Not really. She contented herself with a shrug. He kept changing on her, she couldn’t keep up. “I th-think I sh-should—”
“There you are!” Ruby chirped, her lacquered nails digging into Cami’s shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”
When Cami turned back, he had vanished into the crowd. Just evaporated, and good luck getting Rube to slow down enough for Cami to explain. So she just held the sweating-cold bottle of limon to her hot-throbbing forehead while Ruby, glowing with excitement, scolded her and dragged her along, telling her all about this fabulous shop where they could get earrings and hair ribbons nobody else had, and Ellie was just going to expire of joy.
NINE
THAT FRIDAY NIGHT SHE TYPED OUT THE STORY, hesitated, and punched the send key.
There was a long pause, and Cami was seriously considering chewing her nails as she watched the Babbage’s flat glowing screen. Rain fingered the window, heavier than a mist but not heavy enough to be a downpour. The Dead Harvest was probably going to be cold and wet this year. All the costumed revelers would be buying turnaside charms to keep dry, and even the lure of free candy and tiny cheap flash-loud charmpoppers dropped into bags like party favors wouldn’t bring so many of them to the door to scream their traditional Trick’s-treating!
On the other hand, the house parties would be spectacular this year. If Nico was home still, he might even drive her to a few. She would go as the Moon, of course, just like every year. The costume was simple, it covered everything, and even had a veil. Maybe Nico would go as Hellequin again, prodding sinners and Twists toward the underworld as fausts leapt to obey his every bidding. Last year he’d been Gaston Wolfhunter, complete with ax and staff, and it had been a job keeping Ruby distracted enough not to snap at him. He hadn’t made it easier by poking at her while driving between parties, and Rube had announced flatly that she would never be in a car with Nico Vultusino again.
Cami heaved a sigh. The white room sighed around her too, smelling of beeswax and lemon polish.
Finally the cursor blinked, and the BlueEllen is typing message showed up, faint and sparkling. They were supposed to be babchatting about Calc homework, but Cami had hijacked the conversation, for once.
At least Ellie let her get it all out, and fingers on keyboards didn’t stutter. One of these days someone was going to figure out how to shrink a Babbage so Cami could stick it in her pocket and have it talk for her.
Wouldn’t that be a dream. Of course, they’d have to discover how to ground it so a stray burst of Potential didn’t fry everything. Once they did that, electronics were going to get a lot better. If the Great Tesla hadn’t Twisted in 1919 when the Reeve hit, maybe he would have figured it out. There were legends of him heading into the Waste instead of waiting to be hunted down as a Twist, and the blue Potential-lightning out in the dangerous wilderness was called Tesla’s Folly.
Ellie finished typing.
BlueEllen: So you’re going to see him again, right?
CV528491: I dunno. Should I?
BlueEllen: Was he cute?
CV528491: I guess.
BlueEllen: What EXACTLY did he say?
CV528491: He asked me if I wanted the right kind of trouble.
BlueEllen: THEN HELL YES.
Well, that was as unequivocal as it got. Especially from Ellie.
CV528491: I dunno. What did you get for #4?
BlueEllen: Do NOT change the subject. When you gonna see him?
CV528491: He works here. I guess he’ll be around.
BlueEllen: You need a plan.
CV528491: I have a million plans. Unfortunately none of them are applicable.
BlueEllen: I can bring a quart of charmsauce and a couple grenades.
CV528491: You have grenades?
BlueEllen: I could always use one of the Strep’s tantrum tampons.
Cami grinned. “Tantrum tampon” had been one of the few times she hadn’t stuttered, and it had made Ellie laugh instead of crying. There weren’t many jokes just the two of them shared, without Ruby being in on it . . . but that was one of them. And she had hugged Ellie so tightly that evening, the first time the Strep went all jack-mad on her.
BlueEllen: But seriously. You need a plan for this. It involves a boy.
CV528491: What I NEED is to finish that stupid Hist paper. #4?
BlueEllen: Let me check.
