Nameless: A Tale of Beauty and Madness (11 page)

T
HE IRON MOVED RESTLESSLY, SENSING HER AND ALSO
testing him. He was allowed to be there, true . . . but the gate didn’t like it, not the way it liked Family.

Not the way it liked her, either.

She dropped her gaze, suddenly acutely aware that he was in a battered, scuffed tan leather jacket and jeans that probably did nothing against the cold. Aware as well of her black wool-and-cashmere coat just long enough to cover her skirt, a gift from Papa at Dead Harvest last year, and her expensive silver-buckled maryjanes. She edged for the gate, and he watched her.

“I’m not gonna bite you.” Now he sounded . . . what? Desperate? Angry, like Nico.

They’re not even remotely alike.

Then why did she think of them together? And why was she blushing, uncomfortable heat prickling at her throat?

“I kn-kn-know.” The words surprised her. She stepped over the threshold and the gate stopped quivering. “S-sorry.”

The snow was a blanket. Bare branches reached up, the driveway ribboning between their grasping hands. Hummocks and hillocks where there used to be gardens, a deceptive layer of white blurring everything. Waiting to catch an unwary foot, just like her goddamn tongue waited to trap the simplest words.

“You’re not like them.” His boots ground against the driveway, scraped free of ice and snow and sealed with charms. Had he maybe charmed part of it, too? She didn’t see Potential on him, but then again, hers was invisible too.

At least for now, and maybe once it settled too. You couldn’t ever tell with Potential.

What does he mean, not like them?
Family? Of course I’m not.
She shrugged, tucking her school scarf a little tighter and setting off for the house. Ruby
could
have taken her up to the door, but she’d been letting her off outside the gate instead. Cami didn’t blame her. Of course Rube was pissed when Cami said
no, not today
. Because Cami could always be relied on to give in and go with. It was her
job
.

“Hey. Look, I’m always saying the wrong thing to you.” He caught up with her. The gate screeched a little as it swung to, steel jaws closing gently. “I don’t know what to do. Help me out a little here, huh?”

Oh, man. Here it comes.
She swung to a stop and faced him, her heel digging into a patch of odd charming on the concrete, scraping roughly and striking a single colorless spark. A long strand of hair fell in her face, working its way free from the cap Marya had knitted her. “What.” The word came out whole and hard, on a puff of frost-laced breath. “Do you. Want?”

“Bingo.” His smile was instant, and it looked genuine. His nose was raw-red from the cold, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets, hunching his muscle-broad shoulders. “Hi. I’m Tor.”

I know that, do I look subnormal?
“I know.”

“And you’re Cami. You’re beautiful, and you don’t talk because you’re nervous. So people end up talking to you a lot, because you listen. And because they want things out of you.” He dug one toe into the pavement, stopped. Tilted his dark head. Snowflakes stuck to his hair, some melting. He was crowned with winter.

Well, don’t you get a prize.
Irritation stung her, but she kept her mouth shut. Instead, she just nodded. The wind grabbed at her knees, sinking into unprotected flesh—the cashmere was barely longer than her skirt, and the knee socks were pure wool but didn’t help as much as they could. She spared another nod, and started taking mental bets about what game he was playing. Would he want money? A date? Something to do with Nico, maybe—more than a garden boy’s scholarship?

If I went to public school, would Nico ever look at me?
Or would I be invisible to him, like the maids?

More and more these days, Cami was wondering about that.

“I want to talk to you. And hear you talk, too.” His shoulders hunched even further. “I want to hang out sometime, maybe. If you can stand to be seen with a poor kid. That’s it.”

That’s never it.
Her mouth opened. “That’s n-never
it
.”
And maybe I was a poor kid too
. There was no way for him to know that, really, but it still bugged her. People always had all these
thoughts
. Assumptions. And her stupid tongue would never let her make them see, even if she felt like doing so.

A shrug and a wry expression, as if he understood. His nose was red from the cold and their words were clouds, hanging uneasily between them as if on singing wires. “Yeah, well, you can get me fired. You’ve got all the power here. I’m not even supposed to look at you. I know that.”

