Wayward Son Read online

  “You look like a vampire,” I say. Though she looks nothing like the only vampire I’ve ever met. Ginger has springy brown hair and freckled brown skin. Her mom is Thai and Brazilian, and her dad is from Barbados, and she’s got the brightest eyes and rosiest cheeks of anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe it’s the beetroot.

  “I feel activated,” she says, spreading her fingers in the air.

  “How activated?”

  “At least eighty per cent. What about you?”

  “Holding steady at fifteen,” I say. A waitress sets down Ginger’s quinoa bowl and my plate of avocado toast.

  “Agatha,” she says, “you always say fifteen. We’ve been working the programme for three months. You’ve got to be at least sixteen per cent activated by now.”

  I don’t feel any different. “Maybe some people are born inactive.”

  She tuts at me. “Don’t say that! I would never have befriended an inert organism.”

  I smile at Ginger. But the truth is, we were both feeling rather inert when we met. That’s how we became friends, I think—travelling in the same scene, drifting at the edge of it. I kept ending up next to Ginger in the kitchen at parties, or sitting near her on the dark part of the beach at bonfires.

  San Diego has been better for me than the Watford School of Magicks ever was. I don’t miss my wand. I don’t miss the war. I don’t miss the everyday pretending that I cared about being a good mage.

  But I’ll never be of this place.

  I’m not like my classmates here. Or my neighbours. Or the people I meet at parties. I’ve always had Normal friends, but I never paid attention to all the small and subconscious ways people are Normal.

  Like, I realized when I got here that I didn’t know how to tie my shoes. I never learned! I learned how to spell them tied instead. Which I can’t do now because I left my wand at home.

  I mean, it’s fine—I just leave my shoes tied or wear sandals—but there are loads of things like that. I have to be careful about what I say out loud. To strangers. To friends. It’s too easy to blurt out something weird or ignorant. (Fortunately, I usually get a pass for being British.)

  Ginger doesn’t seem to mind when I say weird things. Maybe because she’s constantly saying something a little weird. Ginger’s into neurofeedback and cupping and emotional acupressure. I mean, beyond just the “I’m from California” way. She’s a believer.

  “I don’t really fit in here,” she said to me one night. We were sitting on the sand, with our toes in the surf. At the edge of the party again. Ginger was wearing a peach tank top and holding a red plastic cup. “But I don’t fit in any better anywhere else.”

  It was like she’d pulled the feeling right out of my heart. I could have kissed her. (I still wish sometimes that I wanted to.) (That would feel like an answer to … the question of me. Then I could say, “Oh, that’s who I am. That’s why I’ve been so confused.”)

  “Same,” I said.

  The next time a party moved on without us, Ginger and I left and got tacos.

  And the next time, we skipped the party and went straight to tacos.

  We still felt strange and lost, I think, but it was good to be strange and lost together.

  It was good to be lost with a friend.

  Ginger’s phone chimes, reminding me that she isn’t lost anymore.

  She picks it up and grins, which means Josh, and starts texting him back. I eat my avocado toast.

  My phone vibrates. I take it out of my bag, then groan. Penny has finally cracked how to get me to reply to her:

  “Agatha! We’re coming to see you! On holiday!”

  “What?” I text back. “When?” And then—I should have said this first—“NO.”

  “In two weeks!” Penny sends. “YES.”

  “Penelope, no. I won’t be home.” It’s true. Ginger and I are going to the Burning Lad Festival.

  “You’re lying,” Penny replies.

  “Ahhhh!” Ginger is saying. It turns into “Ahhhh-gatha!”

  I look up. Ginger is shaking her phone at me like it’s a lottery ticket.

  “What?”

  “Josh got us into that NowNext retreat!”

  “Ginger, nooo.…”

  “He said he’d cover our room and everything.” Josh is 32. He invented something that lets you use your phone as a thermometer. Or he was on a team that invented it. Anyway. He’s always covering something. The room, the check, the concert. Ginger never gets over it.

