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  “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.

  Dan
el. 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 wi
th 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.