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Baz was positive this had happened before. The only difference was this time he knew for certain he was being toyed with.
Much had changed during Baz’s six years at Watford. Professors retired, some uneventfully and some with great more aplomb (Phineas Fallowdrum being particularly notable…no student at Watford would ever forget how many chicken feathers were left after that one). The Humdrum, merely a rumor when he was 12, was now very real. The boring future he was grimly consigned to as a first year had been swept aside in favor of a menu of intriguing possibilities.
But for all that many constants had been swept away, one thing never changed: Simon Snow was an ass. Baz would know, having lived with the insufferable boy for six years. Oh, he put up a charade of “goodness”, for whatever that was worth. He was unfailingly polite to professors and always made a show humility when others were looking. But Baz knew the price of so-called goodness. “Goodness” meant an unwillingly changed 6-year old would grow up with the adults around him shaking their heads, always looking out of the corner of their eyes and waiting for him to slip up, to become a monster. “Goodness” meant that any idiot with an ounce of magic in their blood could walk through Watford’s gates, even as someone with *his* heritage had to fight for admittance.
Of course, occasionally even Simon bloody Snow had his moments. Even the Mage’s Heir had to slip up sometimes. Sometimes Simon would be at his desk, his skinny frame hunched over his homework for blissfully long periods of silence. And then the golden boy would let loose a curse so foul that even Baz would be impressed. He would give his right fang to see the Mage walk in at one of those moments.
So Simon had his moments, sure. But then there were the coincidences that happened a bit too often to be well, coincidental. Being roommates, (even unwilling), Baz was forced to accept that some things could not be kept as private as he’d like. When it came time to don night clothes or change for a Gonthrike game, both boys were accustomed to looking the other way.
The problem was that Baz was increasingly losing the option of averting his eyes. For the last few weeks, it was as if he couldn’t avoid Simon while changing. Baz counted at least three times in the last week alone when he’d stalked into their room at the exact moment when Simon was pulling his school uniform over his head. At first Baz was convinced the other boy was toying with him, waiting until the exact moment he heard his roommate to begin undressing. Except it happened the other way around, too. Baz would be in the locker room preparing for a Gonthrike match, and at that exact moment Simon Snow would bust in, frantically looking for a spare set of rackets.
Either the boy was stalking him (unlikely, as the dislike was mutual), or someone had it in for him.
The tipping point was last week’s Mystical Critters class. Professor Dingle had tasked them with reaching into the dimensional ether and pulling out air weasels. A perfectly boring assignment - until Baz’s gateway accidentally opened onto a Chaos Realm rather than a Serenity Pool. Amusing enough on its own, but then Hampus bloody Wigworthy’s weasel flew out of his clumsy grasp and straight into Simon. The golden-haired oaf stumbled backwards into Baz, and they both lost their balance and toppled over. Straight through the newly opened gateway and into the Chaos Realm.
The problem with Chaos Realms is that they take after their name. The previously stable 5 meter by 5 meter area inside picked the exact moment of Baz and Simon’s entrance to collapse and shrink. Baz supposed they were lucky the entrance to the natural world remained open just enough that they weren’t crushed to death.
However, this meant nearly four hours of being crushed chest to chest with the golden boy himself. The space was neither large enough for Baz to get up nor to successfully roll out from underneath the other boy. And thus Baz found himself in a vacuum containing nothing but himself and Simon Snow, whose chest was crushed tightly against his own and whose head was crammed against the crook of Baz’ neck.
The first ten minutes were taken up by the usual squabbling Baz came to expect from his interactions with Simon. “You idiot!”, “You bloody commoner!”, and so on. The next thirty minutes were occupied by a series of escape attempts spells. They stopped trying after Simon let off a spell resulting in the space shrinking even further. Another round of yelling ensued. Baz assumed that Simon finally got sick of the sound of his own voice, because he fell silent.
The next hour was mostly quiet. Baz already knew from long years of cohabitation that Simon breathed loudly, and now they were so close he could feel Simon’s warm breath on his cheek. The issue was the sensation was not…unpleasant. He’d been in near-death situations often enough that he knew how not to dwell on the things going through his mind. He could have sworn the realm was shrinking again, because the pants underneath his robe hadn’t been so tight this morning. He forced himself to imagine Silva Scower in lingerie.
