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  They were worried.

  Buck up, Ruby. Be what they need. She took a deep breath, stared down at her paper, and started translating. For the rest of the day, she was going to have to be cheerful. Again.

  FIFTEEN

  IT WAS A RELIEF TO GET HOME. THE GARDEN SWELTERED under a gray-lensed sky, Gran’s blueberry bushes holding wizened late fruit under leaves beginning to dapple with fall colors. Every crack in the slate path was familiar, every bush an old friend; the rampion had bolted and so had the radishes. Even the silvery rue looked happy to see her, and it didn’t ask any questions.

  Inside, the charmed coolness was a balm. She slung her schoolbag onto the counter, opened the fridge, and found a bottle of fresh-pressed apple juice.

  Somehow Gran always knew when it was time for apples. The only question was whether she should pour a glass or just drink straight from the—

  “Hello, Ruby.”

  She almost dropped the bottle, slammed the fridge door. “Christ. I didn’t hear you.” He was quiet, even for kin. Her heart hammered, the fridge’s compressor humming to itself under its layer of sealcharm. She hadn’t smelled him, but then, she hadn’t been trying to, and he’d lived here for more than a couple days.

  Conrad leaned against the doorway to the living room. The lights were off, cloud-screened sunshine gleaming off the copper-bottomed pans in their rack over the range. In the almost-gloom, his eyes were chips of amber, and he looked solemn. He hadn’t shaved. The scruffiness was kind of appealing.

  “Hi. I thought you were out driving.” Driving my car, that is.

  He shrugged. Why was he looking at her so intently?

  Well, now she had to get a glass down. She couldn’t just slog off the bottle. “How was your day?”

  “Fine.” He kept watching her.

  “You want some?” She sloshed the juice a little, tried a smile. “It’s not honeywine, but it’ll do.”

  “No.”

  He wasn’t exactly chatty today. That suited her just fine, actually, so she poured herself a glass and was contemplating some toast to get her through homework when he spoke in her ear.

  “Ruby.”

  She jumped again, almost knocking the bottle over. How was he so damn silent? She could hear everyone else, even Gran. “Quit doing that!” He was way too close, shoving her against the counter, and a bright dart of unfamiliar fear went through her.

  A red scent was all over him. Coppery, old, crusted, it lurked under kinsmell and scraped against her nerves. Her skin rippled with the precursors to the shift, sweat springing out in pinpoint prickledrops. Her skirt swung, and the glass of apple juice toppled, sticky and cold.

  Great, I’m going to have to clean that up—

  “Brett called,” he said, pleasantly, in her ear. His breath was too warm, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed a little. “Anything you want to tell me, Rube?”

  Brett? The boytoy, he had the number to her bedroom phone. She’d forgotten all about that. What the hell? The juice was soaking into her shirt, the counter cutting into her belly. “Get off me.”

  His fingers clamped down on her wrist. Small bones ground together; she half-screamed. “Ow! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Is he kin? This Brett?”

  “What? No! He’s just—” Just a mere-human. What would that sound like, to him? She couldn’t get a breath in right, and her head started ringing. That awful roaring sound had just been waiting to jump on her again. “Just a friend!”

  “He sounded pretty friendly, all right.” Another hard squeeze, grinding her wrist.

  “Ow!” The roaring in her head intensified. “Stop it!”

  “So should I go somewhere else, huh? You’ve got someone lined up already? Some little pink punk?”

  Is that what he thinks? “What? No, he’s just—ow! He’s just a friend! Stop it!” The words spiraled up into a breathless squeal. “Please. It’s not what you think Conrad please!”

  He let go of her, all at once. Ruby whirled and backed up sideways along the counter, her shirt soaking up cold apple juice along the back too. Her skirt’s waistband, wet clear through, rasped against her skin. She rubbed her wrist and stared at him.

  Narrowed eyes, still glowing-hot. His hair tumbled as if he’d just run his hands back through it, or as if he’d been roughhousing. Was this what Grimtree cousins did? Some of the boykin liked horseplay, but they never . . . never . . .

