Fangirl

“I don’t need to go to a party to talk to you. Did Reagan tell you to invite me?”

“No. Not exactly. Not like that.”

“Have fun at your party, Levi.”

“Wait—Cath.”

“What?” She said it like she was hassled, but she wasn’t. Not really.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to write. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just got off work. Maybe you should finish reading me that story.…”

“What story?” She knew what story.

“The Simon Snow story. Vampire Baz was just about to attack Simon.”

“You want me to read to you over the phone?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to read to you over the phone.”

There was a knock at the door. Cath eyed it suspiciously.

More knocking.

“I know that’s you,” she said into the phone. Levi laughed.

She got up and opened the door, ending the call. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I brought you coffee,” he said. He was wearing all black—black jeans, black sweater, black leather work boots—and holding two Christmassy red cups.

“I don’t really drink coffee.” Their previous encounters notwithstanding.

“That’s okay. These are more like melted candy bars. Which do you want, gingerbread latte or eggnog?”

“Eggnog reminds me of mucus,” she said.

“Me, too. But in a good way.” He held out his hand. “Gingerbread.”

Cath took the cup and smiled in resignation.

“You’re welcome,” Levi said. He sat on her bed and smiled expectantly.

“You’re serious?” She sat down at her desk.

“Come on, Cath, don’t you write these stories so that people can enjoy them?”

“I write them so that people will read them. I’ll send you a link.”

“Don’t send me a link. I’m not much of an Internet person.”

Cath felt her eyes get big. She was about to take a sip of her coffee, but stopped. “How do you not like the Internet? That’s like saying, ‘I don’t like things that are convenient. And easy. I don’t like having access to all of mankind’s recorded discoveries at my fingertips. I don’t like light. And knowledge.’”

“I like knowledge,” he said.

“You’re not a book person. And now you’re not an Internet person? What does that leave you?”

Levi laughed. “Life. Work. Class. The great outdoors. Other people.”

“Other people,” Cath repeated, shaking her head and taking a sip. “There are other people on the Internet. It’s awesome. You get all the benefits of ‘other people’ without the body odor and the eye contact.”

Levi kicked her chair. He could reach it without stretching. “Cath. Read me your fanfiction. I want to know what happens next.”

She opened her computer slowly, as if she were still thinking about it. As if there were any way she was going to say no. Levi wanted to know what happened next. That question was Cath’s Achilles’ heel.

She opened the story she’d been reading to him. It was something she’d written last year for a Christmas-fic festival (“Deck the Hols with Baz and Simon”). Cath’s fic had won two awards: “Tastes Like Canon” and “Best in Snow.”

“Where did we leave off?” she said, mostly to herself.

“Baz’s teeth were bared, and his face with filled with disgust and decision.”

Cath found the spot in the story. “Wow,” she said. “Good memory.”

Levi was smiling. He kicked her chair again.

“Okay,” she said, “so they’re in the boat, and Simon is leaning over, looking at the tiles on the moat wall.…”

Levi closed his eyes.

Cath cleared her throat.

When he looked back, Baz had stepped toward him in the punt. He was curled above Simon, washed blue by his own conjured fire, his teeth bared and his face thick with decision and disgust.…

Baz held the pole just over Simon’s face, and before Simon could reach his wand or whisper a spell, Baz was driving the pole forward over Simon’s shoulder. The boat shook, and there was a gurgling howl—a frenzied splash—from the water. Baz raised the pole and drove it down again, his face as cold and cruel as Simon had ever seen it. His wide lips were shining, and he was practically growling.

Simon held himself still while the boat rocked. When Baz stepped back again, Simon slowly sat up. “Did you kill it?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Baz said. “I should have. It should know better than to bother the boats—and you should know better than to lean into the moat.”

“Why are there merwolves in the moat anyway?” Simon flushed. “This is a school.”

“A school run by a madman. Something I’ve been trying to explain to you for six years.”

“Don’t talk that way about the Mage.”

“Where’s your Mage now, Simon?” Baz asked softly, looking up at the old fortress. He looked tired again, his face blue and shadowed in the moonlight, his eyes practically ringed in black. “And what are you looking for anyway?” he asked waspishly, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe if you told me, I could help you find it, and then we could both go inside and avoid death by drowning, freezing, or torn jugular.”

“It’s…” Simon weighed the risks.

Usually when Simon was this far along on a quest, Baz had already sniffed out his purpose and was setting a trap to foil him. But this time Simon hadn’t told anyone what he was doing. Not even Agatha. Not even Penelope.

The anonymous letter had told Simon to seek out help; it said that the mission was too dangerous to carry out on his own—and that’s exactly why Simon hadn’t wanted to involve his friends.

But putting Baz at risk … Well, that wasn’t so distasteful.

“It’s dangerous,” Simon said sternly.

“Oh, I’m sure—danger is your middle name, etc. Simon Oliver Danger Snow.”

“How do you know my middle name?” Simon asked warily.

“Great Crimea, what part of ‘six years’ is lost on you? I know which shoe you put on first. I know that your shampoo smells like apples. My mind is fairly bursting with worthless Simon Snow trivia.… Don’t you know mine?”

“Your what?”

“My middle name,” Baz said.

Morgan’s tooth, he was stroppy. “It’s … it’s Basilton, right?”

“Quite right, you great thumping idiot.”

“That was a trick question.” Simon turned back to the mosaic.

“What are you looking for!” Baz demanded again, snarling through his teeth like an animal.

This was something Simon had learned about Baz in six years: He could turn from peevish to dangerous in half a heartbeat.

But Simon still hadn’t learned not to rise to the bait. “Rabbits!” he blurted out. “I’m looking for rabbits.”

“Rabbits?” Baz looked confused, caught mid-snarl.

“Six white hares.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!” Simon shouted. “I just am. I got a letter. There are six white hares on school grounds, and they lead to something—”

“To what?”

“I. Don’t. Know. Something dangerous.”

“And I don’t suppose,” Baz said, leaning against the pole, resting his forehead on the wood, “that you know who sent it.”

“No.”

“It could be a trap.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Simon wished he could stand and face Baz without tipping the boat; he hated the way Baz was talking down to him.

“You really think that,” Baz scoffed, “don’t you? You really think that the only way to sort out whether something is dangerous it to barrel right into it.”

“What else would you suggest?”

“You could ask your precious Mage, for starters. You could run it past your swotty friend. Her brain is so enormous, it pushes her ears out like a monkey’s—maybe she could shed some light.”

Simon yanked on Baz’s cloak and made him lose his balance. “Don’t talk about Penelope like that.”

The punt wobbled, and Baz recovered his cool stance. “Have you talked to her? Have you talked to anyone?”

“No,” Simon said.

“Six hares, is it?”

“Yes.”

“How many have you found so far?”

“Four.”

“So you’ve got the one in the cathedral and the one on the drawbridge—”