Nameless tobam-1

by Lili St. Crow

  “Who had sweaty hands,” Ellie mock-whispered. “They all do.”

  “And a hip flask!” Ruby crowed triumphantly. “I didn’t get slammed, though. You’d be proud of me, Miss Stick-In-The-Mud.”

  “Oh, she only got a little bit hazy.” Ellie’s eyeroll was a wonder of nature. “Why aren’t we skipping to get a charm to keep you from spawning?”

  “Because, and this is what I’m trying to tell you, prepboy lost his starch.”

  Breathless silence. Then Ellie and Cami both exploded into bright bird-laughter, and Ruby grinned, white teeth behind crimson-glossed lips.

  “Get out!” Ellie crowed, and manhandled the door open. They tumbled out into rich golden fall sunshine, the sudden slice of a crisp breeze against bare knees, lifting Ellie’s sleek blonde hair and wringing hot water from Cami’s furiously-blinking eyes.

  “Seriously!” Rube had the bit in her teeth now. Cami checked the stairs.

  They were still there. Still granite, still with sharp edges, and still too steep.

  St. Juno’s was a pure-human charmschool; it only took in girls with rich families and unTwisted Potential. The Family sent all their daughters to Martinfield, but Cami wasn’t pureblood. So it was St. Juno’s for her, along with the young girls of New Haven’s aristocracy of money, magic, and social standing.

  The stairs were . . . troubling. Sometimes she thought the hedge of defenses that kept anything non-human or Twisted out of the buildings would smell the Family on her and rise, veils of flickering Potential ready to rip her into bits. And then there were the dreams, of stairs and a tall draped figure shimmering-pale.

  Don’t think about that. The dreams didn’t belong in the daylight, so she just shivered. They left quietly, this time. “N-no w-way!” she managed, very carefully.

  “Way!” Ruby almost wriggled with delight. “So things are looking good, right? Things are looking flat out great in the front seat of the Cimarro—did I tell you? He had a Cimarro, positively antique, cherry too.”

  Considering Cimarros had been popular when Papa was a boy—there was a yellow one in the capacious Vultusino garage, lovingly tended by Chauncey—it gave new meaning to the word “antique.”

  The first few steps went by in a rush, and Cami let out a half-whistle of relief. Ruby knew she hated the stairs, but she was always of the opinion that if you hated something, you just had to run right through it. Ellie was more of the sneak-up-and-hit-it-with-a-shovel persuasion.

  Cami didn’t want to take the time to stammer through an explanation of her own philosophy, which was more “live to fight another day” than Charge of the Twist Brigade. But that was a Personal Choice, and her Personal Choices not to speak were okay, or so the speech therapist she’d seen for four years—before the woman’s Potential Twisted—had said. Your choice to speak or not is your own. Let’s try it very slowly, if you feel like it.

  Cami had liked Miss Amanda. But once the Twisting had struck, there was no way Papa would let her go back. The risk of the Twist spreading was just too high, and plus, Twists sometimes . . . snapped. Miss Amanda’s hands had trembled, the bones sprouting claw-spurs through the skin, her Potential eaten up either by an anger she had never given voice to or just plain ill-luck, or maybe a bad charming. She’d had just enough Potential to qualify as a charmer, not good as a Sigiled or anything but able to heat a kettle of water to boiling with a snapped word or two, or make colored light dance in the air to form letter-shapes her struggling students could read. When the proper sound was made, the letters would glow and change to other shapes.

  It was dangerous to have a lot of Potential, but it was less likely to Twist you than just a little was. Still, Cami’d gotten more from four years of weekly meetings with Miss Amanda than she had from plenty of other teachers.

  But that was in the past, and the past was never helpful. So she just nodded as Ruby plunged into the story again and dragged them all down the steps, her hair a bright copper flame.

  They arrived at the bottom breathless, in a wider crush of girls waiting for buses and cars crowding the curb. This year bigger utility vehicles from overseas and overWaste were popular, hunkering on shiny black tires with charm-spinning, gleaming hubcaps, the glass darkened and crawling with Potential. Watchwards, defense-charms, charms to keep dust and rain from smearing the glass—pickup time at St. Juno’s was like an exercise in conspicuous charm-viewing.

