Nameless: A Tale of Beauty and Madness (3 page)

“C-College. Long time away.” If she spoke slowly, she didn’t stutter too much with Nico. He was patient, though.

He
listened
.

“Not so long,” he said, as he popped the parking brake and she tapped a Gitanelle out, pushing the cigarette lighter in. “You’re growing up fast, babygirl. Want to have some fun?”

She didn’t think she could speak, so she just nodded, and lit the first of what would probably be a
lot
of cigarettes. She stuck it in his mouth as he turned the wheel, the tires chirped, and Nico spun them away from St. Juno’s like he was playing a roulette wheel.

“
R
ACK ’EM, KID.”
N
ICO DRAGGED ON HIS
G
ITANELLE.
Smoke
wreathed his head as if he was a perpetual-burning scarecrow; but a faust wouldn’t be out during the day. Besides, fausts and Family made each other very nervous. It used to be Family sport to hunt them, back in the days before the Reeve.

It probably still was, in some places.

Cami leaned over the table, made sure the rack was tight, and lifted the triangle off with a ceremonial flourish. The pool balls gleamed, each one a different jewel against worn green felt. Her job done, she retreated to the booth and dropped down and took a sip of expensive imported-through-the-Waste Coke. The only way through the Waste was sealed in a train; the iron in the tracks kept the blight, the random Twisting, and the nasty creatures that lived outside the order of the cities and kolkhozes mostly at bay. The collective farms were full of jacks and Twists, but someone had to grow the food, right? And you couldn’t farm the Waste without reclamation to drain off the blight and channel the wild magic into systematic forms.

Thinking about the Waste was always bad, too. Cami heaved a sigh, returned to the essay she was supposed to be outlining.

Lou’s was full—but then, it almost always was. A long low pool hall, the bar at the front a reef in a sea of cigarette smoke, its mirror a giant cloudy eye behind racks of bottles. The tables marched in orderly ranks, just enough space around them for the players. Older men with open collars and cigars, young whip-thin hungry men working on their shots, the cracks of good clean breaks and the serious murmur as money changed hands all familiar and soothing. Green glass shades hung from long cords, the electric bulbs over some tables blinking a little as the dampers wedded to the shades suppressed Potential. Not the free-floating stuff the entire world was soaking in, but the kind that would tell a ball to roll a certain way, or whisper some English-spin onto it.

Lou’s was straight gaming. Anyone caught charming, consciously or not, was thrown out. Cami had only seen that once or twice, and the thought still made her a little sick. All the yelling, and the blood.

You had to be careful with blood in a Family place.

The booths were empty. Nobody really sat there, but Cami had a favorite one near Nico’s usual table; it was kept dusted and ready. Whenever he was home from Hannibal, Nico played here, and Lou never made a peep about little sis bending over her homework while Vultusino’s son ran games. At least Nico didn’t play for money.

Well, not often.

And he didn’t tell Cami not to tell when he did, but he would often give her that considering look. Just one more secret for them to share.

My little consigliere
, he used to call her, back when he was twelve. Not anymore, but she didn’t miss it. That was one job she could do without.

Cami tapped her pencil against her teeth. She should be at home typing this stupid essay, or even working on French or practicing the short list of safe charms to be mastered this year. Instead it was this stupid essay about the First Industrial Expansion, 1750–1850, machines and factories replacing cottage industry and cities turning into sooty hellholes.

Not like they were much different nowadays, but at least they were safer than the Waste. The Waste used to be just empty land, or small farms—
country
was the term they’d used back in the day.

Cami shifted again, uncomfortably. History was boring as
shit
.

Who cared about the Industrial Expansions
now
, for God’s sake? Especially after the Reeve (for
maaaaaaa-
gic
Reeeeeee
-volution, Ruby would say, rolling her eyes). Post-Reeve studies weren’t until next year, along with serious charmwork and the settling of Potential.

Even the Reeve wasn’t that interesting. It was just
there
, like fausts and Family and minotaurs, charms and griffs, and all those other things that had been hiding during the short Age of Iron.

They had been hiding only to burst out when the World War ended, 1918, the last Year of Blood. Something about the War—the blood, the trenches, the masses of death—shook everything loose, and when it all settled in 1920, the Reeve had exploded and everything was different. The Deprescence had hit, and the ones that didn’t die as the country turned to Waste ended up Twisted, the first jacks—Potential-mutated babies, horns and feathers and fur—were born, and even being rich wouldn’t save you from starving to death. Or worse, being eaten by something nasty.

