by Daniel Marks
“You think you know him? You’ve been here for thirty seconds.” She tried to hold back her anger as much as she could, stay cool, but a threat was looming, and she wasn’t going to be able to hold her temper back. Nick’s brow furrowed with worry. “That’s my friend, Nick. Quentin’s not just my undertaker. He’s my friend. You don’t know how he struggles, what he goes through about this stuff. He hurts, dude. And if you just sent him off on a crash and burn, you’ll be lucky if I don’t kill you. Got it, sport?”
Nick stood there nodding his head, mouthing silent apologies.
“I hope you’re right,” she said, her eyes drifting to the lanky kid jogging toward the dorms. There was something charged about him, and Velvet realized there was a possibility this could actually work. “I hope so.”
She turned back to the boy and found that he’d followed her gaze to Quentin. There was a wan smile on his face and a wistful look in his glowing eyes.
“Me too,” he said.
And despite her initial impression of the boy—“dumb jock” came to mind—and the weird, almost tumbling effect he had on her moods and thoughts, she believed he really did have Quentin’s best interests at heart.
Could he actually be a decent guy?
Hard to imagine.
He was pretty to look at, though, she thought. Boys weren’t objectified nearly enough, and turnabout was always fair play. Velvet trudged off through the dwindling crowd to the Retrieval dorm door.
Nick stumbled forward. “Is this the dorms?”
“Yep.” Luisa grinned devilishly. “You get to meet Miss Antonia. You’re going to love her.”
“Who’s she?”
Velvet reached for the doorknob and swiveled back to face him. “She’s the Salvage mother, and Luisa is messing with you. No one loves Miss Antonia. Respects, maybe, but never loves.”
“Why?” He scanned the tall doors, nearly the height of the first floor.
Velvet’s chest heaved with laughter. “You’ll see.”
Velvet swung the doors open and bounded through the short breezeway and into the bustling courtyard full of gabbing cliques of gray souls, and a few powdered white instead of ashed, as Isadora occasionally was. The souls played games set up on bistro tables. Tiles and cards. Music billowed about them like a cloud, eerie and tinny-sounding from the gramophone. The place had completely recovered from the shadowquake.
Even Bethany, recovered fully from her run-in with the shadow tentacle, gabbed noisily about her horrifying experience. Something about a carnival ride and clowns.
Whatever.
Velvet glanced skyward to where even the burn marks on the upper walls had been scrubbed and the gaslight globes replaced. Miss Antonia ran a tight ship; there was no doubt about that.
At one end of the courtyard, a pair of children sat amid the risers of the wide stone stair, one reading to the other from a book the size of a Christmas ham. Nearby a couple of girls in flowing, vibrantly colored saris twirled and gyrated to the music.
Velvet’s approach signaled a change in the crowd. Some souls gasped audibly, games were tossed aside, and the music ground to a mopey halt. They left their conversations and gathered around, applauding wildly, pumping Velvet’s hand and shouting congratulations. Other souls merely hated and crossed their arms belligerently, chatting among themselves the way the entitled do.
Kipper rounded the stair and trotted across the courtyard to hoist Luisa and Logan each onto one of his broad shoulders and parade them through the cheering crowd. Quentin, his previous enthusiasm turned to a driven focus, scanned the room for Shandie, but he couldn’t maintain his focus in the presence of such a homecoming. The clamor of the crowd swept him in, and soon enough his intensity turned into uproarious laughter.
“Velvet!” a woman’s voice bellowed above the din.
Velvet watched Nick get his first glimpse of Miss Antonia. He peered over the heads of the crowd as the tall rail of a woman descended the stairs. Her robe was thick and matronly, as gray as her ashen face. She wore her hair up tight in a bun held together by two dangerously long divining needles.
Nick shuddered beside Velvet, slowly massaging the palm Mrs. Allerdice had pierced. Velvet resisted the urge to lean over and say, “Yes, those needles.”
The crowd parted, and she shuffled toward them. Her face was as severe as her apparel and hairstyle, narrow eyes sunken in above a thin spindle of a nose. Her lips were a mere shadow around the gash of her mouth. She greeted Velvet with a brief but brutal hug, hoisting the girl off her feet. Since it was useless to struggle, Velvet merely went limp, combat boots dangling in the air an inch above the courtyard pavers. She heard her own pained groan squeak from between her lips.
