Baz

Simon Snow was running away from me. Again.

Except this time it wasn't my fault.

I know what you're thinking. That whole unreliable narrator crap. That I've probably murdered Snow and buried his infuriatingly handsome body in some deep dark pit in the Wavering Wood.

But this time it really wasn't me (Sadly. That's a pretty good daydream.)

This time it was the swarm of songbirds twittering aggressively above his head like some kind of warped halo that were most likely about to tear him to pieces. Nice and slowly.

I didn't see the birds arrive. Maybe if I had I might have been the least bit prepared for the sight of Snow bursting through the weathered apple trees, his arms outstretched like he was trying to grasp at the air. For a fleeting second I pictured a shitty romantic comedy where he ran over the crest of the hill and collapsed at my feet in some kind of declaration of love. Then I snapped back to reality.

"Snow, what the f**k are you doing?"

He looked at me murderously for a moment and then remembered what he was running from. On this rare occasion, not me.

Snow gesticulated frantically toward the cluster of trees.

"Whisperwings" he panted. "Coming...this way. Think...it's the Humdrum."

Whisperwings are tiny. Their bodies are only about the length of your pinkie, but that doesn't mean they aren't merciless killing machines. One of the biggest mistakes people make with whisperwings is not looking past the body to the beak. It's serrated and deadly sharp like some kind of glorified breadknife. They are one of the few creatures that the magickal world knows about that kill us purely for pleasure...or if they're bored. They like to pick victims apart methodically. One ear, another ear, an eye, until there's nothing left of you, unless they don't like the taste of you. Whisperwings are surprisingly fussy eaters.

A faint chirping noise comes from the trees and Snow, panicked, grabs my hand. I don't even notice until I look down and see his fingers entwined with mine. I vaguely hear my heart speed up a little. Snow doesn't even seem to notice that he's holding my hand. He's absorbed in thought, his brow furrowed. With the smallest effort I pull my hand from his. The tiniest motion, yet it means so much. To me. Not to him. Never to him.

Snow looks up, startled. His face is flushed pink from running, like he's plastered bubblegum onto his cheeks. It's such an innocent colour that I have to resist the urge to reach down and touch it (despite his failed attempts at make like a plant, I'm still taller than him.)

"Don't touch me, Snow."

He opens his mouth (His lips are chapped. They always are, even in summer ) to say something – probably an invariably weak insult – and that's when the birds explode from the trees.

Simon

I shouldn't have done that.

It's a really stupid thing to think when you're in mortal danger, but that's the only thing going through my head as I sprint away from the whisperwings, Baz racing ahead of me. Even when he's running away from certain death he still manages to be graceful. It helps that he runs like a bloody cheetah.

Ishouldn'thavedoneitIshouldn'thavedoneitIshouldn't –

"Snow, do you have any kind of f*****g plan or are we going to keep running until we fall off the side of the earth ?" Baz yells furiously.

The incessant humming of the birds grows louder and louder with every passing second. It's less twittering now, more like shrieks and screams. It's loud, and wild, and really really terrifying.

No ordinary magic could defeat these creatures. No sword could destroy them. It would take something bigger. The magickal equivalent of dynamite.

I smile.

This was made for me.

"How long do we have before they catch up to us?" I shout.

"Do I look like a mathematician, Snow? I don't bloody know!"

I look at him. His eyes look like they're on fire. Like him.

I look at him, and I raise my eyebrows.

Baz looks like he wants to rip my eyebrows off, but he says "One minute. Max."

One minute.

I close my eyes, and concentrate.

I am not like other magicians. Other magicians can channel their magic. It bends to their will. It is theirs and theirs alone.

I'm not like that.

I have no control over my magic. It explodes out of me with the force of an atom bomb. It's f*****g ruthless.

It doesn't feel mine.

It doesn't feel like it belongs to me.

But right now, I really need it to.

And so I stop running.

Baz

For the second time today I shout at him "Snow, what the f**k are you doing?"

He's stopped dead, frozen. He's clenched his fists and I can see from here his nails are biting into his palms. His eyes look like they've been locked shut.

I inhale sharply. He's going to go off.

When Snow goes off, there's nothing you can do but run. Or stand there.. The air gets closer. Your mouth tastes metallic. It's like everything is about to be struck by lightning and you can just feel it coming.

Right now, I can just feel it coming.

The whisperwings are getting closer and closer. Snow's so tense, he looks like he's about to snap. Closer, closer, closer until –

"Sno-"

I'm smashed backwards by a wave of pure magic. My head connects with a tree trunk and suddenly everything looks blurry at the edges. I can feel my vision darkening, like the end of a movie before the credits.

The last thing I remember seeing is a feather floating down gently from the sky.