Chip on your shoulder much?
But she knew what he meant. She hitched the bag strap higher. A cup of hot chocolate and one of Marya’s scones sounded
really
good right about now, and there was double HC Calc homework. Plus there was Ruby’s French to get in before it was Babchat-time. “Why?”
Why me?

“Because you’re not
like
them.” Patiently, but not as if she was an idiot. “I dunno. I just . . . it’s stupid. Fine. Never mind.” He took two steps back, then shook his dark head, dislodging little crystals of snow. Had he been waiting for her? Out here in the cold?

Maybe not. But she could ask.

“D-d-d-do you w-walk here?”

Tor actually blinked, as if she’d said something extraordinary. Another head-tilt, and those eyes of his
were
really black, she decided. Not just too dark to tell, not just a deep brown.
Black
.

Was it a Twist? But Marya was thorough and careful. Fey could
smell
Twists, and didn’t like them. Some said it was because they were unpredictable, like the fey themselves. Marya was predictable, really, but she was a hearth-fey. Her world was the kitchen, her universe pretty much bounded by the house walls. Even Cami was only worth noticing because she belonged to the house.

“The bus drops me off on Hammer. Then I walk.” He paused. “It’s not bad.”

“Aren’t y-you af-f-fraid?” Maybe boys didn’t have to worry so much.

“Why? This is a good neighborhood. It’s not Simmerside. Or the core.”

Simmerside
. Where the Twists lived next to the normal too poor to live anywhere else. Where the sirens and gunfire spilled out of the core and into the waking world. “The c-c-core?”

“No, I haven’t been
there
, you think I’m crazy? I’m a Simmerside kid, Joringel Street Orphanage. So out here, nothing much to be afraid of. Plus, those wackos kidnapping kids mostly go for girls. See? We’re talking.”

Kind of.
But she nodded. She’d heard of Joringel; another branch of the Mithraic Order used to run it before there was some scandal and the city had taken over administration some ten years ago. It was still a bad place to grow up.

Would
she
have ended up there?

“It’s not so rough, right? You look like you could use a friend. Or at least someone to talk to.”

And you’re going to fill that gap, right? Riiiight.
“I h-h-have f-friends.”

“Yeah, ones that leave you on Southking alone. Or who don’t even wait for you to get inside your gates.” He made a dismissive gesture, his hand chopping down. A healing scrape across his knuckles was vivid red, the skin a little chapped.

“D-d-do y-you have f-f-f-friends?” At least he waited for her to get all the words out, and didn’t act like waiting was a big deal.

“No.” Quiet and very definite, like he’d thought about it. A
lot
. He unzipped his jacket, and she almost took a step back. When he lifted up his T-shirt—how was he out here in just that, without shivering too hard to speak?—Cami actually
did
step back.

Welts and burns crisscrossed his torso, most of them scars and a few still ugly-colored, as if his skin hadn’t forgotten them yet. A wave of nausea pushed hot bile up to the back of her throat.

She knew those scars.

“No,” he repeated. Not angrily. He pulled his shirt back down, zipped his jacket up. “Now you know about me. I’m angry, and I’m mean, and I’m halfway to Twisted, rich girl. I’m not gonna lie. Come on. Your nose is red.”

He turned, and set off down the black streak of the driveway. Snow whirled down, and Cami finally made her voice work.

“Wh-wh-who d-d-d-did—”

That brought a scowl, and he was suddenly familiar. “Don’t know. Had ’em when I got to Joringel. Come on.”

He doesn’t know? I don’t know who did mine, either.
So she followed. There was really nothing else to do. He silently walked her to the front steps, and as soon as she reached the massive ironbound doors he trudged off toward the side of the house.

To the servants’ entrance. Leaving Cami standing there openmouthed, wondering what kind of friend he thought he was going to be.

T
HE
Q
UEEN, HER LONG GOLDEN HAIR GLOWING,
paces down a long corridor full of mirrors. Velvet swishes as her skirts swing, and everything around her is a soft glimmer. The smoke in the air is incense, perfuming the hallway; she halts before a particular mirror.

