Carry On (22 page)

She jerks away from me. “Simon—no. You can't talk to him about this.”

“Pen. It's the Mage. He's not going to hurt your family. He knows you're good.”

She shakes her head. “My mum made me promise not to tell you, Simon.”

“No secrets,” I say, suddenly defensive. “We have a pact.”

“I know! That's why I'm here, but you cannot tell the Mage. My mother's scared, and my mother doesn't
get
scared.”

“Why didn't she just let them search the house?”

“Why
should
she?”

“Because,” I say, “if the Mage is doing this, he has a reason. He doesn't just hassle people. He doesn't have time for that.”

“But … what if they found something?”

“At your house? They wouldn't.”

“They might,” she says. “You know my mum.
‘Information wants to be free.' ‘There's no such thing as a bad thought.'
Our library is practically as big as Watford's and better stocked. If you wanted to find something dangerous in there, I'm sure you could.”

“But the Mage doesn't
want
to hurt your family.”

“Who
does
he want to hurt, Simon?”

“People who want to hurt us!” I say. I practically shout it. “People who want to hurt me!”

Penny folds her arms and looks at me. She's mostly stopped crying. “The Mage isn't perfect. He's not always right.”

“No one is. But we have to trust him. He's doing his best.” As soon as I say it, I feel a pound of guilt settle in my stomach. I should have told the Mage about the ghost. I should have told Penny. I should have told them
both
before I told Baz. I could be spying for the wrong side.

“I need to think about this,” Penny says. “It's not my secret to tell—or
yours.
”

“All right,” I agree.

“All right.” A few more tears well up on her, and she shakes her head again. “I should go. I can't believe Baz hasn't come back with the house master yet. They probably think he's lying—”

“I don't think he's snitching on you.”

She huffs. “Of course he is. I don't care. I have bigger worries.”

“Stay for a bit,” I say. If she stays, I'll tell her about Baz's mum.

“No. We can talk about this tomorrow. I just needed to tell you.”

“Your family will be safe,” I say. “You don't have to worry about it. I promise.”

Penelope looks unconvinced, and I half expect her to point out how worthless my words have been so far. But she just nods and tells me she'll see me at breakfast.

 

40

BAZ

I could watch Bunce swing for this.

(I didn't think it was possible for anyone to get past the residence hall's gender barriers. Trust Bunce to find a way. She's incessantly fiendish.)

But I don't even care.

I find my way down to the Catacombs and hunt mindlessly.

My mother's tomb is here. I hate to think that she might be watching me. Can souls see through the Veil? Does she know I've become one of them?

I wonder sometimes what would have happened if she'd lived.

I was the only child in the nursery who was Turned that day. The vampires might have taken me with them if my mother hadn't stopped them.

My father came for me as soon as he heard. And he and Fiona did everything they could to heal me—but they knew I was changed. They knew the blood lust would manifest itself eventually.

And they just …

They went on acting like nothing had happened. Crowley, they're lucky I didn't start devouring people as soon as I hit puberty. I don't think my father ever would have mentioned it, even if he'd caught me draining the maid.
“Basil, change into some new things for dinner. You'll upset your stepmother.”

Though he'd much prefer to catch me
disrobing
the maid.… (Definitely more disappointed in my queerness than my undeadness.)

My father never acknowledges that I'm a vampire—besides my flammability—and I know he'll never send me away because of it.

But my mother?

She would have killed me.

She would have faced me, what I am, and done what was right.

My mother never would have let a vampire into Watford. She
didn't.

I end my walk at the door to her tomb. At the stone in the wall that marks it.

She was the youngest person ever to lead Watford—and one of three headmasters in history to die defending it. She's kept here, in a place of honour, part of the school's foundation.

My mother came back.

She came back
for me.

What does it mean that she couldn't find me?

Maybe ghosts can't see through coffins.

Maybe she couldn't see me because I'm not fully alive. Will I get to see
her
when Simon finally finishes me?

He will … Finish me.

Snow will do the right thing.

*   *   *

I stay in the Catacombs until I'm done feeding. Until I'm done raging. Until I can't stand staring at that photograph of myself anymore. (Chubby, lucky bag of blood.)

Until I'm done crying.

You'd think that's something you'd lose in the change—tears. But I still piss, and I still cry. I still lose water.

(I don't really know how it all works, being a vampire; my family won't let me near a magickal doctor—and it's not like I get colds or need vaccinations.)

The flowers I've laid outside my mother's tomb have wilted. I cast
“April showers!”
and they bloom again. It takes more magic than I can afford right now—flowers and food take life—and I slump forward against the wall.

When I'm tired lately, I can't keep my head up. And my left leg isn't quite right since the numpties; it goes numb. I stomp it into the stone floor, and some feeling shoots up my heel.

If my mother came back through the Veil, that means she hasn't completely moved on. She isn't here—she can't see me—but she isn't in the next place. Her soul is stuck in the in-between.

How am I supposed to help?

Find this Nicodemus? Is he the one who sent the vampires?

I've always been told that the Humdrum sent the vampires. Even Fiona thinks the Humdrum sent the vampires. The Humdrum sends everything else to Watford.…

My leg's so numb when I get to our tower, I have to lead with my right and drag my left behind me, all the way up the stairs.

