My girl. A warm flush went through her. Nobody else would know what he meant by that, they could take it or leave it. Just like pretty much everything he said.
They settled into serious playing, and Cami relaxed a little. Maybe she could just put the damn thing down for a bit; it wasn’t due until next week. It wasn’t like she was going to fail, even if her Potential was invisible. Especially not with Papa making donations to St. Juno’s like he did. Still, she worried.
Having anything half-done nagged at her. She chewed at her lower lip while she scribbled, grateful that her fingers, at least, didn’t stutter.
“Hey.” Nico leaned over her, setting down his empty, red-streaked glass and reaching for a fresh ashtray. “Get me another one, huh?”
Not a good idea. “Y-y-you’re—”
“Driving. Yeah.” He nodded, a vertical line between his dark eyebrows. “Don’t worry. Get me another one.”
Fine. But if you get pulled over it’s not going to be pleasant. “K-kay.” Her stupid mouth wouldn’t work right. She blinked, the smoke suddenly stinging, and Nico squeezed her shoulder before turning away.
He scooped up his cue and settled the cut-glass ashtray; he gave Moustache Man a brilliant smile, his eyes lightening a shade or two. “Ready to play for real?”
Uh-oh. Nico was about to fleece him. Great. Cami sighed and hauled herself up, brushing at her skirt. The vinyl, even though it was washed and dusted, was still sticky, and she probably had red marks on the backs of her thighs. They would match all the other scars, and make some of the ones on the backs of her legs more vivid. The knee-high socks in fashion this year helped, not that many people said anything about her legs. She wore long sleeves as much as possible, and the uniform made people’s eyes slide right over her.
Mostly.
The floor was tacky-sticky too, and she kept her head down as she passed, acutely aware of the looks. The regulars knew, yeah—but sometimes there were guys who didn’t. She wished she hadn’t taken her blazer off; the scars on her arms and wrists would show up if she got warm or blushy.
I wish he wouldn’t come here. But Nico was in a mood, and she had to let him run for a bit before he’d tell her what was wrong. It was probably Papa, again.
Sooner or later, if you scratched Nico hard enough, you got down to Papa.
“Well hello, Cami.” Lou, broad, bald, and mahogany-colored, ran a hand over his shaved, oiled dome of a head and grinned. Nicotine stained his teeth and his blunt fingers, and he was probably scary if you didn’t know he had a huge gooshy soft spot under his big ribs. His Potential was like a brick wall, though, and it crackled and fizzed whenever the mood inside the pool hall got dangerous. “What’ll it be?”
She managed a smile in return, setting the glass carefully on the bar’s mellow polish. The guy in the overcoat down at the end hunched, a gleam from under the bill of his baseball cap oddly big for eyes. He looked like a hobo, kind of, the coat was ragged and torn, and she was glad she didn’t have to stand closer. “O-one m-more. F-f-f-for N-n-n—” Frustration boiled up inside her. “Nico,” she finished, finally, and peeked up to find Lou didn’t look upset in the least.
He never did, but she couldn’t shake the habit of checking.
“Sure thing. He should be careful; that kid he’s playing has a nasty temper.” Lou read her shrug accurately. “I know, so does Nico. Eh, well. Small-time sharks playing in a Family yard have it comin’. Here ya go, sweetness. Give me another one of those smiles?” His broad dark face split in a wide yellow grin that wasn’t scary at all. At least, not once you got to know him. She ducked her head slightly, unable to stop grinning back. “There it is. Go on back and—”
“Little girl,” someone rasped.
It was the man with the tan trench coat and the stained red baseball cap. He was gaunt, unshaven, and his dark hair was matted into grizzled dreadlocks. A pair of feverish dark gleams for eyes and a scar-stubbled jaw; his hand bit her upper arm, fingers clamping with surprising, scary strength. Cami flinched.
“I know you, little girl.” He slurred as if his tongue was too big for his mouth. He inhaled sharply, his breath whistling.
She had time to be surprised that he didn’t smell bad—he reeked, in fact, only of fresh lumber, sap and sawdust—before he leaned close to her face and yelled, the whiskey on his breath burning her nose. “I know you! You were dead!”
THREE
IT HAPPENED SO FAST.
