Nameless

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!”

THREE

IT 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