Kin

TWENTY-THREE

“GOING FOR A WALK,” RUBY CALLED OVER HER shoulder, and hopped out the door. Gran was home, for once, but she was tired. If Ruby went fast enough, she could probably even make it past the corner and walk alone.

All the humidity made everything rundown as a pre-Reeve antique. The hollyhocks were going to seed, the other flowers just dying-back draggles. All the bushes gave the impression of drooping in the heat, and Gran’s whitewashed picket fence looked sticky, like nasty frosting.

She made it out the garden gate, walking swiftly, head down, staring at her maryjanes against the pavement, little luckcharms jingling pleasantly. She hadn’t even taken her school uniform off. Just one look at Gran’s wan pale weariness had decided her. If Conrad followed her, Gran would definitely get some rest, but maybe he wouldn’t, because—

“Good idea.” Conrad fell into step beside her, and Ruby had to suppress a twitch. He was so quiet. When he wanted to be. “Nice and private. Not like that place. Why doesn’t she get a bigger house?”

She didn’t sigh, though she was mightily tempted. He didn’t like being treated like he was stupid. “She likes that one.”

“Well, when it’s ours we can expand it, maybe.” He sounded pleased at the notion, and Ruby stole a sideways glance at him.

Today it was the blue T-shirt, which might’ve been good. He seemed a little more relaxed when he wore it. Of course, you could never tell what would upset him. He was . . . sensitive.

Maybe he’d been raised that way. It sounded like his brother had been the favored child. Grimtree clan seemed a nasty place to grow up, for sure. Sometimes Conrad mentioned little things they’d done to him, always reminding him he was lesser. It would be enough to make anyone a little touchy.

Besides, Ruby was one to talk. She had a reputation for temper, too.

“What do you think?” He smiled at her, easily keeping up with her hurried steps. “First thing I’d do is add on to that living room. Can’t turn around in there without knocking something over.”

“Yeah.” It’s not Gran’s fault you have those big long legs. She didn’t bother saying that she liked the living room the way it was, overstuffed furniture and reminders of Gran and clan and charming everywhere. She liked the tapestry, liked its shifting threads and slight comforting noises—except it had been silent a lot lately, the charmer’s sun-and-moon looking abstract and worried.

Just like Gran.

“Then the bathrooms. Make the whole thing bigger. You know, you could just bulldoze the place. Start fresh.” He reached for her hand, even though it was too hot to be touching anyone skin to skin.

She let him. If she was going to make the alliance work, she’d have to find some way around everything. Maybe this was growing up, you did what you had to do.

They reached the end of the block, and he tugged her to the left. “Come on.”

“Where are you—”

“Where we can be alone.”

“The only thing that way is . . .” The Park.

That was why Gran was so tired and worried.

The tabloids were still screaming. A housecleaner, mere-human, in the Market district, attacked at night. Cutting through the deserted streets on her way home from her job, right near the edge of Woodsdowne, almost eviscerated. If a patrol car hadn’t happened around the corner as she stumbled out into the middle of the road, she might have died. As it was, she was in the hospital, and not really expected to make it.

Maybe whatever had killed Hunter was looking for other prey. Or there were two killers, one strong enough to overpower a cousin and another . . . who knew?

It was enough to make you sick clear through. Gran had sat Ruby down at the kitchen table and issued another stern warning against any nighttime hijinks. I know you are wont to go rambling, Ruby. Do not, at least until this is over.

“We can find a nice little burrow in the Park.” He was really looking happy. “We don’t have to go back until dinnertime. Or later.”

“Gran will worry—”

“Who cares? You’re with me now.”

“I care if she worries.” You should care too. She’s Clanmother.

“Awww. You’re such a good little kingirl.” It wasn’t a compliment. His hand tightened, but only halfway. He didn’t squeeze. “Who worries about you? You’re just another piece to shove into the clan, to them.”

Hearing someone else say it was uncomfortable, to say the least. Did it sound that selfish when she yelled it at Gran? On the other hand, hadn’t Gran threatened to collar her? She let Conrad pull her along, and he gradually eased up on her hand.

“All those prying eyes,” he continued, glancing around at the houses on either side of 23rd Avenue. “Makes you want to run.”

After a full day at school and with the prospect of French homework to go home to, she didn’t feel much like running anywhere, for once. Still, she agreed. “Yeah.”

“Maybe we could go downtown once it gets dark. You ever been in the core?”

“No.” Are you insane? She didn’t ask. There was Tante Jeanette’s house, with its white trim and cheerful red-painted door. Oncles Thorvald and John Elder had the one on the corner of 23rd and Tooth, with its picture-perfect garden. They were étrange, some said. It could have meant anything from “odd” to “in love with each other”; they held hands at the clan barbeques and were held to be the best teachers for young kin struggling with the shift.

“We could go. Just you and me.”

“Are you kidding?” Sweat-soaked, her bra chafed and a trickle ran down her back. He was moving too fast, but if she tried to get him to slow down, he’d probably pinch her.

He flashed her one of those dangerous, white-tooth grins. “It’s probably dangerous, but I’d be with you. And—”

“I’m not going into the core. Mithrus Christ, what’s the matter with you?”

He dropped her hand, stopped dead. “What do you mean, what’s the matter with me? I thought you wanted a little fun. I thought you wanted to run.”

“Not into the core.” She rubbed at her hand, though he hadn’t hurt it. Maybe if he thought he had he’d be sorry, and—

“Oh. Too good to go with me, huh? Or are you afraid?”

“Neither. The core’s just . . . I don’t want to go.”

“Come on. I dare you.”

