Nameless

by Lili St. Crow

  Papa’s gone. A chill touched her back. The shimmersilk was cool, like supple living metal against her sweating fingers. It was waking up, coming alive in her hands as her Potential filled it with heat. Music thumped away below, the beat changing a fraction, becoming more insistent. “Okay.” I didn’t think there were cults here in New Haven, though.

  “I’m not one of them,” he persisted.

  She nodded. Her braid bumped against the back of her coat. She was beginning to warm up a little. Maybe she should have had the other drink. A buzz would probably help right about now. “I b-believe you.”

  Maybe it was the dimness, but he suddenly looked years older. “Well, don’t. Biel’y lie. That’s the first lesson about them—don’t ever trust one who says they’re not, especially a man. Once the Queen gets hold of them, they’ll do anything, say anything, to get her what she wants.”

  Her hands cramped. The shimmersilk bit, its thin threads able to slice flesh if enough pressure was applied. She had to force her fingers to relax. “The Queen.” It was a bare, numb-lipped whisper.

  An answering whisper, from the well of darkness her nightmares hid inside. You are nobody. You are nothing.

  “The White Queen.” Tor was pale. Sweat stuck his messy black hair to his forehead. “The boys serve her, they grow into her huntsmen. The women serve her too, if they come in from outside. But the girls . . . she takes them.” He wet his lips, a quick darting motion of his tongue. “It’s old magic, older than the Reeve or the Age of Iron. Didn’t anyone ever tell you this ghost story?”

  “N-no.” Not until now. “They t-talk around the edges. B-but not out l-loud.”

  “Sometimes she takes in orphans. There are some kids born into the cult, born underground where they live, like Twists. If they’re not Twisted, if they’re not jacks, if they’re plain human or charmer, they’re kept.” He shuddered. “The born-below boy babies are special huntsmen. Her Okhotniki.” The word was funny, swallowed into the back of his throat, almost French but not quite. “The girls . . . when they’re six . . . it’s not pretty.”

  How old are you, bambina? Where is your momma, your poppa?

  Tor’s black eyes glazed. He stared at the empty fireplace like he could see the story he was telling played out in its shadowed depths. “Sometimes, only sometimes, the White Queen consents to her most favored Okhotnik. Sometimes after that there’s a baby, and sometimes, only sometimes, a special baby girl born. A princess. When she’s six, the Queen takes her. Then the Queen’s renewed, not just for a little while like with the other girls, but for a hundred years or more.”

  “R-r-renewed?” Her hand stole toward the key.

  “Oh, yeah.” He blinked furiously, like there was something in his eyes. “It’s not easy, being the Queen. She gets . . . hungry.” He shuddered again. “That’s why there’s huntsmen. They, and the Okhotniki, bring her things. To . . . eat.”

  Oh, God. The cold was all through her now. The music below mounted another frenetic notch, a vibration running through the floor and the chair, rising up her spine.

  This one’s heart is fiery.

  You were dead. She ate the heart.

  The apple, cut in half, its seeds forming a star. A flat medallion, sparking, a red stone in the middle—the only one with a jewel, because she was the Queen.

  The others had medallions too, but they were plain. Plain silver, not-quite-round.

  “You h-had one,” she whispered. “A n-n-n-necklace.” A huntsman. Bringing her things to eat.

  “Since I was in the orphanage. I was an orphan,” he said. He was shaking now, his hands clamped on the chair’s arms. “I was—”

  But whatever he would have said next was drowned in a crashing from below. The music rose on feedback-laced squeal, and the screaming started.

  Cami grabbed for the key. Her fingers scraped the table, draped in shimmersilk, and Tor’s eyes rolled up into his head. Under the sudden chaos from below, the sound of the chair’s arms cracking as he heaved at them, struggling against something invisible, was only guessed-at, not heard.

  She let out a high-pitched cry, lost under a wave of cracking that shuddered through the frame of the nightclub, and bolted for the door, the shimmersilk waving like seaweed as she ran.

  Down the stairs in a rush, her wet boots smacking, Cami hit the bottom and went over the frayed red velvet rope with a leap that would have made the gym teacher, Sister Frances Grace-Abiding, very proud. Landed, skipping aside as a faust crashed to the floor right in front of her, for a moment she couldn’t understand why everyone was screaming . . .

