Wayward Son - Rainbow Rowell Page 0,67

music that was always playing in the background. He was on at least his third drink. (Baz never drinks with me. He says it’s boring.)

“They all smell so delicious,” he said. “Fermented. Like warm bread.” I was pretty sure he was talking about Normals.

Lamb laughed. Closer than ever. “Come on, Prince Charles, you need a drink.”

Penelope sat up.

Shepard bit his lip.

We heard people laughing, doors opening, music shifting from doo-wop to twang—then, suddenly, nothing at all.

“What’s that?” I looked at Penny’s phone. “What happened?”

“He hung up,” she said.

“Or his phone died,” Shepard said.

I stood in front of Penelope. “Spell my wings off,” I commanded.

She looked in my eyes, and I could see her deciding not to argue with me. “Every time a bell rings, an angel…”

* * *

It isn’t hard to find the ice-cream parlor—Lamb practically drew us a map—but he and Baz aren’t here anymore. And I can’t find them outside. They could be in any of these buildings, they could be in a car—I need Penelope and her “Lost and found” magic.

Then I see them: Lamb is pale, smaller than Baz, and nearly as vampire-handsome. (Nearly nearly.) He’s got one of those Downton Abbey faces. Like he’s just home from the Western Front.

Baz is holding on to his arm—clinging, really—and Lamb is leaning into him as if they’re going to kiss.

Oh …

Right …

Well …

I clench my jaw and my fists. I guess this is what happens on first dates.

But then—Lamb seems to change his mind. He walks away.

Baz looks gutted.

I reckon I should walk away, too.…

Though maybe it will be easier in the end if Baz knows I’m here, that I saw them. Then he won’t have to tell me.

46

SIMON

Baz sees me and immediately turns away.

He tries to walk past me, as if we’re strangers. “Go back,” he says under his breath. “You aren’t safe here—you’re surrounded by vampires.”

I catch his arm. “So are you.”

He still won’t look at me. “Go back. I’ll meet you later. I have to hunt.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“For Crowley’s sake, Snow.”

I squeeze his arm. I must look just as desperate as he did, when he was hanging on to that vampire. “You’re drunk, Baz.”

He shakes me off. “I’m just thirsty.”

That’s when I notice them—a man and a woman, both pale as paper, leaning against a black limousine, watching us. “We’re being watched,” I say. “Vampires.”

He rubs his forehead. “Of course we are.” Then he wraps his arm around my waist, and presses his head into my neck. “Act like I’ve just picked you up. Act like you’re enchanted by me. Literally.” (Ha—act. Someday I’ll laugh about this. Someday maybe I’ll laugh about my whole awful life.) He pulls away, taking me by the hand and leading me forward.

“Our hotel is the other way,” I say.

He swings around and pulls me in the right direction. He’s eyeing me like I’m his fifth drink. (He’s pretending.) I’m looking like I’d follow him anywhere. (I’m not.)

* * *

Penny lets us into the hotel room. “Thank Morgana!”

“We’ve got a problem,” I say.

Baz is holding his nose in his fist. “Not a problem, I just won’t breathe.”

“He’s drunk and thirsty.”

Shepard backs away from us. “I didn’t think vampires could get drunk.”

“Who died and made you queen of the vampires?” Baz honks, still holding his nose.

Penny has her tongue in her cheek, like she’s plotting. “That’s not a problem.” She turns to the door—it’s closed—and holds out her hand. The purple gem is in her palm. “Come home to roost!”

After a moment, she opens the door. There’s a cacophony in the hallway, flapping and squawking. Dozens of black birds fly into our room.

When the last one has trailed in, Penny steps into the doorway and casts one of her favourite spells—“There’s nothing to see here!”—out into the hall. She closes the door and locks it.

The birds have settled on the bed. And the lamp. And the headboard. Baz plucks a parrot from the chandelier and twists its neck like it’s a bottle of lager. He starts drinking it then and there.

“For snake’s sake, Basil.” Penny’s swatting birds off the bed. “Do it over the bath.”

Baz stumbles drunkenly into the bathroom. I’ve never seen him feed so messily. (I’ve rarely seen him feed at all, and never up close.) He leans over the bath, and I try to help him out of his fancy jacket. I know he won’t want it ruined. “Here,” I say, twisting him a bit. “You’re getting blood on it.” Once I have the jacket off,