But he never stops trying. He never stops talking.

  When we don’t answer his questions about our families, he tells us all about his own. His mother, a teacher; his older sister, a journalist. His parents are divorced, and his dad, a flight attendant, lives in Atlanta, and that’s all right, because it’s someplace warm to visit at Christmastime, and sometimes Shepard gets to fly for free—and for the love of magic, I even know that he played football in primary school, but now he prefers role-playing games. There’s really nothing too small for him to mention.

  What he really loves to talk about is magic. It’s almost as if he thinks telling us about all the magickal creatures he’s met will tempt us to reply in kind.

  It doesn’t. Besides, magicians don’t fraternize with magickal creatures, even the non-evil variety. We went to school with a few pixies and brownies, there was a centaur the year ahead of us—but they were all at least part magician. (How does a magician fall in love with a centaur? What do they even have in common?) (“The top half,” Simon said, when I tried to discuss this with him.)

  Shepard, however, has never met a magickal creature he didn’t strike up a friendship with. If he can be believed.

  “You have not gone backpacking with a sasquatch,” I said after five or six hours of this nonsense.

  “Well, I told you, he doesn’t carry a backpack. He’s got this pouch, and all that’s in it is a comb and a carving knife. I gave him my toothbrush, and he was pleased as punch with it. I need to get back up there, get him another toothbrush.…”

  “How could you even have time for all these adventures? You’re no older than us. Don’t you have university?”

  “I’m twenty-two. How old are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Right, well, I put off school for a while. I’m going to go back when I know what I want to study. In the meantime, the road is my teacher.”

  “The road. The road is your distraction, I’d wager. You’d learn more from the world if you knew more about the world.”

  “Ha, that’s what my mom says.”

  “Your mum is clearly cleverer than you.”

  “No argument here. What’s your mom like?”

  “Pfft.”

  We’re in Arizona, I think, on a dark road. We’ve been staying off the main motorway, but we’re never far from towns and people.

  “What we’re about to attempt,” the Normal says, “isn’t exactly legal.”

  “I thought you were Mr. Law and Order.”

  “I’m Mr. Don’t Steal Cars, Counterfeit Money, or Commit Other Acts of Grand Larceny. But this won’t hurt anybody. We need to get in to see my friend, but it’s sorta after visiting hours—”

  “Just tell us what you need,” Baz cuts in.

  “A few ‘Open Sesame’s should do it.”

  “Aghh,” I groan. “Don’t name spells. You shouldn’t know any spells.”

  “I heard you use it back at the motel! And besides, everyone knows ‘Open Sesame’ is a spell. It’s probably a spell because everyone knows it. Have you ever thought about that?”

  I’m hiding my face. I want to cover my ears. “Who explained the nature of our magic to you? Please tell me, so I can make sure they face an international tribunal.” There’s no such thing as an international tribunal, but I like the idea of muddying Shepard up with false information.

  “Fine,” Baz says. “Just get on with it. We don’t have time to argue.”

  We turn onto a larger road, following signs towards something called the Hoover Dam. I think I’ve heard of it.

  I glance out the back window. Simon is sitting up, leaning eagerly on the wall of the truck bed. There doesn’t seem to be any part of this trip that he doesn’t relish. (Aside from the times when we’ve almost died.) (And, honestly, he seemed to enjoy those, too.)

  “Maybe you could make us harder to see,” Shepard says. “There are cameras.”

  Baz casts, “Through a glass, darkly!” on the truck.

  Shepard nods. “Cool. Now those gates…”

  “Open Sesame!” I say. It comes out flat and sarcastic, so I have to cast it again.

  “There might be guards,” Shepard says, squinting into the darkness ahead of us.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Baz is all business. “Should I put them to sleep?”

  “Whoa.” Shepard holds out his arm. “I don’t want anyone to accidentally fall asleep on their control panel and blow up the whole dam.…”

  “I doubt there’s a ‘BLOW UP THE DAM’ button,” I say.

