Wayward Son Read online

  “I don’t know why you’re unpacking,” I say to her. “I know you’ll be staying with Josh.”

  “Nope,” she says. “It’s members-only in that wing of the house. You’re stuck with me every night.”

  Ginger doesn’t want to miss a minute of the retreat’s programming. She drags me to the welcome party out on the deck. We drink champagne cocktails, and no one asks me if I’m 21. (I’m four months shy.) It’s mostly men here. A few women. All the vested members wear gold pins—little figure eights. (The pins remind me of a relic my parents keep in our bathroom, a silver snake eating its tail, that’s supposed to keep basilisks from coming up the pipes.)

  After the welcome party, there’s meditation in one room and an investing seminar in another. Ginger and Josh and I choose to meditate. I like meditation. It’s quiet, at least.

  Then we’re all supposed to gather for a big keynote talk—“The Myth of Mortality”—in one of the ballroom-sized sitting rooms. Whoever lives here must own fifty sofas, all of them black or white or creamy nothing-coloured. And all so sleek that they keep their shape even when you’re sitting on them.

  I spend twenty minutes fidgeting. It’s practically like being at church. The guy talking says that Normals—well, human beings—were put on this earth to live forever, and it’s only sin and shame and environmental factors that got in the way. He has Ginger at “environmental factors.”

  It sounds like crap to me. Even magicians can’t live forever, and we’ve got thousands of spells on our side. “Living is dying,” my father says. He’s the best magickal doctor in England. He can cure anything that can be cured. But he can’t cure death. Or as he says, “I can’t cure life.”

  I try to be bored by the talk, but I’m irritated. I’m irritated by everyone nodding along to this nonsense. Do they really think they can cheat death with tropical juices and positive thinking? It reminds me of the Mage.

  Which reminds me of that night on the Tower.

  And Ebb.

  I stand up. I tell Ginger that I’m going to find a bathroom, but I just want to get away. I end up in an empty room on the other side of the main floor, a library with a big window overlooking a golf course.

  I was supposed to be at a festival this week. I bought body paint and sewed feathers onto my bikini. It was going to be ridiculous and brilliant. Not like this—ridiculous and sad.

  I dig around for the emergency fag I keep in my purse. I never really smoked back in England. Simon and Penny hated it, and, like I said, my dad’s a doctor. But then I moved to California, where literally no one smokes, and having a cigarette now and then feels like toasting the Queen.

  I’ll bet whoever owns this house would flip their shit if I lit up.

  I hold the cig between my fingers and cast, “Fire burn and cauldron bubble!”—one of three spells I can manage without a wand, and the only one I can cast under my breath. (A rare talent I carefully avoided cultivating once I saw how much it pleased my mother.) The tip lights up. I inhale, then blow the smoke directly onto a shelf of books.

  “Got one of those I could bum?”

  I look back at the door. There’s a man standing there. Wearing a stupid figure-eight pin.

  “Sorry,” I say, “it’s my last one.”

  He steps into the library. He’s a little older than me—a little young by NowNext standards, but as clean-cut and cross-trained as the rest. I like the idea of befouling one of them. A cigarette could ruin his whole programme for the week. He’ll have to confess and cleanse and maybe even fast.

  “You can have a drag,” I say.

  He leaves the door open, which I appreciate. (Fucking men, always trying to trap you alone.) And comes over to lean against the shelves next to me. I hand him the cigarette, and he takes a deep inhale.

  “You’ll never be immortal now,” I say.

  He laughs, choking a little on the smoke. Some leaks out his nose. “Damn,” he says. “I had so many plans.”

  “Tell me one.”

  “To cure cancer with gene therapy.” He’s being sincere, I think.

  “Sorry, darling, you’ve got the wrong room. Your lot’s next door.”

  “You’re not buying it?” he asks.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I heard there would be lymphatic massages and vegan cupcakes.”

  “There will be,” he says. He’s smiling.

