“But I’m not a mage—”
“You were the greatest mage—”
“That was never true—”
“It was literally true!” He squeezes my hand. “You may not have been the Chosen One, Simon, but you were the most powerful magician our world had ever known. Don’t tell me you weren’t a mage…”
“Smith…”
His eyes are shining. He’s looking at me like we’re old friends. Like he knows me inside and out. “I didn’t cast the spell tonight,” he says, “because I was saving it for you. I knew you wouldn’t want to be part of the spectacle tomorrow, onstage…”
“I don’t know what to say…”
He picks up my other hand and laughs. “Say yes!”
I shake my head. “I gave magic up to make things right.”
Smith’s face goes soft. He holds our hands between us. “Simon, you made the ultimate sacrifice so that our world could heal. Now let me heal you.”
58
SMITH
One day at a time, Evander always says. One chapter.
This is my Simon Snow chapter. （ Simon Snow, what a name! What an advantage. He even sounds the part, I’m almost jealous.） This is where I heal him. Where I prove my power.
I’m not like those who have come before me. The false prophets. I’m not like him. He failed them. （Good name be damned! Good hair. Scarlet wings.） My power won’t fail.
My plan won’t fail.
I’ll fix their fallen idol, I’ll show him every mercy—I’ll restore him to glory.
I’ll restore the whole World of Mages to glory.
I’m the one the prophecies are all about. I’ll make this place like it was in the legends. With heroes. With miracles. With magic.
This is my story.
This is my Simon Snow chapter.
Once upon a time, I met an injured soldier.
Once upon a time, I took his hands in mine.
He’ll look very good standing next to me in the White Chapel.
He’ll sound very good spreading my good news.
59
SHEPARD
There’s a doorway to hell on Penelope’s floor. She pushed the couch aside to make room.
I rub my eyes. “I thought you said I was stupid to do this in my own house.”
“This is a rental,” she says. “Get started.”
I told Penelope I wouldn’t read the ritual out loud. And then she said, “Fine, I’ll read it.” And then I said, “I’m not letting you propose to a demon!” And she said, “Then I guess you’re reading it.” So here I am, standing above a doorway drawn with my own blood, holding the instructions Ken gave me two years ago.
“This is a very bad idea,” I say.
“Your favorite kind.”
“Penelope…”
She steps up to stand beside me, at the foot of the bloody door.
“You promised you’d stay in the kitchen,” I say.
“No, you asked me to stay in the kitchen. Shepard, do you trust me?”
I look down at her. She redid her ponytail and cleaned her glasses to prepare for the ritual, and put on, I swear to you, a gray cape. Her brown eyes are set deep and pinched fierce, and her lips are still puffy from kissing me. She’s got her purple gem in her fist.
“I do,” I say.
She stands on tiptoe to kiss me again. “Summon the demon,” she says, “and then stay out of my way.”
It’s different, speaking the ritual out loud now that I know it’s a proposal.
（It’s embarrassing.） Maybe the demon won’t come this time—maybe there’s a different ritual for summoning your demon fiancée. I read the summons all the way to the end, then look down at the door …
And just like before, it opens.
The demon walks through like it’s climbing up stairs. It looks the same as it did last time. Sometimes like a woman. Sometimes like a bear. Sometimes like a hole.
It steps into Penelope’s living room, and there’s a feeling in my head like a heavy bass note playing on cheap speakers. I try to shake it off.
“Shepard,” the demon says warmly, and my head buzzes again, “my betrothed. Did you need to speak to me?” It looks very much like a woman at the moment. Smiling. Sincere. Its arms outstretched. It’s wearing very expensive-looking stilettos and a silk pantsuit. （Is it really wearing that? Or am I projecting it somehow? When I try to focus on its face, my head throbs.） “Hi,” I say, “how are you?”
Penelope is already stepping between us. “Shepard doesn’t need to speak to you today. I do.”