Nameless tobam-1
Page 23
It was, she reminded herself, a Personal Choice to speak, or not.
The distance inside her, where there used to be a huge black fear, was now just . . . silent.
Empty. A hiding place.
So some things had to stay secret. Even now.
The last of the ice had washed away on a flood of spring rain, and the trees were budding green. Every window on the house was painted gold with late-afternoon sunlight, and the limo pulled to a smooth stop. Trig and two of his scrubbed-clean new security boys were in a black car right behind them, a small fish swimming after the sleek black shark Chauncey piloted.
“Home, Miss Cami,” he said, through the pane of lowered bulletproof glass. “And glad you’re here, if I may say so.”
Me too. She ducked her head, the habit of hiding a blush hard to shake. “Thanks.”
It was Stevens, gaunt as ever, his hair threaded with rivers instead of trickles of gray now, who came down the stairs one by one and opened her door.
“Miss Cami,” he said, and his hand was dry and warm, hard as a stick. “Welcome home.”
She swallowed, hard. Was this home? Or were the dripping tunnels—flooded now, but cleansed by the Family, Trig had informed Ruby in a low tone when he thought Cami couldn’t hear—really home? Would she be shipped off to a boarding school now, sent through the Waste on a sealed train, or—
“Naughty!” Marya shrilled, and Cami was enfolded in a bruising-hard hug, right there on the steps. The feywoman’s cameo dug into her collarbone, and Cami realized with a start that she was taller now. “Naughty little thing! Worrying us to death, naughty little wandering thing, bad little sidhe! And so thin!”
“M-Marya!” It wasn’t the stutter. Instead, it was half a sob, caught in her throat. The dam broke, and she was shaking as the feywoman bustled her into the house past a solemn assemblage of servants all gathered, scrubbed and shining, some of them looking uncomfortable, others looking relieved. The foyer was full, and the stairs too. The maids curtsied, some of them blushing and giggling, and Marya kept scolding Cami, calling her “naughty little sidhe” in between hugs so hard they threatened to steal what little breath she had left. She also produced a blinding-white handkerchief and wiped Cami’s nose as if she was seven and messy again.
Marya all but hauled her up the stairs, since Cami’s legs weren’t quite functioning right. “I have a good dinner for you. All your favorites, and apple tart too.”
It was hard work to suppress a shiver. “That sounds good,” she said, carefully, and blinked away the tears.
The door to the white room had been repaired. So had the hole in the wall where Trig had hit. The broken mirror was gone. Her clothes hung in the closet, and it smelled of fresh lumber and a little bit of paint under the dust-scorch crackle of cleaning charms in an unoccupied room. The window seat was wide and white, and earlier rain still glimmered on the window, throwing little jewels of rainbow reflection onto the carpet.
Nico, straight and dark, sat on her bed. He stared at the wall, as if he just happened to be in here, no big deal, oh well. Absolutely rigid, and the tension boiling off him was a physical weight, colorless but heavy.
THIRTY-SIX
MARYA’S ARMS FELL AWAY. “I GO TO FINISH DINNER,” she announced, rescuing the sodden handkerchief from Cami’s limp fingers. “You, naughty little sidhe, do not run away again. Old Marya will come find you!”
I wish you had. “Okay, Marya. I p-promise.”
Maybe the stutter wasn’t quite gone. Or maybe her heart was just working so hard it shook the words up on their way out.
The feywoman retreated, muttering. Cami stood on nerveless legs. She counted to ten. Then counted again.
He didn’t move. His hands lay on his knees, tense and cupped.
Finally, she set out across the pale carpet. Weaving a little, unsteady, but the doctor had said she was fine, and she’d wanted to get out of there. It smelled like antiseptic and pain, it was uncomfortable, and she’d wanted to be . . .
Well, home. And wherever they sent her, she would call this house home, if only inside her head.
“Say something.” He almost spat it, still staring at the wall. His shoulders were shaking, his black T-shirt stretched tight against tense muscle.
She sank down next to him with a sigh. If he didn’t want her there, he could move.
He doesn’t look the same. Cami examined his profile, trying to figure out the difference. She dug for words, found them. “H-hi. I’m sorry.”
That earned her a single, sidelong, sharp glance. “You? What the hell do you have to be sorry about? Mithrus Christ, Cami, why didn’t you tell me? We were hunting them already. I would have gone down there with the boys, we would have washed all those stinking tunnels clean and scraped them with fire for good measure. How did you find out? Why did you try to fix it?”
