out later what to do with you. But it all smells like the Mage to me. It’s not enough that he’s laid us low; he wants everything that’s ever made us powerful.”
“You think the Mage had me kidnapped? The headmaster of my school?”
“I think the Mage is capable of anything,” she said. “Don’t you?”
I did think so. But Fiona blames everything on the Mage. So it’s hard to take her seriously, even after she’s just murdered someone to save your life.
Mostly, at that moment, I was thinking about lying down.
“Oh,” Fiona said. “Here.” She fished my wand—polished ivory with a leather hilt—out of her giant handbag and stuck it in my shorts pocket. I pulled it out. “So,” she said. “Obviously, you are not going back to that school, right into that bastard’s clutches.”
“I am so.”
“Basilton.” Full name, all three syllables.
“He’s not going to bother me at school,” I argued, “not with everyone watching.”
“Baz, we have to get serious. He’s attacked our family again, directly.”
“I am serious. I’m more valuable as a spy than a soldier, anyway—that’s what the Families have always said.”
“That’s what we said when you were a child. You’re a man now.”
“I’m a student,” I said. “What do you think my mother would say if she knew you were pulling me out of school?”
Fiona huffed and shook her head. We were still standing at the side of the road. She opened the car door for me. “Get in, you manipulative cur.”
“Only if you take me back to Watford.”
“I’m taking you home first. Your father and Daphne want to see you.”
“And then to Watford.”
She pulled me towards the car. “Jesus. Yes. If you still want to go.”
Of course I still wanted to go to Watford …
… once I’d seen my father. Once my stepmother had wept over me. Once I’d slept for twelve hours under a new barrage of healing spells.
I stayed in bed a fortnight.
They all tried to talk me into staying longer.
Even Vera, my old nanny was brought in to apply some guilt. (Vera’s a Normal. She rationalizes all our strangeness by pretending we’re in the Mafia. Father spells her innocent whenever it gets to be too much for her.)
But after two weeks, I got up out of bed, packed my bags, and went and sat in the front seat of Fiona’s car.
“I’ll steal it if I have to!” I shouted up the drive. “Or I’ll steal a bus!”
There was no way that I wasn’t going back to school—this is my last year. Last year in the tower. Last year on the pitch. Last year to torment Snow before our antagonism turns into something more permanent and less entertaining.
My last year at Watford, the last place I saw my mother …
I was damn well going back.
Aunt Fiona stomped out in her heavy black Doc Martens boots (clichéd) and opened my door. “Back seat,” she said. “Front seat’s for people who haven’t been kidnapped by fucking numpties.”
* * *
I can feel Snow staring at me all through Greek—actually feel it. He’s so worked up, his magic is leaking out all over the place.
Sometimes when he gets like this, I’m tempted to pull him aside. “Deep breaths now, Snow. Let it go. Some of it. Before you start another fire. Whatever it is you’re worried about, this won’t help.”
I never do, though. Pull him aside. Or talk him down. Instead I just poke him until he goes off.
That’s what Snow does best. He doesn’t plan or strike—he just goes off, and when he does, he takes down everything in his path.
He’s half a fucking numpty himself. The Mage gives him mittens and blankets, and Snow goes off in whatever direction the Mage points him in. I’ve seen it. I’ve probably seen it more than anyone but Bunce.…
The way Snow starts to blur and shimmer. Like a jet engine. The way sparks pop and flare in his aura. The light reflects in his hair, and his pupils contract until his eyes are thick blue. He’s usually holding his sword, so that’s where the flame starts—whipping around his hands and wrists, licking up the blade. It makes him mental. His brain blinks out, I think, about the time he starts swinging. Eventually the power pours off him in waves. Flattening, blackening waves. It’s more power than the rest of us ever have access to. More power than we can imagine. Spilling out of him like he’s a cup left under a waterfall.