His body under control, the silence resumed. Baz liked to think his family prepared him well for the pitfalls a mage of ancient lineage/reluctant vampire could encounter. Unfortunately there wasn’t much to do in the vacuum of a Chaos Realm half the size of a telephone booth other than contemplate one’s increasingly likely demise.
“You ever think about what happens on the other side?” Simon asked.
The Chaos Realm was void of any other sound. What the hell, he didn't have anything else to do. “Don’t need to,” Baz scoffed. “We have a ghost as a professor, haven’t you ever been awake in Theory of Magics?” Besides, he thought as he let his eyes rest on the edge of the Chaos boundary. Technically speaking I’m already dead. I’m just not on the other side…yet.
Simon shrugged, and Baz could feel the movement. For a boy with such a skinny physique, Simon was impressively toned this close. “Yeah, but…it’s not the same. Professor Shacklebolt isn’t really gone, just incorporeal.”
Baz let out a scoff. “What difference does it make?”
“I just wouldn’t want this to be all there is. I mean, what if we’re dead and we’re still stuck in our bodies? Not alive, but still stuck in flesh-”
Baz gave a purposefully overdramatic sigh. “Sounds horrible, you would think those souls would throw themselves into the dark ether rather than go on another lifeless moment. However, there are still dog shows. Small children with their eyes full of hope. We must bear it, for the good of Englan-!”
"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“
Baz laughed. “Please, Snow, you don’t have to feel sorry for me. I am quite content with my unlife, thank you very much. In fact, maybe I pity you.” A smile crept onto his lips. “You have no idea how good AB negative tastes.”
There were certain things that could only be discussed when you were trapped in a slowly shrinking Chaos Realm, bringing the other occupant’s lips closer and closer to your own. Baz could practically feel Simon’s smile. “I take it that O positive isn’t as good?”
“Not nearly.” A small part of his mind wondered, why am I discussing this with Simon Snow? Even though his undead status was now public, there were certain things that were never discussed. Especially not with his rival!
“It just seems like you would miss other things. Like chocolate.”
Baz groaned. He always imagined he would spend his last moments doing something other than making small talk with his roommate. “Do you really think I don’t eat chocolate? Has it really not dawned on you that I go to the Banquet Hall every evening?”
“I’ve never been able to catch you eating food,” Simon confessed under his breath.
The sheer idiocy of humans raised in the mundane world. “Of course I eat food, not just blood.” He licked his lips. “Still tastes mostly the same.”
“Mostly?”
“Can’t stand cranberry juice.”
Baz only imagined he felt Simon’s eyebrow raised. Even crushed together some things were impossible. “Cranberry juice.”
“Before my condition was…public.” It felt strangely like letting a burden off his shoulders to speak of this aloud. “I still had to drink blood, but no one was supposed to know. So I always said it was cranberry juice. The problem was I had to keep up the appearance even when I wasn’t drinking blood. I can’t even look at the stuff now without gagging.”
In their vacuum of silence, the guffaw that Simon let out startled him. “You’re saying that…you can drink blood, but cranberry juice makes you gag?”
“What?” Baz paused for a moment and considered their situation. Vaulted off the mortal plane not for anything important, but as a consequence of trying to capture one of Professor Dingle's air weasels. Doomed to meet his end while talking about cranberry juice. Baz's lips broke into a smile. “Okay, it is pretty funny.”
He didn’t realize until his sides started to ache that he too was laughing, and laughing hard.
After a few minutes they both regained their breath, even as Baz’s sides still ached. “So you’re saying it won’t be that bad?” Simon asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What won’t be?”
“Dying.” The word felt heavy.
Baz sighed. “No, it won’t.” He licked his lips. “I promise.” He maneuvered his hand to rest over Snow’s. He felt the slow clench of the other boy’s fingers over his. Simon's skin was warm and smooth. A small nagging voice told Baz he should take his hand away now, but he was powerless against those long fingers wrapped around his own. Baz's heart did not beat and yet he felt blood rushing through his body nonetheless. And so they stayed for several long minutes.