Ellie took the hint, then, and kept it to Calculus. She also suggested Cami trash the outline and just get Ruby to write the goddamn thing. She’s already doing mine, Ellie pointed out, and just then RubyRedHood popped up in the Juno intrachat and Ellie, being mod for this turn, hit the “accept” button.
RubyRedHood: What did I miss?
Ellen, thank God, didn’t tell her. By the end of the chat, the HC Calc homework was done and Ruby had decided she was going to do all three papers, because she liked it. Cami would take the French homework, and that was that. For someone with a tongue that tripped over itself, she was remarkably okay at French. It helped that it was all in the back of the throat, instead of in front where said tongue would mess it up.
She leaned back in her chair. It was a gray, raw afternoon, and in a little bit she would go visit Papa. He had been closeted with Stevens and Nico since she got home from school, and that was probably bad. Maybe Nico had been acting up. Again.
Well, I can’t watch him all the time. He doesn’t listen like he used to, either.
She chewed at her lower lip. Of course she knew what they were talking about.
The disappearances. Her shudder made the chair squeak.
The newscasts and tabloids were full of them, three children with high Potential vanishing from their houses in the last two weeks. Sometimes, when things happened, the Family would quietly step forward and help the cops figure things out. If it turned out to be a ring of fausts or a mad Twist taking kids, the Family would . . . arrange . . . things, and Nico would tell her just enough so that she knew, without having to worry.
As if he didn’t know she would worry no matter what he told her.
Vanishing children were bad for business, some of the Family would say. Cami personally thought it was bad for anyone. And not every kid who disappeared had it as lucky as the Vultusino foundling.
She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head.
White walls, silky blond ashwood furniture, thin gauzy white curtains under the thicker cream-brocade ones. The carpet was cream instead of snow. It was like the surface of an egg, and Marya had moaned about putting a child in such a room. But Cami’s disorderliness had been entirely confined to the kitchen and the playroom on the first floor, with its bright primary colors, blocks and toys and every variety of messmaking a little girl could want. Wherever she’d been before Papa found her, she had learned not to mar a blank white surface.
A flash of noise filled her head, and she smelled fresh-cut apples. Maybe Marya was baking and Potential, or just the heating duct, was carrying the aroma up here. Cami pushed away from the Babbage, wandered to the wide south-facing window. Her schoolbag was a dimple of darkness on the bed and the closet was ajar, showing clean Juno uniforms, white shirts, sweaters. She’d draped a long gauzy blue scarf—originally bought for Ellie, but torn now—over the full-length mirror, and she avoided looking through the gauze with the ease of long habit.
Mirrors weren’t quite . . . safe. For one thing, Potential behaved a little oddly around any reflective surface. They were called soulcatchers for a reason, Ellie had remarked once. There’s all sorts of stories. Didn’t you know?
Cami just didn’t like them, that was all. Meeting her own eyes was never a comfortable experience, and sometimes she wondered that Nico and her friends had such an easy time with it.
The window seat was white watered silk, and she braced a knee on it, her breath touching the glass with flowering mist. Below, some of the garden boys were working at the margins of the pond and the rose garden, in the hedge maze dewed with rain. Even in the cold months there was ple
nty for them to do. Nico didn’t even notice them, the way he didn’t notice the army of maids Marya fussed at to keep the whole house shining.
That’s the difference. He can’t see, I can’t look away.
A sharp unpleasant shudder raced down her back with small prickling feet. One of the garden boys had messy black hair. He wore a white T-shirt even in the chill, steam lifting from his skin as he worked at trimming a hedge with what looked like a giant pair of scissors. He tossed his hair back with a flick of his head, a habitual movement, and Cami recoiled as if scalded. She was on the third floor; they couldn’t see up here in the afternoon, even with the golden electric light shining behind her.
Here she was, barefoot in a pair of jeans that probably cost more than the garden boy made in a week, her pale-pink long-sleeved silk T-shirt barely meeting Ruby’s standards of fashionable—expensive, yes, but not nearly eye-catching enough—but also probably worth more than a day’s wages for him. He’d be sent to college, sure, and maybe end up a kolkhoz smallcharmer or low-level industrial tech.