A while ago, she might even have done it. Now she took an uneasy half-step back. The honeysuckle along Oncle Valjean’s board fence exhaled an almost-clotted, spoiled sweetness. “What are you, five? I’m not going into the core. It’s stupid.”

The instant she said it, she regretted it.

Conrad’s face had darkened. “Stupid?” he repeated, softly, and her skin chilled even under the assault of heavy gray-flannel sunshine. “You’re calling me stupid? You can’t even handle your French lessons without help from your little friends.”

Ruby stared up at him. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Never mind.” He spun away and took off down the sidewalk. Ruby followed, running to catch up.

“Conrad, please, I didn’t say you were—”

“I thought you wanted me here! You asked me to stay!” He lengthened his stride, and fresh sweat beaded all over her. Her skirt swung, the luckcharms on her maryjanes still making that sweet music as she tried to keep up with him.

“I do want you to, I—”

“Like I don’t know someone’s been at your window, Ruby! Middle of the night, huh? The one who wants to fight me in shift? What if I tell your grandmother that?”

Oh, no. She skidded to a halt, the breath knocked out of her. “Conrad! Conrad!”

He broke into a run, the spooky-quick, darting speed of a kin on the edge of shift. The sunshine would hurt, would drive pins into his eyes and rasp all over his skin, and it might madden him more.

“Please,” Ruby said, softly, uselessly, watching him get smaller. He turned right on Tooth Street, heading for the Park. Or maybe even the core, though he’d have to cut across and go through the Market District before catching any of the main arteries leading in that direction.

She found out she was hugging herself, despite the awful, drenching heat. The cold inside her was back, and the two extremes fought over her so hard she trembled, the luckcharms jangling. Another thread of sweat traced down her calf from the hollow behind her knee, sliding over a fresh scrape.

If he told Gran Thorne was at her window . . . well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Except he kept saying he’d go out in the Waste. That he’d rather die than go home.

That he loved her. She swallowed, hard, tears rising again. She used to be so tough, and now she was welling up all the time. She’d kept Cami and Ell from noticing so far, probably because both of them were so involved with their boyfriends. Did they ever feel like this? Was this what a serious boyfriend was like?

God, how did they stand it?

Maybe he just needed to run it off, and he’d come back to the cottage with it worked out. Maybe she could apologize enough, explain, and he would give her that frightening, intense, scary-delicious look, like she was the world and the Moon.

Like Thorne.

Her shoulders dropped. She turned, head down, and trudged back for home. If she stayed in the back garden, she wouldn’t interrupt Gran’s nap. It was almost too hot and wet to breathe, but Ruby deserved a little discomfort for what she’d done.

TWENTY-FOUR

THE CHARMBELL TINKLED SWEETLY, AND RUBY hopped off the couch, her French homework fluttering to the ground. “I’ll get it!”

Heavy footsteps overhead—Conrad, probably coming to see what was going on. He hadn’t come home until dinnertime yesterday, and he’d acted like nothing had happened. Which was a relief, but the breathless sense of waiting, trying to find a time to talk to him without Gran listening, was exhausting.

“Thank you!” Gran, home early from the office again today, called from the kitchen. A pot of spaghetti sauce was bubbling its scent through the entire cottage, a good strong red smell.

It’s probably Thorne, coming to be reasonable. Her heart blew up like a relieved balloon, and she ripped the door open. Her cheerful So there you are died on her lips.

Tall even though he was slump-shouldered, a shabby older mere-human man stepped back hurriedly from the door. Wilted button-down and frayed tie, plaid sports jacket with shiny patches worn on the sleeves, and bloodshot, pale blue eyes that passed down Ruby in a brief flick before focusing over her shoulder. “I’m here to see de Varre.” The words were as crisp as the rest of him was rumpled. What hair he had left was graying out of a dishwater brown, but there was a thread of rust in some of the ruthlessly buzzcut bits.

She smelled metal on him, and devouring sadness. The smoke-edge of determination. It wasn’t until she noticed the holster under his left arm, a Stryker butt peeking out to say hello, that she realized he must be a cop.

Everything had gone still. What did he want? She hadn’t done anything lately, not that she’d ever been guilty of more than a few curfew-breaks and fast driving, but—

“Detective Haelan.” Gran, at Ruby’s shoulder, didn’t sound particularly welcoming. “A pleasure, as always.”

“I don’t like coming here any more than you like seeing me, Edalie.”

Ruby’s jaw dropped. Was he brave, or did he know her?

Gran’s sigh could have won awards. “Will you come in, Christopher? I have Scotch.”

He paled, and Ruby, her mouth opening slightly, watched his eyes narrow. Was he afraid? He was the one with the gun.

“This is business.”

“No doubt.” Gran’s hand curled around Ruby’s shoulder, and she squeezed, gently. Rube wouldn’t have minded, except that was the shoulder Conrad had torqued when she got home from school, twisting her arm behind her back because she slammed the front door the way she always did.

He probably just meant to roughhouse a little, like boys did, but it still hurt. Right afterward he’d kissed her cheek and whispered, I forgive you. Which was okay, sure, but she wished she could just talk to him.

“Ruby,” Gran continued, “please finish your homework upstairs. I’ll call you for dinner.”

“Okay.” She didn’t move, though, staring at the cop. Haelan. Where had she heard that name before? He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite pin it down.

Gran made a tut-tut noise. “Manners, child.”

“Yeah.” She slipped away down the hall.

The cop stepped over the threshold with a gust of hot, nasty-wet air. It smelled like old socks outside. “Cute girl. Looks just like—”

“She is my granddaughter.” Gran sounded stiff. “Are you staying for dinner?”

