“Cryboy, if I want shit out of you, I’ll squeeze your fuckin’ head,” the cop snarled. “Back up, or we take you to a room.”
Cryboy laughed, made little kissy noises . . . and turned his back, took a couple of mincing steps away. His friends laughed too, hyena noises and crude jokes about things they’d like to do to the charmer-girl.
The door clanged and clattered, slid sideways just enough for Cami to slip out. She did, stood blinking in the hall while a fresh wave of hysterical screaming went through the cages on either side.
“Come with me, ma’am.” The jack cop actually touched the brim of his hat, and the imprisoned jacks burst into derisive laughter, catcalling madly. Her cheeks were hot. Some of the things they said were pretty anatomically impossible, but it didn’t stop her from wondering if they would, somehow, perform these weird acts if given a chance.
There was another heavy metal door with a barred window at the end of the hall; the observation slit darkened briefly and there was a clatter from the other side. It opened, Cami was prodded through—not ungently—and she found herself in a quieter hall floored with peeling gray linoleum. The guard—another cop, this one pure human—took his hand off the butt of a gun, and she was absurdly comforted. The motion reminded her of Trig.
There was also a burly, graying man, pure human, in a cheap suit. He looked almost relieved to see her, and Cami stared at him curiously. She’d never really seen a detective before, and he didn’t look at all like a creature deserving of the scorn sometimes heaped on the cops among the younger Family, especially at parties where the whiskey and calf flowed freely.
“Miss Vultusino?” The detective held up the student ID. It had been yanked from her coat pocket after they cuffed her, before they lifted her and threw her bodily into the van.
Abruptly, she ached all over. The cuts on her arms and legs were singing with pain, and her head was heavy. She managed a nod, and almost swayed.
“I’m Detective Haelan. Let’s get you out of here.”
“No shit?” The pure human cop eyed her like she was an exotic pet. “It’s one of them? Why wasn’t—”
“Shut up, Sullov.” The detective ran a hand back through his hair, a fume of cigarettes and cheap cologne clinging to him. His stubble was salted with gray too, and the pouches under his eyes could have held soup. “This way, Miss.”
So she was Miss now. Well, that was good. Except they’d found out who she was. Cami approached him carefully, held out her bruised hand, and the laminate of the ID crumpled slightly in her sweating fingers. He also had her coat, which he handed over.
“Would you like some coffee? A Danish?” He had kind eyes, she decided.
“Why not just give her a foot massage, too?” the blond guard muttered. When Cami glanced back, though, he was peering through the observation slit in the door. “Animals,” he said, a little louder. “Look at them. A bunch of animals.”
“Don’t mind Sullov. He’s subnormal, that’s why we have him working down here.” The detective’s half-grin was not pleasant at all, and the words had the quality of a challenge. He ushered Cami past another heavy locked door, swiping his hand over a charmplate near the handle and nodding as it clicked. “They’ve sent someone to fetch you. Not often we see Family in this part of town.”
She winced inwardly. Would it be Nico? No, he was the Head, he couldn’t come down here personally. Nor could Stevens—even though the Seven owned the law, there were appearances to be upheld. One of the younger Vultusino? Trig? Maybe, but that would mean Nico knew about this, too.
Haelan kept talking. About how they hadn’t known who she was, and how he hoped the holding cell hadn’t been too bad, and was she sure she didn’t want a cup of coffee? She finally agreed, just to make him be quiet, and the relief passing over his face when he heard her stutter was thought-provoking.
However mad Nico got, it was better than the dogs. And the way things inside her head were opening up. Curtains lifting, the things behind them leering and capering, full of scorched skin, the blossoming of red pain, the filth and the chains.
This one’s heart is fiery.
She ended up perched on a battered leather couch in a paper-choked detective’s office, listening to the phone ring and clutching a paper cup of boiled, ash-smelling coffee. Haelan had disappeared, and after a while Trigger edged into the room, his hair stuck up anyhow and his jacket dusted with melted snow. He gave her a brief look, nodded, and cocked his head.
That was, at least, one signal she knew how to decipher. She was on her feet somehow, tossing the slopping-over cup of coffee in the overfull wastebasket with a splash.
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.