Nameless: A Tale of Beauty and Madness (8 page)

T
HE BIG, SOFT FINGERTIPS ARE AT MY THROAT.
L
ONG
broad hands, the fingers slightly swollen and manicured, and Her face is a white moon with golden hair fountaining over it. She traces my windpipe, the thin skin and ridges of cartilage underneath. The buzzing in my head is full of that funny smell—apples and heavy incense, a drugging smoke that makes my entire body a slow, lumbering mass. I am so small, and I am being spread out, too thin, butter scraped over too much bread. That cannot be right, for I am curled forward, my head on Her pillow, our hair mingling as She settles next to me. Dust rises, each speck of it glowing with Her presence, and under the drugging incense is a hint of sharpish rot.

But I do not care. It is soft here, but so cold. She is the only heat, and it is a chill that burns.

This one’s heart, She whispers, Her red lips shaping the words so slowly. You love Me, don’t you? My Nameless.

Oh, I do. I cannot help myself. We are wound together, Her palm against my tiny chest, everything in me rising to meet Her. She is gravity, She is dim light and life and love, and I make small piping sounds as She caresses me. This pleases Her, and Her nails scrape lightly, sliding through layers of pinhole-eaten velvet brought from Above. Only the big ones go Above, the littles are not allowed. The bigs bring back food and cloth, shinies to please Her and refuse for the littles to eat after the dogs are done.

Always after the dogs are done.

Sometimes, often enough, there is a new big one, to shave and to bring to Her for the oblivion She promises. A refugee from Above, where everything is too bright, too loud, too sharp, too deadly.

There is a steady persistent drip-drip-dripping, water on stone, and the badness is coming. Suddenly I am even smaller and a flood of chill ink is rising, its surface glittering with flecks of dusty phosphorescence, and as it creeps up my legs and reaches for my hips I hear the chanting. They worship Her, and She laughs, and the gleam is a glass knife, wicked and sharp. It flashes down, held in a muscled, tanned hand, a child’s scream is cut short, and Her laughter, Her laughter, it is bells and cruel beauty—

“Shhh.” Nico was on the bed, bare-shouldered, red sparks in his pupils. A wedge of golden electric light spilled in from the hall, and there was Marya, blue silk and her fey-woven shawl fluttering as she made helpless little movements with her hands. “Shh, Cami. It’s just a dream. You’re all right.”

“Nightmares again?” Trigger, a scarecrow with a mop of messy hair, an unusual shape because he wasn’t in a baggy, beaten sports jacket. His white T-shirt glowed, and he kept his right hand low, because there was a gun’s gleam clasped in it.

“S-s-s-s-so-sor-r—” The word wouldn’t come, it was a stone of panic in her throat, and the white bedroom shivered around her, trembling like oil on the surface of a puddle. Underneath that thin screen the bad blackness lived, it was rising, and as the dream shredded, Cami’s cheeks were slick and hot with tears.

“She’s okay,” Nico said over his shoulder. “You can go on back to bed.”

Marya was having none of it. “Little
sidhe
. Screaming so loud. Is it
them
? Are they here?”

Who?
But Cami was shaking so hard, the question wouldn’t stay in her head.

“Shhh. Don’t.” Trigger had the feywoman’s arm. Marya’s eyes glowed with bluish foxfire over the smooth black from lid to lid—
she must be upset
, Cami thought, and another apology was caught and murdered by her stupid, treacherous, stuttering tongue.

Why can’t I TALK?

“Stop saying sorry.” Nico snapped his fingers sharply under her nose. “Book. Say
book
.”

It won’t work. This will be the time it stops working.

Marya resisted Trigger’s trying to hurry her out of the room. “If it’s them, little
sidhe
—they take the littles, and the hounds—”

Cami sobbed in a breath. Two.

“Get out,” Nico said quietly, but his tone rattled with menace. “Marya. Go on. Let Trigger take you back to the kitchen. All’s well here.”

