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he thought to himself that the line might be a little smooth. After all, it had gotten him a girl, the girl. The only girl Simon wanted.
Ragnor had been yelling at kids to get off his lawn before lawns were invented.
Magnus kept misplacing his baby. This did not seem a good sign for the future. Magnus was sure you were meant to keep a firm grip on their location.
“I’m not mad. If we’d had sex, and you’d forgotten—which, by the way, I assure you would not be possible, demon amnesia or no demon amnesia—maybe I’d be mad.”
George was going to the London Institute, where, they said, a Lovelace was always welcome.
“But there’s something else I’ve never had,” Simon added. “At least until now.” “What’s that?” “A brother.”
Even Jon Cartwright looked proud of, and a little nervous for, the mundanes at the front of the chamber—and when Simon caught him locking eyes with Marisol and pressing two fingers to his lips and then his chest, it seemed almost right.
He knew what George was, what he was meant to be, and what he deserved. “Ave atque vale, George Lovelace, child of Nephilim,” he whispered. “Forever and ever, my brother, hail and farewell.”
One was a girl about his age; she had long blond hair, brown eyes, and the old-timey petticoats of a BBC duchess. The other was George, and he was smiling at Simon. The girl’s hand was on his shoulder, and there was something kind about the gesture, something warm and familiar.