He’s not kin, why are you asking? Ruby took her time gathering up her scattered homework.

“No. Not staying.” He took his battered shapeless hat off, exposing more graying dishwater-rust hair. “She looks like Katy.”

“She should.” Gran’s tone had turned sharp. “Don’t push me, Detective.”

Even more fascinating. Now both of them were looking at her, so she finished scooping up paper, pencils, notebook, index cards, and textbook. Ellie had suggested she use the cards, and so far, it was sort of working.

“Not trying to.” He cleared his throat. The hat was shapeless because his hands worked at it while he held it, but not nervously. More like he wanted to squeeze something’s throat. “Connie Teurung died this morning. Caparelli’s breathing fire, but the Families are keeping the lid on him. We have a name.”

Connie Teurung? It took a second for her to place that name. The woman who had been assaulted in the Market district.

She was . . . dead.

Oh, Mithrus. A thick lump of cold congealed in Ruby’s stomach.

“And?” Gran, downright frosty.

“And we need your help.”

“What more can I offer that I haven’t already?”

“The . . . Edalie. Maybe you’d better sit down.”

Ruby climbed the stairs, slowly, softly. Sometimes close quarters were useful. It wasn’t until she got to the top that she saw Conrad, flattened against the hallway wall, sun-eyes a dull gleam.

They stared at each other. He edged along the wall, toward her, and he was so silent.

“I think I am quite ready to hear what you have to say.” As calm as ever, but Ruby could imagine her shoulders going back a fraction and her eyes lightening, almost as pale as Ellie’s now were.

Well, there’s a name. Katy. Was that my mother?

“We got a tip. We searched a house, and we found the Kerr girl’s backpack.”

“That is very good news.” Why didn’t Gran sound relieved? The Kerr girl—that would have been the second body found in the Park.

The one that had parts . . . missing. Like Hunter’s.

“The house was one of yours. We cordoned them. I’m sorry, but we couldn’t take the chance that he would get away.”

“Who?”

“One of the Arantzas. Danel. Hasn’t been in school for a week, from what the parents tell me. They’re spitting mad.”

Ruby swayed. The roaring filled her head.

Danel. Except nobody ever called him that.

No. Mithrus, no.

Conrad’s expression shifted, but she was too busy clutching the pile of homework to her chest.

“He had the girl’s backpack?” How could Gran sound so calm?

“In his room, yes. Edalie, they can’t find him.” There was something odd about the way he said it—a little strained, as if he wanted to convey a different message.

“No.” Softly. “Of course not.”

Ruby folded over, trying to breathe. Conrad didn’t move. Gran had to suspect she was listening. Hearing this.

It couldn’t be. This was a nightmare, and soon she would wake up.

Danel. They never called him that, though. Ever since primary school, because of Hunter’s teasing about his name, he’d just been called—

“It looks bad for him.” The stupid cop kept talking. “Unless he’s brought in, well . . . if there’s another one, it’s going to get worse. Already there’s rumbles on the Council.”

“I know. Thank you for alerting me to this.”

“Edalie . . .” A cough, a creak as if he’d stepped on one of the living room’s floorboards wrong. “Can I talk to her?”

“No.”

“Edalie—”

Ruby bit her lower lip, savagely. The red-copper reek of blood squirted into her mouth, and she fought the shift, little tremors roiling under her skin.

They never called him that. He didn’t like his first name, and he was spiky all the time. So Hunter called him Thorne, and it had stuck, partly because of his branchfamily’s name. Arantzas, an old kin name, from the time before the Reeve.

And partly because it expressed him.

If you found out something about someone . . . No. Everything in her retreated from the thought. The cold was all through her, no relief from the incessant sweating heat. Just another awful all-over sensation.

Gran’s tone did not change at all. “No, Detective. You may leave.”

He didn’t get the hint. “I lost her too, you know.”

“Leave. Now.” Gran’s iciest voice, and Ruby didn’t wait to hear anything else. She scrambled silently for her door, and as she passed Conrad his lips skinned back from his teeth, white gleams in the dark.

Maybe he was startled by her sudden movement.

Or maybe he was smiling.

TWENTY-FIVE

HER NOSE AND EYES WERE FULL OF A THICK GREEN scent as soon as she opened the Semprena’s door. The sky had darkened to the color of iron without the beaten-flat numbness that meant snow. Funny how the shades were so clearly distinguishable, yet if she had to, Ruby probably couldn’t have explained it in words.

Ellie might have been able to, but she was at school with Cami. French class would just be starting, and here she was, skipping like the bad old Ruby.

Here on the Loop everyone was at work for the day. She left the Semprena tucked in the alley between the Paterson branch-head’s house and the old biscuit-colored Basriat building. Not everyone who lived in Woodsdowne was kin; some of the mere-humans bought or rented because crime rates were low and the location was good. The Basriat apartments were in high demand, each one an exquisite little studio set around the jewel of the central courtyard. Oncle Zechariah ran it, and he was often to be found in the courtyard garden, coaxing something else into growing. He’d planned Gran’s garden too, and trained the wisteria over the pergola in the tiny backyard.

This summer, the masses of purple flowers hadn’t arrived. She’d been too frantic trying to find Ellie, then going to summer school, to wonder why.

As long as Oncle Zech didn’t see her, it would be all right. She’d have yet another unexplained absence, but with Gran out of the house so much Ruby could just give some sort of story when Sister Amalia Peace-of-Ages called from Mother Hel’s office.

