Wayward Son - Rainbow Rowell Page 0,40
nice smile, but there’s nothing obviously evil about it. I think of a few more defensive spells I could cast on him, but I don’t have the magic in me. Simon used to ask me how that felt—to be empty. When Simon had magic, he never ran low.
It’s like losing your voice, I’d tell him. Like knowing you only have a few words left until it gives out completely. The only way to get it back is to rest. And to wait.
Some mages never cast big spells unless they absolutely need them. That’s what the Mage taught us: Save your magic for defence.
But my mother taught me to cast big spells every day. To be bold with my magic. “Build up your lungs,” she’d say. “Dig a deeper well for your reserves. Train your body to hold more magic and carry it.”
Today would have exhausted even a powerful mage. I threw everything I had at those vampires, then everything I didn’t have on our Stonehenge getaway. (I did ask the Normal about the standing-stone cars. He said it was folk art. A roadside attraction.)
Anyway, the most I could do to him at the moment is irritate him.
“Tell you what,” he says with his not-evil, but also not-working-on-me smile. “I’ll trade you—question for a question.”
“Tell you what,” I say. “You answer my questions, and I won’t turn you into a newt.”
“That’ll work, too.” He shifts in his seat, making himself more comfortable. Now that we’re not in immediate, apparent danger, I realize I haven’t taken a good look at him. He’s tall. At least as tall as Baz. And lanky. The black guys at Watford all shaved their hair close, but his is longer, taller, with tight, dense curls on top.
His clothes are a bit odd. I wonder if he was in costume for the Renaissance Festival. He’s wearing green, wide-wale corduroy trousers, worn down to just stripes at the knees, and a denim jacket with a dozen different enamel pins and badges. He’s got a long, lanky face, too—can a face be lanky?—and gold-rimmed John Lennon glasses. He’s still covered in dust.
“I mean, I don’t know everything,” he says. “But, from what I can tell, the Quiet Zones happen naturally. No people? No spells. Some of these magickal creatures were the first immigrants. They had plenty to get away from back home, right? So they came to the Great Plains, and, yeah, there were native Speakers and creatures here already, but there was also a hell of a lot of room. It wasn’t till the Irish and the German Speakers showed up that there was real trouble. At some point, everyone agreed to mostly stay out of each other’s hair. The Quiet Zones were left to the creatures. The Speakers didn’t want them anyway; they stayed close to the Talkers.”
“What’s a Talker?” I ask.
“What you’d call a Normal. Me.”
“Right. So … we need to stay in well-populated areas?”
“As a rule, yeah. I mean there are magickal creatures everywhere these days; there are too few quiet places left to contain them. But that’s good news for you. Western Nebraska is the only Quiet Zone east of the Rockies. There are a few more between here and California.” He looks at me. “Is that where you’re headed? West?”
I don’t answer.
“I know you’re not really on holiday. Is this a mission—is it a quest?”
“If it were a mission, we’d be better prepared.”
“Are you on the run?”
“We are now,” I snap.
He leans forward, hanging on to the steering wheel. “I could help you. It’s not just the Quiet Zones you have to worry about. Like I said, there are only a few of those. But the magickal rules change every five miles around here. And the bosses. You could piss off somebody much worse than Jeff Arnold.”
“Who’s Jeff Arnold?”
“That were-skunk.”
“His name is Jeff?”
“What’d you think his name was—Flower?”
“How do you know so much?” I hold my ring hand up again. “Are you really a Normal?”
He lifts up both hands, letting go of the steering wheel. “Completely. I’m the most basic bitch possible.”
That makes me laugh. Just a little, I’m not sure why. I’m very tired.
He laughs, too. Probably relieved. Don’t get too relieved, Normal. I’d still stop your heart if I thought you were dangerous.
“Then how do you know so much?” I repeat.
He looks at me again, like he’s being serious—like he wants me to think he’s serious. “By being the sort of guy who follows witches and vampires off the main road.”
“That was