  “Ginger, we’re going to Burning Lad that week!”

  “We can go to Burning Lad next year; the desert will still be there.”

  “And Josh won’t?”

  She frowns at me. “You know how exclusive this retreat is.”

  I stir my tea. “Not really.…”

  “Only vested members get to bring guests. And usually only one guest. I begged Josh to get you in, too.”

  “Ginger…”

  “Agatha—” She pauses to bite her bottom lip and squish up her nose, like she’s about to tell me something big. “—I think I’m going to level up. At the retreat. And I really want you to be there.”

  Crowley, of course. Level up. Josh and his friends are obsessed with “levelling up” and “maximizing potential.” If you suggest brunch, they’ll be like, “Let’s change the world instead!”

  “Let’s climb a mountain!” “Let’s get VIP seats for the U2 concert!”

  NowNext is their social club. It’s like Weight Watchers for rich men. They go to meetings and take turns saying how “activated” they are. I’ve gone to a few meetings with Ginger; they were mostly a bore. (Though there are always first-rate nibbles.) At the end of every meeting, the vested members go into a locked room and do their secret handshake or whatever.

  Ginger can’t believe her luck with Josh. He’s successful, he’s ambitious, he’s fit.

  (“My last boyfriend was a barista, Agatha!”

  “You are also a barista, Ginger. That’s how you met.”)

  She doesn’t know what Josh sees in her. I’m a little worried that he doesn’t see anything in her. That all he sees is what there is to see. That she’s young, that she’s beautiful. That she looks good on his arm.

  But what do I know? Maybe they’re good for each other. They both seem to like talking about phytonutrients. And, like, meridian tapping. And Ginger really does seem at least 80 per cent activated these days.

  I don’t think I’ll ever level up.

  But if that’s what Ginger wants, I guess I can go along for it. She’s the best friend I’ve made here. She’ll be my friend even if I’m only ever 15 per cent activated (and less than 15 per cent magic). I sigh. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  Ginger squeals. “Yes! It’s going to be so good!”

  My phone vibrates, and I look down at it. Penelope, again:

  “I’m going to call you, so we can discuss details.”

  I slip the phone into my purse without replying.

  5

  BAZ

  We’re meeting at the airport, and Snow’s already there when I arrive. At first I don’t recognize him—or it’s more like I recognize him from another time. He’s wearing jeans and Agatha’s old Watford Lacrosse sweatshirt. (I need to casually leave one of my old football shirts at his flat; he’ll wear anything he finds on the floor.) The sweatshirt is slit down the back for his wings, but there’s nothing there. Really nothing. Other spells only hide Simon’s wings; you can still see a shimmer or a shadow. Today, there’s nothing. I reach up to touch the space between his shoulder blades, but he spins around before I can.

  “Hey,” he says when he sees me. He’s pulling on his hair, nervous.

  My hand’s still stretched out, so I pat his shoulder. “Hey.”

  “Penny’s checking us in. Or something. I didn’t have a passport.” He leans closer and whispers: “She stole someone else’s passport and magicked it.”

  As if Bunce wasn’t already in deep water; we all know she used magic to buy these pl
ane tickets. It’s one of the only laws we live by in the World of Mages—no magickal counterfeiting. We’d throw the world economy into chaos if we used magic for money. Everyone bends the rules now and then, but Bunce’s mother is on the Coven. “I hope she realizes her mother will happily surrender her to the authorities.”

  Snow’s anxious: “Do you think we’ll get caught? This whole thing is stupid.”

  “No.” My hand’s still on his arm, and I squeeze it. “No. It will be fine. If somebody looks suspicious, I’ll distract them by being a vampire.”

  He doesn’t try to pull away from me. Perhaps because he’s out of his element, away from his worst habits. Bunce might be on to something with this change-of-scenery idea.…

  “Speaking of,” Simon says, “will you be okay on the flight?”

  “Do you mean, will I lose myself to bloodlust somewhere over the Atlantic?”