“Cold iron,” Marya muttered. Her shawl moved on its own, the fringe slithering with cold sullen sounds. “Naughty little things.”

“Come on, Marya.” Trigger cast Nico a significant look over the feywoman’s drooping head, and there were other voices in the hallway. “She’s fine, it’s all right. Little girls have bad dreams sometimes.”

“Book.” Nico’s face was in front of hers, familiar in the darkness but strange with the red in his pupils, his canines touching his lower lip. “Come on, babygirl. Take a few breaths. No hurry.”

“S-s-sorry,” she managed, relieved that she could at least get
that
word out. Her hair was a sticky weight against her back; she had sweated and thrashed. Her arms hurt, a fierce dull ache centering on her wrists. Nico’s fingers were warm; he had her shoulders. Crouching on her bed as lightly as a cat, and his head made a small sideways sound, inquiring.

He could hear things she couldn’t, being Family.

The door swept closed, Trig saying something to whoever was out in the hall. Was the whole house awake? How loud had she screamed? Did Papa hear it, down in the Red Room? Was he now lying propped on pillows and staring, with the Kiss burning in his familiar-strange face? You could see he and Nico were related, closer even than the similarity between every Family member.

Except Cami. She didn’t look like
anyone
.

“Book,” Nico said, patiently. His pajama pants were worn at the knees, battered blue-striped ones she’d bought for him two Mithrusmases ago. The tang of cologne—or Papa’s aftershave—mixed with the healthy heat-haze of Nico, but overlaying it was a scrim of cigarette smoke and a copper breath. Either he’d Borrowed, or he’d been downing something with calf. “Don’t worry, Cami. We’ve got all night.”

I have school tomorrow.
So she struggled with her breathing, and the gasps evened out. Her pulse continued to pound, but Nico relaxed a just a little. “B-b-b—” She coughed, swallowed, tried again. “
B-book
.”

The red was fading from his pupils. His shoulders lowered a bit as his canines shrank, tiny crackling sounds as the bones shifted lost under her shivering. “Good girl. Candle. Take your time.”

“C-c-candle.” Sweat cooled on her back, and her pajamas were all rucked around. The tank top was soaked through, and her sheets were probably gummy. “
C-candle.
”

“Marya.”

“M-mar-y-y-ya.” Her teeth threatened to chatter. She realized she still had her hands up, as if to ward off a blow, and dropped them. Nico relaxed even more, his knee wringing a creak from the springs. She blinked several times, and the white room stopped twitching as if it would shatter around her.

“Ruby.”

Oh, Mithrus.
“Y-you h-h-hate—”

His laugh was sharp and short, freighted with the copperiness of calf. “We don’t like each other. You can still say her name. Come on, babygirl. Play the game.”

“R-ruby.” Her tongue was beginning to unknot itself.

“Ellen.”

“Ell-l-l-lie.”

“Good. Now take a deep breath.”

She beat him to it. “
Nico
.” Once more, the charm worked.

Another laugh, this one more genuine. “Good. Move over.”

The covers were a mess. And the cloth sticking to her skin was clammy, like the touch of cold fingers. Cami shook, stripping her sodden tank top off while he was punching the pillows into submission. When he settled with a sigh onto his back and she slid close enough to put her head on his shoulder, he stiffened.

“Whoa.” But his arm didn’t pause, he hugged her close, and she realized they weren’t kids anymore just as her entire body turned into one of Marya’s crackling fires.

“S-sor-r-r—”
Oh, damn it.

“It’s okay. Shush.” He relaxed all at once. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, jeez. Marya used to put us in the tub together.”

Well, yeah. But that was years ago.
“Th-they kn-know y-you’re u-u-u-up h-here.” The stutter got worse when she tried to whisper, now. Stupid thing, her tongue in revolt.

“What, you think I’m bad for your reputation?” But there wasn’t any bite to the words. He sounded, of all things, amused. “Better get used to it.”

“N-Nico.” She tried to put all the aggravation she could into it, and poked him in the ribs. His skin was rougher than hers, and the heat of him was cleaner than nightmare-sweat. When she moved, her chest bumped against his side, and he swallowed hard, very quickly.