Writhing cherubs twist their wings together on the mirror’s iron frame, flakes of rust drifting free and whirling down to the plush carpet. The Queen’s white face floats in its water-clear depths, and it reflects nothing but her. This is her favorite one, you can tell by the way she leans in, smiling a little. The medallion at her chest glows, and the roundness of it is not quite perfect. There is something about it . . .

But wait. The Queen frowns slightly. She does not do so often, for it mars the perfection of her soft features. The skin, dead-white, is drier now. She leans much closer to the mirror, jerking back with a hiss as she finds what she does not expect.

For a moment the edge of the smoky heavy perfume lifts, and a sharper, drier scent underneath rises. It is an edge of rot, a fruit left in a wet dark corner for too long. The Queen’s lip curls, and she whirls away from the mirror. Yet it holds her image as a cup holds wine, a long shimmering, and I can see what she saw. What she fears, what has struck her with terror and fury.

A wrinkle in white skin. A single line, at the corner of her right eye, radiating. And I know I am to blame.

There was no Nico. She sat up, clutching the white down comforter, her ribs heaving. There was no Papa either, and she must not have screamed because the house was quiet. Not even a breath of wind moaning at the edges, the absolute muffled silence of snow over everything. The nightmare retreated, and the blue gauze over the mirror fluttered slightly.

Cami didn’t notice. She was too busy gasping, her throat a pinhole. No wonder she hadn’t made a sound. She couldn’t
breathe
. Her lungs were full of perfumed smoke. The chanting receded, a seashell-moan fading into the distance.

Constriction eased. She dragged in great gulps of clean air. No incense here. Her wrists twinged, and she caught herself hunching as if to ward off a blow. Her heels scraped against the soft sheets, and she was out of the bed before she thought of it.

Skritch-scratch.

A soft scraping at her door, loud in the hush. She padded across her room, heart lodged firmly in her just-recently cleared throat, her fingers and toes made of clumsy ice, her nightgown fluttering. The silk was raspy with sweat under her arms, its straps cutting her shoulders and the hem behaving oddly, swirling as if it were heavier.

As if it was motheaten velvet, brushing her skin.

She twisted the crystal knob and jerked the door open.

Tor twitched back. His eyes were live coals, his hair a wild mess, and he was in a black tank top and hastily buttoned jeans.

She hadn’t seen him for two days.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and she finally discovered what made her gaze catch on him all the time.

He looked familiar, somehow. He
reminded
her of something; she just couldn’t figure out what with her head full of the rushing of a nightmare’s passage.

The stasis broke. Tor pressed a finger to his lips, his boots dangling by their laces from that hand, bumping his chest. There was a hole in his white socks, right over his instep.

Cami’s jaw fell.
He’s not supposed to be here. How did he—
But then, she realized, he probably stayed overnight because of the snowfall. Some of the garden boys, like most of the maids, did. Especially if they lived in the Old City—the parts of pre-Reeve Haven that hadn’t blighted into the core.

He held something out with the other hand. A thin black velvet case, worn down to the nap at its corners. She took it automatically, and his indrawn breath as their fingers touched was a twin to hers. His skin was cold, and he seemed to be trembling.

Am I dreaming?

She couldn’t tell. Her hand curled around the case. It was too heavy. He nodded, gravely, and backed away before the smile broke over his face. It was oddly sweet, a winter sunrise all its own, white teeth gleaming. Then he went ghosting on quiet sock feet down the hall, melding with the darkness. There wasn’t even a betraying creak from the floorboards.

Cami let out a long shuddering breath. She shut the door and brought the case up to her mouth. Velvet pressed hard against her lips.

I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.
Then why did he feel like a glove? Like a sock or a broken-in pair of charm-laced trainers, like the familiar faces of the books in the library or . . .

I don’t know him. This is a dream, one I won’t even remember tomorrow
. She was sure of it.

Until she surfaced to her alarm tinkling “Wake Up Charmgirl,” the streets plowed clean, school resumed . . .

 . . . and a long thin bone hairpin, a fall of glittering crystals fastened to one end with smoky golden wire, sitting in its velvet case on the pillow next to hers.