  He shrugs.

  “I’ll be fine, Snow. It’s only eight hours. I get through every day without slaughtering people.” I’ve got through fifteen years, as a matter of fact. Not a single (vampire-related) casualty.

  “What about when we get there?”

  “No worries, I’ve heard that America is overrun with rats. And other animals. Grizzly bears, show dogs.”

  He smiles at that, and it’s so good to see that I sling my arm around his shoulders and think about hugging him. There’s a woman standing in line near us, giving us her most aggrieved “don’t be gay” face, but I don’t care—easy moments with Simon are miserably few and far between.

  Simon cares. He notices the woman, then leans over to mess with his bag—the same duffel he used to carry back at Watford. When he stands up, he’s pulled away from me.

  He pats his thigh, nervously checking his tail.

  I’m still not sure why Snow gave himself a tail.…

  The wings, I understand. They were a necessity, he needed to escape. But why the tail? It’s long and red and ropey, with a black spade at the tip. If the tail has a use, I haven’t figured it out. He isn’t putting it to one, anyway.

  Bunce thinks that in the moment, Simon was actually turning into a dragon, not just wishing for wings.

  Which doesn’t explain why he still has them, more than a year later. Snow gave up his magic—all of it—to defeat the Insidious Humdrum. So it’s not like he’s using magic to maintain his dragon parts, and most spells would have worn off by now.

  “But it wasn’t a spell,” Bunce said the last time we talked about this. “He transformed himself.”

  Simon’s still touching his thigh, smoothing down the back of his jeans. I try to reassure him. “No one can see it,” I say.

  “I’m just nervous. I’ve never flown before.”

  I laugh. (I mean, he does have wings.)

  “In a plane,” he says.

  “It’ll be fine. And if it isn’t—say, if the engines die—will you save me? Will you fly me out the nearest exit?”

  His face falls. “Do the engines do that? Just die?”

  I bump my shoulder against his. “Promise you’ll save me first even if there are women and children.”

  “If the engines die,” he says, “you and Penny better fix them. Have you been practising the spells?”

  “I don’t know any plane-engine-preserving spells, do you, Bunce?”

  Bunce has walked up with our boarding passes. “Plane-engine-preserving?” she repeats.

  “You know, in case of critical engine failure.”

  “Simon can save me,” she says.

  “He’s already saving me.”

  “I’m saving the women and children!” Snow says.

  “Technically,” I say, “you won’t have wings.”

  6

  SIMON

  I half expect to get stopped when I go through the security scanner. “Sir, we just need to pat down your tail.” But it’s all fine, just like Baz and Penny said it would be. I wouldn’t be surprised if Penelope jammed the machine. As soon as we’re through security, Penny buys me a bag of jelly babies and a Coke. (I’m skint; she and Baz are covering the whole trip.)

  I’ve never been in an airport before. I spend an hour pacing and rolling my shoulders; they feel too light. There’s really nothing back there. I keep leaning back against walls to check. I go to the men’s room and pull up my shirt, looking over my shoulder at the mirror. Nothing but freckles.

  When I come out, Baz and Penny are queued up to get on the plane, and Penelope is motioning for me to hurry up. I squeeze behind her, jostling no one with my wings. I’m thinking of everything I could do like this. Get on the Tube. See a film. Stand next to someone at a urinal without knocking him over.

  I would never have fit on the plane with my wings. I couldn’t have got down the aisle without clipping everyone who was already sitting.

  Baz moans when we get to our seats—in the middle of a row, in the back of the plane. “For snake’s sake, Bunce, you couldn’t spring for first class when you were stealing our tickets?”

  “We’re keeping a low profile,” she says.

  “I could keep a low profile in first class.”

  I pull him down. It’s a tight fit between me and the lady on the other side. (She’s wearing a cross. That’s handy—Baz won’t be tempted to bite her.)