“Do me a favor and settle down, okay? I’m being a
gentleman
.”

Oh really?
The scalding flush subsided, bit by bit. When she let out a long shaky sigh, every muscle suddenly deciding to unstring itself, he murmured quietly.

“You remember this one?” Very careful, very soft, as if by asking gently he could bring the dream out into the light.

Nothing but whiteness, choking softness, and the cold.
This one’s heart
. She shook her head, carefully, trying not to move anything else.

“Someday you will,” he said, into the darkness. “And I’ll fix it. I promise.”

“Y-you d-don’t have t-to.”
If I could remember, I might not want to tell you. Because you’d do something, maybe something the Family couldn’t cover up, and Papa would get mad. I should distract you
. “Wh-what w-was M-Marya saying?
Th-th-them
.”

“Nothing.” Slightly irritated now. “Family stuff. It’s being taken care of.”

She said nothing. Her chest hurt, but she didn’t dare move. The rock in her throat was dry, but getting up to get a glass of water suddenly seemed like a bad idea, since she’d tossed her tank top over the side.

Nico’s arm tensed. He squeezed her, very carefully. The crackling tension and strength under his skin suddenly made sense—it wasn’t just whiskey and calf he’d been at.

He’d Borrowed.
Family business.
The ache under her ribs was a sharp spike.

“It’s nothing you should worry about,” he said, finally. “There’s some . . . problems. In town. And Papa’s close to transition. So some things creep out of the cracks and think that the Seven are distracted.”

“Th-the k-kids? The m-missing ones?”

“Like I said, nothing for you to worry about. Think about your party instead.”

Oh, yeah, that makes it tons better.
“R-ruby has a d-dress for me.”

“Can’t wait. And no, I won’t tell you what I got you. You’re gonna have to wait and see.”

Cami turned her head a little. Her lips met the hollow between his shoulder and chest, muscle and skin fever-hot against her cheek. His hand had slid down, cupping the curve of her hip through her own flannel pajama bottoms. He had gone so still she wondered if he’d transitioned right there, and she almost winced. Just another reminder of what would eventually happen to him. Papa’s dead mortal wife hadn’t been Family; but once you had some of the blood, you were part of the chain. Did Nico ever wonder why Papa had given Camille that name? Did it bother him?

I wish I knew my born name.
“I w-w-wish I b-belonged,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“You do,” he whispered back. “With me. Now go to sleep, before I get the urge to do something I shouldn’t.”

Would that make it better? Do you really want to?
She held herself stiff and silent, afraid of moving, until the rhythm of his breathing lengthened and his head tipped back. Huddled against him, Cami stared over his chest at the curtains over her window moving slightly, maybe in a breeze from the heat register in the floor, and tried not to think about apples until sleep finally found her.

O
CTOVUS BLEW IN WITH SOAKING STORMS FULL OF
Waste-lightning, but the week of Cami’s birthday was only cloudy and cold. The house throbbed and whispered, the manicured grounds were starred with charmed lanterns, bright dots of golden light, gleaming now that dusk was falling and the party was about to start.

“Oh, wow.” Ruby touched one of the shoulder straps, pushing it up a quarter-inch. She also brushed at a stray strand of Cami’s hair, her quick fingers tucking it behind a bobby pin and magically making the mess artful instead of silly. “Almost perfect. Where are the pearls?”

“Here.” Ellie blinked, biting at her lip a little. The single strand of irregular, pinkish pearls, red silk thread knotted between each one, nestled against Cami’s collarbone; Ellie fastened the clasp. “Yeah. Wow is right.”

Cami shut her eyes. Next would come the mirror. “H-how b-b-bad is it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ruby actually bounced on her toes, a movement Cami could
feel
. “You’re gorgeous. Let me get my heels. Ellie, make her look.”