And then she was set back down, surprised and relieved at the same time. She hadn’t expected any appreciation from the woman, and buoyant declarations weren’t in the woman’s toolbox, by a mile. The two were alike in that sense.
Velvet nodded a quick “You’re welcome” before either of them felt the urge to vocalize any niceties. “This is Nick,” she said instead.
Nick stepped forward. “Hello, ma’am.”
“Number fifty-seven, eh?” She reached for and held Nick’s arms out to his sides, assessing his frame. The boy’s face registered the appropriate degree of shocked embarrassment. Miss Antonia could have said, “Look at this pretty dress. Isn’t it adorable.” But what actually came out was less complimentary in tone. “And he’s meant for Salvage … I assume?”
“So I’m told,” Velvet said, her eyes drawn to a thin break between Nick’s shirt and the waist of his trousers; the tight flesh of his belly glowed there like a smut beacon. Velvet found herself wanting to touch it, before shaking off the idea as being completely inappropriate and, frankly, bizarre.
What the hell was wrong with her?
When she glanced back up at his face, he was grinning at her, and she spun away, flustered.
“How did you do that?” she wanted to scream. He had some kind of magical magnet or something to know when girls were looking at him.
Every single time.
“Well,” Miss Antonia muttered noncommittally. “We’ll figure out a place for him. If anything, he can sweep.”
Nick scowled.
Miss Antonia snapped her fingers. The sound cracked through the courtyard like gunfire. “Attention! These are your heroes.” She swept her bony arms toward the quartet of Salvagers and Nick. “Do something special for them, as they’ve saved your lazy butts from the shadowquake.” She paused, sighing thoughtfully. “I know what you are asking. You are asking, Whatever could we do to show our vast and immense appreciation?”
The faces of the gathered souls sunk into grimaces, but their groans were met by a harsh sneer from the Salvage mother.
“You may take on their chores! For starts, clean up this courtyard and restring the lanterns! It’s far too dark to have a proper salon, so we’ll postpone it until tomorrow. But until then, your heroes can’t be expected to live like filthy animals, can they?”
There were some shrugs, primarily from the groups on the opposite side of the room. But mostly the tenants of the dorm nodded in agreement.
“Then,” Miss Antonia continued, “you may go back to enjoying yourselves!” She snatched one of the needles from the bun in her hair and held it out. It glinted in the dim light, menacingly. “But not before. Or else.” She drew the weapon across her throat.
Miss Antonia smirked, her lips disappearing into her mouth, eyes glowing rabidly.
The tenants of the Salvage house stared at her, eyes skittering around at each other, and then as the Salvage mother lurched forward at them, they scrambled wildly away, scuttling like cockroaches caught in a surprise flick of a light switch.
“Wow,” Nick muttered.
“She ain’t always that nice,” a deep voice spoke, thick without any accent at all, like a newscaster or something.
Kipper settled Luisa and Logan onto the ground and held out his hand to shake N
ick’s. “I’m Kipper. Gary Kipness is my real name. You Velvet’s latest conquest?”
Oh, my God, she thought. Really?
The boy made it sound like Velvet had picked Nick up at some sleazy bar. Which probably would have suited Nick fine, but it totally wasn’t her style. She’d never even been in a bar.
“Yeah, I guess,” Nick agreed nervously, losing his hand in the guy’s massive grip. It fit around Nick’s like a baseball glove, thick and padded and enormous. The shaking was long, forceful, and rolled up Nick’s arm like Kipper had snapped a whip.
“Number fifty-seven.” Kipper shook his head as though he couldn’t quite believe he was meeting Nick. “Congratulations, Velv.”
“Uh … thanks?” she said.
“People keep saying that,” Nick said. “Though why it’s important, I don’t know.”
Kipper waved the comment off. “Just a number. Ain’t nothin’ else. But …” He leaned in close. “Happens to be the highest number of souls retrieved by a single Salvage team leader, so it’s kind of a big deal. Velvet’s sort of a hero, and she’s still young, so she’s all set for an amazing record. Major-league shit. She’ll be completely excruciating to be around now.”