Two blocks brought her to the Park. She popped a stick of choco beechgum into her mouth. Gran said it was a filthy habit, but some things just went better when you had something to sink your teeth into. Besides, if she was going to skip and be the old Ruby for the day, well, might as well go all the way, right?

I don’t even know what I’m doing here.

It was like hunting, a persistent buzz in her bones. Except she didn’t know what she was looking for. Her maryjanes slipped a little as she hopped the low stone wall, luckcharms making a subdued music.

Hunting and tracking both meant you had to have a clear idea of what you wanted. This itchy urgency, running along her skin like scratching wool, diffuse and exasperating, wasn’t the same. This morning she’d accidentally closed her thumb in a drawer, set off Conrad by slamming the coffeepot down—her scalp still smarted a little from his sharp tug on her hair—almost run a few stopsigns without meaning to, and fidgeted all the way through History before deciding to just fuck it and get out.

Under the gray sky, Woodsdowne Park lay hushed and secretive. Here the green smell was so thick it almost made her dizzy, every plant exhaling in expectation. She stepped carefully, silent as Thorne, picking her way through dense undergrowth.

Maybe she wasn’t quite the old Ruby. Because that girl would have simply gone in a straight line toward whatever was calling her. Now, though, she circled.

Ellie would be proud. She was of the opinion that you had to have a plan; any spontaneity drove her right up the wall. It made her fun to poke at, but now Ruby wondered if Gran would’ve been happier with Ell born into the kin.

Maybe. She sidestepped around a fallen log, its carpet of moss dried and crumbling, waiting for autumn rains to turn it green again. You’d think with the humidity it would have made a comeback.

It’s not possible.

She winced. Playing dumb with Gran through dinner was sheer goddamn torture, but Conrad helped find other things to talk about. His acting skills were at least as good as Ruby’s, because he was the picture of a tactful, engaging guest in a good mood. As soon as dinner was over Gran left, probably to start spreading the word that Thorne was to be brought to the Wolfmother—or to the police. Conrad? He’d gone straight upstairs and closed the guest room door.

Kin didn’t do the things they were accusing him of. They just didn’t.

And yet. Thorne and Hunter, jealous in the way only best friends—or brothers—could be. It was a clan joke that you never just said one, you always said HunterandThorne, all together in one breath, and looked for Ruby to see where they were.

He’s not dom enough for you. Thorne, balancing outside her window. Holding the charmcooled cloth to her nape. No matter how fast or far she ran, sooner or later he’d show up, with Hunter along. The snarling they did over the boytoys, and Thorne’s dark gaze sometimes, hot and scarily empty, when he regarded his rival cousin.

I didn’t mean it! But she had. She liked the attention, liked knowing that she was wanted, not just tolerated because she’d accidentally been born rootfamily.

It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.

But there were three dead bodies and a girl’s backpack saying otherwise. And Thorne’s face. What if you found out someone had done something?

She’d stopped to fill the Semprena’s tank and got a chocolate feymilk and a handful of tabloids while the wizened yellow-skinned jack attendant pumped the fuel in. The girl from Thrace Public—Annalise Kerr, gory grainy pictures splashed all over the thin cheap paper—was a redhead. Long, curling reddish hair.

Like Ruby.

That was one of the things about getting your news through the radio, you couldn’t see things. The Teurung woman, the mere-human housecleaner? Her picture, too, showed auburn curls scraped back from her forehead.

Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe they dyed their hair, lots of people do. Red’s popular, it’s good luck. It’s a coincidence.

Yeah, right. The first girl victim just happened to be a girl who looked a little like her. Hacked at with something sharp, parts . . . missing. Connie Teurueng—the tabloids were full of details about how she’d been hacked at and . . . chewed.

Just like Hunter. What would hunt both kin and mere-humans?

Don’t even think it. It can’t be Thorne. It just can’t.

And yet.

The pond was a still mirror. She edged along its rim, moving carefully through the almost-twilight. It was the middle of the day, but you wouldn’t know it here. The heavy green smell meant rain, and the breathless hush was a little cooler than it had been. The little hairs on her arm and nape were tingling, as if a storm was on the way.

The rocks along the eastern edge of the pond were dry, holding sun-warmth even now. She settled on her favorite one and braced her feet, wishing she wasn’t in a skirt so she could pull her knees up and hug them. If she were younger, she wouldn’t have cared.

Maybe that was the problem. The itching just wouldn’t go away. There was something in the Park, but it wasn’t here, where she and Hunt and Thorne had spent endless hours lazing around, talking about nothing, laughing, splashing in the shallows. Mudbombs thrown at each other, popcharms, and if she leapt up and ran just for the joy of moving she would hear them behind her.

The water was so still, reflecting branches and the dead-eye stare of the clouds overhead. An uneasy mutter in the distance could have been thunder out in the Waste.

She stared at the water while the urge to get up and find out what was bugging her crested and receded. Maybe if she just didn’t go running off for once, she wouldn’t make problems.

It was eerie, being alone. The cottage was small, but at least when she was worrying about someone else hearing her she wasn’t thinking about how fucked-up she’d made everything. Or thinking about a body wrapped in linen, lowered into a grave, and the sound it made when he bumped against the bottom. The weight in her throat, and—

Her head jerked up. Ruby found herself crouching atop the rock, knees wide and palms flat, in defiance of ladylike manners. Her chin upflung, her hair a riot down her back, she tested the still air, inhaling in short little chuffs to get every scrap of scent.

What was that? A crunching noise? Something lost under more thunder, walking closer in great big steps across the sky? Like the feytale about Jath and the Giant, where as fast as Jath ran the Giant was only a step behind, swinging his axe.

