When she could look up, she found out he had steered her onto Lowe Street and was making for the Semprena, parked down at the end. She usually parked on Highclere, but during the weekend everyone did, so you had to walk a little farther if you arrived after crack-of-dawn. Lowe Street was a little seedier, but still neatly kept, and the glossy black curves of her car sat comfortably among other heavy imported vehicles. You could tell the locals—those who didn’t park in driveways had prime spots, their cars a little older but not old enough to be classic, a little dustier but not dirty enough to be deliberately masked.
Conrad stopped on the passenger side, and the heavy weight of his arm slid off her shoulders. Her cheeks were hot and her eyes still full, but she was able to tilt her head back and see him staring down at her with a curious expression.
Those golden irises were beautiful, but the tiny image of herself in his pupils was somehow . . . disturbing. She couldn’t figure out why, because he leaned down, and his mouth met hers.
It wasn’t like the shy peck on the cheek Hunter sometimes dared, or Thorne’s trembling urgency. It wasn’t like the hot need of the boytoys, either, like they were trying to get a mouthful of water in the desert.
It started out gentle, quickly turned demanding. He tasted of copper and heat and a weird acridity, of kin and wildness and musk. Before she knew it, he had backed her into the Semprena’s side, and trapped between him and the car the urge to escape ignited inside her.
He caught her wrists, pressed her back, hot mouth and sharp teeth and the shift running inside her bones uneasily. His foot between both of hers, and she could feel that he was interested, very definitely interested in taking it further.
Just like any boytoy. But he wasn’t. He was kin, and not cousin. Not safe. If she let him go too far, she’d end up married young instead of just betrothed, and that wasn’t what she wanted.
Is it? I can’t tell. It was too hard to think, between his mouth and his hands, cupping her face now that she’d stopped struggling.
He broke away and stared down at her. “Ruby,” he breathed, that strange edge to his breath muddling her thinking even more. “I . . . God.”
“Yeah,” she managed, weakly. Funny, but the coldness all through her, independent of the muggy weather, had gone away.
“I love you,” he whispered. Something lit in the back of his gaze for a moment, a small struggling spark. “I need you.”
Maybe that was what she wanted to hear, because the tears brimmed over. He held her while she cried, again, helplessly, soaking his T-shirt. He stroked her hair, gently for once, and she couldn’t help thinking about how much she wished he was someone else. At least she wasn’t freezing inside, way down where nobody else could see.
TWENTY-TWO
TWO WEEKS LATER, RUBY LAY POKER-STIFF AGAIN, straight as a board. Stared up at the ceiling. Endlessly familiar white plaster, its whorls a map of her childhood country. This had been her room always, Gran said, and it was a toss-up whether the hazy memories of a white crib and sunshine were her own, or just from being told so many times about it.
Lots of other things were toss-ups, too.
Stop it. Just go to sleep.
Her bookshelf was organized by subject, author, title. All her clothes were folded, even the dirty ones in the laundry hamper by the door. All her mixtapes were packed in flat boxes under the bed, only the classical ones Gran kept buying her allowed to stay out, stacked alphabetically next to the stereo. Which never throbbed anymore; when she played it was softly, the sound tiptoeing around through the empty spaces where her comfortable mess used to live.
There was nothing left to organize unless she wanted to go through her jewelry box. If she still couldn’t sleep in an hour or so, she might do it, but then what would she do if she couldn’t sleep tomorrow?
The entire cottage was breathless-quiet. No real rain yet, and everyone was getting tired of waiting for it. False summer was supposed to be cool at night, sunny during the day, not this sticky gray blanket and unmoving air. The trees stayed quarter- or half-turned, splashes of sickly color among the nasty, juicy green. The City Council had put out a circular, warning everyone to stay away from weather-charms. Even though they’d Twist you right down to the ground, someone might have been tempted. Sirens echoed all night in the distance, and there was a crime wave in the core—shootings, beatings, stabbings, theft.