  Baz is getting impatient. “I’ll take care of it.”

  We park, and Simon hops over the side of the truck. “What’s the plan? Are we going to see the dam? Wicked. Did we sneak in?”

  Baz grabs Simon’s T-shirt and pulls him close, inspecting him for damage. “Are you all right? Are you thirsty? Are you dying of exposure?”

  “I’m fine,” Simon says. “You should ride back there with me when we leave. Now that the sun’s down. You’ve never seen so many stars.” Simon spreads his wings like he’s stretching. Baz brushes some dust off Simon’s shoulders. Baz seems timid, like he isn’t sure he’s permitted this much tenderness. It’s hard to watch, so I look at Shepard. He’s watching them, too. I shove his arm. “So what’s the plan?”

  Shepard takes a bottled water from the back of the truck. “My friend lives in the water,” he says. “Well, more or less. We just have to walk out onto the dam, and see if she feels like talking.”

  “So Agatha’s life depends on someone wanting to talk to you? Brilliant.”

  “Fortunately for you, most people actually like talking to me. You’re a notable exception.”

  We follow a pathway out onto the dam.

  Baz and I make sure the guards don’t notice us, with a combination of “Through a glass” and “Nothing to see here.”

  Shepard watches our every move. I’m sure he’s going to write down all these spells in one of the notebooks he has stacked on his dashboard, just as soon as he has a moment. Well … we didn’t promise not to destroy any evidence.

  Simon flies along behind us. I think he’s enjoying having his wings out in the open. When we get home, we need to find a way for Simon to exercise his wings. (If we’re not in magickal prison.) (At least if we’re in magickal prison, Simon won’t have to hide his wings.)

  The dam is enormous—and rather beautiful, I think—a curved wall of concrete, holding back the river. When we get out to the middle of the wall, Shepard leans as far as he can over the water. If I actually cared about him, I’d pull him back. It would be a long fall from here—the river must be at a low point. You can see the waterline on the rock around the reservoir, like a ring around a bath.

  “Blue…” Shepard calls out in a low voice. He tips his bottle of water over the rail and spills some. Nothing immediately answers him.

  He keeps hanging out over the wall, emptying the bottle. “Blue…”

  There’s a rushing noise below us—a rushing, slurring voice.

  “Shhhhep,” the voice says.

  A pillar of water shoots up in front of us. I jump back. Simon puts his hand on my shoulder to steady me. He’s landed.

  The water falls.

  A few more jets spurt up, then fall.

  Then a larger column of water surges up and holds. It looks like a woman for a moment. Like a melting ice sculpture.

  “Tassshhtes like plashtic,” the voice rumbles. It’s a feminine rumble.

  “I know,” Shepard says, “sorry.”

  A stream-like hand reaches out to touch his cheek. “Ogallala Aquiferrr,” she babbles, caressing him. “Rocky Mountain shhhhhnow.”

  “Yeah,” Shepard says, “I’m on a road trip.”

  “More like a rescue mission,” I say.

  The water turns to me, then backs away. Recedes. “Shhtrangerrssh,” it says. She says. She rushes.

  “Friends,” Shepard says.

  “You’rrre too trussshhhting, Shhep.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “But I’m usually a good judge of character.”

  “Magic,” she says. “Dangerrr. Let me take them, you shhtay clean.”

  The water level is getting higher in the reservoir. The column thickens, more decisively taking a woman’s shape. I resist the urge to cast a spell. Simon squeezes my shoulder.

  “They mean us no harm!” Shepard insists. “They’re looking for their friend. We think she was kidnapped by vampires.”

  The water—some sort of river spirit? Is she the river itself?—hisses. “Bad company,” she splatters. My shoes and socks are wet. Baz steps away from the wall.

  “The worst,” Shepard says. “We think she’s with the Next Blood.”

  The entire lake is disturbed. We can hear it pounding against the concrete.

  “We thought maybe you could tell us where they are,” Shepard says. “You’re everywhere.”