One moment Cami was trying to back up, her shoes scuffing the peeling blue-flecked linoleum, the man’s skin hard-callused and fever-hot against her arm where the short-sleeved white button-down didn’t cover. A cloud of whiskey fumed around his lean desperate face, and she realized the gleam over his eyes was a pair of small round lenses—sunglasses, even in the dimness of Lou’s Pool. There was a wet resinous slickness on his cheeks too, and not only did he smell like sawdust, but he looked like he was made of wood—weathered skin carved with deep lines, a long nose, his hard thin lips pulled back from yellowed gleaming teeth.
Her heart gave a huge shattering leap. What IS he? Please don’t let him be a Twist—
The next moment, Nico arrived, his fingers just as bruising-hard as he peeled the man’s grasp from Cami’s arm. A cracking groan, like wood splintering, and Nico’s eyes were ablaze with a low red glow. His lips had skinned back and his canines came to sharp points, a pearly glitter as the whiskey and calf on the bar spilled, a drench of coppery red and alcohol.
The sound coming from Nico’s chest was a deep thrumming. He twisted the wooden man’s hand aside, and Cami hit the bar because he had shouldered her aside.
“You were dead!” the brown man screamed again. “Dead dead dead! She ate the heart! She ate theeeeeeee heaaaaaart!”
Cami lost her footing, hitting a barstool and tumbling into a heap. Oddly, stupidly, her skirt flipping up and showing her unmentionables was the thing she worried about most as her knee scraped along the footrail on the bottom of the bar. She scooted crabwise, her hands burning as she scrabbled to get away. Glass rained down, shimmering, as Nico half-turned and threw the wooden man onto the bar. Empty glasses went flying, and Lou let out a yell that almost drowned the wooden man’s high whistling scream. A lick of fire pierced Cami’s palm, and the scream ended on a rending crack.
“Mithrus Christ!” Lou finished yelling. The baseball bat held high in his beefy paws didn’t get a chance to flash down; brick-red sparks of Potential crackled defensively on his bare skin. Nico glanced at him, and the deep thrum from his chest faded bit by bit. The wooden man’s head tipped aside, his sunglasses falling with a clatter, one lens cracked clear through. He blinked, slowly, and stared through her.
Cami’s ribs heaved. She just sat there for a moment, clutching her left fist to her chest. Liquor dripped, broken glass glittered, and she figured out her skirt hadn’t rucked up too far.
Well, thank God for that. Her throat was dry as summer pavement. She gathered herself enough to look down, her left hand opening, a red flower in its palm. Oh, shit. Is it deep?
“NGGGAAAAH!” The man on the bar thrashed into life again. Nico hauled him down, the tan trench coat flapping like a flag in a high wind, and was suddenly at the door. It opened, and he flung the man into the street outside.
At least he didn’t toss the limp form dangling from his fists through the door. And at least he hadn’t killed him.
That would be Very Bad, even if he was Family. Papa would—
“Oh, Christ,” someone said, very low and clear. “She’s bleeding.”
Cami found her voice. “I-i-i-it’s n-n-not—” It’s not bad, she wanted to say, because Lou looked horrified. He was already backing up, his meaty hip hitting something behind the bar and another glass falling, crashing into splinters.
Nico whirled away from the door. There was a breath against her face—bay rum, cigarettes, whiskey and calf—and he was kneeling in front of her, his gaze flat, dark, and terribly empty. The red glow had gone.
> “Don’t—” Lou swallowed whatever he’d intended to say when Nico Vultusino glanced up at him. Nico’s canines were fully distended, and there was a ripple through the rest of the hall as every Family member tensed. They were daywalkers, true, and young ones, not yet burning with the Kiss of immortal undeath after years of service. But they were still Family.
Family meant Borrowing. And Borrowing meant blood.
Nico’s gaze swung back down to Cami. She swallowed, hard, and cupped her left hand. Slowly, she extended her fingers toward him, uncurling her arm. Blood dripped, a tiny plink sound in the utter stillness. At least she hadn’t smeared any on her shirt. Marya would scold her to no end if she had.
A river of shudders worked down Nico’s body. His hand shot out, closed around her wrist. Another rustling ripple of tension, as the non-Family drew back, hardly even daring to breathe. Moustache Man was holding his pool cue up like it was some sort of weapon.