People went crazy in this kind of heat.
Her arm hurt. If she looked, even in this dimness, she could probably see the fingermarks, deep sausages of bruising, sinking in and throbbing almost worse than when Conrad made them. Because she’d been on Babchat with Cami and Ellie to do her homework, for once, when he wanted to talk to her.
He was kin, but he didn’t know his own strength.
Mithrus, just stop.
Deep breathing wasn’t getting her anywhere.
She pushed the covers back, sat for a few minutes on the edge of the mattress. Staring at the window, where faint orange cityglow reflected from the oppressive clouds filtered past the plane tree’s branches. Leafshadows hung still and spiny, no breath of air to move them. The branch outside her window was still there.
It wasn’t that being responsible was boring, really. There was a certain pleasure to be had in tidying up her room or even wrestling with her French homework.
No, the bad part was the sense of hanging from a cliff, her fingers slipping, and each time she got a good grip something else slipped.
Was that a sound, under the sirens? She was at the window before she realized it, tugging it up as cool-charmed air brushed her bare legs and arms. Easing it up, hoping it wouldn’t betray her.
“What are you doing?” Her hip hit the sill and she winced, but her hand shot out and closed around a sweat-damp wrist. “Mithrus. Where have you been?”
“Thinking.” Thorne caught his balance again, crouching on the branch. “Hoping you’d come out to play, so we could talk some more.”
She tried to ignore the sharp pinch of guilt. Waiting for her, just like Hunter might have been? “I can’t.” I’m trying to grow up, here. “Why can’t you be reasonable and come over during the day?” And not leap out the door after telling me you’re going to challenge Conrad and maybe start a diplomatic incident.
“With him there, listening? Ruby, something’s off about him. I can smell it. Look—”
“We’re going to have an alliance.” There. She’d said it out loud. “I have to.”
He stared at her, the shadows dappling his face, turning it into another mask. His wrist turned to iron, but she didn’t let go.
“You don’t have to. There’s things that . . . come out, Ruby. We’ll talk. Please.”
“I can’t.” What part of that did he not understand? Dampness, full of the smell of hot asphalt and rotting humidity, poured into her room. “Thorne—”
“You want me to fight for you?” He leaned forward a little, examining her expression. She hoped nothing showed. “Or does he make you happy? Just tell me he makes you happy and I won’t say another word.”
“Thorne . . .”
“Is it because I’m a boy-only? Or do you love him? Or is it Hunter?” Fierce whispers, the deep blue groaning scent of desperation coming off him in waves. “Mithrus Christ, just tell me.”
How could she even begin to explain? “I have to, okay? Gran expects it.”
“Then we’ll go somewhere she can’t find us.”
Yeah. That will work. “Come on, Thorne. Please.” It was like fullmoon, the silver thread dragging inside her. Only this was the wanting to slide out the window and explore the night with him, his fierce silence beside her familiar as her own breath. “Help me out here. Come by during the day, talk to Gran, and don’t do anything stupid.”
A pinprick of amber light flared deep in the back of his pupils, the shift running under his skin. Outside it a little
too, fur poking up, blurring along his arm. “What’s. That?” Thrumming under the words, felt more in the bones than heard with the ears. He was going to wake someone up. Gran, or Conrad.
It was anyone’s guess which would be worse.
“What?” She glanced down, and realized she was just wearing a tank top and shorts to sleep in.
Thorne was staring at the fingermarks on her upper arm, dark and vicious. Maybe he could also see the hickey on the side of her neck, fresh and red-dark, but he wouldn’t see the bruise on her hip or the one on her calf from Conrad accidentally kicking her, those big boots of his . . . and she had been walking slowly. He was accident-prone, maybe. Like some of the cousins—Marina, or gangly Peter Ardelle.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered, tugging on his wrist. “Okay, look, I’ll come out, but only for a few minutes. I can’t—”
“Who did that?”