  . . . then one of the steel-toothed dogs leapt, foam splashing from its muzzle and its fawn-colored hindquarters heaving. It crunched into the fallen faust, chewing as the dæmon inside the flesh let out a shattering wail. Bone splintered, and the faust curled up, throwing the dog aside with a snapped charm that sparked red in the gloomy interior. The charmlights had mostly failed; the bleeding neon glow was barely enough to see by, and the crowd pressed for the doors as the dogs bristled, leaping at will.

  A lean half-familiar figure in a tan trench coat stood in the middle of the dance floor’s writhing mass, dogs flowing around him in a stream—brindle, black, splashed with white, big and small, all of them with the same mad gleam in their white-ringed eyes, crunching and howling as their steel-laced teeth champed. Cami skidded to a stop, nailed to the floor as the hounds set up a belling, braying cry that punched through the feedback squeal and swallowed it whole.

  The door. But it was choked with fleeing Twists and jacks, a melee breaking out as they panicked and elbowed for room. The fight was going to spread; she’d seen enough of Nico going crazy to know that.

  If things go sparky, babygirl, look for the back door.

  It was something he always said when he took her into Lou’s on a particularly nasty-tempered day, or to the dives and bars he could prowl with relative immunity as one of the Seven’s boys. She heard it now as if he was right next to her, his lips skinned back in the most dangerously amused of his smiles, the good-natured one that said he didn’t much care who he hurt next.

  There. It was to the right of the bar, a fading exit sign that guttered and went out just as the feedback died and the only sound was the dogs’ crunching and yapping, howling and snarling. She bolted for it, her boots squishing, and the shimmersilk in her hands turned treacherous again, its fringes somehow lengthening, waving wildly and jabbing at her eyes, scraping at her wrists, tearing at the cashmere coat.

  She hit the door hard, and it opened—thank Mithrus Christ—spilling her out into a cold close darkness. The latch clicked as she shoved it shut, and she gulped in a reeking mouthful of frozen outside. It was sweeter than the fug of breath and smoke and terror inside.

  The howling behind her ratcheted up a notch, and she didn’t have to be told they had seen her.

  It was the man. The wooden man Nico had thrown out of Lou’s.

  She ate the heeeeeeeeart!

  But Cami’s heart was pumping in her chest, knocking like it wanted to break out through her ribs and escape the crunching of dogs piling into the jammed-shut door behind her. Her breathing came in quick hard white puffs, and she found herself in a trash-choked, narrow alley, the door behind her shuddering as more dogs hit it, and the sound of sirens lifting in the distance as someone noticed there was a riot starting on the edge of Simmerside, too close to the core for comfort.

  This kind of spreading chaos so close to the blight could even trigger a minotaur.

  Shimmersilk bit at her hands, its fringe turned to claws as it struggled, a live thing in her grasp. It was trying to eat her face, for God’s sake. She struggled free with a despairing little cry, every inch of skin crawling with revulsion, and flung it to the cobbled floor of the alley.

  It rebounded, alive with charm and spitting peacock-colored sparks, nipping at her knees. The edge of Cami’s Potential flashed, a colorless ripple; she skipped aside, banging into a metal dustbin. Fine snow sifted
across the alley, icicles festooning the walls wherever heat leaked out of the buildings arching overhead, and her breath came harsh and tearing in her throat.

  “NO!” she screamed, and tore away from the shimmersilk. It bit through her leggings, opening bloody stripes and scratches all the way up to her knees, but she managed to kick it loose just as the metal door groaned, buckling.

  The dogs might not be able to open it, but the wooden huntsman could—and if enough of the beasts crashed into it, even a fire door wouldn’t hold. Sooner or later one of them would hurl itself against the bar that freed the latch.

  Cami let out a sob, her cheeks slick with hot wetness, and gave one last kick. The shimmersilk went flying, hissing in frustration. Sirens howled—the cops had arrived, thinking there was a riot starting. Maybe there was.

  She put her head down, and ran.

  The holding tank wasn’t that bad. Well, sure, it reeked of cigarette smoke and stale vomit, and it was full of a crowd of jacks, some of them bloody and bruised from the scramble inside the nightclub. Still, it was brightly lit—and there were no dogs.