The Family didn’t talk much about the Reeve or the Desprescence.

Population movement from rural to urban
, she wrote, and circled it as Nico muttered something and the rack was cracked. His opponent, a weedy man in a shiny blue jacket with a toothbrush-thin fair moustache clinging to his thin upper lip, lit a cigarette. A puff of harsh smoke, not silky like the Gitanelles—he was smoking cheap, and Cami suspected the guy was new and thought Nico was a pigeon.

Oh well. He’ll find out.
She hunched further down, pencil scraping.
Effects on rural society. One, wages down. Two, breaking of social bonds. Three, the encroachment of the Waste and the Wild.

Ruby was great at bullshit essays. She was good at bullshit in general, but she had a special
genius
for packing an assignment full of enough vocab to dizzy one of Juno’s Mithraic Sister teachers. She joked that it was her Potential, as if the teachers weren’t full-settled, their own Potential respectable and staid, and immune to schoolgirl pranks.

Cami sighed, scratched at an itch on the side of her neck. She’d undone her braid, her hair fell over her shoulder. True black, deep black, sometimes with blue highlights under strong light. She didn’t look like Nico; the darkness in his hair was underlaid with red. She didn’t look like
anyone
, really.

Some days she didn’t mind. Today was one of them.

Her neck still itched, and she glanced up to find the guy with the toothbrush moustache looking at her.

She dropped her gaze, hurriedly.

“Pay attention to the game.” Nico sounded pleasant enough. Nobody else, maybe, would hear the danger in his tone.

“Ain’t she a bit young to be in here?” Moustache Man had a surprisingly deep, harsh voice for such a skinny guy. Cami restrained the urge to roll her eyes. The door thudded open and everyone paused, but it was just a man in a long tan overcoat headed for the bar. He slumped a little, shuffling as if he was tired. He couldn’t be visibly drunk, smoked, or Twisted, though, or Lou would send him right out.

“You gonna check her ID?” Nico’s laugh now
definitely
had an edge. He stalked around the side of the table, sighted, and sent the yellow and the red careening into separate holes with one shattering crack. “What are you, a cop?”

Oh, no
. Cami very carefully kept her head down, as if she was studying intently. But her pencil had halted, and she had both of them in her peripheral vision.

Moustache Man laughed. “Hell no. Just wondering.”

“That’s my girl.” Nico sighted again, and sent the solid green thudding home. “Don’t wonder.”

My girl
. A warm flush went through her. Nobody else would know what he meant by that, they could take it or leave it. Just like pretty much everything he said.

They settled into serious playing, and Cami relaxed a little. Maybe she could just put the damn thing down for a bit; it wasn’t due until next week. It wasn’t like she was going to
fail
, even if her Potential was invisible. Especially not with Papa making donations to St. Juno’s like he did. Still, she worried.

Having anything half-done nagged at her. She chewed at her lower lip while she scribbled, grateful that her fingers, at least, didn’t stutter.

“Hey.” Nico leaned over her, setting down his empty, red-streaked glass and reaching for a fresh ashtray. “Get me another one, huh?”

Not a good idea.
“Y-y-you’re—”

“Driving. Yeah.” He nodded, a vertical line between his dark eyebrows. “Don’t
worry
. Get me another one.”

Fine. But if you get pulled over it’s not going to be pleasant.
“K-kay.” Her stupid mouth wouldn’t work right. She blinked, the smoke suddenly stinging, and Nico squeezed her shoulder before turning away.

He scooped up his cue and settled the cut-glass ashtray; he gave Moustache Man a brilliant smile, his eyes lightening a shade or two. “Ready to play for real?”

Uh-oh
. Nico was about to fleece him. Great. Cami sighed and hauled herself up, brushing at her skirt. The vinyl, even though it was washed and dusted, was still sticky, and she probably had red marks on the backs of her thighs. They would match all the other scars, and make some of the ones on the backs of her legs more vivid. The knee-high socks in fashion this year helped, not that many people said anything about her legs. She wore long sleeves as much as possible, and the uniform made people’s eyes slide right over her.

Mostly.

The floor was tacky-sticky too, and she kept her head down as she passed, acutely aware of the looks. The regulars knew, yeah—but sometimes there were guys who didn’t. She wished she hadn’t taken her blazer off; the scars on her arms and wrists would show up if she got warm or blushy.

I wish he wouldn’t come here.
But Nico was in a mood, and she had to let him run for a bit before he’d tell her what was wrong. It was probably Papa, again.