But right now he was out in the rain, while she was warm, and dry, and moaning about homework. Not to mention looking forward to a party and presents and all the accoutrements of a cushioned life on the Hill.
Why would he say anything to her? Some guys thought the scars made her easy, or that she could introduce them to Family. And all the Family boys were never good enough for Nico’s approval. I know what they’re thinking, he would say darkly, and scowl. Asking just how he knew what they were thinking was guaranteed to make him stamp and be difficult. And God forbid she actually asked what exactly he thought they were thinking.
She kept breathing on the glass. Maybe a pattern would show itself in the condensation, something that would solve the problem.
What problem?
Her fingertip rested on the glass. It wasn’t quite a star, she decided. Star-shaped, but not a star. And there were little things, like seeds. She traced it, rapt concentration taking over as her finger followed an invisible thread. The window-glass shivered.
Below, in the hedge maze, a dark head paused. Tor looked up, and black eyes flashed.
Cami snatched her hand back, guiltily. She ducked as if he could see her, three stories above in her eggshell bower. The vapor on the window vanished, leaving the pattern unfinished. What had she been thinking of?
The design on his necklace. A star. Only not a star.
Cami slid off the window seat. Her legs were trembling slightly. For some reason, the image of a round, juicy, ripe red apple had filled her head. Was Marya baking? It was silly, but this particular apple loosened her knees and made the rest of her cold all over, as if she was outside in the rain too.
Not rain. Snow. Lots of snow. Her wrists ached, the old scars twinging.
She shook her head. There was a soft respectful tap at the door. “Miss Cami?” It was a servant, a cheerful brunette girl who was often in the hallways dusting in a black uniform and a starched white cap. “Miss Cami, Sir is asking for you.”
Cami let out a long shaky breath. Papa was done with Nico and Stevens. It was time to go comb his hair and talk to him. She could talk to him about Ellie and Ruby, maybe. That was a safe subject.
Southking Street, Torin Beale, and apples were definitely not safe. Who could she tell? What did she have to talk about, other than a persistent feeling of cold sinking dread?
Her hand was on the colorless crystal doorknob. Something splatted against her window.
Cami jumped, but there was nothing. Not even a mark on the rain-soaked glass.
“Miss Cami?” Another soft tap.
“Y-yes.” Her throat was dry. Her head ached, suddenly, and her wrists gave another flare of pain, as if sharp metal was tightening around them. She managed to twist the knob and summoned up a pale smile for the worried-looking maid. “Th-thank y-you. Y-Y-Y-Yol-landa, right?”
The brunette beamed, her round face splitting with delight. “Yesmum. Thank you.” Blushing fiercely, she retreated, and Cami hurried in her wake, padding barefoot and trembling toward the Red Room and an old man’s labored breathing.
TEN
THE BIG, SOFT FINGERTIPS ARE AT MY THROAT. LONG broad hands, the fingers slightly swollen and manicured, and Her face is a white moon with golden hair fountaining over it. She traces my windpipe, the thin skin and ridges of cartilage underneath. The buzzing in my head is full of that funny smell—apples and heavy incense, a drugging smoke that makes my entire body a slow, lumbering mass. I am so small, and I am being spread out, too thin, butter scraped over too much bread. That cannot be right, for I am curled forward, my head on Her pillow, our hair mingling as She settles next to me. Dust rises, each speck of it glowing with Her presence, and under the drugging incense is a hint of sharpish rot.
But I do not care. It is soft here, but so cold. She is the only heat, and it is a chill that burns.
This one’s heart, She whispers, Her red lips shaping the words so slowly. You love Me, don’t you? My Nameless.
Oh, I do. I cannot help myself. We are wound together, Her palm against my tiny chest, everything in me rising to meet Her. She is gravity, She is dim light and life and love, and I make small piping sounds as She caresses me. This pleases Her, and Her nails scrape lightly, sliding through layers of pinhole-eaten velvet brought from Above. Only the big ones go Above, the littles are not allowed. The bigs bring back food and cloth, shinies to please Her and refuse for the littles to eat after the dogs are done.
Always after the dogs are done.
