I wanted it this way. I wanted to be the only person who got to break the news that I’m back.
Snow is the first to react—leaps to his feet, sends furniture flying. It’s work not to roll my eyes. (It’s a bit of work not to stare at him. He’s thin. And drawn. Normally, he’d be back to clobbering weight by now.)
Dev and Niall, bless them, act like I’ve arrived eight minutes late to breakfast, instead of eight weeks. Dev nudges Niall, and Niall gives me a bored once-over, then moves the teapot away from my spot, which they’ve left empty. Good men.
I walk over to the serving table and make up a plate. I pretend I’m not ferociously hungry. (I feel like I’ll always be hungry now.)
Snow is still standing. His meddling sidekick is yanking on his sleeve, trying to get him to sit down. He should listen to her. Wait, what’s this?… Where’s Wellbelove in this pretty tableau?
I scan the room without turning my head. There she is, sitting on the other side of the room—trouble in paradise?—staring at me. They’re all staring at me. But I can tell Wellbelove expects something extra from me, so I give it to her. A long, cool look. Let her make what she wants of that; she will anyway.
I settle down at the table, and Dev pours me a cup of tea.
“Baz,” he says, smirking.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “What have I missed?”
30
BAZ
Snow stands again when I walk into our Greek classroom. I take my seat without looking his way. “Enough, Snow, I’m not the Queen.”
He doesn’t reply—he must still be working up to a bluster.
Snow blusters like no one else. But! I! I mean! Um! It’s just! It’s no wonder he can never spit out a spell.
The Minotaur folds his arms and snorts when he sees me. “Mr. Pitch,” he says. “I see you’ve decided to join us.”
“I have, sir.”
“We’ll have to discuss your plans to catch up.”
“Of course, sir. Though I think you’ll find I’m still quite ahead of the class; my mother always insisted on summer work in Greek and Latin.” It’s good to mention my mother with the older teachers. They all still remember her—I can see their heads start to dip into a bow.
The Minotaur worked on the grounds when my mother was headmistress; creatures weren’t allowed on staff then. I dare him to hold that against me.
I dare them fucking all.
“We shall see,” he says, narrowing his cow eyes.
I’m not lying. Greek won’t be a problem for me—and I’ll be fine in Latin, Magic Words and Elocution. Political Science could be a bear, depending on how much they’ve covered. Same for History and Astrology.
I’m going to have to break my back to get to first again, and I can’t imagine Coach Mac will let me back on the football team.…
They might all cut me some slack if I told them I’d been kidnapped.
I am never telling anyone I was kidnapped.
Kidnapped. And by fucking numpties, no less.
Numpties are like trolls, but even more hideous. They’re big and stupid, and they’re always cold. They go around wrapped in blankets and dressing gowns if they have them, and if they don’t, they cover themselves in leaves and mud and old newspapers. They usually live under bridges. Because they like to live under bridges. And they’re just smart enough to hit you over the head with a club and drag you back to their hovel, if there’s something in it for them.
Aunt Fiona was appalled when she found me in the numpty den. She berated me all the way home, and all the way back to Watford. She made me sit in the back seat of her MG. (A ’67. Glorious.) “The front seat is for people who’ve never been kidnapped by bloody numpties. Jesus Christ, Baz.” (Aunt Fiona likes to swear like a Normal. She thinks she’s punk.)
I could tell she was half disgusted with me, half relieved that I was still alive.
I’d been stuck under that bridge for six weeks, in a coffin—and I don’t even think the numpties were trying to torture me. I think they thought that was humane treatment for a vampire. So to speak. They even brought me blood. (I decided not to think about where they got it.) They did not bring food. Most people don’t realize that vampires need both. Most people know fuck-all about vampires.…
I know fuck-all about vampires. It’s not like I got an instruction pamphlet when I was bitten.
The numpties kept me in the coffin for six weeks, and every day or so, they threw in some blood. (In a thirty-two-ounce plastic cup with a bendy straw.) I can go without food longer than regular people, but I was pretty ruined by the time Fiona got there.
Fortunately, my aunt is an utter badass. She laid waste to the numpties before she found my coffin; then she bombarded me with healing magic. “Early to bed and early to rise!” she kept whispering. And “Get well soon!”
(It reminded me of the day I was Turned—Fiona and my father both hitting me with healing magic that mended the bite marks and bruises but didn’t touch the changes already churning inside me.)
I was still weak when Fiona helped me out of the coffin.
“All right?” she asked.
“Hungry. Thirsty.”
She kicked a dead numpty—they look like giant stones when they die, great heaps of mud and grey matter—“Can you drink one of these?”
I sneered. “No.” Numpty blood is swampy and brackish, definitely nonpotable. Which is probably why someone sent them after me.