He hefts his dagger, he uses it as they close, he even draws blood and a snarl of surprised rage. He feels good. He feels beyond good. The cold is gone. He has no rage and no fury; he thinks clearly, now, sees clearly. It’s clarity he wants, has wanted. He knows the pain will come.
The bleeding boy pulls back, still snarling; his words are syllables devoid of meaning. The den circles him, and he counts them again: six. To one. Not bad odds—impossible odds. He knows it.
But the moment stretches, time seems to slow; everything is so clear.
“Arann, Finch, go!”
Everything is so clear.
The first words, a girl’s voice, more bark and urgency than language. He can pick them out of air, and he does it now. They make no sense; he has no context in which to understand them. He’s shifting on his feet, back and forth, side to side. Carmenta’s den is circling, and Carmenta, hair pulled back off a lean face, sun-dark except where the scars stand out white, stops, his head turning in the wrong direction. Turning away. What the den leader sees robs him of motion, but not of expression; there’s anger there, and just the faintest hint of fear.
He shouts and his den turns, and there’s just enough of an opening between their shoulders that Angel can see what they see.
Experience only heightens the moment: gives him names and personalities to pin to what he sees. What, he admits, he always wants to see, even if he hasn’t known it till now.
He sees Jewel Markess, her flyaway hair half in her eyes, even though it’s pulled off her face; her skin is flushed and her eyes seem both dark and luminescent. She’s short. Later, he’ll remember she’s short; he’s even peripherally aware of it now—but it doesn’t matter. She says two more words: Carver. Duster.
He knows them as names because two people step out from behind her, as if they were standing in her shadow. One is a little taller than Angel, and about as thin, but his hair is a dark flap over one half of his face. Stupid, fighting like that. The other? A girl, almost Carver’s height, hair just as dark but longer, and eyes—her eyes make Carmenta seem friendly and sane.
They both have knives; Duster has two. They step toward Carmenta’s den, and as they do, Fisher and Jester—red hair gleaming in sun that’s already added too many freckles—join them, to the left and right. They’re armed as well. It’s all daggers. But that’s all Angel’s got.
Jewel has a dagger as well. She steps forward; it’s five to six.
No, Angel realizes, looking at his hand, still as Carmenta is still.
It’s six to six. It’s an even fight.
Carmenta can count, give him that.
And when Arann has helped the old woman to her feet, when Arann has handed her over to Teller and Finch, when he turns, face set, and towers over Carver and Duster?
Well, Carmenta can count him, too.
He lifts one hand, sharp and curt, and his den pulls away from Angel; a blond boy spits as he withdraws, the shape of their group changing from a circle to a line. Angel thinks about knifing him. Doesn’t. Instead, he watches as Carmenta begins to signal retreat, to back away. There are no dead, and the only blood that was spilled? A knife scratch to the forearm. Not much, not really.
Not like Evanston.
Jewel watches Carmenta. Duster starts to follow, and Jewel says a curt No. “We’ve got what we came for.”
“Take Carmenta out. Let me take some of them out,” Duster says. “He’s going to be trouble.”
“No. I’m not willing to risk you on garbage.”
Carmenta stiffens at that, and Angel waits; he can see how close it is. Carmenta’s like any other den leader—he can’t afford to lose face. His power? It’s carrion power. It’s tentative.
But Jewel Markess isn’t like any other den leader that he’s seen in the City—and he’s seen a lot, wandering through the hundred holdings, listening to old women talk. Jewel’s people? They stand, and Angel realizes that they’re going to stand if she tells them to stand, and fight if she tells them to fight.
He wants to see it. It’s visceral and painful, the desire to see it for fact. But he knows, as Carmenta says, “I’ll be waiting,” that he won’t. Not now.
Carmenta’s den back away, bristling. They don’t run. But walking? They’re running. Angel knows.
And Jewel hasn’t said a word; her eyes don’t leave them.