And then, the dwindling pinprick of light, the sole remnant of their gateway natural world, exploded. Baz's ears rang with the sounds of his professors shouting commands at each other. It wasn’t until his vision cleared that he realized he was still holding Simon’s hand. Baz snatched it away as he got to his feet.
The feeling of warmth lingered on his skin for a long time after.
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It was unsurprising that in the version of the story his roommate told to their professors, Simon Snow was the humble hero. For once Baz wasn't agitated by this, as at least Snow had the decency to leave anything said (or done) while contemplating death out of the narrative. After the school nurses declared them both unharmed Baz treated himself to an evening with the Hollowbridge Hexers 2013 pinup calendar. He was relieved to find that everything was functioning as it should. Baz was ready to dismiss the entire incident as another coincidence and a result of too much stress until he overheard a stray comment by Penelope while in line at the Banquet Hall.
“A Chaos Realm in that part of the elemental sphere,” she remarked, flipping her curly hair behind her ear.
“What about it?” asked Don Woosley. (Baz was sure Don didn’t care a whit about the location of anything except for Penelope’s chest, which he was staring at intently. Thankfully for Don’s sense of pride, Penelope was too distracted by the sound of her own voice to notice her friend’s attention. Thankfully for Baz his proximity was also ignored).
“I just can’t believe you happened to find one, and while opening a Serenity Pool. Serenity Pools are supposed to be just that – serene. It would be like a fire spontaneously erupting on a glacier.”
Baz paused in line to examine the bread pudding, despite the fact that he usually hated the stuff. This kept him in hearing range.
Don took a large dob of peach pie. “Yeah…poor Simon, what are the chances of him and Basil Pitch of all people getting knocked into the portal at just that moment?”
“Statistically speaking?” Penelope didn’t wait for an answer. “About thirty million, four hundred thousand, three hundred seventy two.” Okay, there was no way in the ten hells she had any idea what she was talking about. Penelope tossed her hair again. (If they were going to talk math then Baz suspected that Penelope’s hair flips had some calculated ratio to her ego). “To one, that is.”
“Poor Simon,” Don mumbled under his breath. “What are the chances? It’s almost like someone *wanted* them to be stuck like that.”
Baz left his tray where it was. He nearly walked straight into Apolline Swott on his way out. He suddenly wasn’t hungry any more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“How would one know if they had a love spell cast on them?”
Friendship was a tricky thing when you were both descended from a line of ancient mages and were also a vampire. Most of the other Watford students were scared by him for one or the other of those reasons. The result was either blind obedience (in the case of Baz’s cronies and most of the first year class) or automatic enmity (in the case of Simon Snow, Don Woolsey, Penelope Bunce, etc). Occasionally he would meet an encounter an equal in power amongst his peers. Those few would either fall into the enmity category, or would strike an uneasy alliance of necessity with Baz. There was little room for anything outside of these groupings.
Devin - Dev for short - was a rare exception. Their families were not aligned, but Dev also didn’t come from a lineage of Mage-worshipping sycophants. He had instead grown up out of the country as part of some obscure mystical order focused on enlightenment. By the time he was shipped off to Watford he was far enough out of touch with society to care much either way about any part of Baz’s background. It was strangely refreshing to be in the company of someone he didn’t have to regard as a chess piece. Dev was a year older than Baz and they didn’t often talk, but when they did Baz typically found himself in a lighter mood than before. Dev had a way of breaking down things into their simpler components.
It was a testament to Dev and Baz’s long acquaintance that the taller boy didn’t even look up from his potion at Baz’s qusestion. Dev’s long red hair covered his face, leaving Baz to imagine his expression. He instead focused his gaze on today’s assignment - Baz wasn’t sure if Dev had turned the soupy liquid green as a joke or by accident.
“What, you want another try with Agatha?” Dev asked, raising an eyebrow.
That was a bit below the belt and they both knew it. Baz had his unflappable image to keep up, of course. But Agatha had made that stray comment in their second-year Mystical Critters class about how no creature could be inherently evil, and Baz foolishly allowed himself to create a fantasy where Agatha truly believed that. A fantasy where he fit securely into the puzzle, rather than always being the piece that didn’t fit.