Well, at least he’s talking. She smoothed her jeans against her knees. The scabs were falling off, leaving fresh pink marks. The scars would fade into white. They always did. “I didn’t know what was h-happening. To me. I thought . . . I thought I b-belonged there. Not here. I’m n-not . . . ” Saying it now didn’t seem quite so difficult. “I’m not Family, Nico.”
“The hell.” He leaned forward, inch by inch. It took a few seconds for her to realize he was curling up, defensively, and there were tear-tracks on his sharp, handsome face. “The hell you’re not. I never wanted to hurt you. I never want you scared.”
She slid her arm over his shoulder and he leaned into her. Her other arm came up, and she held him. Silent, the wracking shook him. He didn’t let a single sound out, turning to iron as she stroked his hair. The lump in her throat made talking impossible.
That’s what looks different. She finally figured it out.
The anger was gone. And without it, he was . . . this. She could almost wish him furious as usual, instead of hurt. Tor used a scowl to cover his scars; Nico used the anger to cover up the hurts on the inside.
And me? I can’t cover anything up. Which way’s worse? They’re all bad. “It’s okay,” she whispered, finally. “It’s all right.” Over and over again, as if it would help.
Her arms ached after a while, and they ended up lying crosswise over her bed, tossed like shipwreck survivors. Slowly, so slowly, he turned back into flesh instead of cold metal and stone. Her head on his chest, she listened to the thumping under his ribs and the sough of his breath.
I am. I am. I am.
Everyone’s heart, she realized, made the same sound. Except maybe the Queen’s.
Is that why she had to eat everyone else’s? A shudder slid through her, drained away. If there were other Biel’y . . .
The sunlight dimmed. Evening was rising. “Listen to me,” he whispered, finally. “Are you listening?”
She nodded, her cheek moving against his T-shirt. I am, his heart murmured. I am, hers replied.
“I went to the Unbreathing.” He stared at the ceiling. “I told them what to do. I’m the Vultusino now, and I told them if they didn’t want a war, they would give me what I needed.” His left hand came up. There was a red gleam trapped in it, and the fear was a sharp spike passing through her. Then it faded, and there was a dull red stone nestled in his palm. Smooth and lit with its own inner glow, nestling with a soft tremble like feathers against a Family hand. “Do you know what this is?”
Her breath caught in her throat. “N-Nico . . . ”
“It’s a heartstone. My heartstone, now. There’s a price—when I go into Unbreathing you’ll go too. And for the rest of our life, you’ll have to Borrow, but only from me. It’s . . . Cami . . . ”
She reached up. Her trembling fingertip touched warm stone. It pulsed, sensing living, unFamily flesh.
I am. I am.
He took a deep breath. As if she could snatch the stone away from him. Or maybe she could take away something else. Something invisible that had been there between them since the first time she’d screamed You’re mean! Or something that had buil
t up, bit by bit, every time they shared their own private world, their country of two.
“You don’t have to take it. You’re Vultusino either way.” More words, spilling out haltingly as if he was the one who couldn’t speak. “But it’s yours. If you want it . . . Christ, Cami, I’m sorry. I’m a fuckup, I’ve always been, I know, I just—”
“Shhh.” She covered his mouth. A heartstone. A real heartstone. His breath warmed her palm. After a moment, she took her hand away. “Book.”
A long pause. Then, “Book.” The word shook. Maybe his pulse was jolting everything he wanted to say around inside him, too.
“Candle.” Clear and strong, no trace of hesitation or stutter.
“Candle,” he whispered.
“Nico.”
“Cami,” he breathed.
Night filled the window with indigo, fresh rain rolling down, tapping and fingering the walls and roof. When Marya climbed the stairs to call them to dinner, the feywoman found them sleeping like children, her black hair spread in a wave and his profile calm and relaxed. Her bare arms were striped with fading scars, the marks vanishing slowly but surely.
Their linked hands rested against the girl’s chest, Nico Vultusino curled into Cami’s side, and between their interlaced fingers came a strong pulsing that winked out as Marya stepped into the room, the heartstone finishing its slow absorption into Camille Vultusino’s flesh.
A heartstone is nothing but a heart freely given, a heart shared.
The light filled the room for a bare moment as another soul joined the Family. It was a clear glow, and it dyed the whiteness red.
Red as blood.
finis
FB2 document info
Document ID: 55a7dd2c-4f00-4d34-9014-23b51d2b6654
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 5.4.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.25, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
Bakoro
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