  “And so Berch Prep Boy says, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna make it,’” Ruby confided. “And sploosh, there it goes. All over the seat.” The giggles were shaking all three of them now, and hard. Cami’s midriff ached.

  Fortunately, laughing didn’t stutter.

  Ruby jolted to a halt between one word and the next. “Hel-lo. Cami, sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “T-T-Tell you wha—” But as soon as she followed the line of Ruby’s glance, she figured it out.

  The sleek black ’70 Ivrielle—another antique, though not as old as a Cimarro—crouched, in lazy defiance of the yellow Bus Zone paint. And leaning against its front was a tall, rangy young man with slicked dark hair and the indefinable stamp of other on him all the Family displayed. Their cheekbones were arched oddly, their eyes spaced just a fraction differently, the line of the jaw too sharp and the musculature visible in shoulders or arms or legs, even the girls’, was . . . unusual.

  “Nico!” Cami shrieked, and the fact that she didn’t stutter over his name was lost in the wave of muttering schoolgirl envy. Ellie caught Cami’s dropped schoolbag, Ruby rolled her eyes, but Cami pounded across the pavement and flung herself into Nico’s arms.

  “Mithrus Christ,” he managed, “watch it! Break my ribs, kid!”

  “You d-d-didn’t—”

  “Tell you I was coming.” He smelled of fresh air, a faint breath of cigarette smoke, and bay rum—Papa Vultusino’s aftershave. Though Nico would probably just get That Look if she tried asking him about it. “Wanted to surprise you. Hey, Rube. Ellen.”

  “Vultusino.” Ruby showed her teeth. “Look at you, parking in the fire lane.”

  “It’s bus parking, not fire lane. Gonna give me a ticket? Cite me for being Family on school grounds, too?” His smile didn’t change, and Cami hugged him tighter, reading the tension in his shoulders. Not now, she told him silently. She’s my friend.

  “You wish. Guess we know who’s driving her home today.” Ruby’s baring of teeth was more of a smile now, Potential-haze like heat over pavement crackling on her shoulders. Her Potential was vivid, not soft like Ellie’s or invisible, like Cami’s. “Come on, Ellie. Buzz you later, Cami.”

  She let go of Nico once she was sure he wasn’t going to say anything else. “Y-yeah. B-b-babchat.”

  “But of course, my dear.” Ruby pecked her on the cheek. “Still have to tell you how the night turned out,” she whispered, a hot wash of Juicy Charm gum from her teeth and chocolate-salt smell from her skin.

  Cami choked on a laugh, and Ellie handed her schoolbag over. “Babchat,” she said, softly. “Nine-thirty? High Calc’s gonna kill me.” Gray eyes wide, her blonde hair pulled sleekly back, the faint dusting of freckles on Ellie’s nose turned gold in the light. This close you could see her collar fraying, and the shiny patches worn into her blazer.

  I’m going to have to do something about that. But the words wouldn’t come.

  So Cami just nodded, and her two best friends in the world other than Nico linked arms and were away. Ruby would drive Ellie home, stopping at the gate and making the usual cheerfully obscene gesture safely behind the smoked glass of the windshield so Ellie’s nasty-tempered stepmother didn’t see her, and later when the Evil Strepmother was occupied, Ellie would use her Babbage-net connection—St. Juno’s required one and logged student times, and the principal Mother Heloise knew some about the Strep so the Strep couldn’t take the Babbage set away—to confer about the homework.

  Cami hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and looked up at Nico.

  He was just the
same. A little taller, like he grew every time he went off to Hannibal College up-Province on the ribbon of safely-reclaimed highway, green and gray kolkhozes lurking on either side behind electrified fences.

  His dark hair combed back, the moss-green eyes, the wide cheekbones. You could see Papa in him, just a little. He’d had time to change out of uniform too—Hannibal was a Family school, and it kept to old ways. So it was jeans and a black T-shirt, his heavy watch glittering silver, the old leather jacket with all its scrapes and wrinkles. “See something green, schweetheart?” He waggled his eyebrows, an oddly childish expression. “Get in. I’ve got places to be.”