  “Not anymorrre,” she sobs. “I am dammed and diminishhhed and loshht to the mishht.”

  “You’re still grand,” he says, “from where I’m standing.”

  The water laps at his face. It makes a noise like, Psssssht.

  Shepard leans out farther—too far, his feet are off the ground. His face and hair are dripping.

  “The New Blood taste dishhtilled,” she grumbles. “Chemicalshh, vitamin shupplemntshhh.”

  I’m getting impatient. “Where are they?”

  I get soaked in answer.

  Shepard flashes me a “shut up” face. Oh, now he wants me to shut up. “We’d be so grateful for your help,” he says entreatingly.

  “Weshhht,” she says.

  “Just west?”

  “On the shhhoresh. Shaltwaterr. Irrigashhion. Golf courshesshhh.”

  “That could be anywhere in California,” Shepard says to himself.

  “I tashte them closherrr shometimeshh.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Vegashh.”

  “They’re mixing with the others? That can’t be.”

  The water seems to shhrug. I mean shrug. “They all find theirrr way to the Katherrrine eventually.”

  “The Katherine,” Shepard says. “Like, the hotel?”

  “No.” She shakes her head back and forth, splashing in every direction. “Dangerrr. You shhhould let them go alone.”

  “Blue. I’ve promised them my help.”

  “You’rrrre too helpful.”

  “That reminds me.” He smiles and slides to the ground, taking off his rucksack. “Brought you some good news.” He pulls a novel out of his bag. “I liked this one. Kind of sad. Good jokes though.”

  “Is it ficchhhion?”

  “Of course,” he says, dropping it in the water. He reaches back into the rucksack. “This one takes itself too seriously, but I know you’re a sucker for Westerns.” He pitches another book over the rail. “I would have brought more, but I didn’t know I was coming. I did get this, though, on the way.” He holds up a radio. “Waterproof.”

  “No shhuchh thing,” she drips.

  “Well, water-resistant,” he says, dropping it in. The water gushes up to catch it. “I’ll be back when I can to change the batteries.”

  “Thankshhhep. You’rre a good frriend.”

  Simon has wandered down the walkway a bit, now that we have as much as we’re going to get about Agatha. He’s flapping his wings to look farther over the rail.

  A wall of water rises up in front of him, and the woman’s shape seems to walk through it, reaching for Simon’s chin. “I know you,” she says, daubing at him.

  Simon lands on the pavement, standing very still.

  “You werrre the drrrain.”

  He nods. “Yeah.… Sorry. Did I take your magic?”

  “Not mine. The worrrrld’sh, yeshhh?”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon says again. “I didn’t know.”

  She smooths his hair back, sopping it. “Shhookay,” she burbles. “You put it back. And morrre.”

  He bows his head and lets her hand fall over him.

  Baz and I are transfixed. So is the security guard a few feet away.

  I hold up my amethyst. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for!”

  “These aren’t the droids I’m looking for,” the man says, turning away. “Why was I looking for droids.…”

  “We have to go,” Baz says. He looks at the river. “Thank you.”

  “She wasn’t that much help,” I mutter. Baz elbows me.

  The water has returned to Shepard to say good-bye. He’s promising to come back as soon as he can. To visit her headwaters at La Poudre Pass. “Shhhep,” she implores of him, “won’t you blow up the dam forrr me?”

  “Not this time,” he says. “But I’ll continue to think about it.”

  “It would be betterrr for everryone.”

  “Everyone but me,” he says. “But I’ve got it on my list of long-term goals.”

  “That would be terrorism!” I say.

  “Liberrrashhion,” the river disagrees.

  “Magic save us from radicals,” I say, sounding, to my dismay, pretty much exactly like my mother.

  41

  BAZ

  Sometimes Bunce’s boldness is just arrogance. She harangues Shepard all the way back to the truck. As if there’s no way the guards will see through our magic, and like the river definitely won’t change its mind and sweep us all off the top of the dam.

  “Why did you throw litter into the water?” Bunce asks at full volume.

