Nameless

Screw this. Cami spun on her heel and set off, her head down, with a purposeful step. If she went up two blocks she could cut over to Highclere, find Ruby’s Semprena, and sit on the hood until Rube noticed she wasn’t around and—

“It’s Camille, right?”

She almost ran into him. White shirt, tan leather jacket, faded jeans, a glitter of silver at his throat. She mumbled an apology, moved aside, but he stepped to the side too, as if they were dancing.

So she had to look up.

The garden boy, his messy black hair actually pushed back from his forehead, had an odd face. He was tanned—of course, he worked outside. Strong jaw, too-strong cheekbones, like he hadn’t quite grown into them yet. His eyes matched his hair, pupil and iris blending together to make a dark hole. Bad-luck eyes, but he couldn’t be Twist, not if Marya had given him the okay. Cami dropped her gaze, confused, and the silver at his throat was a small medallion, some kind of star engraved on it.

Her head filled with rushing noise.

“Whoa, there.” He actually caught her arm as she swayed. “Mithrus, what are you doing here?”

The dogs bayed and she scrabbled, desperately, the Queen’s rising scream filling whirling snow. The rats ran after her in a swelling tide, their sleek-oiled coats gleaming, and the cracking, rending sound of glass breaking tore the universe apart . . .

Cami came back to herself with a jolt. She was sitting down, and the garden boy had a straw to her lips. “It’s just fruit juice,” he was saying. “It’s okay, it’s not—”

Is it charmed? She pushed the cup aside. Swayed again, almost falling off the stool. A striped awning flapped overhead, and Southking Street throbbed like a bad tooth. She blinked as something liquid splashed, and the garden boy backed off.

“I’m sorry.” He had a nice voice, at least. It reminded her of Nico’s, but without the sharp-edge anger. “You looked like you were gonna faint.”

The foodcart had a shiny chrome counter, and the burly female jack in a red plaid shirt behind it was studiously ignoring them as she messed with a hissing-hot grill, the scales on her wrists and the back of her neck bright green and glowing. The garden boy lifted the cup and sipped, carefully, the clear straw holding red liquid.

“Strawberry juice,” he said after swallowing. “Fixes everything, and I’ve taken some so you know it’s not charmed. Plus I know I’m not supposed to even talk to you. Believe me, I know.”

What the hell just happened? She’d lost Ruby, and then . . . something. Like a bad dream, but during daylight. She swallowed hard, realized she still had her schoolbag, clutched to her chest like a drowning girl would hold driftwood. “I l-l-lost R-ruby.” The words tripped over each other. “I’m s-s-s-sorry.”

He actually leaned back, gazing at her like she’d just produced a Twist charm, or started to sprout jackfeathers. She would have flinched, except it was impossible to hunch her shoulders any further. One of these days she was going to get over the effect her stutter had on people.

But not today.

“So you do talk.” He nodded, once, like he was surprised she could make words. So was she, right now. “I thought you just, you know, didn’t bother. Because you’re beautiful.”

What? “I s-s-s-st-st—”

Another nod, just like Nico. The jacket was butter-soft leather, but scuffed and scarred. “Stutter. Yeah. So? Hey, Danna. Something nice for the lady.”

The jack cast one disdainful glance over her meaty shoulder. The scales spread up her cheek, a fanlike pattern that was actually beautiful, if you looked close enough. “You payin’?”

The garden boy tossed a couple crumpled paper credits on the counter, their woven surfaces alive with heavy-duty anti-charm ink. “I can take my business elsewhere.”

It was kind of like being with Nico. Cami found her hands working again, and her brain too. She dug in her schoolbag, coming up with a crisp five-cred note. “H-here.”

“My treat.” The garden boy grinned. “I’m Torin Beale. Tor, for short.”

“C-c-cami.” She wished she could add more, but she could just tell her tongue was knotting up. But she did offer her hand, and he shook, gravely, his jacket creaking a little. His skin was warm, and not hard but firm. You could tell he worked hard every day.

“I know.” But his smile took the sting out of it. The jack banged an unopened bottle of limon down on the counter, sweeping up Tor’s creds and making them disappear.

Cami took it, cautious; the tingle in her fingers told her the bottling-seal was unbroken, and therefore safe enough. She cracked the top. “Thanks.” It was a miracle, the word came out whole.

“No problem. Hey, what are you doing on Southking? Shouldn’t you be at that school? What is it—that’s right, you’re a Juno.”

“S-sk-k-kipp-ping.” Of course it was too good to last. She made a face, sipping at tart cool fizzing limon, and the garden boy—Tor, a short hard sound of a name—actually laughed.

“Me too. Were you, you know, here with someone?” He took a long draft of strawberry juice, and Cami glanced at the crowd again. No sign of Ruby. Her head felt strange, stuffed with cotton wool. When she looked back at him, something seemed different. It took her a moment to figure it out.

His necklace was gone. Or had she imagined the silver gleam? The thought made her queasy, so she swept it away. It went quietly. “Y-yeah. Sh-she g-g-ot d-d-istracted, though. I g-g-guess.”

“Lots to be distracted by here. You want to look for her? Or you want me to take you home? Because really, you shouldn’t be wandering around alone.”

The jack behind the counter found this suddenly interesting, turning away from the grill. The scales on her cheeks flushed and popped with Potential, just like the grill behind her popped with heat. They crawled over her skin, and the red tint between them swelled, destroying the beauty of the pattern. “What, like you’re some sort of knight in shining, orphan boy? Please.”

“Did I ask you?” His black eyes sparked, and Cami didn’t even think about it. Her hand shot out, closed around his wrist. The strawberry juice in its wax-paper cup splashed, and she pulled a little, just as if he was Nico and ready to go ballistic.

The jack laughed, a nasty bitter little sound of jacktemper. “Oh, cute. Yeah, you hold him back, Juno bitch.”

“Come on.” Tor slid off his stool. “Danna’s in a mood today. She’s all jealous.”

The jack paled, and licked her thin lips. It was funny—she had such a small mouth and the rest of her was so hard, corded with muscle. It looked like she could knock the cart over without half trying, and the scales on her cheeks actually lifted a little, tiny muscles underneath swelling with anger. Cami slid off her seat, schoolbag awkward under her arm and the limon almost fizzing free of the bottle. Tor steadied her, and his hand was oddly gentle. “Fucking jacks,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. “We don’t want to stay around. It might be catching.”

Why did boys always have to be so nasty? Cami pulled him away. “D-d-don’t. P-p-please.”

He shrugged, his jaw set sullen. It was amazing how eyes so dark could be so scorching. “Fine. But just ’cause you say so.”

Well, great. I’m a hero. “She c-c-can’t h-h-help it. J-j-jacks—” Jacks usually had temper problems—not enough Potential to really charm, and they most probably wouldn’t end up Twisting, but still. They weren’t awfully employable, and had to live on the edges of the core. Almost-Twisted, just like they were almost-charmers. In-between and always angry. Or maybe they were scared of becoming Twists and being pushed even further down the chain.

Sometimes, angry just meant scared.

Ellie would be a strong charmer, maybe even Sigiled. So would Ruby, it was obvious. Cami wasn’t so sure. Her Potential tested high, sure, but you could never tell until it quit being invisible and started settling. Ruby always told her not to worry.