But last year in the library she had the nerve to reject him…Baz’s lineage came from the Founding Five! He wished he could have followed in his father’s footsteps, yelling and cursing anyone who dared to turn down a Pitch. Instead he quietly apologized for taking up her time. Agatha started to say something, but Baz couldn’t even meet her eyes as he left the library.
Boys like Baz weren’t supposed to talk about these things with anyone. It was pure chance that he ran into Dev as he stalked back towards Millwright Hall. He and the other boy hadn’t exactly talked about what happened. However, his friend had insisted that they sneak out to the Gryphon’s Fancy, and had casually filled Baz’s glass enough times that by the end of the night he couldn’t remember his own name, let alone what had (or hadn’t) happened with Agatha. The following morning Baz was convinced his skull had been cracked open by an irate piskie, but even that was a welcome distraction.
Back in the present Dev sprinkled another few frog’s teeth into his brew. Well, at least the right half was turning the proper color, even as the left became another degree more verdant. “Forgive me, that was uncalled for. But is there a reason you ask?”
“I’m just…curious.” The words felt stale even in his own mouth.
“I’m glad that you hold my opinion so highly. Mmm…faery’s bristle. There are many ways to make a love spell, but you *have* to hair faery’s bristle somewhere in there. The fae are the masters of love.” Dev waggled his eye brows.
Baz felt increasingly uncomfortable in his own skin, but best to get this over with. “Faery bristle.” Even the name was ridiculous. “So…what does one do with it?”
“Well, the caster has to weave it into their clothes for at least a week before the spell can even start. Do a detection spell, and it’ll usually show up somewhere.” Another ingredient fell into the potion, causing the liquid began to smoke. “Why do you ask?”
He couldn’t meet Dev’s eyes when he answered. “Oh, nothing.”
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“What the bloody hell are you doing?”
Baz had to admit it was a good question. Years of cohabitation taught Baz his roommate became cross if he so much as touched his trash by accident. A very good source (okay, a first year) had informed him that morning Simon was supposed to be in the Potions Lab all day. Baz had no idea why he was back in his room. He had even less idea how to explain why he was systematically sorting Simon’s clothes into piles on the floor. Before Simon barged in Baz had just finished going through the pants. Thus far, not a trace of faery bristle. Only the sock drawer was left.
“I thought I heard something.” Baz tried sound cross, but his voice squeaked on the last syllable.
Simon raised an eyebrow. “You heard something in my sock drawer.”
Best to play it straight. Stranger things happened at Watford. Most certainly. “Yes.”
It was final’s week and Simon appeared to have as little patience as Baz. He threw open the sock drawer. It was only quick reflexes that saved Baz from colliding with a wooden hunk of 300 year old dormitory furniture. He glanced down at the globe holding his indicator spell, which thankfully was hidden underneath his robe. It would supposedly start chirping loudly if faery's bristle was present.
Baz’s gaze fell on his roommate’s socks. Of course the prat would own the official ones from the Flamel Floggins line…so much for that whole front of being a poor orphan. He glanced again at the indicator. Still nothing.
“Well there’s bloody nothing in here, so get your pasty paws off my things!” (Pasty? Baz would be the first to admit he was pale, but pasty?)
Simon shoved the sock drawer closed again, and once again Baz had to duck out of the way to keep his head from colliding with the wood. Thank his ancestors Simon never noticed the pile of pants. “I don’t have time for this,” he mumbled under his breath.
Glad to know we’re all so far beneath you, Snow, Baz thought.
Simon stalked out of the room, slamming the door so loudly the room shook. Several creatures from down the hall let out a cacophony of barks, hisses, and shrieks.
At least the git was gone, even if their dormitory furniture looked worse for the wear – he was certain that crack wasn’t there before. Baz spent the next twenty minutes doing a more thorough check of the sock drawer (still nothing from the spell), and then neatly folding up Simon’s pants.
Well, that at least was a relief. Simon Snow was NOT trying to make Baz fall in love with him. And thank God, because the boy was as obnoxious as ever.