“She has to get her own shoes on, too.” Ellie patted Cami’s silk-clad shoulder. “Cami, sweets, it’s not bad at all. You’re gonna knock ’em dead. Cheer up, it’s your birthday.”

Not really
. But they didn’t know that.

“J-j-just a-n-n-nother F-f-f-family p-party.” Things were getting more tangled by the minute.
Oh, God, I probably look ridiculous in this thing. Why did I let Ruby talk me into it?

It was traditional for the daughter of a Seven to wear red on her sixteenth. Not just any red, either, but heartsblood, the red so dark it could only come from the last wringing of that deep organ. The straps would have worried Cami, but they were wide enough—and Ruby had come up with a pair of long white opera gloves to cover most of the scars. The others wouldn’t show much unless she blushed, so all Cami had to do was stay away from anything embarrassing.

This is
so
not going to work
.

“Cami, honey.” Ellie patted her bare shoulder again. “You’re going to have to see to step into your shoes.”

The V waistline of the dress had looked okay while it was on the hanger, and the skirt skimmed her hips and flared enough that she could walk without tripping herself. Ruby had also found a pair of pumps in exactly the right shade; Cami didn’t have a clue just
how
.

Doesn’t matter
, Ruby had said, cheerfully.
If it exists, I find it. I’m a hunter, baby. Rawr!

Ellie and Ruby had fussed over her hair, torturing it with flatirons and pins with holding charms, and Ruby had painted the makeup on with a steady hand.
Don’t make me look Twisted!
Cami had wailed, only it took her three times as long to say it.

The reply was classic Rube:
Relax, bitch. I wouldn’t Twist you up.

“I c-c-can’t. They’ll all b-b-b-be l-l-l-looking.”

Ellie’s fingers were warm and gentle. “If it makes you feel better, they’ll be looking at Ruby looking slutty more than either of us. You’re not showing enough skin to be a Magdalen, even.”

“I do not look
slutty
,” Ruby piped up. “You’re just
overly modest
. Or, to put it another way, boring.”

“I am comfortable with my boringness, thank you.” Ellie snorted. “Come on, Cami. One foot in front of the other.”

Sometimes she wished she’d met Ellie before Ruby. When Ruby arrived in third grade at the Hallows School, one of her first acts at recess was decking one of the girls teasing Cami about her stutter. Cami had simply put her head down and shrank into herself, but Ruby, afire with indignation, took on all comers.
It’s not FAIR
,
she would yell, before leaping on someone in a flurry of fists and feet. From that moment, they’d been friends—and Ellie had come along later, in middle school at Havenvale. Private schools in New Haven had their own language, one Ellie hadn’t known since she and her dad had moved from another city, overWaste in a charm-sealed train—but again, Ruby had ridden in to save Ellie from getting picked on, and now they were a troika.

Or more like Ruby and Ellie were best friends, and Cami was the third wheel that made the thing stable.

She opened her eyes. Ellie was grinning, the faint freckles on her nose almost invisible under a light coat of translucent powder. She had great skin. “That’s good. She’s breathing and has her eyes open.”

“Check her for a pulse. Maybe she’s transitioned.” Ruby snorted, leaning over the vanity and touching up her eye makeup. The little black dress sheathing her was almost indecent, but with her glory of coppery hair and the expertly applied eyeliner she somehow looked fresh instead of whorish.

“Wow, even more tasteless than usual, Rube.” Ellie was in black too, a halter-topped satiny number that made her into a sleek old-timey film star, her pale hair slicked down and her lack of jewelry classic instead of poor.
It weighs me down
, she said, twisting at the ring on her finger—a charmed star sapphire, the only thing left from her
real
mother. The Evil Strep had been talked into letting Ellie stay the night, probably because Stevens had taken care of sending a formal invitation to one Ellen Sinder, with the Vultusino crest impressed on the wax seal and a heavy scent of money wafting up from the pressed-linen paper.
She looked just about green when she got it, too
,
Ellie had whispered gleefully.

Even a famous charmer with a Sigil like the Strep feared Family.