Bunce is gone from our room. Snow's in bed, and the windows are open. He's showered. Snow uses the soap the school provides—he smells like a hospital when he's clean.

I don't bother rinsing my face or changing. Just strip to my undershirt and pants, and climb in my bed. I feel like death. Death not even warmed over.

As soon as I'm settled—eyes closed, willing myself not to cry again—Snow clears his throat. Awake, then. I won't cry.

“I'll help you,” he says—so softly, only a vampire could hear him.

“Help me what?”

“I'll help you find whatever killed your mother.”

“Why?”

He rolls over to face my bed. I can just see him in the dark. He can't see me.

He shrugs. “Because they attacked Watford.”

I roll away.

“Because she was your mother,” he says. “And they killed her in front of you. And that's—that's wrong.”

 

41

LUCY

The Veil is closing, pulling us all back—but it can't get its grip on me.

I don't think there's enough of me left. Imagine that, not having enough life in you to be properly dead. Not enough to break through and not enough to drag back.

I'd rather stay here.

I'd rather keep speaking to you, even if you can't hear. Even if I can't see you. (There was a moment when I thought I could; there was a moment when I thought you
heard.
)

I stay. And I drift. I slip through floors that won't hold me. I blow through walls that don't stop me. The whole world is grey, and full of shadows.

I tell them my story.

BOOK THREE

 

42

SIMON

Baz is already mostly dressed when I wake up.

He's standing at the windows—he's closed them, even though it's already too hot in here—and he's tying his tie in the reflection.

He has long hair for a bloke. When he plays football, it falls in his eyes and on his cheeks. But he slicks it straight back after a shower, so he always looks like a gangster first thing in the morning—or a black-and-white movie vampire, with that widow's peak of his.

I've wondered whether Baz gets away with being a vampire by looking so much like one. Like, it would be too much to call him out for it—a little too on the nose. (Baz has a long thin nose. The kind that starts too high on someone's head and practically gets in the way of their eyebrows. Sometimes when I'm looking at him, I want to reach out and yank it down half an inch. Not that that would work.) (His nose is also a little bent towards the bottom—I did that.)

I don't know where we stand this morning.

I mean, I promised to help him find out what happened to his mum. Are we supposed to start that right now? Or is it the sort of promise that's going to come back to haunt me years from now, just when I've forgotten about it?

And, no matter what, we're still enemies, right? He still wants to kill me?

He probably won't try to kill me until I've helped him with his mum—I guess that's a comforting thought.

Baz gives the knot in his tie one last tug, then turns to me, putting on his jacket. “You're not getting off.”

I sit up. “What?”

“You're not going to pretend that last night was a dream or that you didn't mean what you said. You're helping me avenge my mother's death.”

“Nobody said anything about
avenging.
” I throw back my blankets and stand up, shaking my hair out with both hands. (It gets matted when I sleep.) “I said that I'd help you figure out who murdered her.”

“That's helping me, Snow. Because as soon as I know, I'm killing them.”

“Well, I'm not helping with that part.”

“You already are,” Baz says, hitching his bag over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Starting now,” he says, pointing at the floor. “We're starting this now. It's our first priority.” He heads for the door.

I want to argue. “What—?”

Baz stops, huffs, then turns back to me.

“What about everything else?” I ask.

“What everything else?” he says. “Lessons? We can still go to our lessons.”

“No,” I growl. “You
know
what everything else.” I think of the last seven years of my life. Of every empty threat he's made—and every full one. “You want me to work on this with you, but … you also want to push me down the stairs.”

“Fine. I promise not to push you down the stairs until we solve this.”

“I'm serious,” I say. “I can't help you if you're setting me up all the time.”

He sneers. “Do you think this is a setup? That I brought my mother back from the dead to fuck with you?”

“No.”

“Truce,” he says.

“Truce?”

“I'm fairly certain you know what ‘truce' means, Snow. No aggression until we're through this.”

“No aggression?”

He rolls his eyes. “No
acts
of aggression.”

I grab my wand off the table that sits between our beds and walk over to him, raising it in my left hand and holding out my right. “Swear it,” I say. “With magic.”

He narrows his eyes at me. I see the tension in his chin.

“Fine,” he says, swatting my wand away. “But I'm not letting you anywhere near me with that.” He slips his own wand out of the pocket inside his jacket and holds it between us. Then he takes my hand in his—he's cold—and I pull back, out of reflex. He tightens his grip.

“Truce,” Baz says, looking in my eyes.

“Truce,” I say, sounding much less certain.

“Until we know the truth,” he adds.

I nod.

Then he taps our joined hands.
“An Englishman's word is his bond!”

I feel Baz's magic sink into my hand. Someone else's magic never feels like your own—like someone else's spit never tastes like your own. (Though I guess I can only speak for Agatha's.) Baz's magic
burns.
Like heat rub. It hangs in the muscles of my hand.

We've just taken an oath. I've never taken an oath before. Baz could still break it—he could still turn on me—but his hand would cramp up, and he'd lose his voice for a few weeks. Maybe that's part of his plan.