  I sigh, blowing smoke just past his face. “I’m here with a friend.”

  He nods, looking at me. He’s admiring my hair. Which happens. My hair is long and light blond. “Butter blond,” Simon used to call it. No one I know here eats butter.

  “You’re buying it,” I say, looking at his pin. “Or bought it.”

  “Founded it,” he says.

  “Really?” He can’t be more than 25. “Huh. Were you a teenage phenomenon?”

  “Sort of.”

  I glance at the bookshelves around me. They’re all modern books, lots of paperbacks. Nothing leather-bound just for show.

  “You don’t seem impressed,” he says.

  I shrug. “I know the type.”

  My fag has burned down to the filter. I look around for somewhere to stub it out. He lifts a bronze dish off the desk; it’s some sort of award. “Here.”

  “I’m disrespectful,” I say, “but I’m not rude.”

  He laughs. He’s a bit good-looking when he laughs. “It’s okay. It’s mine.”

  I stub out my cigarette. “This is your house?”

  “Uh-huh. Does that impress you?”

  “Morgana, no. What does someone your age need a golf course for?”

  “I like golf,” he says. “And I like having a big house. For weekends like this.”

  “It takes all kinds, I suppose.”

  “You can be cynical if you want.”

  “I am.”

  “But cynicism doesn’t accomplish anything.”

  “Untrue,” I say. “Cynicism saves lives.”

  “Never.”

  “There are so many things that will never kill me because I wouldn’t be caught dead doing them.”

  “Like what?”

  I brush ash off my dress. “Mountain climbing.”

  “Is that cynicism or cowardice?”

  “Honestly—” I pause. “What’s your name?”

  “Braden.”

  “Of course it is…” I mumble, taking him in. “Honestly, Braden, I’m too cynical to care.”

  He takes a step closer. “I’d like to change your mind.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve just got out of a cult. I’m not looking for a rebound cult.”

  He smiles. He’s flirting with me now. “We aren’t a cult.”

  “You are, I think.” I’m not quite flirting back.

  “Is the Catholic Church a cult?”

  “Yes. Are you actually comparing yourself to Catholicism?”

  He pulls his head back. “Wait, you think the Church is a cult?”

  We look in each other’s eyes. He’s thinking that mine are an unusual shade of brown. I’m relieved when he doesn’t say so.

  “We just want to help people,” he says.

  “You want to help yourselves,” I correct.

  “One, we count as people, and two, why not help ourselves? We’re the difference-makers.”

  “That sounds like a made-up word, Braden.” Braden is a made-up name.

  “I’m okay with making up words,” he says. “I want to remake the world. The people in the next room? They’re already changing the world. I’m here to nourish and encourage them, so that they can maximize their impact.”

  “That’s why I left that room,” I say. “The last thing I want is to make a difference.”

  9

  BAZ

  None of us sleep on the flight. Bunce does logic puzzles, and Snow watches films where people kick each other. Every two hours, he says, “Well, that was crap,” and starts another one. I would sleep, but I can’
t get comfortable. My knees are cramped, and there are at least three people wearing crosses sitting near me. One of them must be silver; my nose won’t stop running.

  I’m crowding Snow, using the tight quarters as an excuse to be close to him. I’ve forgotten how warm he is. We’re touching from shoulder to knee; it’s like lying in the sun, without the sting.

  Simon’s changed since we left school. Physically. He’s softer, fuller. Like the butter (more like the cider) is catching up with him. Being the Chosen One was good cardio, I suppose. And being a magickal reactor must have given him a hell of a metabolism.…

  Snow looks like he hasn’t been plugged into the charger for a while. His skin’s gone pale. His toffee-brown hair has lost its shimmer. He’s grown it out—in neglect, I think. He’s got a headful of loose curls now. They bounce when he walks, and he’s constantly pulling at them.

  “Crap,” Snow says to the tiny screen in the seat ahead of him. “Absolute crap. I’ll be damned if that bloke’s ever picked up a sword.” He shakes his head, and his curls wobble.