“I can’t help it. I’m nervous. If Cami faints I might turn into a puddle of tears.” Ruby turned away from the vanity mirror and batted her eyelashes, making little kissy noises.

“F-f-f-fuck
you
!” Cami burst out.

They all dissolved into laughter, and Cami stepped into the pumps. They were okay, she guessed. Heels always made her unsteady, no matter how many Family functions she attended.

Ellie took her elbow, and they approached the full-length mirror in its heavy frame, the scarf over it fluttering from a stray breath, probably from the heater registers. Ruby arrived on a wafting breeze of chocolate perfume, whisking the gauzy material aside. “
Voila
. Gaze upon fair princesses, better than mortal man deserves.”

“Amen to that,” Ellie muttered.

Cami peeked at herself.

Oh.

The slim, red-wrapped girl in the mirror hanging on Ellie’s arm had a shy disbelieving smile. Her gloves were spotless white, her lips carmine, her black hair an artful mass of charmed curls, a single charmstick thrust through it and dangling a string of crystalline red beads. The kohl smudged around her blue eyes made them huge, and she looked tall, elegant, and completely unlike the regular, everyday stuttering Cami.

This once, the mirror didn’t frighten her. It was a miracle. “Wow,” she breathed.

“Amen
again
.” Ellie grinned. She tugged at her skirt, removing an imaginary wrinkle. “There. I think she appreciates our efforts, Rube.”

“She’d goddamn better.” Ruby tossed her curls. “Come on. We’re fashionably late, ladies. Let’s go Make An Entrance.”

Every house of the Seven had a ballroom. The Vultusino’s was a long wood-floored expanse, spindly wrought-iron chairs and tables along the walls and several smaller chambers opening away—the ladies’ resting room, the smoking room, the two supper rooms, the solarium, two private audience chambers for Family business, the playroom for children too young to participate in the dancing, and a private room for members of the Family hosting the event to retreat to. The licensed and charm-bonded caterers were already at work, threading through guests with silver trays bearing fluted crystal glasses of champagne, champagne-and-calf, and fruit juices, as well as tiny, exquisite canapés. The mirrored bar was two deep already, the massive crystal-draped chandelier blazed, and the portly moustachioed herald at the door—another traditional feature—gave a signal. The music halted, turned on a dime, and became a tinkling fanfare.

“
The Lady Camille Vultusino has arrived!
” The herald’s bass voice cut the hush, and Cami stepped through with her head high. Her knees almost buckled, and she heard very little of the herald announcing Ruby and Ellie.

Well, Ruby would be thrilled with
that
.

There were Family everywhere. The others of the Seven were represented—a contingent from the Cinghiale, and the Canisari their traditional opposing force, the Vipariane the balance to the Vultusino, the Stregare who were balance to no one, with their distinctive long tapering fingers and gold jewelry. The two branches of the Diablie, the Destra and Sinistra, mingling and indistinguishable except for their Unbreathing Elders, who stood stiffly, gleams of coal-red or foxfire-blue in their clouded pupils.

There were so many Unbreathing here, probably because Papa was close to transition. So still, only the gleam of their eyes moved as their gazes combed the crowd of breathing life. They stood tall, thin, and motionless, somehow avoided even in the heaviest crush of bodies.

You never wanted to crowd the Unbreathing. They didn’t see things the way the mortal living did, and sometimes they . . . did things.

Nico appeared. She threaded her arm through his and tilted her head, accepting the polite applause. “Finally,” he muttered without moving his lips. “You’re beautiful.”

The flush was all through her. Everyone could probably see the thin white scars on her upper shoulders. The music began, and he was heading straight for the dance floor, where the crowd was pulling back and away.

“N-no.” She tried to tug on his arm. “Y-you’re c-c-cra—”

“Relax.” With his dark hair slicked back and his eyes blazing, he looked more Family than ever. Next to his impeccably crisp tuxedo and the Heir’s bloodring glimmering on his finger, she already felt a little rumpled and wilting. “It’s just a waltz. Tradition, kid.”