  She couldn’t even think, the roaring swallowed everything inside her head.

  His face changed, as if he was about to shift. He stepped toward her, and Ruby flinched, scooting away along the sink.

  “God. Ruby.” Harshly, dry. “I . . . I’m sorry. I just . . . you’re so . . . you’re beautiful. And I’m just . . . I thought you’d . . .” His ribs heaved, deep flaring breaths. Heavy musk in the kitchen, both of them were sweating. Hot water on her cheeks, and curls knocked loose over her face.

  You thought I what? She swallowed, hard. “You hurt my wrist.” Flat and toneless, someone else using her voice again. Who?

  Did she want to know?

  “I’m sorry.” He took another step. This time she didn’t flinch, just pulled her wrist close to her chest and stared at him. “I don’t . . . I just don’t want to lose you.”

  Their combined smell, along with the roaring, made it difficult to think, difficult to breathe. The shift was close to the surface; she pushed it down. If Gran found out . . . what would she think? If she walked into the kitchen right now and smelled this, she might think that Ruby and Conrad had . . . had . . . done something else. Something irrevocable.

  Would she be disappointed? Or would she start making marriage noises? Moving the betrothal up a notch. Mithrus knew the clan needed something to take its mind off Hunter dead in the Park.

  “I have to clean this up.” She couldn’t make it any louder than a whisper. Her throat was a pinhole. Her skin ran with pins and needles, and a high brassy edge of fear had invaded her scent. “Gran’ll be home soon.”

  He stared at her like she’d just started speaking a foreign language. Had she said it in French? She didn’t think so. Her wrist throbbed, her cheeks flamed, and the fridge clicked into life, making its familiar low hum. Potential sparked once, twice in the space between them—the edge of Ruby’s personal space flexing. She wasn’t as high-powered as Ellie, but she had more than him, that was for sure. His Potential was merely a low umber glow, rasping against hers before retreating.

  Conrad whirled and vanished into the living room. A few seconds later the front door slammed, and now he was making noise. He ran down the slate path like the Wild Hunt was after him.

  Ruby shut her eyes, cradling her wrist, and sagged against the counter. The roaring inside her head crested again, but this time she welcomed it. She didn’t want to think about what had just happened.

  What did just happen? Her wrist throbbed, ached. Mithrus Christ, what was that?

  SIXTEEN

  GRAN’S GUMBO WAS JUST ABOUT THE BEST THING IN the world. Spicy, smoky, hot and wonderful, ladled over imported rice and with a slice of Dalkenna Grocer’s crusty bread, sending up steam in fragrant whorls and burning comfortably in your stomach while you washed the dishes afterward—she’d eaten it all her life, and there was almost nothing better.

  Tonight, though, she just picked at a prawn drenched with savory broth. “He was gone when I came home.” It wasn’t exactly lying, she told herself. It was protecting.

  Gran set the bread down. She wore the crimson housedress today, her hair rebraided and the smell of violets from her soap wafting around her. “He didn’t leave a note?”

  Ruby shrugged. Her wrist throbbed, maroon and dark-blue bruising rising to the surface, but she’d wrapped a couple hemp bracelets around it like she sometimes did. You couldn’t see the worst of it, and Gran wasn’t looking. “No.”

  You w
eren’t really supposed to charm outside school, but she’d thrown a couple air-cleaning ones around, popping them off her fingers just like Ellie. Her first instinct—to spill the whole story to Gran—ran up against the wall of what Conrad might say in return. Brett was Berch Prep, which was fine, but he was also mere-human, and if Gran took to asking questions, well, some of Ruby’s nighttime party prowls might come to light.

  That was a prospect to give her a chill or two. Keeping her mouth shut was the best policy. Even if she was just protecting her own sorry hide.

  I don’t want to lose you. Was it that important to him?

  Was she that important? Now she could see, kind of, why he got mad. If he didn’t want to go home, or if he really planned on going into the Waste if she didn’t like him . . . she could sort of see it.

