Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(9)

“Thanks, but I’ve just got out of a cult. I’m not looking for a rebound cult.”

He smiles. He’s flirting with me now. “We aren’t a cult.”

“You are, I think.” I’m not quite flirting back.

“Is the Catholic Church a cult?”

“Yes. Are you actually comparing yourself to Catholicism?”

He pulls his head back. “Wait, you think the Church is a cult?”

We look in each other’s eyes. He’s thinking that mine are an unusual shade of brown. I’m relieved when he doesn’t say so.

“We just want to help people,” he says.

“You want to help yourselves,” I correct.

“One, we count as people, and two, why not help ourselves? We’re the difference-makers.”

“That sounds like a made-up word, Braden.” Braden is a made-up name.

“I’m okay with making up words,” he says. “I want to remake the world. The people in the next room? They’re already changing the world. I’m here to nourish and encourage them, so that they can maximize their impact.”

“That’s why I left that room,” I say. “The last thing I want is to make a difference.”





9





BAZ


None of us sleep on the flight. Bunce does logic puzzles, and Snow watches films where people kick each other. Every two hours, he says, “Well, that was crap,” and starts another one. I would sleep, but I can’t get comfortable. My knees are cramped, and there are at least three people wearing crosses sitting near me. One of them must be silver; my nose won’t stop running.

I’m crowding Snow, using the tight quarters as an excuse to be close to him. I’ve forgotten how warm he is. We’re touching from shoulder to knee; it’s like lying in the sun, without the sting.

Simon’s changed since we left school. Physically. He’s softer, fuller. Like the butter (more like the cider) is catching up with him. Being the Chosen One was good cardio, I suppose. And being a magickal reactor must have given him a hell of a metabolism.…

Snow looks like he hasn’t been plugged into the charger for a while. His skin’s gone pale. His toffee-brown hair has lost its shimmer. He’s grown it out—in neglect, I think. He’s got a headful of loose curls now. They bounce when he walks, and he’s constantly pulling at them.

“Crap,” Snow says to the tiny screen in the seat ahead of him. “Absolute crap. I’ll be damned if that bloke’s ever picked up a sword.” He shakes his head, and his curls wobble.

He’s lovely. A bit of a sad mess. Dull and pale and rough round the edges. But still so lovely.

I close my eyes and pretend to fall asleep on his shoulder.





SIMON


We spend an hour in the queue at Immigration.

The American border agents are dead scary, but my wings stay gone, and my passport holds. Penny says she has more to worry about as a brown person than I do as a winged person. (She’s half Indian, half white. English on both sides.)

But we get through.

We’re in America. I’m in America. Across the ocean. Me. If the kids from the care homes could see me now …

Well, really, I wouldn’t want them to see me because then I’d have to see them. And I don’t have many good memories of my childhood outside of Watford.

My therapist (the one I was seeing last summer) always wanted me to talk about that—what my life was like as a kid, how I felt, who took care of me. I tried to tell her that I can’t remember—and I really can’t. It’s all sort of spotty. I vaguely remember where I lived before my magic kicked in, what school I was in, what I watched on the telly … I can remember that things were bad, but not specifically why. Trauma affects memory, my therapist said. Your brain closes off painful corridors.

“That sounds good to me,” I told her. “Thank you, brain.”

I don’t see why I should go looking for pain and trouble in my childhood, especially things my head has already taped off. I’ve got enough pain and trouble on my plate.

The therapist said I needed to work through the past to keep it from undermining the present. And I said—

Well, I didn’t say anything. I skipped my next appointment and didn’t make any more.



* * *



Penny hired us a car, but we’ve got to walk half a mile to get to it. Baz looks completely wiped, even though he slept on my shoulder through most of the flight. (I needed a piss for the last four hours, but I didn’t want to wake him.)

When we get to the car, it stops me in my tracks. Baz walks right into me.

“Penelope…” I’m actually holding my head, like someone who’s just seen their renovated living room on a DIY show. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Penny laughs. “Nope.”

Crowley, it’s beautiful—sleek, saltwater blue. With a nose like a Doberman pinscher. “A classic Mustang! Are you kidding me?! Just like Steve McQueen!”

“Well, we can’t drive across America in a Ford Fiesta.”

Baz is frowning at the bonnet. “Nineteen sixty-eight … Tahoe Turquoise.”

I climb into the driver’s seat, even though I can’t drive—I wish I could. The seats are sky-blue vinyl and shorter than any car I’ve been in.