No. Something else.

Ruby uncoiled, leaping from the rock and flashing through the undergrowth. No branch snapped underfoot, no leaf whispered at her passing—not until she heard it again.

A choked cry.

Someone’s in trouble. Her speed doubled. Heedless, uncaring of her maryjanes, the luckcharms on the straps jangling discordant music now, she tore through brambles and crushed bracken. A weight in her throat was the silver-thin cry of Help, the kin calls for aid, but she denied it. If it was Thorne and she called a howl, things would probably get so bad she’d wish she had never—

Stinging pellets against her skin. The wind rose suddenly, thrashing in the treetops, as the poised storm trembled over New Haven. She burst into a small clearing, hail scattering and bouncing in tiny pinpricks, her gorge rising hot as the smell slapped her in the face.

The shape didn’t make sense, especially with the branches heaving back and forth and the hail bouncing. Whiteness, spattered dark fluid like chocolate syrup, smooth knobs of knees flung wide, a tangled shock of hair.

A flash drenched the clearing. Pitiless white light, burning every detail into Ruby’s brain. It was a girl, her hair dyed feyberry red, lying on her back as if asleep. Her face was tilted toward Ruby, slack and peaceful, her mouth a little open and her open eyes vacant.

Great gouges had been ripped out of the rest of her. She wore a public-school uniform, it was impossible to tell which one because the blazer was shredded, the skirt torn straight through. The dark fluid was blood, a brighter crimson than her dyed-red hair. Slashes—something had hacked cruelly at her middle, and her bare legs were striped with long claw-marks. She’d lost a shoe—not a maryjane but a scuffed brown loafer, and her foot slumped brokenly inside a filthy white sock.

The lightning-flash vanished. Ruby blinked, hot steaming sourness filling her mouth. She bent over, the remains of the apple she’d bolted between homeroom and History splashing onto a carpet of white hail. It even got into her nose, stinging and blocking that awful, brassy, nasty red smell she now knew was violent death.

No. Please no.

She could still see it, imprinted on the darkness when she blinked. A sound so massive it was almost silent rolled over-head, and the storm broke. The hail mixed with quarter-sized drops of smoking rain, a blurring silver curtain.

Ruby whirled, the maryjane strap on her left foot loosening dangerously, and ran.

She did not see the gleam behind her. Blind with panic, she pelted through the woods, and the low whistle of a blade cleaving air was drowned in the noise. Lightning crackled, and her pursuer flinched, spinning aside into the shadows, a low gleam of eyes near the ground as it crouched.

At the edge of the Park the strap snapped, and the chiming sounds of the silver bugle luckcharms scattering on pavement was lost as she flashed through the rain and stutter-bursts of lightning.

TWENTY-SIX

THE SEMPRENA CREPT INTO THE GARAGE THROUGH foaming rain, right next to Gran’s crimson sedan. Ruby cut the engine and just sat there for a few seconds, shivering. Crystalline beads on the windshield, dewing the windows, but Gran’s car was dry. She’d been home a while, then.

What am I going to tell her?

Later, every second she spent staring dully at the door to the utility room weighed on her. Each tick-tock a separate little bead of guilt, a bracelet of please, no, please, no.

Finally, something occurred to her. She could see into the utility room, the corners of the washer and dryer stacked atop each other, the wooden slats of the flooring. The corkboard near the door to the kitchen, full of fluttering paper and the glimmers of spare keys, each neatly labeled.

Why would the door be wide open? The garage door too, she didn’t even have to hit the opener.

The thought propelled her out of the car, wincing as her left foot slid inside the broken-strapped maryjane. More luckcharms fell off, small bits of Potential popping as they hit the floor.

“Gran?” Someone else was using her voice again. Someone about five years old, and scared of the dark. “Granmere?”

The utility room door creaked a little as she passed. The chill wind pouring through would have been a relief if she hadn’t felt so cold, her mouth sour and her nose still stinging.

She’s not home. She went for a walk. Oh yeah, in this weather, sure. Maybe she was out in the garden, sitting under the pergola as she often used to, in an ancient, wooden, heavily repainted rocking chair. The squeak-thump of that rocker used to be the sound of long summer evenings, while Ruby chased fireflies with the cousins under Gran’s benevolent gaze.

“Gran?” The kitchen light was on, warm yellow in the gray the day had become. Ruby’s breath came high and harsh, the air had turned to glass. She couldn’t drag enough breath in. Black flowers bloomed in her peripheral vision, soft and choking. “Are you home?”

The kitchen was just the same. Faded red linoleum squares, the cozy crimson countertops, the tomato-colored fridge under its layer of coolcharms humming away. A black enamel kettle on the stove, ticking as it cooled. A familiar smoke-edged breath—Lapsang Souchong, Gran’s favorite tea. Drinking fire makes you strong, she said, but Ruby never . . .

A shattered porcelain cup, painted with delicate blue flowers. A curled hand, and a sob caught in Ruby’s throat. She knew that hand, even though it looked so small and defenseless now. Unpolished nails, an old white scar, long healed, near the base of the thumb.

She took another step. The stool was knocked over, and a teapot stood sentinel on the narrow kitchen island dividing cooking space from eating space. Its spout was still steaming, and Ruby caught a whiff of something acrid under the smoke. She couldn’t place it, because her nose filled up afresh, hot droplets sliding down her cheeks. Her hair dripped, too. She was wet clear through.

