Kin (17 page)

R
UNNING, WET
BRANCHES
SLAPPING
HE
R
FACE
,
A
STITCH
sinking its claws deep into her side. Behind her, the low whooshing as a sharp blade cleaved air. It was coming, its face a blankness, its shape hulking-wrong. The old nursery rhyme filled her skull—

Gaston hunts with stave and an axe,

watch out, watch out or he'll claw your backs,

olly-olly-oh, olly-olly-aye,

one two three four! Time to die!

Then the ring of chanting children would spin faster and faster until someone tumbled, and they would all fall down, shrieking with laughter.

Kin didn't play that game, though. She'd seen it at primary school and sung the rhyme at home for Gran, who had just looked sour for a moment before saying, gently but inflexibly,
We don't sing that here, Ruby
.

Slipping in mud, a grating shock against her knees as she fell, back up in a flash and running, but she was tired and he was so fast, so fast. Darkness everywhere, the only faint gleams from falling raindrops or her own white hands, fluttering like birds as she ran, ran, ran.

A terrific, painless blow against her back. Warm dribbling down her chin.

She was still trying to run when she hit the ground, face-first in the leaves and the mud, and the pain came, a great cresting wave of it, breaking over her in starlight-streaked foam, and the claws came next, ripping as he tore her sideways, flipping her face-up and the sky was black. Against that blackness there were two small golden lamps, bad-luck eyes that would have been beautiful if not for the emptiness behind them, an emptiness nothing would ever fill.

The axeblade glinted as he lifted it high, and with a heaving snort, he chopped—

•  •  •

—
down off the stack of black cloth, her breath hitching in to scream before she realized where she was and that she had to be
quiet
, for Mithrus's sake. She caught herself on hands and knees, and was up in a flash, her heart thumping so quickly the individual beats blurred together, a song of hideous fear.

Stacks of antique Mithrusmas decorations, masses of old textbooks, boxes with cryptic dates and abbreviations on the side under thick layers of dust and cobwebs. Her head rang, aching a little, and her nose was full. She sniffed several times, but all she got was dust. And her eyes were all crusty,
eww
. It was the kind of feeling you got after you'd cried yourself to sleep and then woke up late.

What time is it?
She didn't even have a watch.

Ellie would have had a watch. She was always so
prepared
.

Ruby took stock. Grabbing her schoolbag hadn't been a bad idea, even if her French textbook weighed a ton. For one thing, her wallet was in there, so she had her student ID and leftover shopping money as well as charmed tinfoil, some breath mints—her stomach growled—and a pack of choco beechgum, which would calm her tummy down while she figured out what to do.

How long had she slept? There was the same dim glow in here as when she'd collapsed, from a bare bulb burning down the long passage, lighting the way to the boiler. It was also much warmer, almost stuffy, and she rubbed at her face again, wishing she'd been able to manage a warm shower. She should have taken off her shoes and socks to let them dry, too. Her feet felt swollen.

What would Ellie do?

Well, Ellie would have a simple elegant solution for finding out the time. Probably a charm, since she was just slopping over with Potential. Cami would probably just
know
what time it was, the way she seemed to just know how to do everything else.

At least they weren't involved in this huge mess. She'd kept them safely out of it. If they'd come in to meet Conrad yesterday . . .

. . . well, best not to even think about that. There were all
sorts
of things not to think about, and if she was going to decide what to do, she needed to, well, not dwell on them. Right?

But what if . . . he knew she had friends. Now she cursed herself for talking about them all the time; he could probably recognize them in a crowd if he had to. Not to mention they might be worried about her, if they weren't too busy with Nico and Avery and their lives going so smoothly. Maybe, just maybe, they would drop by the cottage, and if Conrad was there . . . he could be charming. He could be
really
charming. They might not see the danger until too late.

You're my way out
.

Would she be able to make him stop, if she was collared? If she was collared, Gran wouldn't have to worry, and maybe by being quiet and pliable she wouldn't set Conrad off.

She eased herself back up on the pile of habits and took a deep breath. It was something to consider. If she could just stop being an irritant to everyone, a—

—a selfish bitch, go on, admit it—

—okay, fine, a selfish bitch, maybe it would fix things.

Except.

There was Hunter's body, wrapped in linen and lowered, fetching up against cold earth with that stomach-unseating little bump. And the girls—redheads. Mere-human.

All four,
dead
.

Even if she stopped Conrad doing . . . whatever it was he thought he was doing, that wouldn't be enough. Not if Thorne was blamed for everything, not even if Conrad stopped . . .

Stopped
killing
.

You could hunt, you could
find
, but kin didn't kill. Not unless you desperately needed food, but still, you took animals, and brought them home for cooking to prove you hadn't done something you shouldn't. You didn't kill mere-humans. Or other kin. It just . . . you just didn't do it.