  “Because she gets bored,” Shepard says. “People used to drop all sorts of things into her. Newspapers, matchbooks, divorce papers. Now all she gets is chemical runoff and iPhones that break as soon as they touch her.”

  “How does one even meet a river?”

  “By introducing oneself.”

  “Is that right, Shep.”

  Simon is flying just above us, still taking advantage of being unnoticeable.

  “You should fly more,” I say, when he touches down near the truck.

  “Sure,” he says. “Up Regent Street, through Piccadilly Circus.”

  “We could go to the country. There’s still my family estate.”

  “I’d probably show up on Google Maps.…”

  “I’d magic you before we got there.”

  Simon shrugs.

  Penny is waiting for me to get in the cab. “Come on, Baz, let’s go.”

  Simon takes my elbow. “Ride with me,” he says, looking at the place where his hand is touching my arm. “There are stars.”

  His hair is hanging between us in wet ringlets. I lean forward and bump his head with mine. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

  I can’t see him smile, but I think it’s there.

  He swings up into the back of the truck, and I follow. Penny sighs and gets in the cab. She’ll have to argue with Shepard without leaning over me. (I’m not worried about her safety; I’ve cast three intention spells on the Normal—he means us no direct harm.)

  There’s a sleeping bag spread out back here, and Simon lies down in it, carefully leaving room for me. I’m still crouching, looking around. The truck starts, and I lose my balance.

  “Come here,” Simon says.

  I really hate riding back here. I feel like a cup of tea left on top of a moving car. “This is so dangerous,” I say, kneeling. “What if we hit a bump?”

  “You’ll be fine, you’re Kevlar.”

  “What about you?”

  “Wings.”

  I look down at him. The truck has already picked up speed.

  “Baz,” he says, reaching out to me. “Come here.”

  SIMON

  Come here.

  Come on.

  Please.

  Give us this.

  BAZ

  I lie down next to Simon, and his left arm slides under my waist. The truck is hard beneath us, and you can feel every piece of gravel under the wheels—but it’s better lying down, letting the wind blow over you, not through.

  Even though the day was scorching, it’s cool now, almost cold. Simon tightens his arm around me. He’s not as hot as he used to be. (Literally. He’s a less combustible combustion engine.) But, Crowley, he’s still so warm.

  I try not to think about how long it’s been since I felt him like this. Against me, shoulder to knee. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll hold on too tight. I’ll do whatever I did in the first place to scare him away.

  He points to the sky above us, black as pitch here in the desert and filled with twinkling stars. I see them, Snow, I’m not blind.

  When his right arm drops, he winds that one around me, too. I close my eyes.

  What is this? Why is he letting me this close?

  Is this a real change? Or just a middle-of-the-night, middle-of-the-desert exception?

  Am I only allowed to hold him when we’re on the run?

  SIMON

  Baz’s hands finally come to me. Up the back of my shirt. Familiar and cold.

  You’d never think you could crave someone cold, that you’d find yourself always moving closer to them because of it. But Baz is the kind of cold I want to cover.

  (His hands are feather light on my back. Feather light and chilled through.)

  I want to warm him by hand. By heat, by cheek, by stomach.

  I bring my wings up around us and press him into the truck bed, pressing myself into every grey inch.

  When was the last time …

  No. Don’t think about the last time.

  Don’t think it might be now.

  Don’t think.

  I’m wet from the river spirit. My nose is the same temperature as Baz’s chin.

  I knock my face into his. I hang over him.

  This is the point, the proximity, where I usually pull away.

  “Can I?” I say, pressing in. I’m not sure he’ll hear me, over everything.

  BAZ

  His hair is sticky with dust. His face is cold and damp. He’s clumsy like this. Hitting me with his chest. Shouldering me. Butting my head back into the metal of the truck.

  I touch Simon Snow like he’s made of glass. Like he’ll explode if I cross the wrong wires.

  He touches me like he can’t decide whether to push or pull me, and he’s settled on both.