I don’t feel bad for killing the vampires who took Agatha. (They were a nasty bit of work, good riddance.)
But what about those vampires at the Renaissance Faire? I thought they were murderous—but at the time, I thought all vampires were murderous.
Were they really going to drain those women dry? Or were they merely going to tap them for a few pints, the way Lamb did to that man in the alley? And does the latter get a pass?
What if they were a group of bloodless friends enjoying a day out with their fully blooded girlfriends, sharing a consensual sip in the shade . . .
No, I don’t think so. The girls screamed.
The point is—we killed those vampires without any sort of evaluation. We didn’t hesitate. (Just like my mother didn’t hesitate.) (Vampires are dead. They’redeath.)
Simon doesn’t feel guilty about it; he’s killed too many things to wear every soul around his neck like a stone. Penelope doesn’t feel guilty; she’d raze all of Las Vegas if she had the chance. I don’t know what I feel . . . I don’t know what I’mresponsiblefor, in America.
But I do know that I stole Philippa Stainton’s voice.
She was just a girl, an innocent girl. And, yes, I was just a boy, but I was far less innocent—I knew I was carrying something dangerous that day.
I stole her voice.
And I stole her magic.
And I stole her life as a magician. That’s on me.
And I can’tfixit. I can’t—I can’tbreatheunder it. I don’t know how to carry it. And it’s only been a few hours. (For me. Years for her.) How am I going to get through the rest of my life feeling this way?
Simon comes into the bedroom after an hour or so, walking softly. He thinks I’m asleep. He pulls his Watford hoodie over his head and drops it on the floor. He isn’t wearing anything underneath. He rolls out his bare shoulders, and his wings slowly loosen and unfurl, purplish black in the dark. He spreads them wide, arching his back, and lifting his chin to stretch his neck. He looks . . .
“Come to bed,” I whisper.
He looks over at the bed, squinting. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Not yet. Come to bed.”
“Haven’t showered yet.”
“It’s all right. It’s your bed.”
He unbuttons his jeans, still squinting at me. His eyes aren’t as good as mine in the dark. “Are you sure?”
I hold the sheet open for him.
He pushes his jeans down and kicks them away, climbing into the bed beside me. I bring the sheet back up over him, and he scoots closer, shifting a bit to get his wings settled behind him. He’s warm, and he smells like a pub. Like cider and fish and a little like pizza.
I slide an arm around his waist. “Did you make up with Bunce? Has she moved in?”
He shrugs. He’s still shifting and wriggling closer. “I apologized like you said I should.”
“And?”
“And she said we don’t need magic to be friends.”
“Wise girl.”
Simon brings a knee up over my thigh. “She said she only has two and a half friends, and she can’t afford to lose any.”
“Am I the half, or is Agatha?”
“You’re both three-fourths.”