  Still, she waited, watching his face. Watching the shadow of anger, dull rage that never completely receded. She dug one polished maryjane into the pavement, biting her lower lip, and didn’t give up until he broke and grinned at her, his shoulders relaxing and the anger draining away until it was just a shadow.

  “Jeez, you just never quit, do you? Come on. I hurried back to see you, babygirl.” He opened the door for her, as usual, and Cami tried not to notice the envious glances. The girls dawdled, and the ones who knew whispered to the bobs—the new girls, still finding their way around St. Juno’s hedge of restrictions—about it. The ghoulgirls, playing at being black charmers with teased-out hair and long dagger-shaped earrings, hissed and jabbed their fingers at him and his shiny black car, muttering to each other.

  Nico Vultusino. He’s supposed to be her brother, but he’s one of those on the Hill. Shows up every once in a while to pick her up.

  They didn’t know anything. They couldn’t know, and even if she could talk without her tongue twisting on her, Cami wouldn’t tell them. Nico was hers, and he had been since the moment he stamped into the library years ago and announced he hated her and would never like her, because she wasn’t pureblood like him.

  He dropped into the driver’s seat. “I’m not gonna do this when you get to college, you know.” Twisted the key savagely, and music blared—Gothika’s driving beat, Shelley Wynter singing over the top of it about a minotaur in snow and the bass line popping like a runner’s pulse. He grimaced, spun the volume down, and tossed a battered pack of Gitanelles into her lap. “Light me up.”

  “C-College. Long time away.” If she spoke slowly, she didn’t stutter too much with Nico. He was patient, though.

  He listened.

  “Not so long,” he said, as he popped the parking brake and she tapped a Gitanelle out, pushing the cigarette lighter in. “You’re growing up fast, babygirl. Want to have some fun?”

  She didn’t think she could speak, so she just nodded, and lit the first of what would probably be a lot of cigarettes. She stuck it in his mouth as he turned the wheel, the tires chirped, and Nico spun them away from St. Juno’s like he was playing a roulette wheel.

  TWO

  “RACK ’EM, KID.” NICO DRAGGED ON HIS GITANELLE. Smoke wreathed his head as if he was a perpetual-burning scarecrow; but a faust wouldn’t be out during the day. Besides, fausts and Family made each other very nervous. It used to be Family sport to hunt them, back in the days before the Reeve.

  It probably still was, in some places.

  Cami leaned over the table, made sure the rack was tight, and lifted the triangle off with a ceremonial flourish. The pool balls gleamed, each one a different jewel against worn green felt. Her job done, she retreated to the booth and dropped down and took a sip of expensive imported-through-the-Waste Coke. The only way through the Waste was sealed in a train; the iron in the tracks kept the blight, the random Twisting, and the nasty creatures that lived outside the order of the cities and kolkhozes mostly at bay. The collective farms were full of jacks and Twists, but someone had to grow the food, right? And you couldn’t farm the Waste without reclamation to drain off the blight and channel the wild magic into systematic forms.

  Thinking about the Waste was always bad, too. Cami heaved a sigh, returned to the essay she was supposed to be outlining.

  Lou’s was full—but then, it almost always was. A long low pool hall, the bar at the front a reef in a sea of cigarette smoke, its mirror a giant cloudy eye behind racks of bottles. The tables marched in orderly ranks, just enough space around them for the players. Older men with open collars and cigars, young whip-thin hungry men working on their shots, the cracks of good clean breaks and the serious murmur as money changed hands all familiar and soothing. Green glass shades hung from long cords, the electric bulbs over some tables blinking a little as the dampers wedded to the shades suppressed Potential. Not the free-floating stuff the entire world was soaking in, but the kind that would tell a ball to roll a certain way, or whisper some English-spin onto it.

  Lou’s was straight gaming. Anyone caught charming, consciously or not, was thrown out. Cami had only seen that once or twice, and the thought still made her a little sick. All the yelling, and the blood.

  You had to be careful with blood in a Family place.

  The booths were empty. Nobody really sat there, but Cami had a favorite one near Nico’s usual table; it was kept dusted and ready. Whenever he was home from Hannibal, Nico played here, and Lou never made a peep about little sis bending over her homework while Vultusino’s son ran games. At least Nico didn’t play for money.