Her knees met the linoleum, her teeth clicking together painfully. “Gran? Gran, wake up . . . Gran . . .” Scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand, everything blurring. It was a nightmare, again, and soon she’d wake up and Gran would be just fine, standing in the kitchen and frowning a little, abstracted, while Ruby ate breakfast and swung her legs, occasionally kicking her schoolbag. Back before everything got so horribly, awfully messed up.

A faint exhaling sound. Gran’s hand twitched.

She’s alive!

“Ruby.” A low voice, male, familiar.

She craned her neck to look up. Everything inside her slammed painfully together, continents colliding. “Get the phone. Dial 733.” I sound like Ellie now.

Conrad just stood there, staring down at her. Those sun-eyes looked vacant, the tiny image of herself on her knees next to her grandmother’s curled-up body vanishing and reappearing as he blinked. He was soaked too, dripping onto the kitchen floor. Little rivers of rainwater, and his boots were caked with mud and moss. The clancuff at his wrist was dark with water, a line of red rash along its upper edge, rubbing at his forearm. His arms, bare because he only wore the blue T-shirt, steamed slightly.

Gran made another weak little movement, her hand clutching at empty air. Ruby grabbed it. “Get the phone! Now!”

He did, moving too slowly, as if in a terrible dream. Ruby threaded her fingers through her grandmother’s, hoping she wouldn’t bruise her. How could she look so fragile? What was going on? Some sort of attack? Kin didn’t have heart attacks, or strokes . . . but kin didn’t fall on each other and eat, either. Or on mere-humans.

“Move it!” she barked, the shift blurring inside her, and Conrad snapped forward as if compelled. It was dom-voice, Ruby’s will flexing inside her brain and breath, forcing him to do as she said. “Dial 733. Tell them to hurry.”

He picked up the phone, fumbled with the numbers, but in a few moments Ruby heard the crackle of a live connection.

“733, what are you reporting?”

“Something’s wrong.” Conrad licked his lips. “Uh, we’re in Woodsdowne. One Woodsdowne Place. She’s not moving. She’s on the floor. I think she’s dead.”

Don’t say that! Ruby ignored him, sliding her wet knees along the floor and slipping her arm under Gran’s shoulders. The old woman seemed bird-light and too heavy all at once, her head lolling strangely. Ruby pulled her close, and maybe it was just the rain all over her, but Gran’s skin seemed strangely . . . cold.

She threw her head back, the sound swelling inside her throat, and it burst out of her on a long trailing silver scarf. The howl bounced around the kitchen, spilling out through the utility door and the open front door—because Conrad, for some reason, hadn’t closed it—and flashed through the rain outside. Everything in the cottage rattled together, and Conrad hunched his shoulders as the 733 operator cursed, a feedback squeal mottling the connection.

It ended, and Ruby sagged over Gran, savage exhaustion filling her to the brim. She inhaled to howl again, but faintly, through the rain, she heard an answering, double-edged cry.

Kin hear you, and are coming.

So she held the old woman close and kept repeating the only thing she could.

“Please, Gran. Please be okay. Help is coming. Please, please be okay . . .”

TWENTY-SEVEN

TRUEHEART MEMORIAL WAS A SOARING GRANITE PILE, one of the few buildings in the city that had survived the wrack and ruin of the Reeve. There were stories about people barricading themselves in there as the wild Potential roared over everything, changing and reshaping, the Great War drowning everything in fire and blood at the same time. Those who could found a hole to hide in, fighting off the Twists and the roaming packs of nightmare creatures, minotaurs and other, darker things boiling forth once the Age of Iron had ended.

Ruby hunched in a black plastic chair, hugging herself. They’d whisked Gran off and told her to wait, Oncle Efraim had disappeared with someone to do paperwork, Oncle Zechariah was on the phone at the nurse’s station, making calls. Tante Sasha was at the cottage cleaning up; Conrad had stayed behind too. The cousins were all in school, and the adults busy, so Ruby was left to sit and shiver in a rundown waiting area with year-old magazines and two dying houseplants. Fluorescent light scoured her eyes, and she sometimes rocked back and forth, little nips and growls of pain all over her.

Shuffling footsteps, people hurrying. Low-voiced conversations. The whole place was alive with the smell of disinfectant and hopelessness. Her head ached, too. Her hair hung in her face, wet strings, and no matter how hard she tried to think of what to do next, nothing sounded even close to helpful.

The elevator at the end of the hall kept dinging. Each time, the sound hit Ruby on the skull like a hammer. It was annoying, to say the least, because she would just about get herself pulled together, ideas moving below the surface of her conscious mind—and then that little ding would go off and she’d lose it.

The light in here never changed, and she was hungry. But they’d told her to wait, so she waited, occasionally glancing down at the nurse’s station. Oncle Zech disappeared between one look and the next, probably gone to find Oncle Efraim. Who else would be here? Tante Rachael, maybe, or Hunter’s mother . . .

Ruby winced. She had to tell someone about the body. But who? Who would listen, and not immediately start making assumptions?

“Miss de Varre.” He wasn’t looming over her, but it was close. “Ruby, right?”

She looked up, and her heart lodged in the back of her mouth.

Detective Haelan smiled. It was a kind expression, but it only made him look more tired. “I saw you the other day.” Very gently, like he was afraid she was going to start screaming. “Can I sit down?”

She shrugged. Knock yourself out.

Same sport coat, same bloodshot eyes, same graying hair. Cheap harsh cigarettes and metabolized whiskey, a sharp, brooding scent somehow familiar, too. The chair next to her creaked as he settled into it, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. It made her think of Conrad. For some reason that just made her stomach turn over a little more.

“You’ve had a hard day,” he observed.

