Carry On

Pe

Then she steps forward. She points at a string circle. “And in Newcastle…,” she says softly. “And a bunch of tiny ones on the coast. The holes changed that year. My dad says they metastasized.”

“But—but I wasn’t any of those places!” I sputter. “I’ve never been at the site of a new dead spot before last night.”

Baz turns to me. “I don’t think you have to be there. To make it happen.”

“Simon,” Pe

“Our fifth year,” Baz says. “Spring 2013.”

“Here,” Pe

“Are you saying I’m the Humdrum?” I step away from them. “Because I’m not the Humdrum.”

Baz meets my eyes. “I know. I know you’re not. But Simon, listen. The Humdrum told us—he said he doesn’t take the magic, that he’s ‘what’s left when you’re done.’”

“I don’t even know what that means, Baz!” I feel like I might go off right now. My fingertips are buzzing.

“It means, the Humdrum doesn’t take the magic, Simon—you do.”

Pe

“Exactly,” Baz says. “Probably wearing a shitty T-shirt and cast-off jeans—and bouncing that bloody ball.”

They’re looking at each other now. “Simon went off,” Pe

Baz nods eagerly.

“—he tore a hole in the magickal atmosphere!” Pe

“A Simon-shaped hole…,” Baz agrees.

I hold my head in both hands, but it still doesn’t make sense. “Are you saying I created an evil twin?”

“More of an impression,” Baz says.

“Or an echo,” Pe

Baz tries to explain it again: “It’s like you tore so much magic out at once, you left fingerprints.… Whole-being prints.”

“But—,” I say.

“But…” Pe

“So is the earth,” Baz says, “but if you clear-cut a forest, the ecosystem doesn’t just bounce back.”

“This doesn’t make sense!” I say. “Even if I did tear a me-shaped hole, how did it come alive? And why is it a monster?”

“Is it alive?” Pe

“And is it a monster?” Baz wonders.

“We’re talking about the Insidious Humdrum!” I shout.

“We’re talking about a hole,” Baz says calmly. “Think about it. What do holes want?”

“To be filled?” I guess. I know I’m not keeping up.

“Crowley, no,” he says. “To grow. Everything wants to grow. If you were a hole, all you’d want is to get bigger.”

“That’s it, Baz!” Pe

He shoves her off after a second. “Careful. I’m also a vampire.”

I slump against one of the walls; a few pins fall to the floor. “I still don’t get it.”

“Simon,” Pe

“Theoretically,” Baz says.

“Theoretically,” she agrees.

“But…,” I say. There must be more “but’s.” “Why does the Humdrum keep trying to kill me? Why send every dark creature in the UK after me?”

“He isn’t trying to kill you,” Baz says. “He’s trying to get you to go off.”

“And use more magic,” Pe

Baz holds his hand up to the maps behind him. “To make a bigger hole.”

I stare at them.

They stare at me.

They still seem so proud of themselves—and excited—as if they’re not staring at the greatest threat the magickal world has ever known.

“We have to tell the Mage,” I say.

Baz’s face falls. “Over my dead body.”

75

BAZ

“If this is true,” Snow says, “if even a little bit of it is true—we can’t keep it a secret. We have to go to the Mage.”

I knew this was coming.

I knew this would be his solution.

I’ve known from the begi

“The fuck we do,” I say. “We have to go to the numpties.”

“The numpties,” Snow says. As if he can’t believe what I’m saying. “You just told me that I’m destroying the World of Mages, and now you want to go numpty hunting?”

“We have an agreement,” I remind him. I try to sound urgent, not desperate.

Snow looks at me fu

I sigh bitterly. “Not that agreement, you twit—you promised to help me find my mother’s killer.”

“I will help you find your mother’s killer,” Snow says, “after we figure out how to stop this.” His head falls back. “Maybe. I mean. If I’m still alive then, if the Mage doesn’t decide the answer is just ending me.”

“Simon,” Bunce admonishes.

“He’ll have to get in line,” I say, “once my family finds out what’s happening—once the whole World of Mages finds out. The Old Families already think you and the Mage are scheming to take their magic. The person who takes you out will be given a crown.”

“Baz,” Pe

“I suppose you think it will be you,” Snow says, narrowing his eyes.

“We have a truce,” I say, my voice rising. “The shit has already hit the fan, and if we don’t solve my mother’s murder now, we never will. And you promised, Simon. I promised.”

“There are more important things to worry about right now!” Snow shouts at me.

“Nothing is more important than my mother!”

76

BAZ

I only remember where the numpties live because Fiona said, “Christ, what a mess, and right under Blackfriars Bridge—this city has gone straight to hell,” when she was dragging me to her car.

It doesn’t take long to get to Blackfriars from Hounslow. It’s Christmas Day, and there’s no one out. I park the car and clear a path in the snow to the head of the bridge.

I’m starting to feel a bit panicky.

I know I shouldn’t have come alone, but anyone I could have asked for help would have dragged me back to the matter at hand—the fact that my family is now magickally homeless. Even Fiona wouldn’t have listened to me today.

Simon and Pe

All right. It’s all right.

I’m afraid—but that’s reasonable. You try going back to the place where you were kept in a coffin until you couldn’t remember what light looked like.

But I’m in a better position than I was last time. I’m conscious, for one. I have my wand. And my wits about me.

The door to the numpties’ lair is easy to find—it’s basically just a hole in the pilings. I slide down some mud, and my stomach churns at the smell. Wet paper and decay. I’m in the right place.

It’s too dark down here even for me to see, so I hold my hand and start a fire in my palm, illuminating a circle of nothing around me.

I let the flames grow larger … and see a lot more nothing. I’m in a chamber full of debris. Hunks of pavement. Large stones. None of it’s familiar; I was unconscious when I was brought here and mostly unconscious when I left. I don’t even really know what the numpties look like.

I clear my throat. Nothing happens.

I clear it again. “My name is Basilton Pitch,” I call out loudly. “I’m here to ask you a question.”

One of the big rocky things starts to tremble. I hold the fire in its direction. And my wand.

The big rocky thing opens like a Transformer into a bigger rocky thing that seems to be wearing a giant oatmeal-coloured jumper. “You,” it rumbles in a voice like roadworks.

It’s a familiar rumble. I feel the walls closing in on me, and my mouth tastes like stale blood. (Blood’s thicker when it stales; it clots.)