So why did he feel like something still wasn’t right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That night Baz dreamed. Rabbits with their throats open, their blood warm a comfort against his fangs. Simon pressed up against him his shirtless chest, impossibly warm against Baz’s frozen skin.
In the dream Baz had a heart that could pound as the golden-haired boy leaned in…
Baz woke to the sound of high-pitched shrieking. “The hell…?” he mumbled. The noise was muffled but insistent. “Luminate,” he murmured, and the room came to life. A quick glance revealed no obvious source. Simon’s bed was untouched – he must still be doing an overnighter in the Potion Lab. Small blessings.
Baz stood and began to pace carefully, pausing and shifting direction when the sound became louder. Supernatural senses were sometimes useful. Dear God, it couldn’t be coming from his laundry hamper, could it? It would figure that the tie Uncle Gideon sent him was haunted.
He began tossing dirty clothes onto the floor. When he finally found the offending garment, he froze. It was his robe from today. Shaking, he pulled the ball containing the indicator spell out of his pocket. His supposed proof that Simon Snow was doing something to him. The spell – had he really forgotten to throw it away? Baz’s touch muffled the shrieking, but its light only grew brighter. After a moment, Baz realized it was floating out of his grasp. “Wait a minute!”
The small ball of light flew from his grasp and rapidly sped towards his door. A breath later and it disappeared through the entrance.
Baz gritted his teeth. “Oh know you don’t.” Baz threw the door open and hurtled down the dormitory hall after the light. Damn, but the thing was fast! Several times he raced around a turn only to see the light disappearing down another corridor.
He didn’t realize until too late that he had lost track of where he was going and that the dormitory halls no longer looked familiar. Still he didn’t let himself lose sight of his target. Room 901…since when were there more than six floors in Millwright Hall anyway? And what was this Pound thing the signs were talking about? And since when was his home illuminated by mundane electricity and not magical light?
Thankfully the light picked that moment to come to a gentle stop outside one of the doors. It hovered in midair for a moment before slowly coming to rest in his hand. The number on the door said 913.
Baz looked back the way he came – wherever he was, it surely wasn’t Watford. But within the last week he had been trapped in a Chaos Realm, been walked in on while changing at least five times, and had dreamt of kissing Simon bloody Snow. Not to mention being woken up at three in the morning just now. Whatever awaited him, but to get it over with. He knocked three times. When there was no response, he knocked again.
“Go away,” called a sleepy female voice within. She sounded American from the accent.
Baz clenched his teeth so hard he could feel his fangs breaking skin. “Bollocks I will. Who the bloody hell are you?”
The occupant on the other side of the door paused before answering. “That’s a really good Basilton impersonation. But it's three in the morning, you’re still not making me get out of bed.”
Whoever was doing this, they knew his name. That did it - no one messed with a Pitch and got away with it. “Enflame,” he commanded. A small, neatly contained flare formed two feet in front of him. It floated towards the door and exploded. When the smoke cleared it left a hole large enough for Baz to pass through. Not that there was much of the door left anyway.
The skinny girl inside looked only a few years older than him. She had gotten as far as disentangling herself from her bed covers before his small explosion went off. Now she sat cross-legged on her bed, frozen in position in her pale blue cow pajamas. From her clothing, she was definitely mundane. Long mousy brown hair, small chested, glasses, all and all ordinary enough. The room’s furniture consisted of two beds and two desks, one of each adorning each side of the room. Two occupants likely shared the room, but only one was present. The left side was strewn with clothes – obviously belonging to some mundane girl.
For a moment, the girl and Baz just stared at each other. She appeared as if she was trying to choose between expressing horror, excitement, or disbelief. In the absence of a decsion of the correct response, she simply gaped open-mouthed.
And then Baz made the mistake of turning his gaze away from the girl and towards everything else on her side of the room. Above the right side desk were large, glossy photographs of 12-year old Simon, Don, and Penelope. The caption on the uppermost read “Simon Snow and the Mage’s Heir.” The one below it declared “Simon Snow and the Selkies Four.”