Sooner or later, if you scratched Nico hard enough, you got down to Papa.

“Well hello, Cami.” Lou, broad, bald, and mahogany-colored, ran a hand over his shaved, oiled dome of a head and grinned. Nicotine stained his teeth and his blunt fingers, and he was probably scary if you didn’t know he had a huge gooshy soft spot under his big ribs. His Potential was like a brick wall, though, and it crackled and fizzed whenever the mood inside the pool hall got dangerous. “What’ll it be?”

She managed a smile in return, setting the glass carefully on the bar’s mellow polish. The guy in the overcoat down at the end hunched, a gleam from under the bill of his baseball cap oddly big for eyes. He looked like a hobo, kind of, the coat was ragged and torn, and she was glad she didn’t have to stand closer. “O-one m-more. F-f-f-for N-n-n—” Frustration boiled up inside her. “
Nico
,” she finished, finally, and peeked up to find Lou didn’t look upset in the least.

He never did, but she couldn’t shake the habit of checking.

“Sure thing. He should be careful; that kid he’s playing has a nasty temper.” Lou read her shrug accurately. “I know, so does Nico. Eh, well. Small-time sharks playing in a Family yard have it comin’. Here ya go, sweetness. Give me another one of those smiles?” His broad dark face split in a wide yellow grin that wasn’t scary at all. At least, not once you got to know him. She ducked her head slightly, unable to stop grinning back. “There it is. Go on back and—”

“Little girl,” someone rasped.

It was the man with the tan trench coat and the stained red baseball cap. He was gaunt, unshaven, and his dark hair was matted into grizzled dreadlocks. A pair of feverish dark gleams for eyes and a scar-stubbled jaw; his hand bit her upper arm, fingers clamping with surprising, scary strength. Cami flinched.

“I
know
you, little girl.” He slurred as if his tongue was too big for his mouth. He inhaled sharply, his breath whistling.

She had time to be surprised that he didn’t smell bad—he reeked, in fact, only of fresh lumber, sap and sawdust—before he leaned close to her face and yelled, the whiskey on his breath burning her nose. “
I know you! You were dead!
”

I
T HAPPENED SO
FAST
.

One moment Cami was trying to back up, her shoes scuffing the peeling blue-flecked linoleum, the man’s skin hard-callused and fever-hot against her arm where the short-sleeved white button-down didn’t cover. A cloud of whiskey fumed around his lean desperate face, and she realized the gleam over his eyes was a pair of small round lenses—sunglasses, even in the dimness of Lou’s Pool. There was a wet resinous slickness on his cheeks too, and not only did he smell like sawdust, but he
looked
like he was made of wood—weathered skin carved with deep lines, a long nose, his hard thin lips pulled back from yellowed gleaming teeth.

Her heart gave a huge shattering leap.
What IS he? Please don’t let him be a Twist—

The next moment, Nico arrived, his fingers just as bruising-hard as he peeled the man’s grasp from Cami’s arm. A cracking groan, like wood splintering, and Nico’s eyes were ablaze with a low red glow. His lips had skinned back and his canines came to sharp points, a pearly glitter as the whiskey and calf on the bar spilled, a drench of coppery red and alcohol.

The sound coming from Nico’s chest was a deep thrumming. He twisted the wooden man’s hand aside, and Cami hit the bar because he had shouldered her aside.

“You were
dead
!” the brown man screamed again. “
Dead dead dead! She ate the heart! She ate theeeeeeee heaaaaaart!
”

Cami lost her footing, hitting a barstool and tumbling into a heap. Oddly, stupidly, her skirt flipping up and showing her unmentionables was the thing she worried about most as her knee scraped along the footrail on the bottom of the bar. She scooted crabwise, her hands burning as she scrabbled to get
away
. Glass rained down, shimmering, as Nico half-turned and threw the wooden man onto the bar. Empty glasses went flying, and Lou let out a yell that almost drowned the wooden man’s high whistling scream. A lick of fire pierced Cami’s palm, and the scream ended on a rending crack.

“Mithrus
Christ
!” Lou finished yelling. The baseball bat held high in his beefy paws didn’t get a chance to flash down; brick-red sparks of Potential crackled defensively on his bare skin. Nico glanced at him, and the deep thrum from his chest faded bit by bit. The wooden man’s head tipped aside, his sunglasses falling with a clatter, one lens cracked clear through. He blinked, slowly, and stared
through
her.