Not until the old woman mumbles something. Then, she turns.
“Can you walk?”
The woman nods, but she wobbles, and Arann breaks away. He’s taller than she is, and he offers her an arm. She takes it, no hesitation there, and Teller? He’s got her cane, and her basket, or what’s left of it; the side’s staved in.
Finch comes to stand beside her, and it’s Finch that she turns to, although she doesn’t let go of Arann’s arm.
“That boy,” she says, and she nods to Angel.
Jewel nods as well. “We’ll walk you home,” she tells the woman, and just like that, they form up, and they walk. It starts to rain, and the rain is cold—but it’s clean, this rain. It hits Angel’s face, travels down the spirals of his hair; he feels the hint of ice trail down his neck, and he doesn’t care.
He watches them walk away, his knife in a hand that’s slowly relaxing. But . . . they walk slowly, and they look back, in ones and twos, and Teller, mousy-brown hair, pale face, touches Jewel’s shoulder; says something that doesn’t travel. Carver says something as well. That, Angel can catch, but he can’t hear the words.
He knows, in the now, that Lander and Lefty are home—and he knows, in the now, that the apartment had better be clean when Jay gets back, or there’ll be noise. But what he sees, even now:
Jewel turns. “You,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Angel.”
She raises an auburn brow, and shoves her hair out of her eyes. “Are you an idiot?” Half smile on her lips, and in her appraising glance.
He shrugs. He knows what she’s talking about. The old woman, on the ground. Six of Carmenta’s den. One boy. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I’m sure that’s what all the suicides say in Mandaros’ Hall.” She shakes her head, adds, “My kind of idiot. You have some place to stay?”
He has Terrick’s.
But he shakes his head. No.
“You have one now, if you want it.” She pauses, and then adds, “It’s not much, but it beats the rain, and we even have food. Some. You eat much?”
He lies.
She snorts; she doesn’t believe him. But she motions toward the retreating group.
Maybe, he thinks, as he starts to walk, gods don’t answer prayers, and anyway, he didn’t pray. But maybe they hear it all—all the things you don’t have, and can’t find, words for.
“Hey,” he says, and she stops; he catches up.
“Yeah?”
“Why did you—” save me. He can’t bring himself to ask the question.
She doesn’t need to hear it. “Don’t know. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Were you born here?”
“Free Towns.”
“You’re a long way from home. You’ve got family?”
He shrugs, falls in beside her. She takes quick, short, staccato steps.
She glances at the side of his face, and then away. Her breath is a short mist. “Yeah,” she says. “Mine are gone, too.” For a minute, she looks older, but the creases in her forehead ripple into smooth skin and the expression’s lost as she glances at the rest of her den. “They’re my family, now. They’re my home.”
“And me?”
“If you want,” she says. “But if we don’t move, there won’t be any food left.”
And . . . he wants. So he follows.
5th day of Morel, 410 AA Twenty-fifth holding, Averalaan
“Angel?”
He blinked. Finch turned her wrist and touched his forehead, beneath the locks of white that trailed just above his brows.
“I’m not sick.”
“Just checking
. You’re really quiet today.”
He shrugged. “I don’t like shouting.” And smiled when she grimaced. His point. He put the knife down, took a look at what he’d been cutting: cheese, some sausage—which was more or less not meat—and the very crusty bread that was so common in Averalaan. You could cut your mouth eating it, but at least it didn’t much matter if it was stale, because you couldn’t really tell the difference when you were trying to chew it. Too early yet for decent fruit, and what there was was damn expensive. Later. Summer food. There were also potatoes and carrots here, the latter bitter; they were cooked. Some of them were very cooked, but none of them were black; Angel wondered, briefly, what Carver had burned.
There was never going to be enough room at the table for everyone to sit and eat, which was good because there weren’t enough utensils; on a bad day, there weren’t enough plates.
But only on a very bad day was there not enough food, and this? Not a bad day. Not yet.
