Fangirl

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.
    Cath looked anxiously over his shoulder. “Is