Velveteen

by Daniel Marks

  “Do you know any of them?” she said quickly.

  “I know of them.” He paused, brow furrowing.

  “Is there someone? Someone you suspect?”

  He shook his head. “It’s probably nothing—though, perhaps.…”

  “Well, just spill it, then. If it’s nothing, it won’t make any difference.”

  “Aloysius Clay.”

  Velvet gasped. “The missing body thief?”

  Could Miss Antonia’s lost love possibly be involved? Velvet had no proof, of course, but at the mere mention of his name, she was reminded of her certainty that Clay and Miss Antonia had been lovers. It just seemed right. And despite being completely paranoid lately, Velvet usually trusted her instincts.

  Mr. Fassbinder leaned forward, glancing cautiously at the front door of the shop to make sure they were still alone. “I have heard that Aloysius Clay didn’t disappear randomly. He didn’t dim. He wasn’t kidnapped, as so many have hypothesized, but rather, like so many Hitchcockian characters, took on a secret identity far away from his home here in the Latin Quarter. And …” His voice trailed off.

  “And?” Now it was Velvet leaning in, hanging on her friend’s every word.

  “And he has become a great—no—a master origamist. Some say he produces the finest paper mimicry in all of Vermillion. Though that’s just talk. I have no proof to speak of.”

  Velvet rubbed her lips and thought about this news.

  It made some sense. If Clay was the creator of the effigies, he might have had contact with the banshee she’d interrogated in the Cellar.

  She nodded finally. “Thank you, Mr. Fassbinder. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I do hope so. This departure business is all very disturbing, and the shadowquakes have slowed business, I’m afraid.”

  Velvet employed as sympathetic a smile as possible and stood, ready to leave. “Tremendously helpful. I’ll be back in a few days so we can have that film talk. I’d really love to chat with you about The Birds, and your parakeets, too.”

  “You’ll be amazed at what I have planned next,” Mr. Fassbinder said, doing his best villain impression.

  “Something positively evil, no doubt,” she joked back.

  “No doubt,” he said, the sternness fallen away in favor of a chuckle.

  “Oh, but wait,” Velvet said, remembering that in proper questioning, it’s important to cover all of one’s bases. “One more thing. Where do you get your paper?”

  Mr. Fassbinder shrugged. “Local suppliers.” His eyes darted toward the little black box, now closed in the cage of Velvet’s fingers.

  She looked at it again and then back to Mr. Fassbinder. His smile was as gracious and pleasant as ever, but Velvet couldn’t help wondering if the man was telling the truth. Immediately following the thought, though, she felt suddenly, immeasurably ashamed. She had friends in purgatory but so few confidants. It just wasn’t possible that this man who treated her so well could be involved in something so heinous. And why would he lie? There was really no reason. Who would he be protecting? He didn’t seem to know anyone but his customers and some delivery boys. He hardly ever even left the Paper Aviary.

  Still, his ideas were very interesting, and in light of those ideas, the appearance of Aloysius Clay as a suspect, and the visions pulled from the banshee’s skull, she needed to meet with Manny.

  Velvet thanked Mr. Fassbinder, squeezed the box into her pocket, and let herself out into the murky shadows of the midday. She trod quickly but focused on her footing all the way to the square. Even with the gaslight cranked to high, it was difficult to see the funicular platform in the distance, and Velvet had to rely on instinct to guide her to the ramp and to the basket of paper and pencils. She jotted down a quick message to Manny, folded the note into fourths, and added delivery instructions to the station post. As the railcar ground up to the platform, Velvet tossed the note into a box on its side marked “To: Station,” and tromped back down to the cobblestone street below.

  The walk back to the dorm was the same as ever, with one notable difference. The flyers and handbills announcing the coming departure were more frequent than she’d seen before. The red paper spattered the walls around her like at the scene of a crime. She stopped to tear one off the wall, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the gutter.

  Back at the dormitory, Velvet had no more than crossed the threshold when Miss Antonia slipped her hand into the crook of her elbow and whisked her off through the bustling residents to a table in a well-shadowed corner of the courtyard. The stage was being readied, salon imminent.

  Her phantom heart skipped inside her chest.

