Nameless: A Tale of Beauty and Madness (14 page)

D
AWN ROSE GRAY AND PINK AND GOLD, AND FOUND
her stutter-stepping toward the window seat. She could hobble with the bandages on, and it made her think of the Eastron section of World History, the little inset about lotusfeet girls. Charmed cloths around a baby’s tiny feet, and the deformity, a chosen Twist.

To make them more beautiful. Was that what it took?

You do, too.

The snow was blank, featureless, deceptively smooth. Unbroken, it poured over the gardens—or, no. Not unbroken.

Someone had trudged through the snow. She could tell because of the line of footsteps, their edges chipped free of a layer of ice forming on the drifts. She could
also
tell because he was still there. A sword of darkness against all the white, his leather jacket inadequate against the cold, his hair a wild blue-tinted blackness. His breath plumed, and he looked up at her window.

Even at this distance, his gaze was a dark fire.

Cami’s breath fogged the glass. She lifted her right hand, pressed it against cold translucence.

Tor lifted his. Five fingers, spread, just like hers. A star of flesh. The frozen glass burned, and she found herself shaking. A thrill all through her, Potential rippling like heat-haze. Or maybe it was an ordinary electricity, like the natural, predictable stuff lightbulbs burned.

What is he doing?

There was no way to ask him, and he turned and trudged back the way he’d come, stepping carefully from footprint to footprint. The fog of his breath turned to ice, falling with tiny flashing tinkles. How cold
was
it out there?

The sound inside her head was a deep chanting, voices lifted in a sea-swell of ecstasy. She smelled fresh-cut apples, and salt, and a peculiar heavy incense. It scraped the inside of her skull clean, filling her with cotton. Whatever name they were singing, she couldn’t . . . quite . . . hear.

Cami turned. The sun’s red rim lifted over the horizon, and she could almost
feel
it, as if she was Family. Directionless blue winter-morning light pushed past her, filling the white room to the brim. The gauze over the mirror fluttered, and she found herself stepping gingerly across plain carpet.

She tore the scarf down. The mirror, clear and flawless, was a blank screen, not even reflecting her.

Not a mirror. An eye.

A gleam in the depths of the thin glass. Trembling, Cami lifted her right hand again.

There was a
snap
, felt in the chest more than heard through the ears, and the white room glared at her from the mirror’s surface. She blinked, and found herself standing, fists curled, her hair messed by the restless tossing she’d done instead of sleeping, her face hectic with color and her eyes blazing blue.

It was there, standing and not-quite-thinking, her brain humming with the sharp edges of a puzzle forming around her, that Cami had a very odd thought.

I need an apple
.

The kitchen was curiously deserted. Marya was not humming near the hearth, nor was she at the stove. She could be anywhere in the house, dusting or flitting from room to room, engaged on whatever charms a house-fey used at dawn. The important thing was she wasn’t
here
, and the copper-bottom pans hanging shiny from their rack were still and quiet.

The fridge was tomato red, its door fluttering with yellowed photographs—a shyly smiling nine-year-old Cami in white eyelet lace, Nico glowering behind her in his small but exquisitely tailored suit, his hair slicked down. Papa with Cami on his lap in a white silk sundress, squinting slightly in the garden sunshine, and Nico tall and straight-faced at his left shoulder. A baby Nico, with a rare smile, lifting up a dirt-clotted bulb of garlic from the herb garden and shaking it. Papa, younger and solemn, straight as a poker and holding the hand of a smiling young mortal woman with Nico’s proud tilt to her head. Papa and three of the other Seven, their mouths all the same straight line.

The pictures of Cami herself were newer, and they fluttered uneasily, interlopers against the red enamel.

She found what she needed in the crisper. She pulled out the cutting board, selected Marya’s favorite wood-handled butcher knife. Placed it, gleaming-sharp, next to the scarred block of oiled wood and weighed the apple in her hand. Satiny and red, it was too heavy. She set it down and looked at it, her brain still caught in that peculiar humming, head cocked, ink-black hair a river down her back.

Tip it over
.

So she did, one trembling finger touching the apple until it toppled. It was not perfectly round, so it rolled with a bump and lay there, as if it knew a secret.

It does. Are you sure you want to know one, too?

Her fingers curled around the knifehilt. She blinked.

Cloven horizontally, the apple fell open. She saw the seeds, each nestled in its own hollow, making a five-pointed star. Deep foulness bubbled up in the recesses of her memory. A screaming, a hissing, gouts of perfumed smoke that filled the cup of the skull with cotton numbness, and the crisp scent of a just-sliced apple all mixed together.

That’s what she smells like. Smoke and fruit. Because she’s the Queen.
Shudders rippled down Cami’s back.

Not just any queen. The White Queen.
The shaking was worse. It held her in its jaws, snapping her back and forth. The knife clattered against the counter, and her left hand smacked the apple halves and sent them flying.

