“Camilla,” I said, brushing my fingers against a brick wall. “I hate this. I haven’t seen you for so long, and now it’s almost like we’re strangers.” I swallowed any sarcasm that threatened to creep into my voice. “Let’s stop somewhere, a café or something and just talk.”
She shrugged easily as she continued walking then swung around a banister and up some steps to a yellow front door. The night was quiet, only mildly filled with ordinary evening city sounds of traffic and distant laughter. Behind the quiet Brownstone was a Hotblood party?
“What a great idea. We’ll have to meet tomorrow. Tonight,” she turned and gave me a smile I knew and feared. “Let’s find you a guy who can introduce you to a little more fun than you’re used to. I know that you’re not interested in the general men that are available to women of our social standing, but tonight, you can experiment with others.”
I climbed the stairs while I gave her my coolest smile. “It would be senseless to leave without saying hello.”
Camilla laughed—a trill that gave me chills. “It’ll be a party you’ll never forget.”
To Jarvais, Son of Carve
Dear eldest brother,
This week has been dull, dark, dreary and besides which, entirely despondent, except for the trip to the Maynard mansion last Tuesday. I went with my dear friends and classmates, all of whom enjoyed gazing at the superior and illustrious portraits of Wild’s from days of yore. Nary a nostril hair, not a whiff of wrinkle or a smidge of sallowness, but of course, that’s what you get from Wild portraiture: miles and miles of endless perfection which I endured as long as possible then made my escape in an entirely seemly manner out of an unwatched side door (I would hate to give the impression of scaling a wall) out into the winter garden.
I liked the bare bones of it, like a corpse laid out to rest, peaceful, without expectations of perfectly clippered nostrils, I mean yews, the bits of green poking out weeds that will be yanked from the earth without hesitation, the only time when the earth is left alone, left to think, to be, to rest. The dead brittle grass scratched the back of my neck while I lay, staring at clouds the color of hesitation, birds making sounds, caw, or braw, or gecko echo mecho, the crows aching to pick a fight, or maybe that’s them being polite. The wind silvered the branches over one another, the motion softer than feathers. Are there feathers so straight and spiny? Maybe trees grow backwards, starting with fluff and ending with quill. Why shouldn’t a bird be so, to enjoy its own down instead of spreading it around for everyone else? I should be more generous. If I were a bird I’d rip out all my feathers and stuff them in backwards. Of course then I couldn’t fly. I’d be relegated to my nest, consoling myself with the hideous sounds only the dead can bear without laughing.
Yours always in common paternity,
Camilla
P.S. Isn’t my handwriting beautiful? I’ve been practicing all winter.
Dearest, charming sister,
Your handwriting is certainly an improvement over former correspondence, however your I’s might reflect too much buoyancy considering the gravity of your topic.
Winter seems like death, still, bare, solemn, but that is the time when nutrients and minerals are absorbed, storing up, like a spring rolling tighter and tighter. It might not look like much from the outside, but without the compounding of reserves you would never have anything to see come warmer weather. Looking isn’t the same as seeing. Maybe death is like that—more to it than meets the eye.
My days here are spent much the same as every other day. In the southern hemisphere summer heat makes me envious of your winter, itchy grass and all. It’s not all sunshine and sweat though for I found a species of variegated reticulatis that I’m shipping home with explicit instructions for planting. I hope the new gardener is more open-minded than the last one. One person’s variegated reticulatis is another person’s weed.
Peacocks seem all feather until they branch out, stick-like before the final tuft. I think you’re describing porcupines but they’re all spine, no feather. I like the idea of trees though, hiding their softness on the inside, but of course when they bloom and leaf out they share their beauty and softness more than birds which are likely to give you lice. I eat a mango as I write. I’m grateful for the fruit of the tree’s generosity. If I had room in the greenhouse then I’d send a mango tree. I wonder what the gardener would do with that.
