How long would that last? The tabloids were going to have a field day. And of course, there would be whispers.
About Woodsdowne.
The chapel doors loomed in front of them, old dark wood worked with Mithrus’s tau cross and bull horns, the Magdalen’s sad eyes carved around them and rubbed with a stain that once had been bright crimson but now was a deep ochre. Like painted bones.
“It’s okay,” Ruby said, finally. Ellie kept gliding next to her, her arm through Ruby’s as if they were younger and gossiping instead of older and lonely, walking side by side with their physical proximity hiding a distance greater than the Waste.
Inside. Where it didn’t show.
“It doesn’t sound okay.” Ellie’s fingers tightened, just a little. “But when you want to, you know, talk, I’m here. Okay?”
They weren’t quite late, the organ was softly noodling under a rustling of bored Year 12 girls nevertheless glad of something that wasn’t class time. Cami was still standing, her long inky hair straight as a ruler, holding their usual bench. Uneasy Potential sparked and flirted along the wooden backs, despite the layer upon layer of suppressive charm meant to make sure the girls didn’t prank each other—or the teachers—into oblivion.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Ruby muttered. “Come on.”
Binksy Malone, blonde hair shining in the gentle golden light, elbowed one of her coterie and jerked a chin at Ruby. They both giggled, and it was middle school all over again. Except then, Ruby would have snarled.
Ellie’s eyes narrowed, and her fingers flicked along her other side, hidden from the Sisters up on the dais and in the gallery. There was a sharp crackle, lost in the rest of the sound, and Binksy’s perfectly manicured hand flew up to her mouth.
Good. I hope that stung.
“Didn’t know you could throw a popcharm that far,” Ruby whispered, keeping her lips still as the organ music petered out. Ancient Sister Alice Angels-Abiding, the music teacher, shuffled yellowed hymn-sheet pages and glanced over the chapel’s gloomy interior. Especially under the dampers. Wow.
“If she doesn’t shut up I’ll hex her hair off,” was Ellie’s muttered reply.
“Come on.” Cami motioned them into the bench, and when Mother Heloise, the principal and prime potentate of St. Juno’s, turned her beneficent round-faced smile upon the massed girls, Ellie was grinning broadly.
Ruby tried to smile, her face a cracked, unfamiliar mask. All through chapel, there was warmth on either side of her, Cami still and straight-backed, Ellie leaning against Ruby whenever they were seated.
How selfish was it, then, that Ruby still felt so cold?
TWENTY
HIGH CHARM CALC HOMEWORK WAS A BITCH TO DO on your own. Instead of curling up on her bed to do it, or tapping at her Babbage, she liked to spread it out on the kitchen table. Unfortunately, the breathless heat outside was creeping into the house, despite layers of coolcharming. Gran had even left a note that Ruby could refresh the coolcharms herself, despite the prohibition against Juno girls with unsettled Potential charming without supervision.
Which still wouldn’t have been so bad if Conrad hadn’t been hovering, his golden irises glittering. “Let’s go to the Park. You can do that later.”
“Gran expects me to keep my grades up.” She tried to concentrate, wrote the equation on a fresh piece of paper. The trouble was you never knew which ones were unsolvable if your Potential hadn’t settled, so you had to work each one at least twice before you could mark it correctly. Ell was a whiz at High Charm Calc, but without her on Babbage Ruby was left to her own devices.
At least it gave her brain something to focus on other than bodies in the Park.
“Come on. Don’t you want to have some fun?” Cajoling. He leaned against the counter, cloudy sunlight on his broad shoulders. If he just left her alone for a little while she could get this done.
“Looking for dead bodies does not sound fun. It sounds gruesome.” She worked the equation again, frowned as it came out the same. Made a notation on the worksheet, moved on to the next.
“I don’t want to look for dead bodies. I want to roam with you.” His hands worked against each other, knuckles cracking as the shift blurred and rippled under his skin. Ruby hunched her shoulders.
“Maybe after I finish this. But you have to let me finish.”