  Her wrists throbbed with pain, and so did her shoulder—one of the cops had bent her arm back, savagely, snapping charmed cuffs on her. Cami hadn’t resisted. She was sobbing too hard, anyway, and besides, she wanted them to take her away from the thin stick of the huntsman and the leaping, yapping, barking, steel-toothed—

  She shuddered, pushed her back more firmly into the concrete wall. The benches were for the people who would fight for them, so she had just picked a corner and retreated into herself. A few catcalls and pokes, but as soon as they figured out she wasn’t going to respond they left her alone.

  It was kind of like school. Except they didn’t throw burning cigarettes at her there.

  The holding cells were jammed. The Twists were on the other side, behind bars crawling with vicious bright golden charmwork; the charms on the jack cages were dull red. She had no idea why they’d put her in with the jacks; maybe they thought she was one, even though she had no mutation? Or maybe there hadn’t been any mere-humans left? Or charmers? She hadn’t seen any but the bartender, maybe he . . .

  Just don’t think about it.

  She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, couldn’t afford to. The harsh buzzing light was her friend, it kept the shadows away. And if she closed her eyes one of the jacks in here might think she was sleeping, and try to do something to her.

  Clash of keys, screams and a rising mutter.

  “You! Girl, in the back!”

  She raised her head, strings of damp black hair falling in her face, free of her braid and tangled into knots.

  It was a heavyset jack cop, his skin scaled in rough patches and the low ragged edge of his Potential sparking against the bars. He jingled the keys again, his yellow fur-hair smoothed down under the uniform cap; his brass badge held a mellow gleam. “Yes, you. Come on.”

  She hauled herself to her feet. The jacks quieted, bright-eyed with interest. The hallway pulsed with noise, burrowing into her head. It was preferable to the other sounds, the ones she wasn’t sure were actually physical.

  Like the chanting, and the dripping. Plink-plink, water against stone.

  The jacks edged away, and she made it to the barred iron door.

  “Back up!” the cop snapped. “No, not you, kid. You’re coming out.”

  “She got bail. Lucky charmer girl.” This from a gawky male teen, bone spurs on his cheekbones slicing out through peeling skin, the wounds suppurating freely and by all appearances perpetual. He was one of the loudest inmates, and the others in the holding tank mostly did what he said. Behind him, two other jacks—his friends, maybe, since they wore the same multicolored jacket he did—grinned and mouthed nasty words.

  “Cryboy, if I want shit out of you, I’ll squeeze your fuckin’ head,” the cop snarled. “Back up, or we take you to a room.”

  Cryboy laughed, made little kissy noises . . . and turned his back, took a couple of mincing steps away. His friends laughed too, hyena noises and crude jokes about things they’d like to do to the charmer-girl.

  The door clanged and clattered, slid sideways just enough for Cami to slip out. She did, stood blinking in the hall while a fresh wave of hysterical screaming went through the cages on either side.

  “Come with me, ma’am.” The jack cop actually touched the brim of his hat, and the imprisoned jacks burst into derisive laughter, catcalling madly. Her cheeks were hot. Some of the things they said were pretty anatomically impossible, but it didn’t stop her from wondering if they would, somehow, perform these weird acts if given a chance.

  There was another heavy metal door with a barred window at the end of the hall; the observation slit darkened briefly and there was a clatter from the other side. It opened, Cami was prodded through—not ungently—and she found herself in a quieter hall floored with peeling gray linoleum. The guard—another cop, this one pure human—took his hand off the butt of a gun, and she was absurdly comforted. The motion reminded her of Trig.

  There was also a burly, graying man, pure human, in a cheap suit. He looked almost relieved to see her, and Cami stared at him curiously. She’d never really seen a detective before, and he didn’t look at all like a creature deserving of the scorn sometimes heaped on the cops among the younger Family, especially at parties where the whiskey and calf flowed freely.

  “Miss Vultusino?” The detective held up the student ID. It had been yanked from her coat pocket after they cuffed her, before they lifted her and threw her bodily into the van.

  Abruptly, she ached all over. The cuts on her arms and legs were singing with pain, and her head was heavy. She managed a nod, and almost swayed.

