Any Way the Wind Blows Page 12

  He adjusts the collar of his jacket and cocks an eyebrow at me. “You’re not thinking of rebooting my memory, are you?”

  “I’m thinking about it, but I won’t follow through.”

  “I’m already sworn to keep your secrets.” He smiles at me. “And I would anyway.”

  Look, I’m not blind. Shepard’s got a lovely smile—warm and wide, full brown lips, a hint of dimples—but he uses it on absolutely everyone for every occasion. I refuse to be affected by it.

  I remain stern. “I thought our secrets were valuable currency on the magickal dark web, or wherever it is you hang out.”

  “I wouldn’t have so many unusual friends if I couldn’t keep their secrets,” he says.

  “How could you possibly be keeping any magickal creature’s secrets? You never shut up about them!”

  “I only tell you about the not-secret ones, Penelope!”

  “You told me you met a river phoenix. Those are the rarest of the rare. Are you saying that wasn’t supposed to be a secret?”

  “I didn’t tell you any identifying details!”

  I’m rolling my eyes. I should just stare at the ceiling until Shepard leaves, to conserve my energy. “I’m not going to spell your memory,” I say.

  When I look back at him, he’s smiling wider than ever. “Thanks, Penelope … I didn’t want to forget you.”

  I pull out my phone and hand it to him. “Here, type in your phone number. I’ll send you your boarding pass. You’ve got your passport, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s not going to turn into, like, a leaf or something when I get out of range of you, is it?”

  “Why would it turn into a leaf?”

  “I don’t know. Magickal reasons.”

  “No. You’ll be fine. I mean, call me if you have any problems, but you’ll be fine.”

  He laughs.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “The idea of me calling you with my problems.” He puts his backpack on.

  “You don’t have to leave yet—your flight isn’t for hours.”

  “I think I want to kick around London for a while. Who knows when I’ll get back?” He’s smiling at me again. With his eyes, as well. I decide to be slightly affected. This is sort of a special occasion.

  “Shepard,” I say, “I’m sorry I brought you here—”

  “Hey. Stop. We’ve been through this. It was an adventure, and you know how I feel about those.” He puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulls two pieces of yellow chalk out of his pocket and holds them out to me. “I saved these from Chalkmageddon. Seemed like you might want them later.”

  I look down at the chalk.

  Then back at up at Shepard.

  I grab his hand.

  “Wow,” he says, “you really want to break this chalk.”

  “Shepard—wait.”

  He looks down at me, his tongue on his bottom lip, like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I could try to tell him, but it would take a while.

  “You don’t have to leave yet,” I say. “So, we, um—Well, we may as well see if we can make some progress.”

  “Progress,” he repeats.

  “On your … situation.”

  His voice is kind: “Penelope, you already tried.”

  “No,” I insist. “I didn’t. I asked my mum. And then I waited for Simon and Baz. Look, I can’t fix this by myself, but I can maybe help you sort a few things out—maybe something that will come of use later.”

  Shepard nods. Carefully. “I mean, I’ll take any help I can get…”

  “Right.” I close my fingers around the chalk in his palm, then pull my hand away. “Go on then. Sit. And take off your jacket—it’s hot in here.” I look at my blank blackboard. “Right,” I say again. “Let’s start at the beginning. You still haven’t actually told me what happened.”

  Shepard is sitting on my sofa, taking off his jacket. “I told you I was cursed by a demon.”

  I turn back to him. “You haven’t told me in any detail.”

  He pushes up his glasses. “That’s because I feel like you’re going to be very critical and judgmental.”

  “Shepard, it’s impossible to think without being critical and judgmental. That’s literally the process.”

  “The way you do it, yes.”

  “Come on,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I know you’re dying to tell me. Where did it happen? Dubuque, Iowa? Topeka, Kansas? The banks of the Colorado River?”

  He smiles. More sadly than usual. “It happened in Omaha, as a matter of fact.”