With much affection and even more mango juice,
Your Eldest Brother
Chapter 2
Helen
The house was laid out along a central hall, but there were hideous sculptures everywhere that lent a sense of chaos to the symmetry. To the left of the entry, a couple sat on a set of stairs kissing as though they were the only people in the world. It didn’t shock me exactly, but it made me feel uncomfortable. The party would not be a Wild affair with chamber music and tea.
Camilla didn’t seem to notice them as she took off her jacket, draping it over the face of a sad-looking lopsided plaster man then led me across the pale parquet floor past dark doorways to the kitchen. She looked different with her bare arms, bare except for the black metal runes embedded in her skin. It reminded me that she wasn’t Camilla from school but a full grown Daughter of a House. In other words, if she’d been dangerous then, she was deadly now.
The kitchen was a pale green color that made even Camilla look sickly, but we didn’t stop there. Camilla didn’t pause until she had her hand on the back door.
“Helen,” she said, looking at me with a strange intensity. “I’m glad you came to London.”
With that, she opened the door and stepped outside, leaving it open for me. I followed cautiously. Peering out, I tried not to stumble as I passed through the invisible barrier that kept the noise, light and energy from the rest of the world.
After I’d blinked a few times, I could make out the yard. It was ordinary enough, grass, hedges, flower beds here and there, but the lights, the music, the people dancing and laughing had so much color, so much intensity, I wasn’t sure where to look or whether I should turn and run. A stage set up on the right side of the yard, more like scaffolding than an actual stage, held the musicians playing their instruments to an unfamiliar beat. I heard jazz, but the drum beat too insistently while the guitar wailed in my ears. The musicians seemed caught in their own spell of sound, playing off each other like no one danced or listened. Maybe they’d never rehearsed together before.
I stepped off the stoop and stumbled on the last step. I bit my lip as I quickly straightened, looking around to see who had noticed my misstep. No one met my gaze except the guitarist, the one who played with excessive zeal. He met my eyes and sneered as his fingers flew over the frets. The musician stared at me while I hovered on the edge of the party, unable to move while he held me in his gaze.
I looked away, breaking contact and forcing myself to focus instead of letting precious seconds of my mission slip away. That was all the time it would take for the Hotblood to see me and disappear. Again.
I walked forward purposely, searching the yard. Camilla was right—the place was buzzing with people, Hotbloods, Wilds, all with too much energy and too much intensity. I felt the beginning of a headache behind my eyes. The Wilds were beautiful, perfect, but the Hotbloods were alive. There was more than one Wild flirting with a Hotblood, and not only men; I saw a Wild girl who laughed up at a well-muscled Hotblood with glowing dark brown eyes before sliding a hand up his bare arm.
I wrapped my own arms around myself instinctively for a moment, almost feeling the contact between the two. The crowds were dizzying, or maybe I was still dizzy from earlier. Hotbloods didn’t give me a second glance as I slid around groups as they laughed and jostled each other, the violence in their every movement as natural to them as breathing.
One stepped back suddenly, knocking me to the side. I should have seen him coming, should have been faster in my reactions, but everything around me spun. He grabbed my arm as if to keep me from falling over,
apologizing as his heat sank through my sleeve. The burning of his jade green eyes, but most of all, the regularly spaced scars that criss-crossed his bare arms made me jerk away from him.
“It’s nothing,” I said with what I hoped was a calm, in-control smile before I turned away, my heart pounding in my chest. He could probably hear my heart race, see the pulse jump in my throat, but what other reaction was I supposed to have after running into a Bloodworker? They were to the Hotbloods what Heads of Houses were to Wilds. Powerful. Dangerous. This was not the time to show weakness.
A red-haired Hotblood girl stepped in front of me, blocking my way as she lifted a plastic cup to her lips, drinking while I stood, unable to edge around her with the various Hotbloods penning me in. I could have shoved my way through the way they did, but that much contact with that much heat would overwhelm me.
When she was done drinking she focused her green eyes on me, green like the bloodworker’s had been, glowing eyes that matched the long dress she wore. Unlike most of the Hotblood dresses, it had sleeves.