T
HERE WAS, AS USUAL, A STEAMING MUG OF HOT
chocolate and a porcelain plate with a delicate fey-lace doily spread over it, two fresh croissants nestled against the snowy paper. Sometimes Marya even did
pain au chocolat
, when she was feeling especially appreciated. But today the feywoman fluttered around the kitchen, her spiderweb shawl moving on invisible drafts of Potential, muttering to herself and obviously piqued over something.

Cami’s nose and cheeks were stinging; she set her schoolbag down on the stool and slid into her accustomed place with a sigh. The surprise test in High Charm Calculus had not gone well, nor had the French quiz. Her braid, heavy and damp, lay against her back, and beads swung as she turned her head. The bone pin’s point, carefully threaded through her braid that morning, scraped at her nape. “Y-yummy,” she tried, tentatively, cupping her icy hands around the hot mug. It stung, but pleasantly.

“Yesyes.” Marya stopped, put her hands on her ample hips, staring into the fireplace. “I cannot find it. The Gaunt will not be happy, but I cannot find it.”

Stevens? I don’t know if he ever looks happy.
“What c-can’t you f-find?” She blew across the top of the hot cocoa, her shoulders relaxing in tiny increments. Ruby had kept up a vociferous stream of obscenities all the way home, not letting Ellie or Cami get a word in edgewise. Her French test must have been just as dire, or something
else
was pissing her off. Ellie was wan and tired, and she kept giving Cami little sideways looks, as if she suspected her of something.

At least Cami had been able to sneak away at lunch and go to the office to arrange the surprise.
I hope she likes it.
The thought of Ellie’s delight over a new blazer made Cami all but wriggle on her seat and smile.

Marya’s glance was sharp, her mouth pulled tight. Her face was not so round now, the fey in her shining through sharp and glittering, a diamond under lace. The tips of her ears twitched. “Nothing. Not for little
sidhe
. Eat, eat. I make them special for you.”

Fine.
Another sigh, this one internal, and Cami stared at the small, delicate plate. Golden, buttery, and exquisite, the croissants were almost too pretty to eat. And she wasn’t hungry, anyway.

Still, she dutifully nibbled one. Between sips of scalding-hot cocoa, she watched Marya flutter through the kitchen, touching the copper-bottom pots, fussing with the fire, the stove bubbling as usual and the heavenly aroma of fresh bread just beginning to fill the entire kitchen. It looked like beef stew for dinner, thick and heavy and seasoned with feycress. That was Trig’s favorite, and since Nico was gone it was just Trig and Stephens and Cami at the too-big, highly polished rosewood dining table, unless there was Business.

Which there had been every night this week.

Which meant tonight she would probably be eating here in the kitchen, at the breakfast bar.

I like that better anyway.
Any Business was kind of . . . troubling. There hadn’t been any more disappearances the last few days—at least, not in the news. From what Cami could gather, the Seven had taken over from the police, even though they were only six in the city now. And Stevens had pleasantly asked if Miss Cami wouldn’t prefer Chauncey to bring her home from school?

She’d just shaken her head, her braid bumping her back, and said very carefully,
N-no, R-ruby will d-dr-drive m-me.
And that was that, though Stevens looked . . . dissatisfied.

As dissatisfied as a man with a thin frozen face could look, that is. A consigliere without a Family Head to inhabit him, since Nico wasn’t officially back from Hannibal.

When Nico did come back, would he have any time for her either? He’d be busy doing Family things. Things he would probably discuss with Stevens and Trig and the Family bravos and the other Seven . . . but most definitely
not
with Cami. She’d hear more on the news, if Ruby ever turned the radio on in her Semprena again, instead of playing Tommy Triton’s debut tape over and over again.

Cami sighed, her skin prickling all over like it had been all damn day. Maybe it was her blazer. She was warm enough to take her coat off now, and was just in the middle of struggling out of itchy Juno wool when the swinging door from the servant’s hallway opened and Tor stamped through, icy crystals caught in his messy hair and his arms full of firewood. “Hey, Miz Marya. Figured it was time.”