  Still, her wrist hurt. Her chest hurt. Hungry as she was, the gumbo just didn’t want to go down. If she hunched over her bowl, she’d get a Sit up, please . . . Ruby? Are you unwell?

  Gran settled in her own high-backed chair with a sigh. “I confess I’m glad to have a moment with you. I’ve missed our time together.”

  That helped, and didn’t help, at the same time. Her chest eased a little, but there were all sorts of things Gran could disapprove of lurking in every corner. Time alone with her was likely to be yet another minefield to dance through. “Me too.”

  The old woman broke a crusty bit of bread, looked down at her bowl. “How was school today?”

  “French quiz. Think I bombed it.”

  “It is a difficult language, sometimes.” Crunch of breaking crust, splash of spoon. Ruby sipped at a little broth, swallowed hard. “Your friends. Camille, and Ellen. How are they?”

  What is this? She darted a look up, but Gran was frowning slightly into her gumbo. “They’re okay. Cami’s Potential settled.”

  “Ah. Is there a celebration?”

  I don’t know. “Maybe, I don’t know yet.”

  Silence. “You have been doing your chores with great alacrity lately.” Did Gran sound, of all things, tentative?

  “Trying.”

  “And Conrad? Does he help?”

  Ruby watched her gumbo, drawing a spoon through it as if admiring the colors. “He’s a guest. I don’t let him.”

  Gran nodded, thoughtfully. “The Grimtree seem to have different manners.”

  “I noticed.” That’s one word for it. She scooped up a mouthful of rice. She had to eat, Gran would notice if she didn’t. There would be questions. Her wrist throbbed insistently.

  “Very different manners indeed. Ruby . . .” Gran paused, forged on. “Do you like him?”

  So that was what she was aiming at.

  What did Gran expect her to say? No, send him home? Or even, Yeah, but not enough? What was enough? She owed the clan, and he liked her.

  Enough to get jealous. I don’t want to lose you.

  “He’s okay.” That sounded unhelpful. What else could she say? “I’m trying, Gran. Really I am.”

  “I know. I see you trying, and I . . .” Gran broke the bread into smaller and smaller pieces, dusting them into her bowl. “Sometimes you remind me of . . .”

  Ruby splashed her spoon a little, as if she were five again. Of course, back then she hadn’t ever worried about who she reminded Gran of.

  But she had padded down the hall almost every night to see if Gran was breathing. Sometimes she’d even hidden under Gran’s big heirloom bed and slept there, until Gran waited one night to catch her and say you might as well come in, child. There, next to the safety and warmth keeping all nightly terrors away, Ruby could sleep.

  She’d stopped doing that when she was about ten, but sometimes she wished she was five again.

  Ruby cocked her head, and her heart began to pound. Gran caught the sound as well, and frowned, slightly.

  The front door opened. Footsteps. What was he going to say?

  Conrad stepped into the kitchen, his black hair slicked down. His boots were wet, but he’d wiped them carefully. It looked like he’d run through a sprinkler or something, and he was redolent of sap and crushed grass. “Did I miss dinner? I’m sorry. It smells fantastic.”

  Gran pushed her chair back, but Ruby was already on her feet to get him a bowl of rice and gumbo. And also, to stand on tiptoe to get down a charmcrystal vase for the wet daisies he carried, holding them awkwardly in one fist, his expression rueful and hopeful at once as he stepped carefully across the kitchen toward her. “I brought these. For you.”

  Why was she so relieved? “Thank you.” Inside her ribs, a tightness eased, and she found out she was hungry after all.

  SEVENTEEN

  SHE SAT ON THE FRONT STEP, HUGGING HER BARE knees as thunder rolled in the distance. Autumn storms would start coming in soon, but for right now it was sticky and the sky-bowling was just a heavenly headache. Out over the Waste it might be raining somewhere, Tesla’s Folly crackling between earth and sky, lighting up the twisted ruins of a world mere-humans used to own.

  Who owned it now? Maybe the Waste did, and it saw the cities and kolkhozes as intrusions. A planetary cancer.