  “Excellent,” I say, turning to my blackboard. “That’s something we know. Omaha, Nebraska.”

  24

  AGATHA

  Niamh’s shitty Ford Fiesta doesn’t have air-con, so we have to drive all the way to Watford with the windows rolled down. My hair is a mess, and it’s too loud to talk, which would be fine, but now I’m going to have to scream, Turn this car around! for her to hear me.

  Back at the surgery, all I could think about was how much I didn’t want to spend the afternoon with Niamh. But now I’m thinking about how much I don’t want to go back to Watford. I haven’t been back to Watford. And maybe I can’t go back. Maybe I actually can’t manage it.

  We’ve left London behind us, and most of the suburbs, and we’re in the countryside now. We’ll see them soon. The Watford gates.

  “Niamh,” I say.

  She doesn’t hear me.

  “Niamh!”

  Her head jerks my way.

  “Could you pull over?!”

  “Why?!”

  “I think I’m going to be sick!”

  That does it, and it isn’t even a lie. Niamh pulls over to the side of the road. I lean forward, trying to get my head between my knees. My door opens, and Niamh is reaching over my lap to unlatch my seat belt. “You’re all right,” she says.

  “I’m really not, thanks.”

  “Sorry. Here. Have some water.”

  I ignore her. There are waves of anxiety washing over me. I’m trying to figure out if they start in my stomach or my head.

  “Agatha … have some water.”

  I look up at Niamh and take the water bottle from her hand. I drink some.

  “Do you want some fresh air?” she asks.

  As if that’s what’s been lacking. I climb out of the car anyway. Perhaps Niamh will leave me here and pick me up on her way back to London.

  “Look,” she says, “there’s even some shade.”

  I follow her to a tree, a little bit away from the road. She’s holding her hands out, like she might have to catch me if I faint. I’m sure Niamh could carry me if she had to. She’s built like a lumberjack.

  I lean against the tree trunk, sliding down to the ground.

  “All right?” she asks.

  “Still no.”

  Niamh stands there for a minute with her hands on her hips, watching me. “Has this happened before?”

  “No,” I say. Then, “I don’t know.” (I fainted once when I was abducted by a troll. Does that count?)

  “Should I call your dad?”

  “No. No, I’m just carsick. I just need a minute.”

  Niamh sits down near me. “Drink some more water.”

  “I’m carsick, not dehydrated.”

  “You look rattled.”

  I take another drink. “I’ll be fine.”

  She’s watching me, red-faced and unhappy.

  “What time is your appointment at Watford?” I ask. I could stay here under this tree. I have my phone. And Niamh’s water. And my wand, I suppose.

  “It’s not an appointment,” she says. “I’m just checking in on the goats.”

  I set down the water. “The goats?”

  Niamh nods.

  “Ebb’s goats?”

  “Ebb Petty is dead,” she says, and wow, this is exactly what I mean about her terrible bedside manner. What if I was a loved one? Or a friend of Ebb’s who hadn’t hear
d? Or what if I was anyone who found this news upsetting in some way?

  “I know,” I snap. “But you’re checking on her goats?”

  “They’re the Watford goats,” she says. “The school herd.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble, looking down again.

  “I come out once a week to check on them. There’s a pregnant doe I’m keeping an eye on. Or trying to.”

  “Oh.” Now I feel bad for snapping.

  I look up at Niamh again. She’s sitting in the grass with her legs bent in front of her, and her arms resting on her knees. She left her white doctor’s jacket in the car, and she’s got on heavy tan trousers and a dark green T-shirt. Plus tortoise-framed, green-tinted sunglasses that are very nearly fashionable. She’s staring out in the direction of Watford. Maybe she can see it. “It’s always strange coming back here,” she says. “It makes me feel like I’m going back to school.”

  “Yeah…”

  “You must miss it,” she says.

  I bark out a laugh. “No. Do you?”

  “No. But I wasn’t…” She glances over at me.