Picking up plates, he stepped his way across a few legs. It wasn’t easy, and Carver cursed him, but that was fair; he’d stepped on Carver deliberately. He handed both of his plates to Arann, because Arann had the longest reach, and left them there, making his way back to the kitchen. He avoided colliding with Teller, and picked up more plates, stopping a moment at the edge of the kitchen to look out into the room.
And there they were. His den: Arann by the window beside Lefty, who was sitting directly beneath the eastern one, his extended legs butting Jester’s elbow; Lander on the floor between the windows, on the other side of Lefty. Neither Lander nor Lefty were talkers, but they signed almost all the time, and days like this, it even seemed smarter; Teller, walking toward the kitchen, and Finch, in whose hands the plates looked much larger; Carver and Jester sprawled out in the middle of the floor, arguing about something; Duster, sullen—or bored, it was hard to tell the difference—arms folded across her chest as she leaned at a slant against the wall. Fisher, to one side of Carver, was most of the way through his food before Angel managed to find some floor to sit on; Fisher didn’t eat so much as inhale.
In the center of them, Jay.
Jay turned a chair toward the wall and sat on it, draping her arms over its back, and crossing her legs on the seat. She took a plate and had to shift position again to eat, pausing to drop food on the floor for the cat. It purred. And drooled.
Angel didn’t much care for cats, but they didn’t have a mouse problem when the cat was around. Which, mostly, he was; he could disappear for a week at a time, but he was a cat.
Duster shoved the cat out of the way and sat, hard, on the floor to Jay’s left.
The cat batted her knee with its paws, claws sheathed. Then it crawled into her lap. It was the only living thing in the place that could do that and still be living. Duster glared at everyone, as if daring them to say anything. The cat didn’t notice and didn’t care—but even the cat was careful when it came to Duster’s food. Duster reminded Angel of a feral farm dog—too accustomed to people to be afraid, and too hungry and wild to be anything but dangerous. Months, he’d lived here, and he didn’t understand her any better than he had.
But he was the newcomer here.
He held his peace; he was good at that with anyone but Carver. Jester finished second and started in on an impression of Carmenta which made it hard to eat. He pulled Arann into his farce, and although Arann did nothing but stand there and look at Jester as if he was insane, it worked anyway.
Even Duster laughed.
And Jay, Angel thought, watching the den leader, noticed. Jay noticed everything, and as if she could hear the thought, she looked up and met Angel’s gaze. He shrugged. Neither of them were laughing at Jester, but then again, Jay rarely found any mention of Carmenta amusing. Carmenta’s den had become a big problem in the last six months; Jay wouldn’t let anyone head out to the Common alone. She wouldn’t let them head out to the well alone.
Still, she let Jester go on, let everyone else laugh, let Arann pick Jester up by the back of his neck and dangle him a few inches off the ground. She promised she’d break arms if he dropped Jester on any of the plates that were still on the same ground, which sent Teller and Finch scuttling to pick them all up, and made clear to Angel why they were sometimes short plates.
But when the plates disappeared, Jay stood and cleared her throat. Her glance strayed to the kitchen, and Angel’s, following it, went there as well; Finch and Teller were working side by side, but he couldn’t see what they were doing.
He couldn’t hear them either, because Jester, in his infinite boredom, launched into an impression of Old Rath—and that one did make Jay laugh. Angel had only met Rath once, but he could see his cold, almost autocratic presence, his weary annoyance and his very obvious condescension, in Jester’s performance. In particular, the exact and perfect pronunciation, the bored, half-lidded expression, as he listed the flaws in Carver’s dagger work. Carver grimaced. If Angel had to bet, it was word- for-word what Rath had said to Carver on the day that Angel had been introduced. Jester had a memory for the spoken word that was astonishing. What he did with the memory? Not so much.
Of Angel, Rath had merely said, “Another one?”
It still stung, but Angel had said nothing, as if it were a test.