“Am I distracting you, schoolgirl?” He probably didn’t mean it to sound so dismissive. It was schoolgirl when she refused him something, and kingirl when she didn’t. “Maybe I should just leave.”
Which way was she supposed to take that? Ruby put her head down a little farther, feeling his hot gaze on her. Was he angry? “You could just let me finish this.”
The smoke in his scent was maybe anger. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the shift prickling under her own skin in response. Her skirt left her legs bare, but it was Juno wool, scratchy against the back of her thighs. Her blazer, draped over the back of the chair, held heat like a sponge even when she was only near it.
Whatever Conrad was going to say was interrupted by a tinkling charmbell. After that, three quick raps, and Ruby’s heart leapt with relief. She was on her feet and across the kitchen in a heartbeat, and the front door opened to reveal Thorne, his wheat hair a mess, a black tank top and the well-worn paint-splattered jeans he wore after school hugging his legs.
“Boo.” He slid in quickly, she slammed the door and popped a refresh of the nearest coolcharm off her fingers, snapping it right next to him so he’d feel a puff of fresh air. “Thanks.”
“Is it bad news?” She crossed her arms, fresh worry exploding in her stomach. “Gran’s at the office, so—”
“Nope.” He grinned, a wide white wolfish expression. “Just came to see you, pretty girl.”
Her own smile didn’t feel like a cracked mask now. “There’s iced tea in the fridge. Unsweetened, the kind you like.”
“Aren’t you hospitable.” It was meant kindly, but nobody else would have known. He raked his fingers back through his hair and followed her toward the kitchen. “The Grimtree here?”
“If you’re not rude, you can hang out with him while I finish my homework. High Charm Calc, I’ve got to get it done.”
“Sure. I’ll be polite as fuck.”
Her giggle cut off halfway as she stepped back into the kitchen. Conrad’s face was unreadable, and the smoky scent was stronger than ever.
“Thorne’s here. You remember him, right? You guys can hang out while I finish, and we can go rambling together.”
“Afternoon.” Thorne’s tone was neutral, and he headed for the fridge. “How are you liking New Haven, cousin?”
“Some parts are pretty.” Conrad’s chin lifted. “Others, not so much.”
“Same as everywhere.” Thorne grabbed a glass, turned to the fridge. “Let’s head to the living room. Give Rube some quiet so she can finish, and then we can have some fun.”
“I don’t think so.” Pleasant, but cold. “I’m going upstairs. Have fun without me. You probably will.”
Ruby almost gasped. Conrad headed straight for her, and she had to step aside or be knocked over. He gave her one cutting glance, then was gone. The stairs shuddered and the guest room door slammed behind him, rattling the entire cottage.
Thorne, standing in front of the open fridge, actually gaped. It wasn’t often that he looked stunned. He left the iced tea in there, and swung it shut. “I was perfectly polite,” he began, with the air of injured innocence he kept just for her. “You saw me!”
“I think he’s shy,” Ruby managed, faintly. “I mean . . .” She couldn’t quite pin down exactly what she meant.
“Maybe he misses his kin.” Thorne finally shut the door. “Been meaning to talk to you, anyway. You okay?”
No. “I guess.” She trudged back to the table, settled in her chair. Thorne pulled out the guest chai
r, avoiding Gran’s usual place even when she wasn’t home. She stared down at the scattered paper. “Are you?”
“Not really.” He watched as she picked up her pencil.
“Me either.” She sounded small and defeated even to herself. “Thorne . . .”
“Want me to wait in the living room?”
It occurred to her that Conrad was probably jealous of him, too. And if she was honest with herself, he probably should be. She snuck a glance at Thorne’s face, finding him gazing at the door to the hallway with an abstract expression.
What could she say? “I miss Hunter.” If they talked about that, they wouldn’t be talking about Conrad. Or anything else that was dangerous.
“So do I.” He rested his hands on the table. Still not looking at her. “I . . . Ruby, if you found out something—like someone wasn’t what you thought—what would you do?”
Uh-oh. She laid her pencil down again. So much for staying away from dangerous subjects. “What?”