  “I’m Detective Haelan. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “No shit?” The pure human cop eyed her like she was an exotic pet. “It’s one of them? Why wasn’t—”

  “Shut up, Sullov.” The detective ran a hand back through his hair, a fume of cigarettes and cheap cologne clinging to him. His stubble was salted with gray too, and the pouches under his eyes could have held soup. “This way, Miss.”

  So she was Miss now. Well, that was good. Except they’d found out who she was. Cami approached him carefully, held out her bruised hand, and the laminate of the ID crumpled slightly in her sweating fingers. He also had her coat, which he handed over.

  “Would you like some coffee? A Danish?” He had kind eyes, she decided.

  “Why not just give her a foot massage, too?” the blond guard muttered. When Cami glanced back, though, he was peering through the observation slit in the door. “Animals,” he said, a little louder. “Look at them. A bunch of animals.”

  “Don’t mind Sullov. He’s subnormal, that’s why we have him working down here.” The detective’s half-grin was not pleasant at all, and the words had the quality of a challenge. He ushered Cami past another heavy locked door, swiping his hand over a charmplate near the handle and nodding as it clicked. “They’ve sent someone to fetch you. Not often we see Family in this part of town.”

  She winced inwardly. Would it be Nico? No, he was the Head, he couldn’t come down here personally. Nor could Stevens—even though the Seven owned the law, there were appearances to be upheld. One of the younger Vultusino? Trig? Maybe, but that would mean Nico knew about this, too.

  Haelan kept talking. About how they hadn’t known who she was, and how he hoped the holding cell hadn’t been too bad, and was she sure she didn’t want a cup of coffee? She finally agreed, just to make him be quiet, and the relief passing over his face when he heard her stutter was thought-provoking.

  However mad Nico got, it was better than the dogs. And the way things inside her head were opening up. Curtains lifting, the things behind them leering and capering, full of scorched skin, the blossoming of red pain, the filth and the chains.

  This one’s heart is fiery.

  She ended up perched on a battered leather couch in a paper-choked detective’s office, listening to the phon
e ring and clutching a paper cup of boiled, ash-smelling coffee. Haelan had disappeared, and after a while Trigger edged into the room, his hair stuck up anyhow and his jacket dusted with melted snow. He gave her a brief look, nodded, and cocked his head.

  That was, at least, one signal she knew how to decipher. She was on her feet somehow, tossing the slopping-over cup of coffee in the overfull wastebasket with a splash.

  Time to go.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE HOUSE ON HAVEN HILL WAS DARK.

  Chauncey brought the limousine to a soft, painless stop before the front steps. Older now, but still a careful, competent driver, was he thinking about another snowy night and a shivering girl in the car?

  Trigger hadn’t said a word the entire way, and Cami, huddled on the seat across from him, wasn’t sure if that was a good sign. Or . . . not.

  Her head hurt. Everything else hurt, and she just wanted to lie down somewhere. Just to think about all of this, or ignore it, without the jumble in her head getting worse and worse.

  Trig sighed, heavily. “He was . . . upset.” Slow, evenly spaced words. “Was all set to come down himself.”

  “He c-c-c-can’t.” How can I sound so normal? “I’m s-s-sorry, T-t-trig.”

  A shrug, his jacket rubbing uneasily against the leather upholstery. His first act on getting into the car had been to slip a gun into the holster under his arm and let out a sharp relieved breath. “Figured sooner or later you’d want to run a bit, Cami-girl.”

  I ran all right. I ran for my life. If she told him, what would he do?

  Nothing, probably. I’m not Family. There it was, as plain as day. Trig was loyal to Papa, and to Nico by default. Even though he was there each time the punishments had been meted out.

  Did Nico hate him for it? Was it any of Cami’s business?

  I’m not Family. It can’t be my business.

  The smoked, bulletproof glass between them and Chauncey lowered a little. “Is the Miss all right?” A sleep-roughened voice, familiar as her own. She could still remember sitting on Chauncey’s lap as the car jerked forward, thinking she was controlling the limo as his broad hands covered the wheel and his foot eased off the brake. A born driver, he would say, and Papa would beam, hearing Cami laugh and crow with delight.