Nick rubbed his hand. “Well, that’s a relief. People been saying ‘fifty-seven’ so much, I figured it was a nickname I’d have to get used to.”
Kipper laughed, a great booming laugh. “You got an actual name, Fifty-Seven?”
“Nick Russell.”
“Well, tell you what, Nick. As new as you are, and looking like you do, you’re gonna be girl food.”
“Jesus,” Velvet sighed, but as she scanned the room, she noticed a pack of girls prowling near the stage, alternating between chatting and looking over their shoulders at the two boys. Or rather at Nick, as if he needed a bigger head on his shoulders.
“I guess that’s a good thing.” Nick smiled and waved in their direction.
Kipper shrugged. “Could be. Those ones bite, but they’re nothing compared to Isadora and her group.” He pointed out the girl, standing, of course, with Shandie.
Isadora’s eyes locked onto Nick’s and didn’t blink, and a sinister smirk curled on her perfectly painted lips, as if she were picking him out of the pastry case, a piece of cheesecake or something. That the devil of the Collector set would have eyes for Nick was a given.
“You gotta be careful with that one,” Kipper said.
“She’s pretty hot,” Nick agreed.
Velvet rolled her eyes. “Jesus,” she said again.
Kipper nailed it. “Not what I meant. She’s psycho. This guy I know, Graham Polosian, went out with her one time and came back completely messed up.”
Nick nodded his head. “She looks like the type to mess with a guy’s head.”
“That ain’t it. He came back all made up like a living guy. White skin, lipstick. Hell, even eyeliner. He was like Thirty Seconds to Mantyhose.”
Nick chuckled but didn’t quite seem to catch Kipper’s emo slur.
“Mantyhose?” Velvet added, butting into the conversation. “Those skinny jeans they make the boys wear are like shackles.” She glowered in Isadora’s direction. “Oh, yeah. I agree one hundred percent. Isadora is a piece of work. Master Emasculator if there ever was one. Probably carries around a collection of balls in her purse.”
Nick ventured another look at the girl, and shivered.
Velvet’s eyes were set on Isadora’s friend.
Quentin had emerged from the darkness and was striding, quite deliberately, toward the girl. The distraction of Nick’s appearance having been quickly discarded, Shandie had gone back to chatting with Isadora, her face scrunched up a bit in judgment as Quentin stepped up to them and began to speak. Velvet wished she could hear what Quentin was saying. She suspected some of the words came out stuttered, fast, probably rambled. But she was so proud of him.
And to Velvet’s surprise, Shandie was smiling. She touched her neck, the international symbol for being interested.
Nick nudged her slightly, and Velvet gave in and gave him an appreciative nod. It certainly appeared that Quentin was a go. They weren’t the only ones spying. Kipper pumped his fist in the air while Logan’s mouth lolled open with surprise. Luisa wore a wan, hopeful expression and clasped her hands over her heart in a wholly girlish attitude, belying her viciousness.
The sound of people gasping brought Velvet’s attention back to Quentin and the girl. In fact, the crowd of souls were backing away. She rushed forward. Had the girl slapped him or something? Quentin wasn’t the kind of guy to ever be a complete douche. He didn’t even have those words in him, unless he was repeating something Kipper had told him.
Velvet darted the short distance to see what was going on.
When she broke through the throng, she stopped dead.
Her heart sank. Nick stumbled up behind her and touched his hand to her arm, likely to hold himself up. If his knees were as shaky as hers, they’d both need the support soon enough.
Quentin lay on the crooked cobblestones, his legs splayed out like a discarded rag doll, his head in Kipper’s lap. Shandie had retreated a few feet away and sobbed quietly into Isadora’s shoulder.
“Go on, Quentin. It’s your time. You’re the man.” Kipper’s voice was choked with tears. “You’re the man.”
Quentin’s skin flickered. He glanced at Velvet and Nick and smiled the briefest of smiles before the glow beneath the thin layer of ash flashed brightly and then dimmed. The light behind his eyes died out. Kipper lifted the boy’s head and slid from underneath him, setting him gently back onto the cold stone ground.