Sometimes, often enough, there is a new big one, to shave and to bring to Her for the oblivion She promises. A refugee from Above, where everything is too bright, too loud, too sharp, too deadly.
There is a steady persistent drip-drip-dripping, water on stone, and the badness is coming. Suddenly I am even smaller and a flood of chill ink is rising, its surface glittering with flecks of dusty phosphorescence, and as it creeps up my legs and reaches for my hips I hear the chanting. They worship Her, and She laughs, and the gleam is a glass knife, wicked and sharp. It flashes down, held in a muscled, tanned hand, a child’s scream is cut short, and Her laughter, Her laughter, it is bells and cruel beauty—
“Shhh.” Nico was on the bed, bare-shouldered, red sparks in his pupils. A wedge of golden electric light spilled in from the hall, and there was Marya, blue silk and her fey-woven shawl fluttering as she made helpless little movements with her hands. “Shh, Cami. It’s just a dream. You’re all right.”
“Nightmares again?” Trigger, a scarecrow with a mop of messy hair, an unusual shape because he wasn’t in a baggy, beaten sports jacket. His white T-shirt glowed, and he kept his right hand low, because there was a gun’s gleam clasped in it.
“S-s-s-s-so-sor-r—” The word wouldn’t come, it was a stone of panic in her throat, and the white bedroom shivered around her, trembling like oil on the surface of a puddle. Underneath that thin screen the bad blackness lived, it was rising, and as the dream shredded, Cami’s cheeks were slick and hot with tears.
“She’s okay,” Nico said over his shoulder. “You can go on back to bed.”
Marya was having none of it. “Little sidhe. Screaming so loud. Is it them? Are they here?”
Who? But Cami was shaking so hard, the question wouldn’t stay in her head.
“Shhh. Don’t.” Trigger had the feywoman’s arm. Marya’s eyes glowed with bluish foxfire over the smooth black from lid to lid—she must be upset, Cami thought, and another apology was caught and murdered by her stupid, treacherous, stuttering tongue.
Why can’t I TALK?
“Stop saying sorry.” Nico snapped his fingers sharply under her nose. “Book. Say book.”
It won’t work. This will be the time it stops working.
Marya resisted Trigger’s trying to hurry her out of the room. “If it’s them, little sidhe—they take the littles, and the hounds—”
Cami sobbed in a breath. Two.
“Get out,” Nico said quietl
y, but his tone rattled with menace. “Marya. Go on. Let Trigger take you back to the kitchen. All’s well here.”
“Cold iron,” Marya muttered. Her shawl moved on its own, the fringe slithering with cold sullen sounds. “Naughty little things.”
“Come on, Marya.” Trigger cast Nico a significant look over the feywoman’s drooping head, and there were other voices in the hallway. “She’s fine, it’s all right. Little girls have bad dreams sometimes.”
“Book.” Nico’s face was in front of hers, familiar in the darkness but strange with the red in his pupils, his canines touching his lower lip. “Come on, babygirl. Take a few breaths. No hurry.”
“S-s-sorry,” she managed, relieved that she could at least get that word out. Her hair was a sticky weight against her back; she had sweated and thrashed. Her arms hurt, a fierce dull ache centering on her wrists. Nico’s fingers were warm; he had her shoulders. Crouching on her bed as lightly as a cat, and his head made a small sideways sound, inquiring.
He could hear things she couldn’t, being Family.
The door swept closed, Trig saying something to whoever was out in the hall. Was the whole house awake? How loud had she screamed? Did Papa hear it, down in the Red Room? Was he now lying propped on pillows and staring, with the Kiss burning in his familiar-strange face? You could see he and Nico were related, closer even than the similarity between every Family member.
Except Cami. She didn’t look like anyone.
“Book,” Nico said, patiently. His pajama pants were worn at the knees, battered blue-striped ones she’d bought for him two Mithrusmases ago. The tang of cologne—or Papa’s aftershave—mixed with the healthy heat-haze of Nico, but overlaying it was a scrim of cigarette smoke and a copper breath. Either he’d Borrowed, or he’d been downing something with calf. “Don’t worry, Cami. We’ve got all night.”