It was too late. The knife’s poison-polished blade flashed, a dart of white cruelness straight into the center of her skull, and Cami let out a soft birdlike sound. She couldn’t scream because she couldn’t
breathe
, it was too bright, there was smoke in her throat and the chanting was full of nonsense syllables instead of meaning and she couldn’t . . .

Her legs gave out. Her head clipped the edge of the tiled counter on the way down, and the brief starburst of pain turned into wet warmth. The knife spun, teetering on the edge, then fell with another chiming sound. It missed her nose by a bare half-inch, but she never knew.

Her muscles locked, and the sound wouldn’t stop. It was a child’s voice too broken to scream any further, and its chirping made words as she curled into a ball on the russet floor.

“
Mommy no Mommy no Mommy no Mommy noooooooooo . . . 
”

“
S
HE PASSED OUT.”
N
ICO, BUT . . . DIFFERENT.
L
IKE
there was something caught in his throat.

“Are we sure that’s what it was, sir?” Stevens, now. Dry and reedy, his throat needed oiling. Would he be Nico’s consigliere too, a glove for Nico’s consciousness, the well that a new Vultusino would drop secrets into?

What secrets would he have now that he couldn’t tell
her
? Plenty. Even Papa had sometimes sent her to Marya, when things were happening a little girl shouldn’t hear. She’d been able to guess around the corners, but to be the Vultusino was to have secrets. Lots of them.

Bad
secrets.

Are mine bad too? They must be.

Cami sighed. She was warm, and it was soft around her, and the noise had stopped.
All
of it, even the roaring and the barking dogs. Her head was only full of ringing silence.

They were quiet, and she kept her eyes closed. Her breathing came in deep even swells. She was so glad she wasn’t choking that she just kept doing it, drawing the air in, letting it out.

“If you have something to say, Stevens, spit it out.” Nico
still
sounded different. She couldn’t figure out just how. The question kept her occupied much as breathing did.

“Black as night. Blue as sky. Red as blood.” Stevens paused. “
White
. As snow.”

“We’d know, if she was—”

“Would we? Would
you
?”

“Be careful.” The difference was sharp and hurtful now, but without the usual edge of flippancy. “Be very careful what you say, ghoul.”

That’s it.
She was so pleased she moved, turning over and pulling the covers up.
He sounds like Papa. Won’t he be surprised to know that.

But she wouldn’t tell him. Not yet. He was still too angry.

They were silent until she had settled.

“She is far too young, and there are none of the signs. Still, she may have been . . . marked.” Stevens, ponderously slow and so dry. If Papa was angry, or speaking quickly, Stevens would space his words further apart, stringing them between pauses to force Papa to slow down. She could have told him that wouldn’t work with Nico.

“Just what the hell are you saying?” Now he was more like himself. Angry—and she wasn’t sure when that anger had become a comfort. If he was sharp and furious, at least she knew what to expect.

“I am saying caution is called for, if we are not to lose what we have.”

She could almost
see
Stevens clamming up, pursing his thin lips. The air was heavy, oddly dead, but it still tasted wonderful. A ghost of bay rum, a familiar comfort, and the softness all around her.

“
Biel’y
.” Nico all but spat. “They can have anything else in the goddamn city, but not
her
.”

No answer from Stevens. Had he nodded in agreement? Cami buried her face in a pillow.
Why don’t you just go away so I can sleep? I need it. I don’t feel good
.

Not good at all. Clear-headed, certainly. Like a broom had swept through her jumbled thoughts, pushing them out and away, smoothing her like Marya would smooth a sheet of phyllo dough.

I dropped the knife. She’ll be furious.

No, Cami did not feel good. She felt like she’d just run a race, one too fast and too long for her. Her legs were still going and the rest of her hadn’t caught up.

Nico finally spoke up, decisive. “My calendar should be clear today. Did you call St. Juno’s?”

“I did. Sir, the Stregare wish for your—”

“They can
wait
.” Impatient, now. “Get out. She’s waking up.”

I’m already awake, thanks.
It was no good. Cami stretched. It wasn’t her bed. It felt all wrong. Too soft, and the covers were too heavy.

A door closed, softly. “He’s gone. You can open your eyes now.”

It was the Red Room, still holding the silence of Papa’s transition. Nico was in the chair by the bed. Cami pushed herself up on her elbows.
Someone must have carried me here. Marya probably found me in the kitchen.

The silence was immense, and there was a new thing in it. A breathlessness, like the static just before a Waste-born lightning storm. His anger had never felt so . . . unsteady before. As if it might be directed at
her
, instead of just dangerous on its own.

But that was ridiculous. If he was here, she was safe.

“I’m not gonna ask what you were doing.” Nico leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes were dark, no colored sparks in the pupils, and narrowed. “I’m not even gonna ask if you’re okay, because you’re obviously not. I should take you to the hospital, except I know you don’t like needles and poking. Trig says you didn’t give yourself a concussion, so I suppose that’s all right.” He paused. “I am, however, gonna ask you about
him
.”