It was
taboo
.

And . . . and Thorne would get blamed, and nobody would believe him, maybe because he was an only, maybe because he'd always been difficult. Thorny, so to speak.

It wasn't
fair
.

The same old stubborn resistance rose up in her. Like when Cami had been teased so relentlessly about her stutter in primary school, and Ruby had waded into the fray. Or Ellie, in middle school, new in town and mercilessly hassled. It wasn't
fair
, and that just lit every fuse in Ruby's head.

But what should she
do
? Ellie was the one with all the plans, Ruby just sort of waited to be given a task, or waited until someone like Binksy Malone opened her stupid mouth so Rube could jump on her.

Well, first she should probably find out what time it was. If she snuck up to the hall, she could probably peer out without getting caught. If she was careful.

She wasn't in her uniform, either. It was going to be tricky if she wanted to leave before school got out.

The rest, she decided, could wait until she'd found something to eat.

S
HE
DID
N
'
T
HAVE
TO
WORRY
AB
OUT
BEING
CAUGHT
.
The hall was dark and quiet, and for a few seconds she was confused, thinking she hadn't slept at all, before she realized she'd slept almost a whole
day
. No wonder she was hungry.

The clock above the lockers right next to Sister Margaret's classroom pointed at 7:48, and the entire bulk of St. Juno's held its breath. Not a sound in the whole place, even the soughing of the boiler—thank Mithrus whoever came down to check it hadn't found her—held behind a curtain of stillness. The urge to scream just because she could rose up, and for a minute the thought of running amok and doing every single prank she'd ever dreamed up in an entirely empty school held a certain attraction.

At home she'd be helping Gran wash up after dinner. Then more homework and Babchat before bed—but she hadn't been on Bab in a while, had she.

She blinked. The clock now pointed to 8:00. She'd just stood there staring at it for twelve whole minutes.

In that vacant inward time, she'd arrived at a conclusion.

She'd go to the hospital. If Gran was awake she could tell her everything. If not, she could find a Tante or Oncle and make them listen. If they wouldn't listen, she'd find another.
Someone
would be willing to believe Thorne wouldn't do these awful things.

Maybe even Detective Haelan. Now that she wasn't terrified and sleep deprived, she could think that maybe he'd be smart enough to see past Conrad's smile. And she could ask him more about her . . . mother. What she'd done that was so terrible kin wouldn't speak her name.

The first step was getting out of here. Then, finding transportation to Trueheart Memorial.

Ruby scraped her hair back, wincing as her fingers encountered tangles, and got moving.

•  •  •

The bus lurched around a corner, like a fat rolling silver sow, and Ruby braced herself against the swaying. There was a group of jacks in the back, sniggering about something or another, and the rest of the crowd was tired mere-humans, most of them probably coming home from work.

It was the jacks she kept an eye on while the bus lumbered, downshifting, up Trueheart Hill. They had bright bandannas tied at ankle, wrist, or knee—gang colors. One of them, a dark-haired boy with bone spurs on his weeping-slick cheeks, stared over the heads of everyone in the seats, and every time Ruby stole a glance in her peripheral vision he was looking right at her. He looked vaguely familiar as well, but she couldn't place him.

She had to stand, shifting from foot to foot and hanging on to a pole. Being on her feet seemed like a great idea, but it also meant the group at the back could see her.

Across the aisle, a stout graying man with a three-piece suit and a monocle glanced up from his newspaper, incuriously. The headline screamed at her in heavy dark print.

REDHEAD RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN.

The subtitle was chilling.
Four Slain, Killer at Large
. The type underneath wriggled and blurred: she couldn't read it at this distance. Four? Were they counting Hunter, or not?

There was a grainy picture, the top of a head with curly hair, but she couldn't see the rest of it under the fold. Why was he doing it? If he wanted to kill a redhead, why not Ruby?

What would happen if he
had
managed to get the collar on her?

She turned to peer out the window and realized the bus was three blocks from the hospital. The stop line almost burned her hands, but she yanked it and saw the sign at the front light up.
Stop Requested
.

The jacks in the back made a little more noise. She hoped this wasn't their stop too and began pushing for the front door as the bus braked.

It was raining again, a thin penetrating drizzle, and the towered pile of the hospital crouched restlessly under the lashing wind. A Mithraic
tau
knot over the front doors was lit by a random reflection of headlights, and it actually cheered her up a little. It was like seeing the
tau
and the Magdalen's sad gaze all over St. Juno's, a secret little letter from the past.

Inside, the fluorescents and the reek of disinfectant and illness was just the same. Did time ever move in a hospital, or did it just slosh around aimlessly? Did it boil down thicker and thicker, the way Gran made candy sometimes?