  The top band of her shorts dug into the slight rash her sodden skirt had worn around her waist. Sometimes she stretched out her hurt wrist, rotating it, wincing a little each time a sharp jab of pain speared though. The swelling wasn’t bad, and kin healed quickly. It would be fine tomorrow morning, most likely. Still, it hurt.

  He came out quietly, his boots creaking a little. Sank down beside her, a different heat than the breathless mugginess. She rested her chin on her knees, heels braced against the step and her toes bare and vulnerable in the hot humidity.

  They sat like that, while the thunder-train rolled on greased wheels overhead.

  When the sound had died, he moved slightly.

  Ruby flinched.

  He put his hand back down. “I’m sorry.”

  Me too. She stared at the garden’s far wall, a low stone affair. Everyone who could afford it walled their house off, a leftover from the days just after the Reeve. Maybe Gran was saying, Go ahead, come and get me. Or maybe she just didn’t care. It wasn’t likely that she’d ever been scared.

  What was it like, to be fearless? If you weren’t born that way, could you learn it?

  “If you want, I’ll go.” Conrad leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I, uh. I’ve never been what anyone’s wanted. I just thought . . . I’m not what you want, either.”

  You don’t know what I want. “You hurt me.” The words were toneless. It was the best she could do. She didn’t want to sound accusing, but . . .

  Exactly. But.

  He made a short, exhaled sound, as if he’d been hit in the stomach. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to. I just . . . I thought you . . . you’re so beautiful, and I’m just . . .”

  “Just what?” All the same, a traitorous spot of heat bloomed deep inside her. He thought she was beautiful.

  “I don’t know.” Almost angry, but maybe it could have been because he had to raise his voice over the distant thunder. “I thought, well, why would you want me around? I’m just another way they’re trying to cage you.”

  Which probably made them even. “And I guess I’m just another way they’re trying to cage you.”

  “Nah.” His head dropped.

  The steaming city under a lid of cloud rumbled uneasily, again. When she was little she used to think it was the core making that noise. Just like a big dozing animal, crouched in the center of New Haven and groaning under its own weight of curdled, clotted Potential.

  “How is it different?” She watched the sky fluoresce, breathing in the heat. Her T-shirt was getting sticky, and she had a scab on her knee from hitting the cupboard that afternoon while he had . . . hurt her.

  “You’re my way out of a cage.” He said it to the flagstone walk, as if he expected
her to laugh at him. “You don’t know. You just don’t know.”

  “I guess I don’t.” The scab on her knee was rough and fresh, still smarting.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know.” Do I? There were the daisies in their vase, safe on the kitchen table. The way he’d looked when he offered them, though Gran sort of sniffed when he sat down all wet to dinner.

  The way he’d looked horrified and run away. Maybe he hadn’t really meant to . . . do what he did.

  “Do you want me to go?” He said it so softly she almost didn’t hear.

  Ruby hesitated, between yes and no, for a long time. So long, in fact, that he spoke again.

  “You asked about . . . my brother. He’s . . . he was everything they wanted. He got everything first, and best, and always. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t . . . I think I did this to get away from him. I loved him, but . . . there’s just only so much you can take.”

  Don’t I know it. Only Ruby didn’t have a sister, even though a single girlchild wasn’t treated the same as a boy-only. A living, breathing sister Rube could have fought with, relied on. She had Cami and Ellie, but it wasn’t the same. They were moving on, growing up.

  No sister. No mother, either. Just a ghost she was measured against. The person she reminded Gran of, the one never spoken of. You couldn’t fight with a ghost, or prank it, or find a way around it.

  You could only be less. Ghosts didn’t make mistakes, they didn’t criticize or act up or bomb a French quiz. They weren’t selfish. They were perfect. Even hating them brought no relief.

  She uncurled slowly. Put her bare feet on the walk. Gritty slate under her feet, slightly damp and blood-warm. Her pale, vulnerable toes, and his thick heavy boots.

  “Don’t go,” she said, finally. “Please.”

  “You mean it?” Soft and wondering. He reached over, slowly, as if expecting her to flinch again, and touched her shoulder with two fingertips. Gently, so gently.