He backed away, as did everyone else nearby. Velvet felt a hand slipping into hers and looked down to see Luisa, her expression a confused mix of pride and grief. Velvet reached out for Nick and pulled him backward.
As though a dark fire had been set within Quentin’s prone form, his skin began to crackle and expand, puffing out where it wasn’t constricted by clothing. It dimpled and shed like dandruff, falling off in chunks and exploding into ash against the cobblestone, spilling into the indentations between. And then, as if a jetty of wind swirled about the corpse, ash curled from Quentin’s exposed flesh in big flakes and floated around him. The depressions caved, creating sinkholes on his cheeks, in the hollow of his throat. His clothes caught fire and were consumed in an instant. When all was said and done, all that was left of the boy was a pile of ash, as gray as a storm front.
Velvet shivered, her body suddenly a hollow shell.
Remainders were silent mysterious, things. No one knew what exactly anchored them to purgatory’s ashen shore. She had suspicions—everyone did—and often figured hers had to do with feelings, or the lack of them. The confusion of emotion. And really, if she thought about it at all, that quiet moment in the Shattered Hall, huddled over Nick, wrapping him in the warm solidity of the woolen peacoat, could very well have been her cue to flash burn and turn to ash.
You just never knew. Quentin had learned everything he’d needed to, and there was no reason to be sad about that, she supposed. At least, that was what the Council of Station Agents told them to believe.
Velvet turned to Nick.
Hurt clouded his face. A feeling weighed at the corners of his mouth, heavy and funereal. His eyelids sagged and the light in his eyes turned to shadowy eclipses.
It was guilt. Nick was mourning.
She felt an unfamiliar twinge and for a moment thought she was experiencing guilt over her friend’s passing, too. But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t guilt at all. It was jealousy. The realization bit into her like the jaws of some black creature, grim and nightmarish. And she shook it away.
And thankfully, it fell.
If she could count on her particular affliction for anything, it was the rapid sloughing of unwanted and unexpected feelings. Accessing the ones she needed was the issue.
Which brought her back to the boy in front of her.
She wanted to be able to reach back into their h
istory and recapture the moment in the Shattered Hall, but she couldn’t. It floated between them like a dust mote caught in a slant of light.
She should hold him, she decided. But she didn’t.
“It’s fine. It’s a natural thing,” Velvet found herself saying. “Just follow my lead.”
She touched Nick’s arm to slip past, her hip brushing his. Nick tensed, and for a second, Velvet thought he would wrap her up in his arms and never let go; to cover her face with kisses.
But he didn’t.
Velvet squatted beside the pile of Quentin’s ashes and dug her hand deep into it, rubbing the gray powder on her face and neck before moving on. The residents of the dorms had formed a loose line, and each in turn did as Velvet had, spreading a small handful of Quentin’s remains on their skin.
“It’s an act of respect,” she muttered to Nick, who held back and watched.
Miss Antonia was the next to last to pay her respects. She sidestepped the line and guided Nick to the dwindling pile of ash. “The rest is for the pots; just take a small handful.”
He did as he was told, hands shaking as his fingers sank into the pile. He rubbed the ash into his cheeks in stiff strokes, where it crumbled and rained down the yoke of his dress shirt.
Chapter 14
Velvet crouched in the corner of her room, her fingers wound in the cording of the drapes. Everything around her was deflated, as though made of sagging, half-empty balloons. Her bed, dresser, even the wardrobes, sagged into slick plastic piles, punctured by Mr. Fassbinder’s spiky nest of monk parakeets, which hung from the ceiling like the world’s scariest nursery mobile. The prickly globe kept getting bigger and bigger, like a set of lungs filling up with air, heaving in and expanding until there was more room inside than out. The needles scraped the walls with a horrible grating sound, nearly shutting out the chirping of the hundred birds in their cells. Velvet threw her arms up and clinched her eyes shut as the spikes pressed closer.
Moments later, Velvet was staring into a soul-streaked sky. She noticed one thing immediately: she wasn’t alone. Bonesaw crouched beside her, his face placid, slack. His black eyes bored into her mind.