  Did Miss Antonia know about Nick? Or was it Velvet’s frequent trips to the charming farmlands of New Brompfel Heights to haunt a certain serial killer that was prompting this discussion?

  Miss Antonia sat across from Velvet, her chin in her palm, scrutinizing her carefully.

  “Yes?” Velvet noticed that her voice was shaking.

  “Well?” Miss Antonia returned, eyes narrowing. “Isn’t there something you’d like to tell me?”

  Velvet’s stomach turned, twisting into a pretzel shape in her gut. Her eyes darted around the courtyard. The first person she lit on was Nick, of course. Nothing like a reminder of how she’d screwed things up. The real question was: Had she been running away from him because he was making her crazy, or was she just plain crazy to begin with?

  She was beginning to think the latter was the blue ribbon winner.

  The boy leaned against the wall, hair tousled in the same sexy way she’d seen it the night before. He was watching her, his mouth crooked with a stupid, ridiculous grin. Distracting her.

  Why does he have to be so frickin’ gorgeous? If he just had prematurely thinning hair and a pie face, it wouldn’t be an issue. Though she supposed she’d still have her haunting situation on the table.

  Who am I kidding? she thought. I’m stockpiling secrets like Isadora hoards ugly clothes and girls to worship her. I’m screwed.

  She turned back to Miss Antonia. The woman’s pursed lips and the way she drummed her fingers on the tabletop told the whole story.

  Someone had spilled.

  “You’re awfully squirrelly.” Miss Antonia studied Velvet and then sighed morosely. “Must not be good news.”

  Velvet was thoroughly confused but momentarily hopeful. Maybe she’d misjudged the situation. “What must not be good news?”

  “Your investigation,” another voice chimed in.

  Velvet spun to see Manny sauntering toward them. “Don’t look so surprised. I was eager to hear your report and came to get it firsthand. Plus”—she slipped into the chair next to Velvet, her hand resting on Velvet’s shoulder—“this way I get to take in a little entertainment while we chat. Won’t that be nice?”

  “Ya-yeah,” Velvet stuttered, noticing the commotion on the stage: kids straightening the backdrop, stacking sheet music next to the lectern, dusting the creepy box of doom with her name stuffed inside it like a threat. “Salon is gonna be awesome,” she lied, and quickly changed the subject. “You got my message, then?”

  “I was expecting one,” Manny said reproachfully. “But since it never came, I decided to swing by to find out what was keeping my best body thief as quiet as a church mouse.”

  “I did send one, just recently, though. I’m sorry.” Velvet squirmed in her chair. Despite the fact that Mr. Fassbinder may have burst the case wide open with his theories, there was nothing like an inquisition after a hard day of illegal haunting to make a girl uncomfortable. “I did find out tons of stuff.”

  Manny grinned and slapped her hands on the table. “Well, thank goodness. The Council of Station Agents was beginning to doubt your abilities. But I insisted you were the best team leader we had. ‘If Velvet doesn’t get to the bottom of this,’ I said, ‘no one will and we’ll all be doomed.’ ”

  No pressure there, Velvet thought. And what is with the speedy time line? She’d barely had time to b
link, let alone solve the case and get a message back to the station, in time for them to be worried.

  Something must have them seriously spooked.

  Manny’s expression darkened, her eyes narrowed to dim slits, and she leaned in to whisper, “We have reason to believe the departure, whatever shape that may take, is to occur sooner rather than later.”

  Velvet cringed and glanced at Miss Antonia, who nodded.

  “Much sooner,” the Salvage mother whispered.

  At that moment, Kipper bounded up like a shaved yeti, all massive boy muscles and jocularity. “So what’s new?” He plopped down in the chair opposite Velvet.

  “We’re kind of having a meeting, doofus,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Manny set her hand atop Velvet’s. “It’s all right. We’ve asked Gary to attend this impromptu meeting. We’re going to need his help … and Nick’s.” She suddenly beamed as though just remembering. “Happy dimming, by the way.”

  “Happy dimming,” Miss Antonia aped.

  Neither Velvet nor Kipper returned the morosely cheerful sentiment. People said it when close friends passed. Or in this case, a close friend and coworker.