  Well, not often.

  And he didn’t tell Cami not to tell when he did, but he would often give her that considering look. Just one more secret for them to share.

  My little consigliere, he used to call her, back when he was twelve. Not anymore, but she didn’t miss it. That was one job she could do without.

  Cami tapped her pencil against her teeth. She should be at home typing this stupid essay, or even working on French or practicing the short list of safe charms to be mastered this year. Instead it was this stupid essay about the First Industrial Expansion, 1750–1850, machines and factories replacing cottage industry and cities turning into sooty hellholes.

  Not like they were much different nowadays, but at least they were safer than the Waste. The Waste used to be just empty land, or small farms—country was the term they’d used back in the day.

  Cami shifted again, uncomfortably. History was boring as shit.

  Who cared about the Industrial Expansions now, for God’s sake? Especially after the Reeve (for maaaaaaa-gic Reeeeeee-volution, Ruby would say, rolling her eyes). Post-Reeve studies weren’t until next year, along with serious charmwork and the settling of Potential.

  Even the Reeve wasn’t that interesting. It was just there, like fausts and Family and minotaurs, charms and griffs, and all those other things that had been hiding during the short Age of Iron.

  They had been hiding only to burst out when the World War ended, 1918, the last Year of Blood. Something about the War—the blood, the trenches, the masses of death—shook everything loose, and when it all settled in 1920, the Reeve had exploded and everything was different. The Deprescence had hit, and the ones that didn’t die as the country turned to Waste ended up Twisted, the first jacks—Potential-mutated babies, horns and feathers and fur—were born, and even being rich wouldn’t save you from starving to death. Or worse, being eaten by something nasty.

  The Family didn’t talk much about the Reeve or the Desprescence.

  Population movement from rural to urban, she wrote, and circled it as Nico muttered something and the rack was cracked. His opponent, a weedy man in a shiny blue jacket with a toothbrush-thin fair moustache clinging to his thin upper lip, lit a cigarette. A puff of harsh smoke, not silky like the Gitanelles—he was smoking cheap, and Cami suspected the guy was new and thought Nico was a pigeon.

  Oh well. He’ll find out. She hunched further down, pencil scraping. Effects on rural society. One, wages down. Two, breaking of social bonds. Three, the encroachment of the Waste and the Wild.

  Ruby was great at bullshit essays. She was good at bullshit in general, but she had a special genius for packing an assignment full of enough vocab to dizzy one of Juno’s Mithraic Sister teachers. She joked that it was
her Potential, as if the teachers weren’t full-settled, their own Potential respectable and staid, and immune to schoolgirl pranks.

  Cami sighed, scratched at an itch on the side of her neck. She’d undone her braid, her hair fell over her shoulder. True black, deep black, sometimes with blue highlights under strong light. She didn’t look like Nico; the darkness in his hair was underlaid with red. She didn’t look like anyone, really.

  Some days she didn’t mind. Today was one of them.

  Her neck still itched, and she glanced up to find the guy with the toothbrush moustache looking at her.

  She dropped her gaze, hurriedly.

  “Pay attention to the game.” Nico sounded pleasant enough. Nobody else, maybe, would hear the danger in his tone.

  “Ain’t she a bit young to be in here?” Moustache Man had a surprisingly deep, harsh voice for such a skinny guy. Cami restrained the urge to roll her eyes. The door thudded open and everyone paused, but it was just a man in a long tan overcoat headed for the bar. He slumped a little, shuffling as if he was tired. He couldn’t be visibly drunk, smoked, or Twisted, though, or Lou would send him right out.

  “You gonna check her ID?” Nico’s laugh now definitely had an edge. He stalked around the side of the table, sighted, and sent the yellow and the red careening into separate holes with one shattering crack. “What are you, a cop?”

  Oh, no. Cami very carefully kept her head down, as if she was studying intently. But her pencil had halted, and she had both of them in her peripheral vision.

  Moustache Man laughed. “Hell no. Just wondering.”

  “That’s my girl.” Nico sighted again, and sent the solid green thudding home. “Don’t wonder.”