“It’s nothing. Look, Thorne—”
“Was it him?”
“Shhh, for Mithrus’s sake keep it down. If they find out you’re—”
“It was him.” The pinpricks of light snuffed themselves, and she shuddered once, nervously. The smell coming off Thorne now was different. Darker, older, and even its familiar musk couldn’t disguise the burning underneath.
Anger. More than anger.
She wet her lips, nervously, a flicker of her tongue. “Thorne. Please. Help me out here.” Calm down.
He nodded, just like she’d said something profound. “Okay.”
She nodded back, relieved, and her hand loosened on his wrist.
Maybe that’s what he had been waiting for, because he tore free and dropped, landing silently below. A few leaves fluttered in the wake of his passing, and even when she leaned out, straining nose and ears, she sensed nothing. Was he already gone?
“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” she breathed, a long aggravated sigh.
Another roiling of thunder under the stitchery of sirens, far in the distance over the Waste. She heard nothing else. Her arm ached, and the cooling-charms weren’t doing nearly enough with the window all the way open.
She eased it shut, then stood with her eyes closed, listening.
Nothing.
Back into bed, nestling atop the covers because of the heat. She was all set for another sleepless night, but the next thing she knew the alarm clock was buzzing like a minotaur’s rage and it was time to put her cheerfulness on again to face another damn gray, breathless day.
PART III:
SHARP EYES
TWENTY-THREE
“GOING FOR A WALK,” RUBY CALLED OVER HER shoulder, and hopped out the door. Gran was home, for once, but she was tired. If Ruby went fast enough, she could probably even make it past the corner and walk alone.
All the humidity made everything rundown as a pre-Reeve antique. The hollyhocks were going to seed, the other flowers just dying-back draggles. All the bushes gave the impression of drooping in the heat, and Gran’s whitewashed picket fence looked sticky, like nasty frosting.
She made it out the garden gate, walking swiftly, head down, staring at her maryjanes against the pavement, little luckcharms jingling pleasantly. She hadn’t even taken her school uniform off. Just one look at Gran’s wan pale weariness had decided her. If Conrad followed her, Gran would definitely get some rest, but maybe he wouldn’t, because—
“Good idea.” Conrad fell into step beside her, and Ruby had to suppress a twitch. He was so quiet. When he wanted to be. “Nice and private. Not like that place. Why doesn’t she get a bigger house?”
She didn’t sigh, though she was mightily tempted. He didn’t like being treated like he was stupid. “She likes that one.”
“Well, when it’s ours we can expand it, maybe.” He sounded pleased at the notion, and Ruby stole a sideways glance at him.
Today it was the blue T-shirt, which might’ve been good. He seemed a little more relaxed when he wore it. Of course, you could never tell what would upset him. He was . . . sensitive.
Maybe he’d been raised that way. It sounded like his brother had been the favored child. Grimtree clan seemed a nasty place to grow up, for sure. Sometimes Conrad mentioned little things they’d done to him, always reminding him he was lesser. It would be enough to make anyone a little touchy.
Besides, Ruby was one to talk. She had a reputation for temper, too.
“What do you think?” He smiled at her, easily keeping up with her hurried steps. “First thing I’d do is add on to that living room. Can’t turn around in there without knocking something over.”
“Yeah.” It’s not Gran’s fault you have those big long legs. She didn’t bother saying that she liked the living room the way it was, overstuffed furniture and reminders of Gran and clan and charming everywhere. She liked the tapestry, liked its shifting threads and slight comforting noises—except it had been silent a lot lately, the charmer’s sun-and-moon looking abstract and worried.
Just like Gran.
“Then the bathrooms. Make the whole thing bigger. You know, you could just bulldoze the place. Start fresh.” He reached for her hand, even though it was too hot to be touching anyone skin to skin.
She let him. If she was going to make the alliance work, she’d have to find some way around everything. Maybe this was growing up, you did what you had to do.