  He’s lovely. A bit of a sad mess. Dull and pale and rough round the edges. But still so lovely.

  I close my eyes and pretend to fall asleep on his shoulder.

  SIMON

  We spend an hour in the queue at Immigration.

  The American border agents are dead scary, but my wings stay gone, and my passport holds. Penny says she has more to worry about as a brown person than I do as a winged person. (She’s half Indian, half white. English on both sides.)

  But we get through.

  We’re in America. I’m in America. Across the ocean. Me. If the kids from the care homes could see me now …

  Well, really, I wouldn’t want them to see me because then I’d have to see them. And I don’t have many good memories of my childhood outside of Watford.

  My therapist (the one I was seeing last summer) always wanted me to talk about that—what my life was like as a kid, how I felt, who took care of me. I tried to tell her that I can’t remember—and I really can’t. It’s all sort of spotty. I vaguely remember where I lived before my magic kicked in, what school I was in, what I watched on the telly … I can remember that things were bad, but not specifically why. Trauma affects memory, my therapist said. Your brain closes off painful corridors.

  “That sounds good to me,” I told her. “Thank you, brain.”

  I don’t see why I should go looking for pain and trouble in my childhood, especially things my head has already taped off. I’ve got enough pain and trouble on my plate.

  The therapist said I needed to work through the past to keep it from undermining the present. And I said—

  Well, I didn’t say anything. I skipped my next appointment and didn’t make any more.

  * * *

  Penny hired us a car, but we’ve got to walk half a mile to get to it. Baz looks completely wiped, even though he slept on my shoulder through most of the flight. (I needed a piss for the last four hours, but I didn’t want to wake him.)

  When we get to the car, it stops me in my tracks. Baz walks right into me.

  “Penelope…” I’m actually holding my head, like someone who’s just seen their renovated living room on a DIY show. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Penny laughs. “Nope.”

  Crowley, it’s beautiful—sleek, saltwater blue. With a nose like a Doberman pinscher. “A classic Mustang! Are you kidding me?! Just like Steve McQueen!”

  “Well, we can’t drive across America in a Ford Fiesta.”

  Baz is frowning at the bonnet. “Nineteen sixty-eight … Tahoe Turquoise.”

  I climb into the driver’s seat, even though I can’t drive—I wish I could. The seats are sky-blue vinyl and shorter than any car I’ve been in.

  “Room for your wings,” Baz comments.

  “Oh, speaking of,” Penny says. “Let me freshen you up.” She holds up her ring hand. She’s got a bell hanging from her middle finger. “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings!” she casts. Then she spins her hand around, ringing the bell and hissing, “I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it!”

  I hear Baz take a sharp breath just as the magic hits me—with a much bigger oomph than it had back in our flat, when Penny tried this spell on me the first time. An icy feeling blooms between my shoulders.

  “Great snakes, Bunce, that’s genius.” Baz’s eyebrows are at maximum up and down positions.

  Penny shakes out her hand. “That was far more powerful than back home,” she says excitedly. “Do you think it’s because the phrases are of American origin? This could affect our whole vocabulary!”

  “Does the second spell work as a blanket reversal?” Baz wants to know.

  “I’m not sure yet,” she says. “It’s a pop song, so it’s unstable.”

  “I can’t believe you tested an unstable spell on your best friend.…”

  “Simon said I could!”

  “… and I can’t believe he was angelic enough for it to work!”

  “He’s sufficiently angelic for the purposes of the spell,” Penny says. “Magic understands metaphor.”

  “Thank you, Bunce, I also completed first-year Magickal Theory.”

  They keep talking, but I ignore them. Too busy pretending I’m Steve McQueen. I generally don’t go around thinking about how cool I look (I’m not Baz), but I feel like I must look very cool right now.

  Penny is fiddling with the windscreen. “Watch!” She reaches over me to flip a switch on the dashboard. An engine whines, and the top of the car folds out of sight. “Magic,” she grins.

