Nameless

Time to go.

TWENTY-FIVE

THE HOUSE ON HAVEN HILL WAS DARK.

Chauncey brought the limousine to a soft, painless stop before the front steps. Older now, but still a careful, competent driver, was he thinking about another snowy night and a shivering girl in the car?

Trigger hadn’t said a word the entire way, and Cami, huddled on the seat across from him, wasn’t sure if that was a good sign. Or . . . not.

Her head hurt. Everything else hurt, and she just wanted to lie down somewhere. Just to think about all of this, or ignore it, without the jumble in her head getting worse and worse.

Trig sighed, heavily. “He was . . . upset.” Slow, evenly spaced words. “Was all set to come down himself.”

“He c-c-c-can’t.” How can I sound so normal? “I’m s-s-sorry, T-t-trig.”

A shrug, his jacket rubbing uneasily against the leather upholstery. His first act on getting into the car had been to slip a gun into the holster under his arm and let out a sharp relieved breath. “Figured sooner or later you’d want to run a bit, Cami-girl.”

I ran all right. I ran for my life. If she told him, what would he do?

Nothing, probably. I’m not Family. There it was, as plain as day. Trig was loyal to Papa, and to Nico by default. Even though he was there each time the punishments had been meted out.

Did Nico hate him for it? Was it any of Cami’s business?

I’m not Family. It can’t be my business.

The smoked, bulletproof glass between them and Chauncey lowered a little. “Is the Miss all right?” A sleep- roughened voice, familiar as her own. She could still remember sitting on Chauncey’s lap as the car jerked forward, thinking she was controlling the limo as his broad hands covered the wheel and his foot eased off the brake. A born driver, he would say, and Papa would beam, hearing Cami laugh and crow with delight.

“A little shaken, but she seems okay.” Trigger rubbed at his face. He must have been yanked out of bed to come fetch her. Had someone figured out she was gone, or had it been someone the Family owned on the police force—maybe the detective, maybe not—calling to let them know one of their possessions had wandered?

She had a name for what she was, now. And it was not Vultusino. It had never been, but now she was old enough to know.

“Mr. Nico will be relieved.” Very careful, as well. Like she might break if they said the wrong thing.

Or as if they were warning her.

She reached for the handle, ignoring Trigger’s sudden surprised movement, and the lock obligingly chucked up before she pushed the heavy armored door wide. Fresh snow was falling, the flakes spinning lazily, and her stomach did a queer double-hop inside her.

She slammed the door, maybe a little harder than she had to. Scuffed her still-damp boots across the pavement, the whiskaway charms on the stairs waking in brief flurries to push the snow aside before it could ice the stone and make it dangerous.

Is that why I don’t like stairs? That memory wouldn’t come. Instead, the smell of fresh-cut apples and thick cloying incense spilled through the cold, and a dark curtain filled her head.

The wind cut off as she stepped inside the house. The foyer was hushed and dark. Maybe she could get up to her room before he—

“Cami.” Nico sat on the stairs, a shadow in the dimness. His hands dangled loosely, his forearms braced on his knees. Only the gleams of his eyes and the paleness of his throat showed. No—there was the gleam of the signet, too. Just as bloody as when Papa had worn it. The Heir’s ring was in the ancient strongbox in the library, behind the painting of Vidario Vultusino, the Eldest of the Seven of New Haven.

Waiting for an Heir. And la Vultusina’s ring was right next to it, probably waiting for a Family girl to wear it. Once Cami was . . .

 . . . what?

What am I thinking? Immobile, frozen, she waited for the explosion. Her coat was sliced, her leggings torn to ribbons, her boots sodden with melted snow and alley ick, her skirt ripped too. Strings of black hair fell in her face, reeking of the smoke in the nightclub, and she probably smelled like the holding cell too.

“Say something,” he persisted, soft and coaxing. She couldn’t see him well enough to find the anger in him; the sense of the world sliding away underneath her returned, her knees loosening and her breath coming short and hard. “Mithrus Christ, Camille, I’m not mad at you.”

Was he actually lying to her? The whirling inside her intensified. “Y-yes y-you are.”

“Nah.” Now he moved, but very slowly. He straightened, touching the banister, and her heart thundered as he stepped down, paused, stepped again. “I never thought of what it’s like, for you. Watching Papa go. You were in there every day with him, weren’t you?”

You think this is about that? Her teeth found her lower lip, sank in. The pain was a bright star, a silver nail to stop the whirling. It didn’t make it go away, but at least it gave her something to hold onto.

Nico kept talking. The very softest of his voices, the one he kept just for her. “I was gone. And when I was here, you were holding me together too. Being brave.” He reached the bottom of the stairs. Stepped cautiously toward her. “Hell of a job, babygirl.”

If you knew what I was, would you be saying this to me? “N-nico . . . ”

“I’m listening.” Another step. Edging up to her. What did he think she was going to do, run? That would be like dropping a burning lucifer into gasoline.

“I w-w-went w-w-with T-t-tor.” Her heart was going to explode.

He went very still. Red sparks firing in his gaze, deep in the back of his pupils where the Kiss would eventually burn through after years of service to the Family. He would belong to them even after his breathing stopped.

Where would she belong?

“I f-found out. I’m B-b-b-biel’y.” She couldn’t get the word right. But it was close enough. “I esc-c-c-caped. I-in the s-s-snow. N-Nico—”

“Was it Stevens? Did the ghoul open his mouth?” His hands were curling into fists, she could see that. The dimness was hiding less as her eyes adapted. There was a moment’s worth of comfort—if he was angry, she knew how to deal with him.

Or do I? “T-t-t-tor—” How could she even begin to explain?

“I’ll kill him.” Very quietly.

Oh, no. “N-n-nico—”

“Shhh.” The bloodring glimmered as his hand came up, as if he wanted to put a finger to his lips. Stopped. “I will kill him.”

Why won’t you listen? “I’m B-b-b-biel—”

“You’re not. They can’t have you.” Still very quiet, the words drained and pale but still smoking. Like a faust, something inside them too furious to be corralled. “You’re not one of theirs.”

“N-n-n-nico—” I remember. I remember being chained after I tried to escape. I remember the handcuffs and the beatings, then there’s something horrible, and I can’t remember, but then I was in the snow and there was Papa. The enormity of it stuck in her throat, her traitorous tongue strangling the words as she tried to force them out past a snarling maze of blackness, the ground tilting and a Tesla-thunderstorm direct from the Waste, one nobody else could hear, drowning her out.