  It feels good to sit back and push my shoulders directly against the seat. My spine pops. It feels good to sit this close to Baz. And the lady with the cross can’t get mad at us because we have to sit this close. It’s sitting in economy that’s making us gay.

  Not that she will get mad at us necessarily.… You just never know when someone’s going to make you feel bad about what you are. The last time Baz and I held hands in public, some girl with a nose ring took offence. If you can’t trust people with nose rings to be open-minded, who’s left?

  Baz said the girl wasn’t looking at us funny—he said her face just looked like that. “That woman has a miserable aspect. She put that hoop through her septum to distract from it.” He also says I can’t assume that everyone who frowns at me is frowning because I’m with a boy. “Some people just won’t like you, Simon. I didn’t like you for years.”

  That was … months ago. The girl with the nose ring. Us holding hands. It was snowing.

  I think about taking Baz’s hand now—I reach out, but he picks up a magazine and starts flipping through it.

  Eight hours in the air. Penny says we can watch films. And that they’ll bring us food constantly. She says we’ll forget we’re over the ocean after a few minutes, and it’ll just be boring.

  We’re flying into Chicago, so that Penny can see Micah. She’s hoping he’ll decide to come along with us on our road trip. “He says he has to work. But maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  Baz’s knees are pressed up against the seat ahead of him. (All his height’s in his legs. Torso-to-torso, we’re the same height. I might even be taller.) The person sitting there pushes her seat back, and Baz yelps.

  “You could magic yourself more space,” I say.

  “Can’t. I’m saving my magic.” He angles his knees towards mine. “Just in case I have to ‘Float like a butterfly’ this entire plane.”

  7

  PENELOPE

  I’ve been dating Micah since he came to Watford as an American exchange student our fourth year.

  America doesn’t have magickal schools of its own. Most countries don’t. Sometimes foreign families send their kids to Watford for a year for the cultural experience. “And because no one offers the magickal foundation we do,” Mum likes to say. “No one.” (She’s Watford’s headmistress now, and she’s very proud.) American children go to Normal schools and learn their magic at home. “Imagine learning only the spells your parents can teach you. No elocution, no linguistics, no forensics.”

  Micah’s elocution is very good—and he’s bilingual, so he can cast in Spanish. (That only works in Spanish-speaking areas, but Spanish is a growing language!)

  I know everyone at Watford th
ought that Micah was basically my imaginary boyfriend all these years, but for us, it was very real. We communicated by letter and email. We Skyped. And then we FaceTimed. We even talked on the phone sometimes.

  We went three years without seeing each other in person. Then, two years ago, I spent the summer with Micah’s family in Chicago, and as real as our relationship was before, it became more real.

  I would have gone back to visit him after we finished school; I was going to. But we were all in a state of shock, with the Humdrum gone and the Mage dead. (I didn’t even go back to Watford our final term. Miss Possibelf came to London to give me my exams.) Simon was shattered. I couldn’t bugger off to Chicago and leave him alone—he was already more alone than ever.

  Anyway, Micah was cool about it all. He agreed that my staying in London was the best thing for the time being. The plan was, I’d come visit him, just as soon as things got better. We both agreed.

  We didn’t have a plan for if they got worse.

  8

  AGATHA

  I thought the retreat would be at a hotel. But Josh drives us to a gated house inside a gated community. He’s got a sports car that doesn’t make any noise and doesn’t use any fuel and doesn’t have much of a back seat.

  “This neighbourhood is almost all NowNext members,” he says. “Most of the founders live here.”

  Ginger looks impressed. I try to look polite.

  We’re greeted by a competent young woman, covered in tattoos and thoroughly pierced. She’s the most decorative thing in the house. All of the NowNext meetings are in places like this: cavernous homes, minimally adorned. This one is the most cavernous, most minimal yet—like someone’s making a real show of how much space they have to fill with nothing. My mum would go blind from the lack of upholstery and wall decor.

  Personally, I’d rather be at a hotel than this big, empty house; when Ginger and I get to our room, the door doesn’t have a lock.