“Like, if you found out something about this Grimtree—”
He can probably hear you. “Thorne, please. Gran expects me to at least try.”
“I don’t care what she expects.” He’d gone pale. “I care about you.”
It was the first time he’d said it so, well, openly. She stared, but he still wasn’t looking at her. Thorne watched the doorway to the hall as if something was going to come through it, someone he heard but Ruby couldn’t.
Something he feared.
“Would you take me instead of him?” His throat moved as he swallowed. His hands, loose and easy on the tabletop, didn’t so much as twitch, but she found herself nervously keeping them in her peripheral vision.
As if he were Conrad.
“I’d fight him,” Thorne said, very softly. “The old way, shift and claw. If you wanted. I know I’m not . . . I’m not Hunt, he could always make you laugh.” A deep breath. “But I can try.”
The sensation of being in a weird dreamworld where everything was reversed made all the breath leave her. Was this what being feytouched was like? There was little love lost between kin and the Children of Danu, but they’d been hunted together during the Age of Iron, and that sort of thing made them unwilling allies more often than not. Maybe she’d angered one somehow, and they’d hexed her for fun.
At least it wasn’t the roaring in her ears. “Thorne . . .” A pale whisper.
“Just think about it. Who knows, I may challenge him anyway. Something’s wrong, and I’m going to catch it.” He shoved his chair back. He still wouldn’t look at her. Ruby couldn’t get in enough air to speak. What did you do when you couldn’t breathe?
“Thorne . . .” She tried to find another word, any word, to slow him down. But he was already gone, without waiting for her to answer.
Maybe he was afraid of what she might say.
The front door closed softly, and she sat at the table, alternate waves of scalding and ice going through her. Her nose was full, and her eyes blurred with hot water.
Stop it. Look at your homework.
A drop spilled onto the worksheet, and she hurriedly brushed at her cheek as she heard footsteps on the stairs. Conrad, probably coming down to bug her again. Had he heard everything?
Maybe he had. If he did . . .
“You’re still here,” he said, from the door.
Ruby didn’t look up. “I have to finish my homework.”
Silence filled the kitchen, an invisible, dangerous fume like the bleedoff from a sylph-ether factory. She picked up her pencil, stared at the soft blue eraser at one end. The problems on the worksheet were spider squiggles. Moving as if charmed into sudden life, because she was blinking back more tears. Why?
If Thorne was serious . . . she would have to find some way of stopping him. How? It wasn’t like a Calc problem, a solution presenting itself as you followed all the steps. Once he got an idea in his head, it was set, and good luck changing anything.
Everything just kept going wrong. Hunter, a dead girl in the Park, Conrad . . .
You selfish bitch, Ruby. And she was. She couldn’t hide from herself.
Because she’d felt relieved when Thorne said it. As if someone else could handle the problem, when it was her own damn thing to fix.
“He’s a little too familiar with you,” Conrad finally said, quietly.
Don’t start. Please don’t start. How could she balance the two of them? Conrad wasn’t Hunter. She cleared her throat, swallowing more tears. “Mh.” A noncommittal noise.
“I don’t think you should talk to him.”
“Fine.” You can’t tell me what to do.
She bent over the paper and tried to concentrate again. Conrad just stood there, but Ruby didn’t stop until the garage door rattled, Gran coming home early. Which was Ruby’s signal to flee upstairs past a silent, watching Grimtree boy, and splash some cold water on her aching, flaming face.
TWENTY-ONE
SATURDAYS ON SOUTHKING STREET WERE CROWDED affairs, but since Ruby hadn’t been skipping to shop during the week, it was all she had. The press of everyone else who had a weekend day off to get their consumption on would have been all right, but it was still muggy and overcast, like breathing through a hot damp rag.
It wasn’t made any easier by the fact that Conrad, while unwilling to be left at home alone, apparently hated shopping.
“You have everything.” He looked good, at least—tanned and vital, white T-shirt, jeans on his long legs. “Why bother coming here?”
