He wraps one hand around the back of my neck. “I’m not fucking with you! I’ll take it. I’m a traumatized vampire. I never thought I’d have a normal relationship. I thought I was going to marry some girl, and sneak out at night to sleep with strangers and drink their pets.”
I roll my eyes. “When did you think that?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Pretty much from age thirteen to … however old I was the night you kissed me.”
“Fuck, Baz. You deserve better.”
He shrugs again, then squeezes my neck. “I’ll take it. I’ll take you.” He kisses my mouth quickly, and I let him shift our bodies closer.
I wind an arm around him.
（I’m breathing. I’m still breathing. And I’m still here. So is he.） “I never thought I’d have a normal relationship, either,” I say.
Baz snorts. “Because you were going to have a royal wedding. There were going to be commemorative tea towels when you and Agatha tied the knot.”
His shirt is hitched up to his chest. His jacket is long gone. I rub his stomach with my free hand. “Nah. I mean—I always figured something would get its teeth in me before I’d ever get to settle down.”
“Something like the Humdrum?”
“Maybe. Whatever ended up being the Greatest Threat to Magic. That’s what the job was—to go down fighting.”
“Huh.” Baz is playing with the curls at the top of my head. “I wonder if anyone has told Smith-Richards.”
He’s being too gentle. I shudder and shake my head, pulling away.
Baz lowers an eyebrow, watching. He waits for me to relax next to him again, then puts his hand right back in my hair. He rubs his fingertips into my scalp. It’s better. It’s good.
I close my eyes and lean into him. “You really don’t think he’s legit?”
“Smith-Richards? Circe, no.”
“But we watched him cure someone.”
“We watched him do something. I agree with Lady Salisbury—you can’t cure someone of weak magic.”
“Why not?” I ask. “You can cure other things. Like … high blood pressure and gnomeatic fever.”
“Weak magic isn’t a disease.” He combs his hand through my hair, from front to back, then tugs at the crown.
I tilt my head back, eyes still closed. “What is it, then?”
“It’s not one thing.” He pulls his fingers out of my hair, then combs them through again. “It’s aptitude, right? Some people aren’t good with words, some people aren’t persuasive speakers. Some people can’t think on their feet.”
He could be talking about me. Maybe he is.
“But it’s also ability,” he goes on. “Can you speak clearly, does your voice carry … And then there’s basic capacity. Strength, power. How much magic you can control, how much you can channel. Plus, training, education, practice, drive…”
“Lucky for you,” I say, opening my eyes just enough to see him. “You’ve got it all.”
Baz curls his lip. “Yeah, that’s me. Nobody can shut up about my good luck.”
I ease closer. “You are lucky though. You and Penny. You’re like…” I reach my hand up his back, under his shirt. His skin is cool. “Aristocrats.
Like, kings and queens compared to everyone else.”
“What’d that make you, Snow, a god?”
“I was a fluke.”
Baz sighs, frustrated, and gives my hair a sharp pull. “All right,” he says, “I’m lucky. What does that prove? Do you think Smith-Richards is changing people’s luck?”
“I think he’s doing something, ” I say. “Shall we go check it out?”
Baz hums. “Let’s wait for Penelope to call. We could use her help.”
“You think she’ll get back to us?”
“When has Bunce ever ignored a dangerous proposition?”
42
PENELOPE
“Maybe we should just summon the demon and see what happens.”
“We are not summoning the demon, Penelope.”
“Don’t want me to meet your girlfriend?”
Shepard is sitting low on my sofa, his shoulders against the back of it and his legs kicked out. He’s different now that I know his secret. Less happy-go-lucky. Maybe he can’t pretend to be lucky while we’re really plumbing the depths of his bad luck. He’s got his jacket off, and he’s wearing a white Keith Haring T-shirt. And every time I say something that he finds humiliating, like now, he covers his eyes with his forearms and shows me his triceps.