Nameless

his glare.

Inside, it was a crush of throbbing music, and the smoke drifting around was from burning tobacco and other substances. A few actual fausts were on the dancefloor, jerking as if possessed.

Well, technically, she supposed they were possessed. She had never been this close to real live fausts before, and was surprised to see they looked just like regular people, except for the constant smoke wreathing them. And the way their hair stood up, writhing madly. Even the lone female faust’s waist-length mop tried to rise on an invisible draft.

There were their eyes, too, glowing dull punky unnatural colors as the d?mon crouching inside its human host looked out.

There were Twists here too, most of them congregating along one wall of the club where iron bars ran from floor to ceiling, part of the Age of Iron chic the whole place had. Odd shapes lurked in the shadows as limbs corkscrewed by Potential moved restlessly; shoving and snapping, their eyes glitter-crackling with stray sharp unhealthy charms, the Twists were given careful space even by the fausts. The iron would scorch them, but every once in a while a Twist brushed against it deliberately, and the sick-sweet roasting smell that arose added a sharper note to the funk as the Twist exhaled luxuriously.

What would it be like, Cami wondered, to love pain that much?

The bar was a mess of tubing; the bartender wore goggles pushed up on his sweat-greased forehead; polished sprockets and gearwheels glittered from the circulating waitress’s skirts. The tables were covered with dingy linen, and the jacks on the dancefloor sported feathers, fur, lizard skin, a whole cavalcade of Potential-spurred anomalies that would keep them hidden or creeping in the shadows during daylight.

None of them elbowed Tor, though, and she followed in his wake to the bar. He leaned over and shouted something; the tender gave him a brief dark glance, looked over his shoulder at Cami. The bartender was a charmer, the edge of his Potential flaring with a faint green wreathing glow as it reacted with the charged atmosphere. His dark hair and wide dark eyes made him into an inquisitive river otter, and he yelled something over the noise at Tor, who shrugged. “She’s with me,” the garden boy yelled back, and picked up something shiny from the counter. Two glasses of something fuming with steam were handed over. Tor nodded, didn’t bother paying as he turned away and forced a fresh route through the crowd.

There was another Twist bouncer at the staircase, but this one just stood aside, holding the end of a frayed red velvet rope. The music—if you could call it that—was a migraine attack, but Cami thought she heard Shelley Wynter singing again. Or maybe it was Bronwinn and the Titons, floaty female vocals over a pounding beat and wailing charmesizers.

Nico really liked Shelley Wynter, had every tape she’d put out, even the limited-release demos from when she was a torch singer in New Bransford, a couple province-states south.

When Cami was thirteen, she’d wished for her hair to whiten just like Wynter’s. She’d nerved herself up to ask Marya about bleach and dye, but had never quite scraped together the last drop of courage necessary to actually do it. Ruby had said there would be no problem, but Cami didn’t want to trust her hair to Ruby’s enthusiasm at that point. Not after the Great Clippers Incident earlier that summer. Of course Rube had just looked gorgeous and ethereal, but still.

Behind the rope was an archway, and stairs going up. She climbed after Tor, blinking. Her eyes kept filling up—from the cold, and the smoke, and all the noise.

I’m out, at night, with a strange boy. Near the core, too. Her heart pounded so fast she thought she might have some sort of attack.

Was this what freedom felt like?

There was a close dim hall upstairs; Tor took a sharp right and set off down it. He shouldered open a door to his left, jerked his head at her, and she stepped inside.

It was, of all things, a sitting room. There was a fireplace, but it was cold and empty. Two overstuffed chairs that looked pre-Reeve crouched dispirited in front of it, and a small table sat between them. Peeling yellow-brocade wallpaper hung in strips from the walls, and the whole thing made Cami’s throat close up. If the Red Room was a comforting weight, this sad little room was a strangling crush of poverty and disrepair.

If Papa hadn’t found her, who might have? Or if Chauncey hadn’t bothered with the brakes, what would have happened? Or what if Nico decided, sooner or later, that she wasn’t Family enough, if she made him too angry? He was the Vultusino now, and if he decided she didn’t belong in the house on Haven Hill . . .

It didn’t bear thinking about. But sooner or later, Cami supposed, she would have to think about it.

“Sit down,” Tor said, sweeping the door shut. “I’m pretty sure we won’t be overheard here.”

I doubt anyone could hear through all that downstairs. The music and crowdroar from below was a giant beast’s dozing pulse, as if they were above a rumbling titon pit. “I d-d-d-don’t—” she began, but he just pushed past her, set the drinks down on the table, and stamped back to the door. There was a click, and she realized he had locked it.

Her throat, in addition to closing up to the size of a piece of spaghetti, was now slick and dry as summer- dusted glass.

“Got to be careful. You start talking about Biel’y, people get nervous.” He brushed past her, dropped down in the chair to the left. Reached for one steam-fuming drink, and poured it down in a long swallow. “Gah. Nasty.”

Cami’s boots were still wet with melting snow. His tracks and hers showed up dark on the threadbare, flower-patterned carpet.

“Before I forget.” He dug in his jacket pocket. “Something for you. Since the pin broke. You seemed awful worried about it.”

She lowered herself down in the other chair. “I f-felt b-bad. S-s-since you—”

“I’m not broken up about it. But I figured I’d get you something else, pretty girl. Here.”

It was a velvet bag, deep black, the nap worn in a few places. She opened it gingerly, and the shimmersilk spilled out. Opalescent, charm-woven by Waste-witches, the rumor ran—it was pretty rare. The threads were fine, but strong as iron, and the lacework of it could be doubled, turned over itself to make a belt, opened for a shawl. She’d never actually held shimmersilk before.

It made even fey-woven lace look coarse and ugly. Her small wondering sigh was lost under the thumping from below. “W-wow,” she breathed. “H-how d-d-did you—” She was just about to ask how did you afford it, stopped herself. “Th-thank y-you.”

For a bare moment, he grinned without anger, shyly ducking his head. “I saw it in a pawnshop, thought it belonged to you. Took a couple paychecks, but it’s worth it.” He eyed the second drink. “You want that? It’s called a minotaur. Rat-tooth gin, strawberry juice, and cornswell charm. Just the thing for nerves.”

“N-no. Th-thank you, Tor.” His name managed to wring its way free of her lips, whole and undamaged.

“You’re welcome. I . . . Mithrus. I like you.” Did he look uncomfortable? Maybe just a little. He grabbed the second drink, bolted it too. Steam drenched his face for a moment; he wiped it away with his free hand and set the second glass down. The gleam in his hand was the door-key, he set it on the table, pushed it with a fingertip until it was on her side. “Okay, so. Biel’y.”

The shimmersilk slid through her hands. It had tassels, made of smoky floss. Nobody at school had one.

Ruby would just die.

“I only know a l-little,” she hedged. Wait. Did he just say he liked me?

“Look, I was an orphan. I didn’t know. Sometimes it happens, one of them gets lost and grows up outside the cult.”

It’s a cult? There were a lot of them around, leftovers from the Age of Iron, coalescing around charmers gone bad, or Twists with charisma. You couldn’t swing a hexed cat in some provinces without hitting a cult or two. Papa said that even some branches of the Family, like the Stregare, used to be worshipped sometimes, back before the Reeve.

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.