Stop it. Pay attention
.

She took the stairs instead of the elevator, even though her legs ached. Her trainers still squooshed a little. Her nose tingled, though, working just fine, leading her unerringly through the corridors and stairwells until she reached the private rooms. Spendy, but Woodsdowne could afford it, and the Clanmother would get the best of care.

If Gran was in the private rooms, she was out of critical care, and that was good, right?

Ruby ghosted past the nurse's station—there was nobody there, though voices echoed from a doorway leading into another space, where she could see the edge of locked glass-fronted cabinets and a long counter. Probably where they hid the dangerous drugs; two nurses murmuring like birds in the treetops. A sharp high note of laughter, and Ruby's nose twitched a little.

Even here, amid the disinfectant and boiled food and industrial laundry smells, she could trace Gran's familiar musk with its sharp undertone, the Levarin cologne she dabbed behind her ears and on her wrists with its layer of crushed green grass, and the faint odor of baking bread, warm fur, and safety. Ruby glanced in either direction, pressed down the door handle, and stepped inside a pale-pink seashell of a room that tried to be restrained and elegant under the clutter of medical paraphernalia. An IV pole, and a soft beeping from a monitor showing a heartbeat, nice and strong.

The window looked into a dark courtyard, three old thick-trunked oak trees beginning to drop their leaves in clumps to the stone walks below. Their branches scraped and rustled, almost audible through the rain-spattered glass.

Gran lay on the bed, its upper half tilted upward probably so she could breathe more easily. Thin tubes ran to her nose, and the pale fluid inside the IV sack, dangling overhead, dripped once, twice.

Ruby took a step forward.

It looked like she was sleeping. Her color was good, a high rosy blush on her planed-down cheeks, but her platinum hair was a little askew, its braid done by someone who lacked the requisite quick, firm fingers.

Sometimes Ruby braided Gran's hair. Gran said she was the best at it.

A small sound escaped Ruby's lips. Sleeping was good, right? She looked good. She looked, as a matter of fact, like she was just napping and would rise, irritated and brisk, setting everything to rights about her with quick efficiency.

There was a chair on the other side of the bed. Ruby pulled it close, and was just about to sink down when Gran's eyes snapped open.

Icy gray, her pupils pinpricks, the old woman stared straight ahead. Her thin lips moved, just a little, and the croak that came out froze Ruby clear through.

“Katrina?” Slurred, as if Gran had been at the whiskey too much and was pleasantly buzzed. “Katy, is that you?”

Ruby's breath rode a shuddering sleigh out of her mouth. “It's me, Gran.” She reached for the old woman's hand, so fragile and bruised, and picked it up carefully. “I'm here.”

“I did not mean to,” Gran's voice sharpened, losing its slur, but she didn't blink. The fixed stare was a little . . . well, it was a little worrying, and Ruby's relief turned to ice trailing lightly down her back, little trickles of electricity. “I would not have . . . I burned the collar. I
burned
it. Why did you leave?”

Burned?
It made no sense. “It's okay, Gran. It's okay.”

“Forgive me . . . Katy, I would not have . . . I spoke in anger.”

What?
She patted Gran's hand, gently, trying not to touch the heplock. It looked like a nasty growth on the back of Gran's familiar hand. “It's all right. It's okay.”

“Forgive me . . . Katy, forgive me. . . .”

Ruby swallowed, hard. “I forgive you.”

Gran's eyes slowly closed. She muttered and mumbled, falling back against the pillows, and her fingers were slack and cool.

There was no way Ruby could tell her anything. She was on her own.

Katy.
Katrina
. And a collar.

I burned it. Why did you leave?

Was this Katy alive somewhere else? Was that why she wasn't spoken of? Was she
taboo
? Had she just
left
?

You have other problems.
Ruby exhaled, sharply. Gran was still sick. She was alive, and talking, but she wasn't . . . well, she wasn't
herself
.

Which meant Ruby was the only rootfamily who could give orders at the moment. She didn't have Gran's iron will, though. The Oncles would probably just laugh at her.

Then you wipe that laugh right off their faces, Ruby. You've got to.

But
how
?

Her shoulders slumped, her schoolbag sagging against her. She hesitated, halfway between sinking into the chair and standing up, her thighs aching and every inch of her crawling with fear-residue and air-dried rain.

Imagine you're Gran. Imagine you're Ellie. Imagine you're anyone, just get it done.

She laid Gran's hand back down, ever so gently. “Okay. You . . . you rest and get better, Gran. I'm going to fix things.”

How, I have no idea. But I'm gonna.

A few moments later, the room was empty, except for the old woman's steady breathing.