“I like your dress,” I said, giving her a smile as I attempted to edge by her, but she didn’t move.
“Do you?” She looked down, frowning, like she hadn’t remembered wearing a dress. When she looked up she was still frowning. “Are you looking for someone? Maybe I can help you.” Her voice was a little bit rough, but richly vibrant.
I smiled easily. “I’m here with Camilla, but I’ve lost track of her. Maybe you’ve seen her?”
“Camilla of Carve? What is she doing here?” The voice came from behind me, a low growl that made my heart pound and the hairs rise on the back of my neck. When I glanced back, the bloodworker stood behind me, impressively muscled arms crossed over his chest blocking any move in that direction.
I stared at him, for a moment mesmerized by the bright green gaze that held mine as though he were the leader of the pack, the alpha male who everyone there had to answer to. I’d never really thought about the hierarchy of power in Hotblood clans. I should have. What did I know about Hotbloods other than that they were the quarter of the Nether who were physical/emotional? Maybe I could charm him like that other Wild woman I’d seen. Maybe I could convince him that I was only there for a good time, with no ulterior motives.
I smiled up at him as I slid my hand up his chest. The heat of him, his heart where it throbbed beneath the skin spread through me, chasing away the chill I’d had since I’d come to the foggy, damp country.
“Probably looking for a Hotblood to dance with,” I said hanging onto the smile even as the heat built up in my hand to uncomfortable levels. Hopefully this wasn’t someone who had already been burned by Camilla.
The girl behind me gave a gruff laugh. “You’ll have as much luck seducing me as you would my brother.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Hotblood responded, catching my wrist in his huge hand, forcing it to stay pressed against his chest while jade eyes burned down at me.
I felt a blush creep up my neck. I wasn’t trying to seduce anyone, much less a Bloodworker. I only wanted him to feel like I wasn’t a threat. Camilla would have seduced him. Of course, telling them that I was with Camilla would make them think that I was like her.
He stroked the back of my hand with my thumb which made my throat tighten up the way it did when people got too friendly. It happened in my med classes sometimes. I looked directly at the Hotblood, fighting the need to pull away.
“I don’t want any trouble here. All I wanted was to have fun and enjoy the company.” It wasn’t technically a lie. Fun for me would be enjoying the company of the Hunter who could tell me where to find my brother.
“Are you sure you don’t want trouble?” The jade-eyed Bloodworker asked, pulling me a little bit closer. “Because you look like the kind of girl that could handle it.”
I could smell the heat on him. Had that been a compliment or an insult? Maybe a joke. Whatever it had been, nothing was helping me disentangle myself.
A man stepped beside me and put a slender hand on the Bloodworker’s shoulder. The jade-eyed Hotblood blinked a few times while the heat from his eyes faded until he stepped back, letting go of me.
“You said you wanted to have fun?” The man asked at my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
I turned towards him instinctively. The sound of his voice was like music, like the wind making me want to melt, to agree, to do anything and everything he suggested. I shook my head, even dizzier as I tried to focus, to remember why I was there in the first place. He had to be Cool the way his voice affected me. I sidled away from him until I was brought up short by the Hotblood girl where she still stood, obstinately in my way.
I would be humiliated if I ran away from a Cool, considered the least dangerous of our kind, when I represented Slide. I forced myself to stand up straight and turn to him, frowning at the newcomer who proved to be the dark haired guitarist. The music was different without him. I should have noticed. I swayed dizzily while his skin changed colors, reflecting the flashing bright lights of the stage.
“We’ve got everything under control here,” the redhead in the nice dress said to the musician, leaning towards him with a threat in her smile.
“That’s mahvelous. We wouldn’t want to lose control, would we, Cami?” he drawled. There was nothing crisp and British about his southern drawl. His heavy lidded eyes laughed at her, mocked her. He didn’t act like any Cool I’d ever met. Not that I’d met a lot, but he seemed darker, edgier, dangerous instead of soothing.