Cami licked her dry lips. Her own Potential was a barely-seen shimmer hanging an inch from her skin, like the air over scorching blacktop. Fear, or anger, or any high emotion could make it visible even before it settled. Everyone would see it, and know she was . . . afraid?
Not of him. She concentrated, fiercely, and hoped she could speak without mush for once. “S-s-sorry, N-Nico.” He won’t bite me. He never has before, even when we were little.
At least, she had been little. He hadn’t. Even the few years’ worth of age he had on her was different, because you matured early when you were Family.
And she wasn’t.
He blinked. The shudders vanished. His canines retracted with a slight familiar crackling sound. He coughed, dryly, and looked up at Lou. “’Nother drink.” Sandpaper in his tone. “And the first-aid kit. Mithrus, how’d that happen?”
I was trying to get out of your way. She shrugged. A silent sigh of relief filled the pool hall. If he was talking, he wasn’t about to go crazy. Well, crazier.
He straightened, slowly, bracing her, brushing her off. “You okay? Hurt anywhere other than this?” Trying to be gentle, but his hand shook just the slightest bit. Her blood dripped again, and he could smell it.
They all could. Like sharks, Nico said. It only takes a little.
Her ribs ached from where he’d careened into her, and her shoulder had somehow bonked something and would be bruised. She shook her head, half her hair falling in her face, strings of jet-black, not curly like Red’s or sleek and behaving like Ellie’s. Lou banged the first-aid kit on the bar—there was a dent in the wood’s shiny polish.
A man-sized dent.
“Another drink, comin’ up,” Lou announced. “Billy, get your ass over here and help me clean this up. What the hell was that guy, anyway?”
In New Haven, you could ask that question, but you probably wouldn’t get much of an answer. The man could have been a jack born with weird skin, or a fey fresh from the Waste where they had their own strange ways of traveling, or anything else. Who knew?
Life and motion returned. They went back to their games, the Family members unfazed and the others maybe a little rattled. Moustache Man was nowhere to be seen, and after Cami’s hand was bandaged Nico found out the bastard had left with the cash sitting on the pool table. Gone while the getting was good.
Which meant Nico was pissed off pretty much all afternoon, even though he made it up in no time, skinning double from table to table.
Cami didn’t blame him. He fussed at her constantly, too, and she wished he wouldn’t. Because she kept thinking about the wooden man’s eyes, staring through her.
His blue, blue eyes. Like hers.
FOUR
IT WAS DUSK BY THE TIME NICO SHOT THE IVRIELLE through the slowly opening iron gates, barely avoiding taking off his side mirror. The pavement, shiny black and freshly sealed every summer, rippling with almost-visible defenses, was a ribbon between torch-burning trees, their leaves on fire with fall. Cami stared at the bandage—so white, Nico had done a good job wrapping it up. Then he’d taken down three shots of whiskey and calf and played for money the remainder of the afternoon, getting more and more worked up.
He locked the brakes, skidding to a stop, and Cami heaved an internal sigh. There was Mr. Stevens on the front steps, a thin stick in a dusty black suit, his slicked-down gray hair glinting a little as the sunset died.
“Just in time.” Nico kept the engine idling, his foot on the brake. “And look who’s here to greet us. My, my.”
Awkwardly, she grabbed at his shoulder with her bandaged hand. He checked, caught in the act of reaching for the door handle. His profile, with its proud nose and sullen mouth, didn’t change.
“Nico.” It was a miracle, something came out right. “P-please.”
“He’s gonna have my ass for taking you out.” His chin set.
“I’ll—”
“Yeah, you’ll work on him. I know. It’s okay.”
It’s not okay, the way you look is not okay. “He l-l-loves—”
“I’m disappointing. We’ve had this conversation. The ghoul’s waiting, you’d better go on in.”
Stevens can’t be a ghoul. He’s not even dead. She got the string of words together inside her head, let them out. “P-papa wants you t-to have a ch-childhood.” Why couldn’t he understand?
“I don’t know if you noticed, babygirl, but I’m not a kid.” He sighed, heavily, and some of the tension left him. “You go in. Have Marya take a look at that hand, too. I’ll see you later.”