About who?
She stretched, pulled the covers up. Her pajamas were all rucked around. “Who?” The word came out whole, surprising her.

Nico’s gaze was dead-level, but there were no pinpricks of red in his pupils. “The boy.”

What boy?
“W-what?”

“The garden boy. Beale, right? The Joringel scholarship boy.”

Oh. Tor. How do you know he came from there?
But of course, he would. She gathered herself. How could she even begin explaining?

Nico kept going, though. “Because I really don’t mind you hanging out with the help, babygirl, but you should know what he’s probably thinking.”

She pushed her hair back, strings of darkness clinging to her fingers.
Why here? It’s on the other side of the house from the kitchen. And what do you think Tor’s thinking? It’s not like you’ve asked. I know you better than that.
“What w-w-would he b-be—”

“You’re a sweet girl, Cami, and you could be a lot of help to a kid from near the core. You’re
la Vultusina
, all right? People are going to see that. They’re going to want things.”

They always have. You don’t know, you’re always away. Doing important things.
Family
things.
“N-nico.” She sounded annoyed even to herself.
And I’m not
la Vultusina
yet.
“He’s m-m-my f-f-friend.”

“You may be
his
friend. But I don’t think he’s yours.” Nico leaned forward. There were shadows under his mossy eyes, and his fangs were out, just delicately touching his lower lip. “It doesn’t matter. Just be careful. Wouldn’t want any accidents.” His smile widened, and it was the grimace he used when he wanted to scare someone. An animal showing all its teeth, white and sharp and perfect.

The unsteadiness was all through her instead of just underneath her feet. She couldn’t even figure out what to call it, when it was vibrating in her own bones. Her back straightened. The covers fell away. The room was utterly still, and it had even begun to smell a little neglected. You could tell nobody had breathed in here for a while. “L-l-leave h-him alone.”

“If he behaves himself, I’ll be his new best friend. I’ll take him out with the boys and give him a taste of real nightside.” The grin didn’t go away. “If he steps out of line, though, Cami, there’s gonna be trouble. I guarantee it.”

“Why a-a-are you b-b-being l-like this?”
He doesn’t even matter, he’s just a friend! He’s just . . .

What, exactly,
was
Tor? Every time she talked to him, she ended up confused. And there were the dogs.

What about the dogs, Cami? Marya said . . .

To hell with it.
She pushed the covers aside further, sliding her legs out of bed. The bandages were still crisply charmed; their whiteness dyed by the Red Room’s gloom.

“Like
what
?” Nico didn’t move. If she wanted to stand up, she would have to push past him. “You tell me exactly what I’m being like.”

Like . . . this. I don’t even know how to say it.
“L-like m-mean.”
Like you think you can order me around too, or something. Or like you don’t even see me, you just see . . . what?

He didn’t flinch, but his stillness became its own creature, hunching between them like a titon hunched over a pile of cow bones. “I don’t want to be mean to
you
.”

Then why are you being nasty?
Everything was knotting up again, the inside of her head getting all jumbled. So she just shrugged, and pushed her feet out further. Her toes brushed his leg; she scooted for the edge.

He didn’t move.

“Cami.” His fingers touched her knee. They were hot through the silk of her pajama pants, and the hurtful strength in his grip was restrained.

Still, it was there. He was
Family
.

And she wasn’t. She was something else, from somewhere else. Cami halted, staring at the nightstand. The bone comb wasn’t there, but the candles in the two heavy iron holders were flaming steadily. The room was trying to be the same, but it couldn’t.

Papa was gone.

Nico exhaled softly. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.” The grin was gone. The words were serious, very quiet, and suddenly everything inside the Red Room suffocated her. “
Ever
.”

Except you, right? You won’t be able to stop yourself one of these days. And you’ll be sorry about it. But you’ll do it, and I’ll be the one hurting.

Unless I do something about it.

She pushed forward and he finally moved, sliding the chair back on the plush carpet. Her feet weren’t too bad, she only hobbled a little. Nico made a frustrated little sound she knew from long experience—he was annoyed, but he wasn’t going to explode.

Well, thank God for that, at least.
She made it to the door. Her bandage-shuffling footsteps fell into the dead silence.

“Say something. Mithrus, Cami, get mad at me, throw something, do anything, just
say
something!”

I can’t. Haven’t you noticed?
“I’ll b-b-be c-c-c . . . ” She stopped, her own frustration rising bright and metallic to her back teeth. Took a deep breath, tried again. “
Careful
. I’ll b-be c-careful.”

It probably wasn’t what he wanted, and she probably shouldn’t have left him in there staring at the Red Room’s paneling and the red bed. But she had to get out of there, because the buzzing in her bones had mounted another few notches, and she still didn’t have a name for it.

And for once, Nico could deal with his own fury. It was, Cami thought as she headed grimly for the stairs, about damn time.