Penelope is crying, fat tears running down her red cheeks. “I don’t know, Basil. Maybe it’s true what they say—if you love someone, set them free.”
“That isn’t a truth, it’s just a spell! When I was six, my shoelace got caught in an escalator, and my Aunt Fiona cast it to get me clear. Simon needs us, Penelope.” I take her by the shoulder. “We have to find him. Let’s go.”
She steps away from me. She shakes her head. “No. He needs me to let him make his own decisions.”
I let my hand fall.
I nod.
I look at Bunce the way I used to look at her—when she was my worst enemy’s best friend.
“Fine then. Perhaps he just needs me.”
12
SIMON
There’s a goblin in my stairwell. Not even in disguise. Just sitting there, picking his teeth with a dagger. He better not have eaten my landlady.
I’ve only had this flat for a day. It’s a house that’s been split in two. The landlady’s got the main floor, and I’ve got the upstairs. I convinced her that I’d be a quiet tenant. No drugs. No parties. (Goblins are worse than parties.)
“Hello, Mage Prince,” the goblin says. He’s red-lipped and green-skinned. Dead handsome, like every goblin.
“I’ve tried to tell you lot that I’m nobody’s prince . . .”
“Word on the street is, you’ve lost your blade.”
I shrug. There’s a price on my head—the goblin who brings it back to their council or whatever gets to be king.
This one thinks he’s got a fair shot at it. He gets to his feet, almost lazily, and points his dagger at me.
I shoot my right hand out to the side and grab a broom that’s leaning against the wall.
“You have lost your blade!” the goblin cries, absolutely delighted.
He runs at me, and I wallop him in the gut so hard that the broom handle cracks. He doubles over—but comes up quickly, swinging his dagger at me.
My wings are strapped down under my shirt, and my tail is tucked away. (I’ve just been to see Dr. Wellbelove at his practice.) It sort of feels like fighting with one hand tied behind my back.
I’ve still got the end of the broom handle, so I use it to bat the goblin’s hand away from me.
He keeps coming.
I decide to let him. The Mage taught me this—that sometimes the best way to get under someone’s guard is to let them get close.
The goblin runs at me, and I grab the wrist of his dagger hand, spinning around behind him, so I can crush him against the wall, my chest to his back. I hold the splintered broom handle in my other hand, an inch from his eye. When he tries to turn away from it, I use my face to grind his head into the wall. I bang his wrist against the wall until he drops the dagger, then I step on it.
His eyes are open, staring at the splintered broom handle.
“If you leave now,” I say, right into his ear, “I’ll let you keep your eye.”
He bares his teeth. “Another gob’ll be right behind me. All of London knows you’ve lost your blade.”
I nudge the broom handle closer to his eye. “Yeah, but you’re going to tell them I don’t need my blade—cuz now I’ve got yours.”
He closes his eyes, still trying to wrench himself away from me. Fortunately goblins aren’t any stronger than people; you just have to stay away from their teeth.
“Do you understand?” I say, slamming his body hard against the wall.
He starts to nod his head—which is a terrible idea.
I move the broom away. “Watch yourself. Just say it out loud.”
“Yeah,” he pants. “I understand.”
“If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
“Why aren’t you killing me now?” he asks. A bit narky for someone in his position. “Wouldn’t that send the same message?”
I huff into his ear.
Because I’m tired, I think. And because for all I know, you’ve got a goblin wife and goblin kids, or a goblin boyfriend, and I’d like a life—I’d like a week —with a lower body count.
“Because I’m tired of washing goblin blood out my jeans,” I say.
I heave him back by the collar and shove him towards the door.
He glances over his shoulder at me, like he still can’t believe I’m letting him go.
“Seriously,” I say. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you. Even if I just accidentally run into you at Tesco.”
The goblin runs away.
I lean over and pick up his dagger. (Too bad I can’t keep it. Goblin gear is always cursed.)
Does this mean I have to find a new flat?
I bolt and chain my front door. I don’t have any furniture to shove against it, so I decide to use the broom handle like a wedge—that should slow someone down, at least. Then I call and order myself some pad thai from the place down the street.
I take off my trench coat. There’s nowhere to hang it, so I toss it on the floor. And then my shirt. I go into the bathroom to unstrap my wings. I’ve been using two belts. The leather chafes, and the buckles bite into my chest, and if I pull them too tight, I can’t breathe. But if I don’t hitch them tight, my wings work themselves loose and push out the back of my coat—which is too fucking hot to wear in the middle of summer. Honestly, it’s not worth leaving the flat.
I won’t have to deal with this after tomorrow.
I get the belts off and drop them on the floor, then try to crane my head around to see the spot where my wings actually attach to my shoulders. I can’t quite manage it. But I can feel the joints there, the two knots where my skin goes from soft to leathery.
I can’t see my tail either. But I can touch the place on my back where it comes out of me. I pull the tail out of my jeans and wrap my fingers around the base, feeling the bones inside shifting. Dr. Wellbelove says the tail’s connected to my spine. He doesn’t want to remove it outright—he’s afraid of nerve damage—so he’s leaving an inch or two. I’m going to look like a docked terrier when he’s done with me, but at least I’ll be able to wear normal jeans again.
The wings will be gone completely. (His intern wants to dissect them, and I said that’s fine.) I’ll have long scars down my back when it’s over. Dr. Wellbelove was sorry about that, but I don’t care—I’m already covered in scars. I’ve been magickally patched up too many times to count, and most healing spells aren’t cosmetic.
Tomorrow.
My wings will be gone tomorrow.
I face the mirror and try to imagine myself without them. It’s not the same as imagining myself before I had them. Before I created them.
I square my shoulders. My arms are tanned from the sun—all that American sunshine—but my chest is pale. Soft. I look soft. I look like someone who’s spent the last year on the sofa, which is exactly who I am.
Or was. I don’t know who I am. Fuck, I’m nothing at the moment. I’m between Simons. I don’t even have a sofa.
I don’t have anything. I’ve burned it all down, and tomorrow I’m going to burn some more.
There’s a knock at my front door. That was fast.
I head into the living room and shout at the door. “Just leave it outside, mate! Thanks!”