  But Manny had mentioned Nick.

  Nick’s help?

  It must have been decided. Nick was in line to be her new undertaker and was therefore officially, indubitably off-limits to her and her lusts and ogling. It was like she’d taken a punch to the gut. All the air went out of her. She felt faint, which totally sucked, because more than anything, Velvet preferred to put out a tough bitch persona when it came to work.

  “What’s wrong, girl?” Miss Antonia asked.

  She shook her head, peeking across at Kipper. The boy’s mouth was tight, and he was definitely avoiding her gaze. He’d probably talked to Nick. He knew. He had to.

  “I’m fine.” Velvet inhaled and sat up as straight and stoic as was manageable under the circumstances. “We’ll do whatever it is you think is necessary for our mission to be successful.”

  Manny winked at her. “Good girl. Now tell us what you’ve discovered.”

  Velvet went over the nerve reading with their prisoner again, for the benefit of Miss Antonia and Kipper—the visions, Vermillion, the printing press behind the doctor’s office door, and the rows of effigies and crystal balls.

  She told them about her meeting with Mr. Fassbinder and his idea that the revolutionaries might believe that the station agents were keeping the souls trapped in purgatory, and finally, after only the briefest hesitation, Velvet held out her hand for Miss Antonia to hold. Dramatic, yes, but the action served another purpose: to hold the woman close so Velvet could watch her reaction.

  The Salvage mother didn’t move at first, her mouth twisted up in a quizzical expression. “What’s this now?” she asked.

  “It’s about Aloysius Clay.”

  Miss Antonia’s eyes widened to saucers, and Velvet could have sworn the Salvage mother shot a reproachful glance in the station agent’s direction. Manny was stoic—she showed no reaction at all to the name. Miss Antonia gripped Velvet’s hand so tightly, the nerves under her fingers glowed through the creases of her knuckles.

  “Mr. Fassbinder said that he’s heard a rumor that Aloysius Clay …” Velvet paused as Miss Antonia’s hand fell away and her eyes trained skyward, lost in some distant memory. “… became a master origamist, and he lives in Vermillion under a secret identity. He says it’s just talk, but it does explain a lot.”

  Manny rubbed her temples. “Which explains the banshee’s knowledge of our ability to nerve read. Clay would have known that; he could have briefed the revolutionaries on our ways.”

  Kipper whistled. “These guys aren’t foolin’ around.”

  Everyone at the table nodded in agreement. Velvet was just relieved the topic had shifted. She’d already made all these jumps in logic. She was sold on the theory.

  “And neither shall we,” Manny said finally. “Kipper, I want you to follow up on this lead in Vermillion. See if you can find Clay there and take him into custody.”

  “But what about Nick’s testing and training?”

  Velvet cringed. Kipper was the primary Salvage trainer, but with him gone on a mission, that would mean …

  “Why, Velvet will take over the proctoring and tutelage, of course.”

  She sighed and slunk in her chair. Of course, she thought. Of course. Of course. Of course. Why couldn’t she catch a break?

  “Do you have a problem with that, Velvet?”

  She didn’t have an answer, not one that didn’t include a metric ton of F-bombs.

  Chapter 17

  After the discussion, Velvet was left to wrestle with the whole Nick thing by herself.

  Kipper darted for his assignment. Manny was likewise swept away from the conversation by the grotesquely overdressed Connie Lawrence. She was wearing something on her head that Velvet guessed was supposed to be a hat but looked more like a bloated old boot, the leather soggy and listing to the side. A moment after that, Miss Antonia breezed off toward the stage, chatting with the various groups gathered around the tables as though she were hostessing a cocktail party.

  Velvet wondered whether she could sneak all the way across the courtyard without drawing any attention. It wouldn’t be the first salon she’d skipped out on. She glanced at the stairwell as a pair of wingtips appeared there, followed shortly thereafter by a certain tall blond boy.

  Now was as good a time as any, she thought. They would have to talk about everything sooner or later, and the way she’d left it felt so cold and final. Now, of course, she realized that there wouldn’t be any closure on their interlude at all. Just a constant reminder in the form of proximity.