  I’m grinning right back. This is brilliant. If I were by myself, I’d be making vroom, vroom noises.

  Baz puts our bags in the boot, then comes around to the driver’s side; he’s the only one of us who can drive. “Shotgun,” I say, making my way into the passenger seat. I’ll get carsick if I ride in the back.

  Penny practically crawls over me to get to the back seat, and Baz settles in, clicking his seat belt.

  “Come on, Snow. Let’s see America.”

  * * *

  If I thought I looked cool behind the wheel, I wasn’t prepared for Baz.

  I wouldn’t be able to look away from him, if there wasn’t so much else to take in. We’re headed out to the Chicago suburbs, where Micah lives. Nothing here is like anything I’ve ever seen before.

  The roads are staggering—five lanes across, and full of massive vehicles. Everyone in America seems to drive a military transport. And there’s advertising everywhere, giant posters along the road, for just about everything. Pizza and lawyers and hair-growth supplements.

  Baz acts like he does this every day. He’s completely relaxed, with one long, pale hand resting on the steering wheel and the other firmly managing the gear stick. He’s wearing light grey trousers, a white shirt cuffed just below his elbows, and a pair of sunglasses I’ve never seen before. His hair has got longer since we left school, and the wind is bringing it to life.

  I still feel manky from the plane. I know I sweated through my T-shirt (sour, sitting-still sweat), and my jeans are too hot for Chicago in June. My hair’s longer these days, too, but only because I haven’t cared enough to get a haircut. I’m exactly the sort of thing Baz doesn’t bother with.

  Penny climbs up between our seats to fuss with the radio. “Where’s the plug?”

  Baz tries to elbow her back. “Put on your seat belt!”

  “But I made a road trip playlist!”

  “Are you trying to kill us all before we can listen to it?”

  I turn on the stereo. It looks like it came with the car. “I think it’s just got a radio,” I say, fiddling with the dial. It makes a staticky wow-wow sound, just like in the movies. Maybe everything in America is just like in the movies.

  “Can’t I plug in?” She’s still hanging between us.

  “I don’t think so. I’ll try to find some music.” It takes me a second—you have to turn the dial really slowly and kind of t
rap the signal. I twist past people talking about politics and baseball, and find a station playing classic rock. “I think this is the best I can do.”

  Penny sighs and flops back into her seat.

  “Fasten your seat belt!” Baz shouts. He’s changing lanes now, and it’s a whole complicated dance—twisting in his seat, changing gears, and pumping one of the pedals. I’m glad we haven’t broken up yet, because then I never would have got to see it.

  10

  PENELOPE

  We’ll be at Micah’s house soon.

  I told him I was coming.

  I called him last week—I said I was worried about Agatha and that Simon needed a holiday. And I told him that I miss him. “We’ll stop in Chicago first,” I said. “On the way.”

  And then Micah said that probably wasn’t a good idea. That we should talk about it more.

  “There’s no time to talk about it—Agatha might be in trouble!” I wasn’t planning on saying this, but then I did, and it wasn’t a lie. She really might be. Historically, she has been.

  Then Micah said, “It is a day ending with ‘-day,’ isn’t it?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Do you not believe that Agatha’s in danger?”

  “No, I believe it. Agatha’s in danger. And Simon’s hit a rough patch. And Baz has a dark secret. And there’s probably some conspiracy that you can’t tell me about. The whole World of Mages is probably at stake!”

  I decided to pretend Micah wasn’t angry. So that he could stop being angry at any moment without it being a big thing. I said—“Well, I don’t know that there’s not a shadow conspiracy.…”

  And he said, “Whatever, Penelope. Do what you want to do. You will anyway.”

  “I’ll do what I have to do,” I said, “not what I want to do.”

  And then Micah didn’t say anything.

  “Micah? Micah, are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Do you think I’m making all this up?” (There’s a difference, I think, between making something up and exaggerating.)

  “No.”