She was suddenly conscious that her hair had dried into a wild mess, her bruised and scabbed legs were striped with bramble-thorn scratches, and her muddy maryjanes had clearly seen better days, especially the left one. Her Juno blazer stank of wet wool, the shirt underneath it still damp with sweat and rain, and her toes felt raisin-wrinkled because her socks were wet. Her nose was red, because she’d been scrubbing at it, and her cheeks were probably chapped and inflamed.

I look like shit. A bitter little laugh jolted out of her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to catch it. If she started now, she wouldn’t stop until she was screaming, and nobody here needed that.

The cop didn’t look at her, staring down toward the nurse’s station. “They don’t know what happened, but they think they have her stabilized.” He swallowed, an audible click. His throat was probably dry as a bone. “They’ll figure it out. She’s strong.”

You weren’t there. She was so light, and . . . Ruby peeled her hand away from her mouth. Her voice cracked. “Who’s Katy?”

Haelan closed his bloodshot eyes, briefly. Rubbed at the bridge of his nose with two fingertips, hard enough that the skin reddened when he took his hand away. “Mithrus. They don’t even say her name around you?”

What could she say to that? It was impossible to explain the kin to outsiders. “Who is she? Is she still alive?”

“They never told you. Edalie never told you.” He exhaled, hard, and she shifted nervously. “Katrina Rufina de Varre.” Very quietly, and she got the idea he’d said it a lot. “You look a lot like her. The eyes, and your hair.”

“My . . . mother. Right?”

“Yeah.” He stared down at his scuffed brown wingtips. “She was . . . she was something.”

I guess. “What did she do?”

“It’s not what she did. It’s what they did. To her.” Another heavy exhale. “Look, this isn’t . . . I shouldn’t say anything. Edalie—your grandmother, she had reasons for everything. Some of them were even good ones. Sometimes I think they fought so much because Katy was just like her. Stubborn, both of them. Both thinking they knew everything.”

Gran does know everything. That was a kid’s thought, though. What Gran didn’t know about Ruby could fill a book, especially these days. “So she is dead. What happened to her? My moth—Katy.” The name felt weird. But it was better than the word mother, because that one was empty. There was more comfort in Gran. Now there was a syllable to nail the world into place and make everything right again.

Except Ruby was suspecting nothing would ever be right again.

Haelan finally spoke again. “You really should ask Edalie.”

“I don’t think she’d tell me.” Nobody else will, either. “I want to tell you something, though.”

“What?” Now he looked at her, but Ruby kept staring straight ahead, pushing herself up out of the chair.

Maybe there was a cafeteria here, or something? Eating wasn’t going to happen, but some limon would be nice. Tart, cold, and fizzing. It sounded like just the thing. “Thorne—you call him Danel. He didn’t do it. He couldn’t do it.”

He was silent again. Just like an adult, not listening. There wasn’t a damn thing Ruby could say. And if she told him about the body now . . .

A person. A redhaired schoolgirl. Someone was waiting for her to come home, probably worried because of the weather and the tabloids and . . . Ruby opened her mouth, closed it, hated the rock in her throat and the roaring in her head.

“Ruby!”

She looked up, dully, and blinked. It made no sense, and her immediate baffled response made no sense either. “You’re supposed to be in school.”

Cami, high hectic color in her cheeks, bent over and threw her arms around Ruby, squeezing with hysterical strength. Behind her, Ellie skidded to a stop, similarly flushed, her blazer askew and her wavy platinum hair ruffled. Both of them were gemmed with rain, and ambling in their wake was Nico Vultusino, looking years older than he should in a charcoal summerweight wool suit, his dark hair combed down for once.

He’d grown up. When had that happened?

The Family boy came to a stop and examined the cop next to Ruby, smiling that small, chilling little grin of his. “Haelan. Ministering to the victims again?”

“Vultusino.” The cop didn’t sound pleased. “I know the family.”

“You know both Families. Funny how that works out.” Nico stuffed his hands in his pockets. “What are we looking at here?”

“Waiting on toxicology screens. Woodsdowne’s in an uproar. Caparelli’s going to do something stupid before long.”

“Must burn that he got promoted over you.”

The detective tensed, but his words were crisp and even. “Well, the Canisari own him anyway, so no harm done, right?”

Nico’s little smile intensified just a fraction. “Observe the proprieties, Detective. La Vultusina is here.”

“Are you all r-right?” Cami barely loosened up enough for Ruby to breathe. “Nico got m-me out of class. Talked to Mother Hel, too.”

Great. She couldn’t say anything—Ellie had arrived, and put her arms around both of them. “Mithrus Christ,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Rube.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Instead, she curled into Cami’s comforting warmth and shut her eyes.

“Nico.” Cami stroked Ruby’s tangled hair. “We’re gonna t-take her home. Let Mrs. Fletcher know, okay?”

“Sure. Which car you taking?”

“Mine.” The quiet note of pride almost hurt to hear. “Can you—”

“It’s taken care of, Cami. Go on. If you go anywhere else, call the house if you need me, Stevens will know how to reach me.”

“Okay. Ruby, we’ll t-take you to the Hill—”

She finally got a word out. “No.” Muffled against Cami’s collarbone, which was weird because she had always been taller. “Home.” She was shaking, and couldn’t stop. If she spent the night with either of them she was going to start talking, and the last thing either of them needed were her problems vomited all over them.

They’d had enough to deal with. She had to deal with this, and she would.

Please let Gran be okay.

She took a deep breath, tried to stand up straight, and gently, very gently, worked her way free of their clinging, helpful arms.