They reached the end of the block, and he tugged her to the left. “Come on.”
“Where are you—”
“Where we can be alone.”
“The only thing that way is . . .” The Park.
That was why Gran was so tired and worried.
The tabloids were still screaming. A housecleaner, mere-human, in the Market district, attacked at night. Cutting through the deserted streets on her way home from her job, right near the edge of Woodsdowne, almost eviscerated. If a patrol car hadn’t happened around the corner as she stumbled out into the middle of the road, she might have died. As it was, she was in the hospital, and not really expected to make it.
Maybe whatever had killed Hunter was looking for other prey. Or there were two killers, one strong enough to overpower a cousin and another . . . who knew?
It was enough to make you sick clear through. Gran had sat Ruby down at the kitchen table and issued another stern warning against any nighttime hijinks. I know you are wont to go rambling, Ruby. Do not, at least until this is over.
“We can find a nice little burrow in the Park.” He was really looking happy. “We don’t have to go back until dinnertime. Or later.”
“Gran will worry—”
“Who cares? You’re with me now.”
“I care if she worries.” You should care too. She’s Clanmother.
“Awww. You’re such a good little kingirl.” It wasn’t a compliment. His hand tightened, but only halfway. He didn’t squeeze. “Who worries about you? You’re just another piece to shove into the clan, to them.”
Hearing someone else say it was uncomfortable, to say the least. Did it sound that selfish when she yelled it at Gran? On the other hand, hadn’t Gran threatened to collar her? She let Conrad pull her along, and he gradually eased up on her hand.
“All those prying eyes,” he continued, glancing around at the houses on either side of 23rd Avenue. “Makes you want to run.”
After a full day at school and with the prospect of French homework to go home to, she didn’t feel much like running anywhere, for once. Still, she agreed. “Yeah.”
“Maybe we could go downtown once it gets dark. You ever been in the core?”
“No.” Are you insane? She didn’t ask. There was Tante Jeanette’s house, with its white trim and cheerful red-painted door. Oncles Thorvald and John Elder had the one on the corner of 23rd and Tooth, with its picture-perfect garden. They were étrange, some said. It could have meant anything from “odd” to “in love with each other”; they held hands at th
e clan barbeques and were held to be the best teachers for young kin struggling with the shift.
“We could go. Just you and me.”
“Are you kidding?” Sweat-soaked, her bra chafed and a trickle ran down her back. He was moving too fast, but if she tried to get him to slow down, he’d probably pinch her.
He flashed her one of those dangerous, white-tooth grins. “It’s probably dangerous, but I’d be with you. And—”
“I’m not going into the core. Mithrus Christ, what’s the matter with you?”
He dropped her hand, stopped dead. “What do you mean, what’s the matter with me? I thought you wanted a little fun. I thought you wanted to run.”
“Not into the core.” She rubbed at her hand, though he hadn’t hurt it. Maybe if he thought he had he’d be sorry, and—
“Oh. Too good to go with me, huh? Or are you afraid?”
“Neither. The core’s just . . . I don’t want to go.”
“Come on. I dare you.”
A while ago, she might even have done it. Now she took an uneasy half-step back. The honeysuckle along Oncle Valjean’s board fence exhaled an almost-clotted, spoiled sweetness. “What are you, five? I’m not going into the core. It’s stupid.”
The instant she said it, she regretted it.
Conrad’s face had darkened. “Stupid?” he repeated, softly, and her skin chilled even under the assault of heavy gray-flannel sunshine. “You’re calling me stupid? You can’t even handle your French lessons without help from your little friends.”
Ruby stared up at him. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Never mind.” He spun away and took off down the sidewalk. Ruby followed, running to catch up.
“Conrad, please, I didn’t say you were—”
“I thought you wanted me here! You asked me to stay!” He lengthened his stride, and fresh sweat beaded all over her. Her skirt swung, the luckcharms on her maryjanes still making that sweet music as she tried to keep up with him.
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