“Pike!” Marya stopped fidgeting and fussing, beaming through the careful examination and placing of each chunk of firewood in the big beaten-copper holder on the hearth. She dusted her hands together afterward while her shawl-fringes waved lazily and her black skirt fluttered on an invisible draft of Potential. “Cellar. Will you go into the cellar? Old Marya’s knees are not good.”

“Absolutely. Just give me the list.” He stole a look at Cami as Marya bustled to the shining tomato-red refrigerator, its gloss alive with preservation-charms and yellowing pictures held with magnets and stickcharms.

She sat up straighter, pulling the blazer’s shoulders back up defensively and shaking her head a little so the pin’s colorless beads shivered. His answering smile was shy and warm, and Cami found herself grinning, ducking her head and staring into her cup.

Marya plucked a sheet of paper covered with spider-scratches from under a stickcharm. “Wait. Wait while Marya thinks and writes, yes?”

“Take your time.” Tor straightened, brushing wood debris from his leather jacket. His nose and cheeks were bright red, and the melting ice in his hair made him into a faunlet. Except he didn’t have fangs, or claws. “Hello, princess.”

Oddly enough, she didn’t mind the name now. “H-Hello.” She peeked up from the cup’s depths. “W-want s-some hot c-c-cocoa?”

A shrug, the snow-darkened leather creaking. He looked miserably cold. “Maybe in a bit. How was school?”

She shrugged, then raised her eyebrows. He caught the question—not as quickly as Nico would have, but still. He was paying attention.

At least
someone
was.

He laid a work-roughened hand carefully on the countertop, moss clinging between his fingers. “Some kid got knifed in the bathroom, and one of the girls in my Chem class is pregnant. The History teacher had to shout over a bunch of jack-yobs to tell us about the Battle of the Marne and the first wave of the Reeve. Just another day.” But his expression robbed the words of any anger. “I was glad to get out.”

I’ll bet.
Was that what happened in public schools? She’d heard stories, but never anything like this. She searched for something to say. “Y-you l-look n-n-n-nice.”
Oh, Mithrus. Can’t even talk, and when I do, I say something useless.
His jeans were soaked to the knee from snowmelt, and he was covered in wood guck. But it was the only thing she could think of that didn’t seem likely to get her in trouble.

His smile turned lopsided, but his black eyes were warm. “So do you.”

Everything inside Cami loosened a fraction, then a fraction more. The feeling was so new and unexpected she actually grinned, forgetting to duck her head to hide her expression.

Marya’s forehead was creased as she turned away from the sink, the paper in her hand covered with yet more scribbles. “List! Pike, tall and dark, down into the cellar with you. Big
brughnie
-shouldered boy, to lift for poor old Marya.”

“Yes ma’am.” But he was still looking at Cami. He seemed about to say something else, but just then Trig slid in from the other hall, his step light and ghost-quiet, his baggy sportcoat red and green today and deep smudges under his tired eyes.

Every night a different something, Twist or strange or
other
, pressed against the borders of the Vultusino house. A hard winter, indeed. As soon as dark fell the security teams were working harder than they ever had.

As if everything in New Haven could tell the Vultusino were without a Head. Some of the younger cousins were showing up at the house at odd hours, too, the boys eyeing Cami and the girls trying to be friendly. Stevens dealt with them, but she just wished Nico would come home.

When he did, what would happen? The Vultusina’s ring was safely locked up; occasions and parties were fine, but she wasn’t going to wear it to
school
.

The loosening inside her clenched up again. Tor disappeared on the other side of the kitchen, and Marya immediately began fussing at Trig about whatever she couldn’t find. Cami sipped at her cocoa, hoping the bright red on her cheeks wasn’t too visible. Trig barely glanced at her, just nodded at Marya’s nervousness and set about soothing the feywoman, and ten minutes later, neither of them noticed when Cami escaped, carrying her bag and her coat, the croissant and sugary milk curdling in her stomach. All the way up the stairs to the warm white bedroom, she thought of that funny lopsided smile, and the tinkling of the beads from the pin was ice chiming against glass.

So do you
, he’d said.

Did he really think so?