Rath’s lips had quirked in what might have been a smile on another face.
Jay cleared her throat again, and this time, her hands settled on her hips. Arann leaned over and dropped his fist on Jester’s head. Jester fell over.
Finch and Teller came back into the room carrying plates. They were the same plates, but there was different food on them. Cake.
“What the Hells?” Duster said, eyes narrowing.
Jay turned to Arann, who crouched down and pulled something flat from behind Lefty’s back. Lefty waved at Duster, as Arann handed the flat package to Jay.
“What is this?” Duster said again, looking from face to face in a room that was—for one miraculous moment—silent.
It stayed silent.
Jay took an audible breath and said, “Happy birthday, Duster.” She handed Duster the parcel; it was long, narrow, and flat.
Duster looked at it as if it were a snake, and its fangs were bared.
“Take it,” Jay told her. “It’s a present.”
As if that much weren’t obvious. On the other hand, Duster was still looking at the package with a mixture of fury, fascination, and horror. Her mouth opened, like a trap with no hinges.
More silence, and it was unbroken until Duster swore.
It was, as far as cursing went, impressive, even for a sixteen year old who’d spent all her life on the streets. She reached out and slapped the parcel out of Jay’s hand. It landed on the floor, but the noise it might have made couldn’t be heard over Duster. “I’m not some fucking birthday girl!”
Jay took a less audible breath. “It is your birthday.”
“It’s my birthday if some godsdamned Priest didn’t lie! What bloody difference does it make?” She swore some more, but as everyone had already cleared the ground at her feet, there wasn’t anyone she could easily kick.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the apartment. If Angel had ever wondered where that phrase had come from, he now knew: she looked like the type of lightning-heavy cloud that blocked out all light. But less friendly.
The slam of the door was almost a relief.
Jay waited for the sounds of stomping to recede, and then she winced. “Well,” she said, as she bent down and picked up the present, “that could have gone worse.”
“Yeah, no one’s bleeding,” Lefty added helpfully. “Can we eat that if she’s not here?”
“Might as well. But save her a piece.”
They all looked at Jay as if she were crazy.
Angel, on the other hand, pulled a plate off the floor and walked it to the kitchen. “This one,” he said, placing it on the counter, “is Duster’s.”
“The cat’s going to knock
it off and eat it,” Lefty pointed out.
“The cat’s not stupid enough to eat Duster’s food.”
Lefty shrugged; it was true.
“Everyone else,” Jay said, easing herself back onto her chair, “eat. She won’t be back for at least two hours.”
“A copper on morning,” Carver offered. “. . . It was just an idea.”
Jay let the silence tell him just how good she thought the idea was.
“You knew she wasn’t going to like it,” Finch finally said.
Jay crumbled a piece of cake between her fingers as if forgetting it was supposed to be edible.
“Jay—”
She shook her head. “Yes, I knew she wasn’t going to like it. But it’s been three years. Maybe more. Everyone else has birthdays. She’s—” She shook her head again, and this time, she pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“She’s better than she used to be,” Teller said. “She’s always that little bit better than she was. We know it’s not easy. For her. For you.”
Angel had cleared his throat, and said, quietly, “She never relaxes unless we’re fighting, about to be fighting, or running from a fight.” He leaned against the wall. “But . . . she’s there, when we’re fighting. She’s there when we need her. She hates taking orders, but Jay—she takes them. From you.”
“I should order her to eat her damn cake and take her damn present.”
“If you did,” Angel said with a shrug, “she’d do both.” That much, he’d seen. If he could find nothing else to say about Duster, he could say that.
“I am not going to order someone to eat cake!”
“She doesn’t understand why it’s important to you.” Angel didn’t personally understand why it was important to Jay either. But it was; he could see that. “If you can make her understand it, she’ll eat.”
Jay could still surprise him. Maybe she always would. “I don’t want her to feel left out.” It was something that Finch might have said. Or at least that he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear Finch say.
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