  I scowl back at her. “You weren’t what?”

  “You know…”

  “I don’t.”

  Niamh shrugs and looks away. “Agatha Wellbelove.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, come on.” She shifts her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You must know…”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “It means,” she says disdainfully, “that the whole school revolved around you and your friends.”

  I lean towards her. “It did not. And how would you even know? We weren’t in school together.”

  “I’m only three years older than you, Agatha.”

  Is that true? Could Niamh have already made that many bad skin-care choices? I lean back against the tree, folding my arms, and staring at her. “Did we really play lacrosse together?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember playing lacrosse…” I say sharply.

  “Well, I was on the team, three years ahead of you.” She frowns at me. “Why are you acting offended? You’re the one who doesn’t remember me.”

  “I didn’t pay attention to the upper years.”

  Niamh tips up her chin and laughs unpleasantly. “Did you pay attention to anyone?”

  That’s when I see it. “Nicks and Slick, I do know you!”

  She puts her sunglasses back on. “I’ve been telling you that you do.”

  “Snakes alive. What happened to you?”

  “What?” She looks surprised and offended, and this time, I can’t blame her.

  I try to backtrack—“I mean…”

  Niamh … Niamh is Brody. I didn’t even know Brody had a first name. (I mean, of course Brody had a first name.) The girls my age were afraid to speak to her. She was our best attacker. Six foot one, built like a brick wall. Crowley, her thighs were a wonder—you could serve tea on them. And she had this short, platinum-blond hair, all quiffed up like Niall Horan.

  “I mean…” I say again, “your hair.”

  Niamh touches her dark brown bun. “Oh. Well. I got tired of bleaching it. And getting it razored every three weeks. Vet school is a grind.”

  Brody. Niamh is Brody. She was absolutely merciless on the field. She plowed into me once. I had time to get out of the way, but I was paralyzed with fear when she came bearing down on me. Her face was all red. White hair, black eyebrows. That monstrous nose. I should have recognized that nose!

  “You shoved me once,” I say.

  Niamh shrugs. “I shoved everyone.”

  “Like, really shoved me.”

  She brushes some grass off her boots. “It was lacrosse.”

  “A noncontact sport.”

  “Yeah, the way you played it.”

  “Hey,” I object, “I was good at lacrosse!”

  Niamh looks at me again. Gimlet-eyed, even in sunglasses. “Were you really?”

  “Not in fifth year, but eventually.”

  “Huh.” Niamh doesn’t look like she believes me. It’s a very Brody look.

  “Our team went to Nationals my last year!” I insist.

  “That’s nice,” she says. “The closest I got to Nationals was seventh year. We had to cancel our qualifying match because your boyfriend brought home a werewolf, and the whole school was quarantined.”

  “He didn’t bring it home; he fought it in the dining hall.” I keep leaning towards her to make my arguments, but none of them are landing. “He fought four!”

  Niamh shrugs. “The match was cancelled.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t get the lupine virus.”

  “I was vaccinated. The whole team was vaccinated!”

  “Well, don’t take it out on me,” I say. “I didn’t cancel your precious lacrosse match.”

  “You were part of the goings-on.”

  My mouth drops open. “I. Was. Kidnapped.”

  Niamh rolls her eyes, very meaningfully, like what I’ve just said is both irrelevant and ludicrous.

  I lean towards her again. “What was that? Do you not believe I was kidnapped?”

  “We all believed you were kidnapped … the first time.”

  “The first—Are you serious?”

  Niamh is holding her hands up. “It doesn’t matter, Agatha. It’s ancient history.”

  “As the person who was actually kidnapped, multiple times, it doesn’t feel like it was all that long ago.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I mentioned it. I’m sure it was very dramatic for your whole … circle.”

  “There was no circle,” I say, my voice getting high, but Niamh isn’t listening. She’s on her feet.

  “Hell’s spells,” she mutters, jogging away from me.

  I stand up to see what she’s after—

  There’s a goat nosing around in the field, a hundred feet away.