He kept scratching at the clan cuff on his left wrist as if it bugged him, but that was probably just nervousness. Some kin didn’t like crowds. It was hard to contain the shift with mere-humans, even charmers, bumping soft and tantalizing against you with every step.
Ruby loved it.
“But I might find something else,” she said for the tenth time, fingering a stack of thin silk blouses. The colors were all wrong, and the stall proprietor—mere-human, to be sure—had the lethargic, heavy-lidded look of a milqueweed smoker. The fabric was high quality, though, and she wondered if the man had paid import on it. There was an awful lot of silk coming in nowadays. Maybe she should ask Gran about that.
If she came home before Ruby went to bed tonight. The hunt for the killer wasn’t turning anything up, despite the boykin cousins searching the Park for clues or scent. Whoever it was, they had covered their tracks thoroughly.
And Thorne hadn’t been back to the cottage. She couldn’t get him on the phone, either. Maybe he was avoiding her.
Conrad actually sniffed, disdainfully. “Like what? You have more clothes than you could ever get around to, schoolgirl.” A faint note of disdain, and he bumped into her, a little harder than kinboys usually did. Ruby’s hip hit the folding table the stall’s wares were piled on, and the mere-human gave her a filthy look.
“Thanks.” She slipped sideways, joining the flow of the crowd with practiced skill, and he grabbed at her arm, fingers sinking in. A jolt went up her arm, and she inhaled sharply.
“Let’s go home.” His fingers eased up, but she still felt the bruise rising. He grabbed at her hand next, thrusting his fingers between hers, and she wondered if Avery ever did this to Ellie. She’d never seen Nico and Cami holding hands, but they didn’t have to, you could see as much shining in the air between them.
Conrad’s hand was fever-warm, and hard. Did Cami or Ellie ever feel small or vulnerable next to their . . . boyfriends?
Was he her boyfriend? He wasn’t a boytoy, that was for sure. He wasn’t a cousin, either. Thorne would have been behind her, watchful and silent, his glower enough to keep a lot of trouble away. Hunter would have been to her right, clowning around a little like a Dead Harvest jester, pointing things out she might like, cracking jokes.
He could always make you smile. Her vision blurred, and her skin itched. The shift was there, lu
rking, even under inimical daylight. “I don’t want to go home.”
“Then give me the keys.” He made a playful grab for her bag with his free hand, she turned away, almost stumbling into a jack with a leather jacket and weird, high, sharp cheekbones. Bone spurs, it looked like, and his cheeks were slicked with clear fluid, as if he was crying.
She looked hastily away, stepping closer to Conrad after all. There’s one big flaw in your plan. “How will I get home, then?”
“Call and I’ll come get you.”
That makes no sense at all. “Fat chance.” She tried to yank her hand away; maybe the movement surprised him, because his grasp tightened, small bones grinding together. “Ow!”
“Sorry.” His lower lip pushed out a little. Was he actually sulking?
If any of the cousins sulked, you just left them alone. The boytoys didn’t sulk, because as soon as they did, Ruby was gone, and no matter how many times they called, she didn’t answer. She couldn’t treat Conrad like that.
Right?
“Let go.” She succeeded in pulling her hand away. Her nose was full, and all the thrill of shopping had drained away like water from a broken vase.
“Aw, don’t cry, girlkin.” He slid an arm around her shoulders; the heat of him tried to be comforting but just made her sweat more miserably.
Her bra was going to chafe, and her jeans were already uncomfortable. Plus, her hair felt like a wet draggle, and it felt like there was a rash beginning on her nape. She should have put the whole curling mass up, but she liked the way it looked spilling over her shoulders, against the thin crimson T-shirt.
Not now, though. Now it was hot as hell, and she could tell the curls were going to either go flat or become an unmanageable mass. I love your hair, Cami always said, her touch gentle as she combed or braided. Mine just sits there.
He guided her along, her head down and her gaze fixed on the pavement while she struggled to swallow the rock in her throat. Breaking down in a sobbing heap on Southking Street just wasn’t done.