“T-T-Tell you wha—” But as soon as she followed the line of Ruby’s glance, she figured it out.
The sleek black ’70 Ivrielle—another antique, though not as old as a Cimarro—crouched, in lazy defiance of the yellow Bus Zone paint. And leaning against its front was a tall, rangy young man with slicked dark hair and the indefinable stamp of other on him all the Family displayed. Their cheekbones were arched oddly, their eyes spaced just a fraction differently, the line of the jaw too sharp and the musculature visible in shoulders or arms or legs, even the girls’, was . . . unusual.
“Nico!” Cami shrieked, and the fact that she didn’t stutter over his name was lost in the wave of muttering schoolgirl envy. Ellie caught Cami’s dropped schoolbag, Ruby rolled her eyes, but Cami pounded across the pavement and flung herself into Nico’s arms.
“Mithrus Christ,” he managed, “watch it! Break my ribs, kid!”
“You d-d-didn’t—”
“Tell you I was coming.” He smelled of fresh air, a faint breath of cigarette smoke, and bay rum—Papa Vultusino’s aftershave. Though Nico would probably just get That Look if she tried asking him about it. “Wanted to surprise you. Hey, Rube. Ellen.”
“Vultusino.” Ruby showed her teeth. “Look at you, parking in the fire lane.”
“It’s bus parking, not fire lane. Gonna give me a ticket? Cite me for being Family on school grounds, too?” His smile didn’t change, and Cami hugged him tighter, reading the tension in his shoulders. Not now, she told him silently. She’s my friend.
“You wish. Guess we know who’s driving her home today.” Ruby’s baring of teeth was more of a smile now, Potential-haze like heat over pavement crackling on her shoulders. Her Potential was vivid, not soft like Ellie’s or invisible, like Cami’s. “Come on, Ellie. Buzz you later, Cami.”
She let go of Nico once she was sure he wasn’t going to say anything else. “Y-yeah. B-b-babchat.”
“But of course, my dear.” Ruby pecked her on the cheek. “Still have to tell you how the night turned out,” she whispered, a hot wash of Juicy Charm gum from her teeth and chocolate-salt smell from her skin.
Cami choked on a laugh, and Ellie handed her schoolbag over. “Babchat,” she said, softly. “Nine-thirty? High Calc’s gonna kill me.” Gray eyes wide, her blonde hair pulled sleekly back, the faint dusting of freckles on Ellie’s nose turned gold in the light. This close you could see her collar fraying, and the shiny patches worn into her blazer.
I’m going to have to do something about that. But the words wouldn’t come.
So Cami just nodded, and her two best friends in the world other than Nico linked arms and were away. Ruby would drive Ellie home, stopping at the gate and making the usual cheerfully obscene gesture safely behind the smoked glass of the windshield so Ellie’s nasty-tempered stepmother didn’t see her, and later when the Evil Strepmother was occupied, Ellie would use her Babbage-net connection—St. Juno’s required one and logged student times, and the principal Mother Heloise knew some about the Strep so the Strep couldn’t take the Babbage set away—to confer about the homework.
Cami hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and looked up at Nico.
He was just the same. A little taller, like he grew every time he went off to Hannibal College up-Province on the ribbon of safely-reclaimed highway, green and gray kolkhozes lurking on either side behind electrified fences.
His dark hair combed back, the moss-green eyes, the wide cheekbones. You could see Papa in him, just a little. He’d had time to change out of uniform too—Hannibal was a Family school, and it kept to old ways. So it was jeans and a black T-shirt, his heavy watch glittering silver, the old leather jacket with all its scrapes and wrinkles. “See something green, schweetheart?” He waggled his eyebrows, an oddly childish expression. “Get in. I’ve got places to be.”
Still, she waited, watching his face. Watching the shadow of anger, dull rage that never completely receded. She dug one polished maryjane into the pavement, biting her lower lip, and didn’t give up until he broke and grinned at her, his shoulders relaxing and the anger draining away until it was just a shadow.
“Jeez, you just never quit, do you? Come on. I hurried back to see you, babygirl.” He opened the door for her, as usual, and Cami tried not to notice the envious glances. The girls dawdled, and the ones who knew whispered to the bobs—the new girls, still finding their way around St. Juno’s hedge of restrictions—about it. The ghoulgirls, playing at being black charmers with teased-out hair and long dagger-shaped earrings, hissed and jabbed their fingers at him and his shiny black car, muttering to each other.
Nico Vultusino. He’s supposed to be her brother, but he’s one of those on the Hill. Shows up every once in a while to pick her up.
They didn’t know anything. They couldn’t know, and even if she could talk without her tongue twisting on her, Cami wouldn’t tell them. Nico was hers, and he had been since the moment he stamped into the library years ago and announced he hated her and would never like her, because she wasn’t pureblood like him.
He dropped into the driver’s seat. “I’m not gonna do this when you get to college, you know.” Twisted the key savagely, and music blared—Gothika’s driving beat, Shelley Wynter singing over the top of it about a minotaur in snow and the bass line popping like a runner’s pulse. He grimaced, spun the volume down, and tossed a battered pack of Gitanelles into her lap. “Light me up.”
“C-College. Long time away.” If she spoke slowly, she didn’t stutter too much with Nico. He was patient, though.
He listened.
“Not so long,” he said, as he popped the parking brake and she tapped a Gitanelle out, pushing the cigarette lighter in. “You’re growing up fast, babygirl. Want to have some fun?”
She didn’t think she could speak, so she just nodded, and lit the first of what would probably be a lot of cigarettes. She stuck it in his mouth as he turned the wheel, the tires chirped, and Nico spun them away from St. Juno’s like he was playing a roulette wheel.
TWO
“RACK ’EM, KID.” NICO DRAGGED ON HIS GITANELLE. Smoke wreathed his head as if he was a perpetual-burning scarecrow; but a faust wouldn’t be out during the day. Besides, fausts and Family made each other very nervous. It used to be Family sport to hunt them, back in the days before the Reeve.
It probably still was, in some places.
Cami leaned over the table, made sure the rack was tight, and lifted the triangle off with a ceremonial flourish. The pool balls gleamed, each one a different jewel against worn green felt. Her job done, she retreated to the booth and dropped down and took a sip of expensive imported-through-the-Waste Coke. The only way through the Waste was sealed in a train; the iron in the tracks kept the blight, the random Twisting, and the nasty creatures that lived outside the order of the cities and kolkhozes mostly at bay. The collective farms were full of jacks and Twists, but someone had to grow the food, right? And you couldn’t farm the Waste without reclamation to drain off the blight and channel the wild magic into systematic forms.
Thinking about the Waste was always bad, too. Cami heaved a sigh, returned to the essay she was supposed to be outlining.
Lou’s was full—but then, it almost always was. A long low pool hall, the bar at the front a reef in a sea of cigarette smoke, its mirror a giant cloudy eye behind racks of bottles. The tables marched in orderly ranks, just enough space around them for the players. Older men with open collars and cigars, young whip-thin hungry men working on their shots, the cracks of good clean breaks and the serious murmur as money changed hands all familiar and soothing. Green glass shades hung from long cords, the electric bulbs over some tables blinking a little as the dampers wedded to the shades suppressed Potential. Not the free-floating stuff the entire world was soaking in, but the kind that would tell a ball to roll a certain way, or whisper some English-spin onto it.