It’s always tradition in a Family.
Why was this tradition okay with him, and other ones not?

The empty floor looked
very
large, and Cami caught a flash of russet hair. Ruby was already heading for the bar; Ellie had a glass of plain champagne half drained, and both of them looked inordinately smug. Trouble was on its way. For once, though, she didn’t have to worry about derailing it.

Or, she could worry, but she couldn’t exactly
do
anything about it.

Nico halted, the music began, and her body obeyed woodenly. She’d liked dance classes well enough; every girl of New Haven’s upper crust had them at the Vole Academy. Madame Vole never made fun of Cami’s stutter—in fact, she understood Camille Vultusino would prefer not to speak at all, and Cami never got into trouble for giggling in class.

Her feet didn’t stutter, either.

Nico paused, catching the rhythm. Her hand on his shoulder, his secure and warm at her waist, and all of a sudden they were nine and thirteen again, sneaking into the shuttered ballroom and pretending to be grown-ups. Waltzes and foxtrots, a scratchy tango played on an ancient Victrola from just after the Reeve, and she found herself moving with him, the flush fading as the world dropped away. He gazed steadily over her shoulder, and she could just let him do the directing.

“I mean it,” he said, finally. “You’re beautiful.”

She nodded.
Thank you
. She could feel the words knotting up.

So could he. “Book.”

“B-b-book.” Automatically.

“Candle.”

“C-candle.”

“Nico.”

“Nico.” Her smile caught her unawares; she watched his face.

Serious, intent, a sharp line between his eyebrows. His eyes were darker than usual, too. “I want to tell you something.”

“Okay.” As long as they kept dancing, she could handle this.

“But not until later, okay? Just . . . relax. This is your night. And there’s a surprise.”

“Surprise?”
Another one?

“Yep.” And he whirled her to a halt amid a swirl of polite applause. A shadow loomed in her peripheral vision, and Cami almost flinched.

But it was only Papa, straight as a poker in his own tuxedo, mane of graying hair combed neatly and the Vultusino signet on his left hand glowing with its own sullen crimson spark. He moved stiffly, and the ruddiness in his graven cheeks told her he had Borrowed.

Stevens would be upstairs in the Red Room, probably with Chauncey transfusing him from canisters—breathing Family couldn’t take transfusion, it had to be straight from the living. It was dangerous for Papa to Borrow so close to the Kiss, and Cami gasped as a murmur swelled through the crowd.

Nico handed her over, and the music came back on a tide of strings. Papa’s smell—bay rum, leather, and copper—enfolded her. The world righted itself once again. She laid her head below his shoulder carefully, so she didn’t disarrange the charms in her hair
or
throw him off balance.

She shouldn’t have worried. He was strong, especially so near the Kiss, and his iron grip was carefully gentle; she could feel the restraint quivering in his hard hands.

“Bambina,” he whispered, his lips moving slightly. “My little girl.”

It wasn’t like dancing with Nico. She could
let
Nico do the steering. Papa wasn’t being
let
. He just did it, like a tidal wave or a minotaur. There was no stopping him.

That was an even greater relief.

“You are Family,” Papa said, in that same stilted whisper. “Nico knows.”

If Papa says it, it has to be true.
She kept dancing. A nod, letting him know she heard, her cheek moving against his chest. His tuxedo smelled of fresh air and starch, and somehow it was subtly wrong. The humanity in him was burning out, and what was left was dry clove-and-copper, a mix of crusted blood and the ancient spice of the Unbreathing.

Already, Papa’s great barrel chest was thinning. “When I am gone—”

“No.” She had never in her life dared to interrupt him. “No, P-papa.” Unbreathing wasn’t
gone
, it was just
changed
. But things looked different on the other side of the Kiss, and the Unbreathing retreated from the world. At least, they didn’t keep charge of Family affairs, unless there was an inter-Seven dispute. Then they moved, swiftly, to punish—or simply to
appear
; their mere presence often solved any number of . . . problems.