“Nico—”
He cut her off. “Go in, Cami. I’ll deal with Papa. It was my fault anyway.”
Oh, for Chrissake. But there was no arguing with him when he was like this, so she shrugged, leaned over, and gave him a peck on the cheek—at least he looked happy with that—before she popped the lock and the car door.
Stevens looked a bit green—of course he would be worried, it was dusk. The sun was actually touching the horizon, and of course Nico would feel it. He probably had judged their arrival time within seconds. Just to get close to that edge.
Stevens would feel it too, Papa’s attention becoming heavier as the sun sank.
Her schoolbag slipped, and she hitched it higher on her shoulder. Nico carefully waited until she was clear before he gunned the engine and peeled toward the garages.
Cami sighed.
The steps were wide and low enough that they gave her little trouble, and this close you could see the surface of the front door shimmering a little, like the haze above hot pavement. “Hi, S-s-stevens.” She dredged up a smile—one she hoped wasn’t as tired as she felt.
“Good evening, Miss Camille.” The sticklike consigliere bent at the waist, and his seamed face under its skullcap of oiled hair held no glimmer of expression.
Nico was just being nasty. Stevens wasn’t like a ghoul; he was just . . . closed off. He was a blank door to everyone. Except probably Papa, who called Stevens the perfect well. You could drop secrets in and hear the ripple, but then they vanished.
I never want to find out. “Nico p-picked me up f-from sch-school,” she offered tentatively, as he turned and preceded her to the massive doors. “W-we g-g-got—”
“Mr. Vultusino requested your presence.” Stevens touched the door, running his spidery fingers over it. The house’s defensive haze shimmered, and the chuking sounds of locks and bolts sliding free fell out toward the circular driveway. “Mr. Nico was instructed to bring you directly home.”
Oh, no. Cami stifled a sigh. Why does he have to do this? She dug for some kind of excuse to offer, but Stevens didn’t pause, simply bowed again and indicated the door. Hitching her schoolbag up higher, she trudged in to face the music.
She was still no closer to figuring out how to smooth the waters as she climbed the carpeted stairs—these gave her no trouble either, their edges weren’t so sharp—to the red hall. Trigger was at Papa’s door, of course, and he tipped her a lazy salute. Against the rich crimson of the carpet and the heavy velvet of the muffling drapes, h
is baggy chinos and blue and red plaid jacket were just shabby enough to be familiar and comforting. “How was school, Miss Cami?”
Pretty boring. We did icecharms in Potentials class and some of the beakers shattered, that was about it. It would have been nice to talk, but her tongue was a knot of anxiety by now. She shrugged, ducking her head and spreading her hands. Then she mimed inquisitiveness—pointing at the door, raising her eyebrows.
“Nico’s in for it,” Trigger said shortly, and stepped aside. “He was supposed to bring you straight home. Sir wanted to see you.”
Well, I’m here now. Another shrug, this one with a helpless motion.
“I know.” Trig patted her shoulder, awkwardly. “God only knows what Nic was thinking. If he was thinking. Go on, sweetie. He’s tired today.”
He’s always tired. I wish . . . But she knocked, softly, on the carved-oak door. The knob was red crystal; she turned it gently and stepped in.
The windowless room was lit only by a single candle on the nightstand. It smelled of copper, bay rum and leather, and the faint everpresent tang of illness and age. For a moment her throat closed to a pinhole, the air dead-still and the dark wainscoting and heavy maroon brocade wallpaper threatening to fall in until they crushed all her breath out.
It passed, and she inhaled deeply. The closeness was scary at first, but then it was comforting. Like a heavy coat on a cold day.
Nothing bad could happen to her here.
Papa Vultusino, close to the culmination of the Kiss, lay on the massive four-poster bed. His barrel chest rose and fell steadily, and his breathing wasn’t a wheeze today. The candle flickered as she approached, and he opened his eyes.
Propped on the snowy pillows, he didn’t look very ill until you got close. Then the red spark in his pupils, strengthening daily, became apparent. So did the papery thinness of his skin, and the deep-scored wrinkles as well as the fine dry lines.
The Kiss took its own time, and it was burning away his mortality. When it finished he’d be one of the immortal Unbreathing, an Elder instead of a daywalker, and his only son would take his place as the living Vultusino of the Seven.
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