“That’s me,” I say again. A bit thuggishly. “Do you want to see my ID?”
He sighs and drops the sign. “If you want to get dropped off in the middle of nowhere, mate, I’m not going to argue with you.”
I get in the back of the taxi and sling my bag down on the seat next to me. The driver starts the engine and turns on the radio. I close my eyes; I get sick in the back of cars on good days, and today isn’t a good day—I’m nervous, and all I’ve had to eat is a chocolate bar and a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps.
Almost there now.
This is the last time I’ll be doing this. Coming back to Watford in autumn. I’ll still come back, but not like this, not like I’m coming home.
“Candle in the Wind” comes on the radio, and the driver sings along.
Candle in the wind is a dangerous spell. The boys at school say you can use it to give yourself more, you know, stamina. But if you emphasize the wrong syllable, you’ll end up starting a fire you can’t put out. An actual fire. I’d never try it, even if I had call for it; I’ve never been good with double entendres.
The car hits a pothole, and I lurch forward, catching myself on the seat in front of me.
“Belt up,” the driver snaps.
I do, taking a look around. We’re already out of the city and into the countryside. I swallow and stretch my shoulders back.
The taxi driver goes back to singing, louder now—“never knowing who to turn to”—like he’s really getting into the song. I think about telling him to belt up.
We hit another pothole, and my head nearly bangs against the ceiling. We’re on a dirt road. This isn’t the usual way to Watford.
I glance up at the driver, in the mirror. There’s something wrong—his skin is a deep green, and his lips are red as fresh meat.
Then I look at him, as he is, sitting in front of me. He’s just a cabbie. Gnarled teeth, smashed nose. Singing Elton John.
Then back at the mirror: Green skin. Red lips. Handsome as a pop star. Goblin.
I don’t wait to see what he’s up to. I hold my hand over my hip and start murmuring the incantation for the Sword of Mages. It’s an invisible weapon—more than invisible, really; it’s not even there until you say the magic words.
The goblin hears me casting, and our eyes meet in the mirror. He grins and reaches into his jacket.
If Baz were here, I’m sure he’d make a list of all the spells I could use in this moment. There’s probably something in French that would do nicely. But as soon as my sword appears in my hand, I grit my teeth and slash it across the front seat, taking off the goblin’s turning head—and the headrest, too. Voilà.
He keeps driving for a second; then the steering wheel goes wild. Thank magic there’s no barrier between us—I unbuckle my seat belt and dive over the seat (and the place where the goblin’s head used to be) to grab the wheel. His foot must still be on the gas: We’re already off the road and accelerating.
I try to steer us back, but I don’t actually know how to drive. I jerk the wheel to the left, and the side of the taxi slams into a wooden fence. The airbag goes off in my face, and I go flying backwards, the car still smashing into something, probably more fence. I never thought I’d die like this.…
The taxi comes to a stop before I come up with a way to save myself.
I’m half on the floor, and I’ve hit my head on the window, then the seat. When I eventually tell Penny about all this, I’m skipping the part where I took off my safety belt.
I stretch my arm up over my head and pull the door handle. The door opens, and I fall out of the taxi onto my back in the grass. It looks like we’ve gone though the fence and spun out into a field. The engine is still running. I climb to my feet, groaning, then reach into the driver’s window and turn it off.
It’s a spectacle in there. Blood all over the airbag. And the body. And me.
I go through the goblin’s jacket, but don’t find anything besides a packet of gum and a carpet knife. This doesn’t feel like the Humdrum’s work—there’s no itchy sign of him in the air. I take a deep breath to make sure.
Probably just another revenge run, then. The goblins have been after me ever since I helped the Coven drive them out of Essex. (They were gobbling up drunk people in club bathrooms, and the Mage was worried about losing regional slang.) I think the goblin who successfully offs me gets to be king.
This one won’t be getting a crown. My blade’s stuck in the seat next to him, so I yank it out and let it disappear back into my hip. Then I remember my bag and grab that, too, wiping blood on my grey trackie bottoms before I open the bag to fish out my wand. I can’t just leave this mess here, and I don’t think it’s worth saving anything for evidence.
I hold my wand over the taxi and feel my magic scramble up to my skin. “Work with me here,” I whisper. “Out, out, damned spot!”
I’ve seen Penelope use that spell to get rid of unspeakable things. But all it does for me is clean some blood off my trousers. I guess that’s something.
The magic is building up in my arm—so thick, my fingers are shaking. “Come on,” I say, pointing. “Take it away!”
Sparks fly out of my wand and fingertips.
“Fuck me, come on…” I shake out my wrist and point again. I notice the goblin’s head lying in the grass near my feet, back to its true green again. Goblins are handsome devils. (But most devils are fairly fit.) “I suppose you ate the cabbie,” I say, kicking the head back towards the car. My arm feels like it’s burning.