Baz felt his own mouth fall open. I’ve finally lost it, he thought. The world really does revolve around bloody Simon Snow. He turned his gaze to the bed and went even paler than usual.
Suddenly, he was okay with being left out. Above the bed was a visual shrine to Tyrannus Basilton Pitch. That is, a version of Baz who only had eyes for Simon Snow. There were pictures of them holding hands. Pictures of them kissing. Every dream or stray thought Baz desperately tried to convince himself he wasn’t having, all on paper in vivid, colored detail.
“Basilton Pitch just broke down my dorm room door," the girl stated with forced calm. She gave a nervous laugh. "I’ve finally cracked, haven’t I?”
I could say the same thing, Baz thought. Instead he asked, “What is this?”
The girl chuckled bitterly. “What the hell, I guess I’m supposed to talk back to you even if you’re a figment of my cracking mental state. It’s my Simon Snow stuff.” Her tone was confident, but she was obviously putting a lot of effort into not shaking. She put her hands on her hips, a powerfully girlish gesture that made even her small stature more intimidating. This seemed to steady her. “And don’t tell me it’s a kid thing. Even The Atlantic Monthly acknowledges they’re modern classics.”
Baz had never heard of The Atlantic Monthly but he had a feeling insult was being added to injury right now. “Whatever these…are,” He pointed to a solo picture of himself. Had his eyelashes ever looked that feminine? “You realize that I’m not Simon Snow, right?”
The girl broke out of her disbelieving gaze just long enough to look insulted. “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer, Figment-of-My-Imagination Basilton.”
Time for a different tactic. “So then you do realize that none of this is real in Simon Sno-in my world?” He pointed to an illustration of himself leaning into Simon. For his ancestor’s sake, he was not the shorter of the two of them.
The girl groaned and rubbed her eyes. Baz guessed she had moved from shock to rejection. “It is three in the morning, I refuse to get into an argument with a delusion about the canon of Simon/Baz. Just Google it, MerryWitch has a post about the number of times they look into each other’s eyes in Book 4.”
Nothing in that last sentence made sense. “I beg your pardon?”
“Fifty three.” She wasn't exactly smug in her current state, but she seemed very sure of her answer.
“Fifty three what?”
“Times they look into each other’s eyes.”
Baz decided to play along for a moment. Had he looked into Simon's eyes that many times ever? No, but you've spent enough time staring at his chest, a dark part of him whispered.
Dismissing that thought, Baz’s eyes turned to the rest of the contents of the room. Whoever she was, the girl didn’t seem like a witch. All of her tools were ordinary – pens instead of quills, paper instead of parchment. Baz noticed a small black box about the size of a notebook. He’d seen mundanes using them before…a computer, it was called? Bright light emanated from its display. Baz turned it towards himself. He’d heard they could project words and images like this. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the indicator spell in his hand light up again. It made a small, steady chirping noise. His eyes widened when he saw what was written there, and he nearly lost the contents of his dinner.
That night Baz dreamed. Rabbits with their throats open, their blood warm a comfort against his fangs. Simon pressed up against him his shirtless chest, impossibly warm against Baz’s frozen skin.
The golden haired boy leaned in and brought his lips perilously close to Baz’s. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, you know.” He gently traced the outline of Baz’s left fang. “I want all of you. These included.” A warm finger touched his lips. “This most of all.”
It was horrible enough to have these dreams, but the words committed to the glaring screen felt like a bloody hand pointing straight at him. “What…what is this?” Baz whispered.
“Oh, that? It’s my fic from last year. Not one of my better ones, but-“
For the love of the ancestors. He took in a deep breath. Unnecessary in his state, but calming nonetheless. “And what is a fic, exactly?”
The girl sighed. “It’s not fair when even the Basilton Pitch in my delusions is anti-fanfiction, so we’ll keep this simple: Fan, liking something, such as Simon Snow, a whole lot. As I said, it is NOT just for kids. Fiction: Writing stories about it. I write stories about the Simon Snow books…I do things to their characters that Gemma T. Leslie doesn’t have the guts to do.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Are you happy, psyche?