“I want to go home,” she repeated. “Please.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

THE SPYDER WAS A NICE CHUNK OF AUTOMOBILE, cornered like it was on rails and purred like a kitten even though Cami didn’t ask of it even a quarter of what it was capable of. The interior was butter-soft leather and smelled faintly of new car and lemon.

Cami drove agonizingly slow, obeying every traffic law to the letter. She even stopped twice at stop signs—once next to the sign, pulling forward to see what traffic was coming, and stopping again. It was like ripping out your nails, one at a time.

Still, it was kind of soothing to just lean against the door, put her fevered forehead against the glass, and listen to them try to make awkward conversation while the tires hummed. They tried to draw her out, but she didn’t want to talk about it beyond I came home and found her, that’s all.

They didn’t ask why she skipped, or why she looked like she’d been rolled around in bushes and mud. The cop hadn’t asked either.

When someone found the body—or when she told someone—he would probably remember, though.

Katrina Rufina. She kept repeating the name, wishing the syllables could drown out the noise in her head. Why wouldn’t the kin speak her name? Had she . . . maybe they didn’t talk about her because she’d done something awful? Could that be it?

It’s not what she did. It’s what they did. To her.

“—Thorne,” Cami said, and Ruby jolted out of the roaring.

“What?” She stared at the water on the window, fat beads rolling down. The lightning had backed off, but the rain showed no signs of slacking.

Cami punched the defroster. “I said, everyone’s looking for Thorne. They’re under strict orders not to hurt him, to bring him to Gran. Nico thinks—”

Words burst out of her. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have.”

So much for staying quiet.

“Do what? All they’re saying is that he’s missing.” Ellie, folded up in the backseat, leaned forward, her elbow resting on the side of Ruby’s seat. “I’ve tried locator-charms, but no dice, and Livvie won’t let me do anything real high strength. The charmstitcher keeps scaring her.”

Because your stepmother almost broke your charming. Or that thing you were staying with almost did. Ruby suppressed a shiver. “Everyone’s looking for him.”

“I thought you’d know where he was.” Cami stared past the wipers, their steady rhythm a heartbeat. Her slight frown of concentration just made her more beautiful.

Ruby’s entire body itched. “Well, I don’t.” If I did, I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not until I could talk to him.

Ellie made a clicking noise with her tongue. She smelled like expensive fabric softener, a faint edge of active charming like cherries, and the good green of approaching rain. “We were kind of relieved you’d skipped, until we both got called out of class. Did you know Nico even tried to walk into Juno’s? Mother Hel had to come out on the steps and talk to him.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so polite.” Cami’s shy laugh, soft and musical, shriveled everything up inside of Ruby.

How could she laugh, with everything going on? Ruby sank her teeth into her lower lip, just on the edge of drawing blood. Again.

It sort of helped.

Not really.

Ellie made the peculiar little chuffing noise, not quite a laugh, that meant she was amused. “Well, at least he’s got some sense.”

“Not as much as I’d hoped. But it’s developing.” Cami turned right, then left, then right again, and they were three blocks from the cottage. “Ruby . . . are you s-sure you want to go home? I mean, it’s probably better if you’re . . . with us. You know?”

“I need to be home.” Her lip stung as she forced herself to say it quietly. “We’ve got a guest. And if—when Gran comes home, it has to be clean.”

The Spyder crept along, its wheels pushing water aside. The windshield wipers kept doing their job, like the idiots they were.

“Conrad,” Ellie said finally, and Ruby almost gave a guilty start. “So . . . maybe we can come in and meet him?”

Oh yeah, that’ll go over really well. “Now’s not a good time.”

“Well, when is?” Ellie persisted.

“Ell . . .” Cami sighed.

Ruby gathered herself. “When it is I’ll let you know. Let me out here, Cami.”

She kept the Spyder to a creep. “It’s still r-raining.”

“I could get out and walk faster than this.”

“Don’t.” Ellie’s fingers on her shoulder, rubbing a little. “We want to help, Ruby.”

There’s nothing you can do. “You’ve got your own problems.” She played with the door-catch, scraping her broken nails over the silver bar. She wasn’t even wearing any polish.

“You are our problem.” Ellie squeezed a little.

Ruby almost flinched. Maybe that’s what Conrad thinks too. That I’m his problem. “I’m nobody’s problem.” Besides, I’m a selfish bitch, remember? She stared out the window, willing the cottage to appear. Everything was blurring, running together.

Or maybe it was just that her eyes were leaking.

“That’s not true.” Cami pulled to a stop. “We’re your friends, Ruby.”

Funny, how she remembered being in the driver’s seat, and trying to convince Ellie of the same thing. Stop being a selfish bitch. I realize it’s your default, but just try. “There’s nothing you can do right now. Thanks for the ride.”

She was out of her seatbelt in a hot second, and out in the rain before Cami could say anything else.

The flagstones were a little slippery, and the front door was still open. As if Gran wanted fresh rain-washed air, or she was expecting someone.

But Gran was in a hospital bed. She was old, and it wasn’t like kin to just collapse.

Maybe she didn’t just collapse. You ever think of that?

Of course she had. She’d been spending the entire time sitting there trying not to think about it.

Maybe once she got inside, she could just close the door and go upstairs. Lie down. Rest. Figure out how to fix the gigantic mess that had just descended on the world.

She trudged through the rain, her left maryjane flopping a little and her eyes still welling with hot water. She didn’t see the gleam in the upstairs window, a pair of eyes watching her from the guest room. Golden eyes, narrowed and thoughtful.

And frightfully, scarily empty.