  Niamh is running towards it, her wand held out in front of her. “Come on, billy. Come on…”

  I run after her. The goat is watching Niamh now. It’s a big white one, with long horns and a beard. Niamh is twenty feet away from it. She stops running, like she’s afraid to startle it. She slowly raises her wand. “Get your goat!”

  The goat just stares at her. Chewing.

  Niamh looks like she’s trying to decide whether to make a run for it. The goat looks like it’s making the same decision. It breaks first—scampering deeper into the field. Niamh runs after it. I run after Niamh.

  “You’ll never catch it!” I yell.

  “I have to!” she yells back.

  After a few minutes, I’m too spent to keep up. Niamh keeps running. (Thighs still competitive, it seems.) “Niamh,” I shout, “you’ll never catch it!”

  “I have to!”

  The goat pauses to look back at her. Niamh powers towards it. The goat runs again. Oh, there’s a fence; Niamh’s going to corner it against the fence. Clever girl, but then what? The goat’s horns are a foot long. I get out my wand and try to think of a few first-aid spells. (My first-aid spells are pants, too.)

  The goat sees the fence and turns abruptly. Suddenly it’s headed towards me. Sweet Circe, it’s headed towards me! So is Niamh. “Agatha!” she shouts. “Catch it!”

  “Catch it?” I scoff to myself. “With my giant goat net?”

  The huge, horny goat is barrelling towards me, and I start to move out of its way, but Niamh is screaming my name. “Agatha! Don’t let it go!”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say, holding my wand out to the goat. Honestly, the only spell I have at the ready is “Ashes to ashes.” The goat stops running just as I’m about to cast it.

  It cocks its head at me.

  My wand is already pointed, so I decide to try something. It won’t work. I’m an anaemic magician, even on a good day. (Iron pills didn’t help.) But I go ahead with it anyway:

  “Mary had a little lamb!” I sing softly at the goat.

  It watches me tap my wand in the air, then looks
at me like, Not a lamb, sister.

  I keep going. “Little lamb, little lamb!”

  The goat’s still watching. I can hear Niamh pounding closer to us.

  “Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow!”

  Niamh has slowed to a stop behind the goat. I’m waiting for her to tackle it, but she turns to me instead, motioning for me to go on.

  “Everywhere that Mary went! Mary went, Mary went!”

  The goat takes a few nimble steps towards me. I look at Niamh and point urgently at it. She points back at me and mouths, “Keep going!”

  I give her what I hope is a furious look, but I tap my wand in the air again. “Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go!”

  The goat is nosing at my trainers now, its horns rubbing up against my shins. I take a step backwards. It looks up at me and steps forward.

  “It followed her to school one day,” Niamh whispers.

  I swallow. “It followed her to school one day!”

  Niamh has my arm. She’s urging me backwards.

  I keep singing—“School one day, school one day!”—then whisper to Niamh, “What are we doing?”

  “Leading it back to Watford.”

  “You take over.”

  “Why would I do that, Agatha? It’s under your spell.”

  I keep walking backwards. The billy goat follows, not a care in the world now, like I have it on a leash.

  “It followed her to school one day, which was against the rules!”

  * * *

  When we get to the Watford gates, there’s no one guarding them. Niamh opens the latch and holds one side open. I step through. The billy goat looks around. It glances up at me, then trots through and away, out onto the Great Lawn.

  Niamh is frowning at me in a very pleased way. “Good show, Agatha.”

  “Won’t it just get out again?” There’s a wall around the Watford grounds, but it’s mostly just for show. There are spells to keep out Normals and intruders, but not wildlife. (That’s probably why the Humdrum sent so many creatures after Simon.) If the goat got out once, it will get out again.

  “I’m not worried about them escaping,” she says. “I’m worried about them leaving.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “We can’t exactly keep the goats of Watford in a pen. They’re supposed to know they belong here. They shouldn’t just be wandering away.”