The girl was speaking in riddles. “So you’re saying that you write about an alternate version of Watfo-I mean the Simon Snow books.” It was best to keep to the code she was using, regardless of the truth.
“Yes.”
Baz looked back at the computer. For the first time he was glad they’d been forced to take Mundane Studies as third years. The…rodent…mouse? Yes, that was how you controlled the device. Baz moved the display upwards.
There were certain things that could only be discussed when you were trapped in a slowly shrinking Chaos Realm, bringing the other occupant’s lips closer and closer to your own. Baz could feel Simon’s smile. “I take it that O positive isn’t as good?”
Not nearly.” A small part of his mind wondered, why am I discussing this with Simon Snow? Even though his undead status was now public, there were certain things that were never discussed. Especially not with his rival!
Dear gods, Penelope was right: The chances of a gateway opening onto a Chaos Realm when a Serenity Pool had been summoned were nigh of impossible. But this unassuming, mousy looking mundane girl, who for reasons beyond his understanding was intent on seeing him coupled with Simon Snow…she had tipped fate.
Strangely, the world make more sense now. “You did this.”
The girl gave a shrug - she appeared to have long given up on understanding anything. That at least put them in the same boat. “Are you supposed to be my guilt in physical form or something?” She laughed bitterly. “Levi, you have nothing on what I’m going through.”
Maybe every third word made sense. “Speak plainly, if you will.”
“Yes, Baz, I wrote a story about you falling in love with Simon. Hmm, no scar yet, you must still be in Book 6. I know you don’t think much of each other now, but you’re going to. You haven’t even gotten to the scene on the Cliffs of Dracmoor yet!”
The Cliffs of Dracmoor, where the Humdrum's body was said to be buried? That the professors had been murmuring about for weeks? That he was planning on spying out with his allies at the next opportunity?
Never mind that now. Baz took a deep breath. Best to get this over with. “I don’t like Simon Snow. I don't hate him so much that I wouldn't try to cheer him up when we're both convinced of our imminent deaths, but that's about it. Okay, and he's not bad looking." At all, he added to himself. "I know everyone is convinced that he’s going to save Watford. And maybe he’s going to bring down the Humdrum and maybe that’s even a good thing.” He shook his head. “But he’s also allied with the Mage, a man who has destroyed countless mystical creatures simply for the crime of their existence. I saw Simon kill that Sidhe in your-” Baz gestured at one of the large, glossy papers. “Simon Snow and the Five Blades.”
He was on a roll now. “And that’s not just about, ‘What if it’s me next?’ Regardless of what Ilsinda – she had a name you know - may have done in the past, she didn’t deserve to die. Do you know how many creatures in her realm are left unprotected now?” He paused and threw up his arms for dramatic effect. “But Simon Snow is perfectly comfortable being the judge, jury, and executioner of people like her. Even if I do feel…strange around him sometimes, I’ll never be able to forget that.”
The girl had listened to his entire diatribe without blinking. “Then why does Gemma T. Leslie always write about your skin going red whenever you’re close to each other?”
Baz thought back to the Chaos Realm, the toned muscles of Simon’s chest, the way Simon’s breath felt so warm…
Sometimes all one could do was attempt to make order in a world of chaos. “It’s three in the morning,” Baz pronounced. “And it’s finals week. I really can’t deal with this anymore.” He scooped the glowing machine under his arm and made for the exit.
“Wait a minute!” the girl cried, finally standing up from her bed. “I need that for my paper!”
“Too bad,” Baz proclaimed, slamming the remnants of the door behind him. “Enflame,” he declared. A small blaze struck up behind him and crackled merrily. It wouldn’t suffocate or hurt the girl, of course, however it would a stop mortal’s immediate pursuit.
Baz wandered in a daze through the dormitory’s halls – whichever dormitory in whatever world he occupied. Eventually the twists and turns led him through corridors that were lit by magical flames, not mundane electricity. Finally he was at the door of Millwright Hall 309. Never had he been so happy to see the wretched place. He flung the door open.
