Fangirl

Baz gulped. Simon thought he might be crying, and turned away to give him some space.

“Snow … are you absolutely sure there was nothing more in that letter?”

Simon heard a heavy rustling above them. He looked up to see the giant, luminous animal stirring in its sleep. Baz was stumbling to his feet. Simon stood, too, and stepped back, taking Baz’s arm. “Careful,” Baz hissed, jerking away from Simon and away from the fireplace behind them.

“Vampire,” Levi said smugly. “Flammable.” Levi’s eyes were closed now and his head was tipped against the wall. Cath looked at him for a moment. He opened an eye and nudged her leg with his knee. She hadn’t thought she was sitting that close.

Above them, the rabbit seemed to take on dimension and heft. It stretched its back legs against the sky and twitched its nose. Its ears quivered to attention.

“Are we supposed to catch it?” Baz asked. “Talk to it? Sing it a nice, magical song?”

“I don’t know,” Simon said. “I was awaiting further instructions.”

The rabbit opened one boulder-sized, pink eye.

“Here’s an instruction—do you have your sword?”

“Yes,” Simon said.

“Unsheathe it.”

“But it’s the Moon Rabbit…,” Simon argued. “It’s famous.”

The rabbit turned its head from the ceiling (on closer inspection, its eyes were more red than pink) and opened its mouth—to yawn, Simon hoped—revealing incisors like fangs, like long white knives.

“Sword, Snow. Now.” Baz was already holding his wand in the air like he was about to start conducting a symphony. He really was grandiose sometimes.

Simon held his right hand over his hip and whispered the incantation the Mage had taught him. “In justice. In courage. In defense of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good.”

He felt the hilt materialize in his hand. It wouldn’t always come, the Mage had warned him; the blade had a mind of its own. If Simon called it in the wrong situation, even in ignorance, the Sword of Mages wouldn’t answer.

The hare reached with its forepaw almost timidly toward the floor of the nursery—then fell from the ceiling in a graceful lump, like a pet rabbit shuffling off a sofa.

“Don’t strike,” Simon said. “We still don’t know its intentions.… What are your intentions?” he shouted. It was a magic rabbit—perhaps it could talk.

The rabbit cocked its head, as if in answer, and shrieked at the empty spot in the sky.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Simon said. “Just … calm down.”

“Crowley, Snow, are you going to ask it to heel next?”

“Well, we’ve got to do something.”

“I think we should run.”

The rabbit was crouching between them and the door. Simon reached for his wand with his left hand. “Calm down, Please!” he shouted, trying the powerful word again. The rabbit sent a stream of angry spittle in his direction.

“Yes, all right,” Simon said to Baz, “we run. On the count of three.”

Baz had already made a break for the door. The rabbit screeched at him but wouldn’t turn its back on Simon. It swiped at Simon’s legs with a deadly-looking claw.

He managed to jump clear, but the hare immediately aimed at him from the other direction. When it cuffed him on the head, Simon wondered if Baz would even bother to bring back help. It probably wouldn’t matter; no one would ever get here in time. Simon swung his sword at the rabbit, slicing it, and it pulled back its paw as if it’d caught a thorn there. Then the beast rose up onto its haunches, practically howling.

Simon scrambled to his feet … and saw ball after ball of fire catch in the rabbit’s white fur.

“You filthy, bloody rodent!” Baz was shouting. “You’re supposed to be a protector. A good-luck charm. Not a fucking monster. To think I used to make cakes for you and burn incense.… I take back the cakes!”

“You tell him,” Simon said.

“Shut up, Snow. You’ve got a wand and a sword, and you choose to wag your useless tongue at me?”

Simon swung his sword again at the rabbit. In a fight, he always favored his sword over his wand.

In between balls of fire magic, Baz was trying paralyzing spells and painful curses. Nothing but the fire seemed to make a difference.

The sword was working—Simon could hurt the rabbit—but not enough. He may as well have been scratching at it with an embroidery needle.

“I think it’s immune to magic!” Baz yelled, just as the rabbit charged toward him.

Simon ran up the hare’s back and tried to sink his sword through the dense fur at its scruff. The blade slid along its hide without piercing it.

Baz charged, too, casting his wand aside and leaping onto the rabbit’s chest. The animal thrashed, and Simon grabbed its neck and held on. He caught glimpses of Baz through the frenzy of fur and fang. The rabbit was swinging at Baz with its teeth, and Baz was holding on to a long ear—bashing at its nose with his arm. Then Baz’s head disappeared into the rabbit’s fur. The next time Simon saw a flash of him, the other boy’s face was painted red with blood.

“Baz!” Simon lost his grip, and the rabbit threw him across the room. He landed on the ring of futons and tried to roll with the impact. When he picked himself up again, he saw that the rabbit was flailing around on its back, all four paws tearing at the air. Baz lay across its stomach like he was hugging a giant stuffed animal—the white fur around his head a bloody mess.

“No,” Simon whispered. “Baz. No!” He ran toward the rabbit, holding his sword with both hands over his head, then plunged it with all his strength into one red eye. The rabbit collapsed, utterly limp, a paw falling into the fire.

“Baz,” Simon croaked, tugging at the other boy’s arm. He expected Baz to be limp, too, but he wouldn’t budge. Simon tried again, digging his fingers into Baz’s slim shoulder. Baz reached back and pushed him off. Simon fell to the ground, confused.

That’s when he noticed that Baz was pressing his face into the rabbit’s neck. Nursing at it. There were gashes along the hare’s throat and ear, much deeper than anything Simon had accomplished with his sword. Baz hiked his knees up the rabbit’s chest and pushed its giant maw to the side, craning his head deeper into the gore at its neck.

“Baz…,” Simon whispered, slowly finding his feet. For a moment—for a few moments—he just watched.

Finally Baz seemed … finished.

He dropped down off the rabbit and stood there, with his back to Simon. Simon watched as Baz reached for the Mage’s Sword and slid it bloodily from the beast’s eye.

Baz turned then, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin in the air. His face, his whole front—his school tie and his white shirt—were slick with blood. It dripped from his nose and his chin, and was already puddling under the hand that held the sword. So much blood. As wet as if he’d just stepped out of the bath.

Baz tossed the sword, and it fell at Simon’s feet. Then he rubbed his sleeve across his mouth and eyes. It just moved the blood around, not away.

Simon didn’t know what to say. How to respond to … this. All this bloody information.

He picked up the sword and wiped it clean on his cloak. “You all right?”

Baz licked his lips—like they were dry, Simon thought—and nodded his head.

“Good,” Simon said. And realized that he meant it.

Cath stopped reading. Levi’s eyes were open. He was watching her. His mouth was closed, but not tight—and he looked almost excited.

“Is that the end?” he asked.

She held on to the laptop. “Is this why you like me?”

“Why?”

“Because I read to you?”

“Do I like you because you know how to read?”

“You know what I mean.”

His smile widened, so she could just see his teeth. It was strange to look at him like this. Up close. Like she was allowed to.

“Partly,” he said.