Cami’s ribs heaved. She just sat there for a moment, clutching her left fist to her chest. Liquor dripped, broken glass glittered, and she figured out her skirt hadn’t rucked up too far.

Well, thank God for that.
Her throat was dry as summer pavement. She gathered herself enough to look down, her left hand opening, a red flower in its palm.
Oh, shit. Is it deep?

“NGGGAAAAH!” The man on the bar thrashed into life again. Nico hauled him down, the tan trench coat flapping like a flag in a high wind, and was suddenly at the door. It opened, and he flung the man into the street outside.

At least he didn’t toss the limp form dangling from his fists
through
the door. And at least he hadn’t killed him.

That would be Very Bad, even if he was Family. Papa would—

“Oh, Christ,” someone said, very low and clear. “She’s bleeding.”

Cami found her voice. “I-i-i-it’s n-n-not—”
It’s not bad,
she wanted to say, because Lou looked horrified. He was already backing up, his meaty hip hitting something behind the bar and another glass falling, crashing into splinters.

Nico whirled away from the door. There was a breath against her face—bay rum, cigarettes, whiskey and calf—and he was kneeling in front of her, his gaze flat, dark, and terribly empty. The red glow had gone.

“Don’t—” Lou swallowed whatever he’d intended to say when Nico Vultusino glanced up at him. Nico’s canines were fully distended, and there was a ripple through the rest of the hall as every Family member tensed. They were daywalkers, true, and young ones, not yet burning with the Kiss of immortal undeath after years of service. But they were still Family.

Family meant Borrowing. And Borrowing meant
blood
.

Nico’s gaze swung back down to Cami. She swallowed, hard, and cupped her left hand. Slowly, she extended her fingers toward him, uncurling her arm. Blood dripped, a tiny
plink
sound in the utter stillness. At least she hadn’t smeared any on her shirt. Marya would scold her to no end if she had.

A river of shudders worked down Nico’s body. His hand shot out, closed around her wrist. Another rustling ripple of tension, as the non-Family drew back, hardly even daring to breathe. Moustache Man was holding his pool cue up like it was some sort of weapon.

Cami licked her dry lips. Her own Potential was a barely-seen shimmer hanging an inch from her skin, like the air over scorching blacktop. Fear, or anger, or any high emotion could make it visible even before it settled. Everyone would see it, and know she was . . . afraid?

Not of him
. She concentrated, fiercely, and hoped she could speak without mush for once. “S-s-sorry, N-Nico.”
He won’t bite me. He never has before, even when we were little.

At least,
she
had been little. He hadn’t. Even the few years’ worth of age he had on her was different, because you matured early when you were Family.

And she wasn’t.

He blinked. The shudders vanished. His canines retracted with a slight familiar crackling sound. He coughed, dryly, and looked up at Lou. “’Nother drink.” Sandpaper in his tone. “And the first-aid kit. Mithrus, how’d that happen?”

I was trying to get out of your way
. She shrugged. A silent sigh of relief filled the pool hall. If he was talking, he wasn’t about to go crazy. Well, craz
ier
.

He straightened, slowly, bracing her, brushing her off. “You okay? Hurt anywhere other than this?” Trying to be gentle, but his hand shook just the slightest bit. Her blood dripped again, and he could smell it.

They all could.
Like sharks
, Nico said.
It only takes a little.

Her ribs ached from where he’d careened into her, and her shoulder had somehow bonked something and would be bruised. She shook her head, half her hair falling in her face, strings of jet-black, not curly like Red’s or sleek and behaving like Ellie’s. Lou banged the first-aid kit on the bar—there was a dent in the wood’s shiny polish.

A man-sized dent.

“Another drink, comin’ up,” Lou announced. “Billy, get your ass over here and help me clean this up. What the hell
was
that guy, anyway?”

In New Haven, you could ask that question, but you probably wouldn’t get much of an answer. The man could have been a jack born with weird skin, or a fey fresh from the Waste where they had their own strange ways of traveling, or anything else. Who knew?

Life and motion returned. They went back to their games, the Family members unfazed and the others maybe a little rattled. Moustache Man was nowhere to be seen, and after Cami’s hand was bandaged Nico found out the bastard had left with the cash sitting on the pool table. Gone while the getting was good.

Which meant Nico was pissed off pretty much all afternoon, even though he made it up in no time, skinning double from table to table.

Cami didn’t blame him. He fussed at her constantly, too, and she wished he wouldn’t. Because she kept thinking about the wooden man’s eyes, staring through her.

His blue, blue eyes. Like hers.