“Keep it down, will you?” Simon grumbled from underneath his bed sheets. He had apparently returned to his bed from the Potion Lab. Baz proceeded to turn on the lights. Simon grunted and threw a pillow over his face. Simon. Who was a self-righteous hypocrite and full of himself. For the first time since this started, Baz’s faith in his own thoughts was restored. He was so relieved that he didn’t even notice his roommate’s snoring.
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Afterward, Baz kept the computer under his bed. Separated from its source, the mundane object eventually stopped glowing. It was just as well – he didn’t have the stomach to look at it. He could acknowledge it was there, but the idea of some mundane in another world dictating his future – a future with Simon Snow – was too much to handle.
The “coincidences” came to a grinding halt. Finally Baz was able to take his bloody shirt off in peace. No mysterious circumstances threw him into his roommate’s path at opportune moments. Life was almost normal again.
Well, almost. He still dreamed. Sometimes it was Simon lying next to him – negative qualities notwithstanding, he really did have a nicely toned chest. Sometimes it was someone else – Newton Woolwind. Horus Olney. Whoever they were, they were always warm.
Finally, one night he left Millwright Hall, determined to become so tired he would be incapable of dreaming. He spotted a figure walking along the path to Hobwhip Hills and humming to himself.
Dev. The older boy took one look at him, and for the first time Baz considered how ridiculous he must look with just his winter robe thrown over his pajamas. “Can’t sleep?” Dev asked.
Baz shook his head.
“Me either.” The stars were bright above them. “C’mon, let’s do a pint at Gryphon’s Fancy.”
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It only took three rounds of goblin ale before the story came out. Baz would have liked to blame it on the drink, but the truth was he so very desperately needed to get this weight off his shoulders. Once he started he couldn’t stop – to do so would make him think about what that mundane girl had been doing to him. Or what he had wanted to do with Simon Snow.
“So let me get this straight.” Dev took another long sip of his drink. “You’re saying some slip of a mundane girl from another dimension knows about us.”
“Yes.”
“And that she writes stories about the people at Watford.”
“Yes.”
“And that one of those stories was about you being with Simon.”
Baz finished off his ale in one very long gulp. Not needing to breathe had its advanages. “Yes.”
“And that back at Watford you and Simon have had a few…close encounters.”
His glass was empty now, giving Baz little to do other than focus on the words coming out of his mouth. “…Yes.”
“Hmm,” Dev said. He stopped to consider, his fingers curling around the handle of his glass. The pit in Baz’s stomach sunk deeper. He had been too quick to gamble this time around. Even if Dev typically showed no allegiance to either side of the brewing war, that counted for nothing right now. He should have remembered his father’s stern warning about the rules of combat. A Pitch had to behave as if in the middle of a battle at all times, and he had just given his greatest weakness to an unknown party.
Visions of his probable future swirled before him – even his family, who thought his vampirism a gift, would think him a freak now. The only good thing he could see coming from this would be maybe Simon would finally convince the Mage to let them stop being roommates. But if they knew, no other boy in Watford would want to be either.
And then Dev casually shrugged. “Would it really be so bad?”
He had expected an attack, but the nonchalance was nearly as aggravating. Baz hadn’t just made some comment about the Hexer’s chaneces at the Cup this year, he had confessed something he couldn’t even think aloud to himself. Well, if indifference was Dev’s attitude, then two could play this game. “You do remember he’s an ass who advocates fae genocide and that our families will probably kill each other, right?”
Dev waved his hand. “Sure. Just forget it’s Simon Snow for a minute.”
Were they really discussing this aloud? “And also the part where my actions were being controlled by a member of the Simon Fan Club?”
“Your actions, sure. But we can’t control the world around us. Mind control…there’s a reason even the Humdrum doesn’t use it. You can change a lot of things about a person, but you can’t actually change what they’re feeling. The object of it, sure, but the emotion itself…?”
Baz had been so focused on himself that the hadn’t noticed until now that Dev also looked vulnerable. Petrified. Dev took a deep breath. “So…really so bad?”
If Baz had a heartbeat, it would be racing. Fortune favors the brave, he thought, and he reached for Dev’s hand. He could feel the other boy’s pulse beating through his wrist.
They stayed there for a long moment, and then Dev gave one of his reassuring grins. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
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The night was cold. Dev was warm.