in my mouth for weeks. Gamyandfishy.)
Then I slept like the dead for nine hours, and it still wasn’t enough. I’ve been asleep on my feet since lunch, and I can’t exactly go up to my room to take a nap. Snow would probably sit across from me and watch.
He’s been following me everywhere since I got back. He hasn’t been this persistent since our fifth year—he even followed me to the boys’ toilet yesterday and pretended he just needed to wash his hands.
I don’t have the strength for it.
I feel 15 again, like I’m going to give in if he gets too close—kiss him or bite him. The only reason I got through that year was that I couldn’t decide which of those options would finally put me out of my misery.
Probably Snow himself would put me out of my misery if I tried either one.
Those were my fifth-year fantasies: kisses and blood and Snow ridding the world of me.
I watched the football practice this afternoon, just for an excuse to sit down, then slipped away from the team when everyone else headed for dinner.
Wellbelove catches me in the courtyard and tries to suck me into her maiden-fair drama, but I haven’t got time for the pain. I heard Miss Possibelf say that the Mage is coming back to Watford tomorrow—and I still haven’t snuck up to his office. (Probably because it’s an idiotic idea.) But if I go up there and take something, it will at least get Fiona off my back for a while.
I haul myself to the Weeping Tower, and skip the spiral staircase to take the staff elevator up to the very top.
