Lili St Crow - Nameless

A man-sized dent.

“Another drink, comin’ up,” Lou announced. “Billy, get your ass over here and help me clean this up. What the hell was that guy, anyway?”

In New Haven, you could ask that question, but you probably wouldn’t get much of an answer. The man could have been a jack born with weird skin, or a fey fresh from the Waste where they had their own strange ways of traveling, or anything else. Who knew?

Life and motion returned. They went back to their games, the Family members unfazed and the others maybe a little rattled. Moustache Man was nowhere to be seen, and after Cami’s hand was bandaged Nico found out the bastard had left with the cash sitting on the pool table. Gone while the getting was good.

Which meant Nico was pissed off pretty much all afternoon, even though he made it up in no time, skinning double from table to table.

Cami didn’t blame him. He fussed at her constantly, too, and she wished he wouldn’t. Because she kept thinking about the wooden man’s eyes, staring through her.

His blue, blue eyes. Like hers.

IT WAS DUSK BY THE TIME NICO SHOT THE IVRIELLE through the slowly opening iron gates, barely avoiding taking off his side mirror. The pavement, shiny black and freshly sealed every summer, rippling with almost-visible defenses, was a ribbon between torch-burning trees, their leaves on fire with fall. Cami stared at the bandage—so white, Nico had done a good job wrapping it up. Then he’d taken down three shots of whiskey and calf and played for money the remainder of the afternoon, getting more and more worked up.

He locked the brakes, skidding to a stop, and Cami heaved an internal sigh. There was Mr. Stevens on the front steps, a thin stick in a dusty black suit, his slicked-down gray hair glinting a little as the sunset died.

“Just in time.” Nico kept the engine idling, his foot on the brake. “And look who’s here to greet us. My, my.”

Awkwardly, she grabbed at his shoulder with her bandaged hand. He checked, caught in the act of reaching for the door handle. His profile, with its proud nose and sullen mouth, didn’t change.

“Nico.” It was a miracle, something came out right. “P-please.”

“He’s gonna have my ass for taking you out.” His chin set.

“I’ll—”

“Yeah, you’ll work on him. I know. It’s okay.”

It’s not okay, the way you look is not okay. “He l-l-loves—”

“I’m disappointing. We’ve had this conversation. The ghoul’s waiting, you’d better go on in.”

Stevens can’t be a ghoul. He’s not even dead. She got the string of words together inside her head, let them out. “P-papa wants you t-to have a ch-childhood.” Why couldn’t he understand ?

“I don’t know if you noticed, babygirl, but I’m not a kid.” He sighed, heavily, and some of the tension left him. “You go in. Have Marya take a look at that hand, too. I’ll see you later.”

“Nico—”

He cut her off. “Go in , Cami. I’ll deal with Papa. It was my fault anyway.”

Oh, for Chrissake. But there was no arguing with him when he was like this, so she shrugged, leaned over, and gave him a peck on the cheek—at least he looked happy with that—before she popped the lock and the car door.

Stevens looked a bit green—of course he would be worried, it was dusk. The sun was actually touching the horizon, and of course Nico would feel it. He probably had judged their arrival time within seconds. Just to get close to that edge.

Stevens would feel it too, Papa’s attention becoming heavier as the sun sank.

Her schoolbag slipped, and she hitched it higher on her shoulder. Nico carefully waited until she was clear before he gunned the engine and peeled toward the garages.

Cami sighed.

The steps were wide and low enough that they gave her little trouble, and this close you could see the surface of the front door shimmering a little, like the haze above hot pavement. “Hi, S-s-stevens.” She dredged up a smile—one she hoped wasn’t as tired as she felt.

“Good evening, Miss Camille.” The sticklike consigliere bent at the waist, and his seamed face under its skullcap of oiled hair held no glimmer of expression.

Nico was just being nasty. Stevens wasn’t like a ghoul; he was just . . . closed off. He was a blank door to everyone. Except probably Papa, who called Stevens the perfect well. You could drop secrets in and hear the ripple, but then they vanished.

I never want to find out. “Nico p-picked me up f-from sch-school,” she offered tentatively, as he turned and preceded her to the massive doors. “W-we g-g-got—”

“Mr. Vultusino requested your presence.” Stevens touched the door, running his spidery fingers over it. The house’s defensive haze shimmered, and the chuk ing sounds of locks and bolts sliding free fell out toward the circular driveway. “Mr. Nico was instructed to bring you directly home.”

Oh, no. Cami stifled a sigh. Why does he have to do this? She dug for some kind of excuse to offer, but Stevens didn’t pause, simply bowed again and indicated the door. Hitching her schoolbag up higher, she trudged in to face the music.

She was still no closer to figuring out how to smooth the waters as she climbed the carpeted stairs—these gave her no trouble either, their edges weren’t so sharp—to the red hall. Trigger was at Papa’s door, of course, and he tipped her a lazy salute. Against the rich crimson of the carpet and the heavy velvet of the muffling drapes, his baggy chinos and blue and red plaid jacket were just shabby enough to be familiar and comforting. “How was school, Miss Cami?”

Pretty boring. We did icecharms in Potentials class and some of the beakers shattered, that was about it. It would have been nice to talk, but her tongue was a knot of anxiety by now. She shrugged, ducking her head and spreading her hands. Then she mimed inquisitiveness—pointing at the door, raising her eyebrows.

“Nico’s in for it,” Trigger said shortly, and stepped aside. “He was supposed to bring you straight home. Sir wanted to see you.”

Well, I’m here now. Another shrug, this one with a helpless motion.

“I know.” Trig patted her shoulder, awkwardly. “God only knows what Nic was thinking. If he was thinking. Go on, sweetie. He’s tired today.”

He’s always tired. I wish . . . But she knocked, softly, on the carved-oak door. The knob was red crystal; she turned it gently and stepped in.

The windowless room was lit only by a single candle on the nightstand. It smelled of copper, bay rum and leather, and the faint everpresent tang of illness and age. For a moment her throat closed to a pinhole, the air dead-still and the dark wainscoting and heavy maroon brocade wallpaper threatening to fall in until they crushed all her breath out.

It passed, and she inhaled deeply. The closeness was scary at first, but then it was comforting. Like a heavy coat on a cold day.

Nothing bad could happen to her here.

Papa Vultusino, close to the culmination of the Kiss, lay on the massive four-poster bed. His barrel chest rose and fell steadily, and his breathing wasn’t a wheeze today. The candle flickered as she approached, and he opened his eyes.

Propped on the snowy pillows, he didn’t look very ill until you got close. Then the red spark in his pupils, strengthening daily, became apparent. So did the papery thinness of his skin, and the deep-scored wrinkles as well as the fine dry lines.

The Kiss took its own time, and it was burning away his mortality. When it finished he’d be one of the immortal Unbreathing, an Elder instead of a daywalker, and his only son would take his place as the living Vultusino of the Seven.