  Velvet pushed herself up out of the chair, just as Tony Falk took the stage to sing along to Stephen “Tin Tin” Duffy’s “Kiss Me.”

  “Kiss me with your mouth,” he sang, and several girls were sucked toward the stage like lint to a sock fresh from the dryer. He preened, running his fingers through his longish black hair, and swiveled his hips suggestively.

  Velvet stabbed a finger in her mouth as if she were gagging, for the benefit of a table of Salvage guys, spies or other support staff, who seemed to readily agree. Though after she moved on, Velvet wasn’t certain they were talking about the same thing.

  Up ahead, blocking the stairs and Nick like some underworld hit squad, was Isadora Lawrence and two henchgirls—Shandie, and another one with a nose like a rat and close-set beady eyes to match. Isadora wore a miniskirt nearly as short as her temper and a vicious smile that seemed to broadcast her intentions—those being to devour Nick like a praying mantis.

  Velvet opted for a shadowy spot to see how Nick would handle the temptation. Purely for supervisory purposes, of course.

  “Look at this, girls,” Isadora said, inspecting him up and down. The other girls did, too, running their eyes over him like he was a bar code. “Little boy lost. You lost, Nick?”

  “Um … no.”

  Velvet raised her brows, tying her lush mane of hair up with a strip of leather as she watched.

  Nick tried to squeeze past, but Isadora threaded her arm under his and pressed in tight. “Well, never mind. I just wanted to say, we Collectors have been a little lax with our welcoming party and thought you might like us to show you the ropes.”

  “Ropes,” Rat Girl repeated, and giggled sinisterly.

  Velvet didn’t doubt they had a stockpile of ropes in their warehouses, probably handcuffs, too.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to—” Nick began.

  Isadora reached up and took hold of his chin, directing his eyes toward hers. “Maybe you’re not understanding what I’m saying here, Nick. I’m asking if you party.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I got that.”

  Velvet tensed.

  But then Nick did something remarkable. He shot the girl a clearly identifiable look of disinterest.

  Isadora’s mouth dropped open, even as her fists balled up tight and her cheeks
glowed with embarrassment. Shandie and the other girl covered their mouths, chuckling as they backed away from the beautiful girl, as though she might explode.

  “I see how it is.” Isadora glowered and shot a look across the courtyard, possibly looking for her, Velvet thought. “You’re after Velvet.” She shook her head, and a look of nausea grew on Isadora’s perfectly made-up face, even as actual nausea blossomed in Velvet’s stomach. “Well, I’ll tell you this, because I like you and I know we’ll be great friends someday. Velvet’s crazy. Certifiable. Clearly insane, huh, girls?”

  The other two nodded adamantly. Rat Girl added, “So crazy.”

  “Why, she even sneaks out at night, you know? I found her in an alley early this morning.”

  “Ew,” Shandie said. “Wallowing in the gutter, no doubt.”

  Velvet had to hold herself back. She was furious. And she hadn’t had the satisfaction of beating anything to a pulp lately. The interrogation, while fun, hadn’t been nearly as aggressive as she’d have liked. If only she’d launched that cleaver at Bonesaw a second earlier.

  The idea of the weapon quivering from a deep hold in Bonesaw’s skull made her smile grimly.

  Maybe Isadora was right. She felt herself relax.

  But when Velvet looked back at Nick, she saw a shadow of doubt spread over his face. He was squinting, his gaze askance. He was remembering something.

  “You’re too good for her, Nick.” Isadora pulled back and assessed him again. “And far too pretty. Besides … she’s a whore.”

  Velvet flinched as Isadora’s backup dancers nodded, and Velvet began to stride toward them, ready to fight.

  She was stopped by a flush that sparked on Nick’s cheeks brightly.

  “We’re not going to be friends, Isadora. We’re not going to be anything. You think you can talk like that about the girl that saves your butts every other week?” He leaned in close—close enough that Velvet couldn’t hear.

  But as she approached the stairs, she heard this …

  “I know you. You’re a predator. There’s nothing good in you. And I bet … I just bet that if you ever found something good in yourself, you’d move on to wherever it is souls go after here. Or are you afraid it’s the frying pan for you?”