“She says she’s here with Camilla of Carve,” Cami said, crossing her arms over her chest. The sleeve of her dress pulled up enough that I caught a glimpse of scar tissue. Usually Hotbloods wore their scars with pride.
“Well why wouldn’t she? Camilla has no problem crashing parties.” He turned his smile at me, his teeth looking sharp and dangerous beneath the curve of his lips. His eyes gleamed with intensity as he studied me with blatant interest.
I fought the urge to shy away from him again. “Camilla wasn’t invited? She said this was her cousin’s house.” My jaw tightened as I struggled against the dizziness. It didn’t matter whose house this was. What mattered was finding a Hotblood who knew my brother. I turned to the girl, to search her face for signs of friendliness, but she only scowled at me.
The musician raised an eyebrow. “Camilla never lets an invitation, or lack thereof, stand in her way.” His smile shifted while I tried to stay standing up straight.
His face weaved in front of me. I grabbed the front of his jacket, trying to hold him or me in place. His face was wrong somehow, or maybe that was the pounding in my head. Cools had unobtrusive features that blended with their passive energy, not crooked noses, ugly grayish eyes and sharp cheekbones. He covered my hands with his and said, “This is a wedding party. No one minds a few extra guests, do they, Cami?” He slid one arm around me. “After this dance we can scour the place for Camilla. No doubt she’s found a dark corner with a Hotblood.”
Dance? I shook my head then found myself blinking to clear my vision with his arms around me, holding me against his body closer than I’d ever let another man come, close enough that his belt dug into my hipbone.
“I think moving your feet would help give you the appearance of dancing instead of being unconscious,” he whispered, his mouth brushing my ear while his hands firmly held me against him.
I gasped when I realized that I’d actually fainted in public, in front of a party full of Hotbloods. Humiliation didn’t cover what I felt. I, Helen of Slide, Daughter of the House, fainted at a party?
I moved my feet, letting him hold my body against his cool, lean lines as though I really were there for that kind of good time. It was better than the alternative, at least I thought that until his thighs brushed mine as we started moving to the music. I became more and more aware of him as we moved, bodies together, in time. His Cool energy seeped into me, but it wasn’t peaceful. My nerves became strained, raw as I swayed against him, his hand at the
base of my spine, our bodies throbbing as one.
I tried to pull away, but either he was stronger than he looked, or I still was weak and pathetic.
“They’re still watching you,” he said mildly, but it sounded like mockery. Maybe he couldn’t talk without a slight sardonic tinge. I looked up at him, at the flinty brown eyes that watched me steadily.
“Don’t you like dancing?” His southern drawl was as out of place as the rest of him.
“I think I’d rather be unconscious than dance with you.”
He slid his hand down my back, pulling me even closer as he murmured. “This is the kind of party where that could be easily arranged. The Hotbloods are wondering what you’re really doing here.” He moved slowly, side to side to the rhythm of the rhumba.
I glanced at the band, wondering what had brought on the unfortunate change in tempo that only made me more aware of his thighs brushing against mine.
“The last party Camilla attended was more exciting than even Hotbloods enjoy for a wedding party, and she usually avoids the company of women as beautiful as she is.”
“Then I’m glad I’m dancing with you who has no curiosity about me instead of a Hotblood.” I smiled up at him, nearly as mocking for a moment as he was. “By the way, if you’re going to call a woman beautiful, it’s less of a compliment if you tell her that she’s as beautiful as someone else.”
I shivered as his hand slid up my back, cradling my body against his, all hard lines and angles to my soft curves.
“It would be more compliment and less observation if it came from someone else. I’m interested in beauty a little less blatant than Camilla’s.”
I raised my chin and my eyebrows, close enough that I couldn’t help but brush against his rough cheek. “Excellent. I admit preferring insults to compliments.”
His smile looked almost pleasant for a moment. “Then we shall get along very well.”
House of Slide: Wilds, Part I Page 2