Kin (18 page)

H
EAD
HELD
HIGH
,
SHE
SWEPT
DOWN
THE
CORRIDOR
and braced herself. If Gran was down here, there was probably a waiting room somewhere, and her nose told her there were kin about, musk and the aroma of dark, comforting Woodsdowne earth.

Further down the hall, opposite the nurse's station, was a collection of chairs welded together with tables too small to do anything but rest a tabloid on, a fishtank full of brightly colored ambulatory sushi, bright glaring light, and a half-dozen kin. Ruby stopped dead, nostrils flaring, her greeting dying in her throat. The choco beechgum turned to ash, and she almost swallowed it.

Oncle Efraim, his mouth a thin line as usual, had his head in his hands. All the kin present were male—a couple of the older cousins, Brent and Jackson Beaudry, and the tall, laconic Oncle Vidalis, his silver-sprinkled hair slicked down with rainwater. Old Oncle Dean, and Oncle Tach, and a few more, the heads of the major branchfamilies.

Sitting right next to Efraim, with his hand solicitously on the older kin's shoulder, leaning in to murmur what could have been condolences, was Conrad Tiercey. He looked just the same, in a white T-shirt and jeans, his boots worn in by now and freshly brushed, and the clan cuff on his wrist had continued to rub. The rash had spread halfway up his forearm, and it looked painful.

Ruby ducked aside, hoping the angle of the wall would hide her. Conrad was
right there
, and it was a group of Oncles. Brent would be disposed to listen to her, maybe, and Oncle Tach always heard anyone out. But Efraim, who had once muttered that Wild girlkin should be collared to keep them from wandering as a matter of course? And Jackson, who had chased her like Thorne and Hunter for a while, until she'd embarrassed him in front of the whole clan at a barbeque? If it was a group of Tantes, it would be better, but it wasn't.

She didn't need a weathervane to see the way the wind would blow, with Conrad standing right there. Why was Oncle Efraim shaking his head? Where was Tante Sasha? She was head of her own branch, and so was Tante Jeanette.

Footsteps. A shadow in the door behind the nurse's counter, another low laugh. Someone would step out and see her standing right here, and probably sing out a
Hello there, can I help you
? All the kin would look. Already Brent's head was up, and he took a cautious sniff, as if he could smell her, rain-dipped and dirty as she was.

At least I know where Conrad is. He's not at the cottage
.
He probably drove my car here.

Which meant she could go home, maybe pack some clothes, and take a look at that duffel bag of his. If there was any proof, she could bring it to the kin, especially the Tantes, and have it not be her word against a guest's.

It was a plan worthy of Ellie, but she didn't have time to congratulate herself. She took off down the hall, away from the nurse's station, toward the stairwell door.

A few seconds later, when the nurse on duty stepped out with a fresh cup of coffee and settled behind the counter with a stack of paperwork, glancing over the men in the waiting area with a practiced, compassionate eye, the stairwell door was already closed.

I
T
WAS
NO
GREAT
TRICK
TO
FIND
HER
BABY
IN
THE
underground parking lot. The extra key, in its charmsealed magnetic box under the back bumper, was gone, but her own keys were in her schoolbag where they belonged. A few minutes later, she pulled out onto Stiltskin Street, the Semprena running a little rougher than she liked but okay enough. There was a crumpled dent in the bonnet that filled her with weary anger. As fast as she drove, she'd never so much as nicked the car.

It is an heirloom
, Gran's voice whispered in her memory, and now Ruby wondered just who had driven it before her.

The backseat was full of drive-through wrappers and damp clothing, and it reeked. She had to roll both windows down and breathe through her mouth, that rusted-red smoke and rot scent overlaying everything along with the fume of his rage making her eyes water. His anger had soaked into the
seats
, for God's sake, and there was a long rip down the passenger's seat, stuffing and springs poking out. He'd slashed it with something, she could just
see
it, his face that snarling mask as the blade cut. . . .

Had he been imagining someone sitting there? She squirmed uncomfortably at the thought. How had he trashed the car in so short a time? It was phenomenal.

It probably wasn't the best idea to stop in the driveway, but at least she
backed
in. She could be out of here in a hot second. Granted, she'd only thought of that after the garage-door opener hadn't worked for some reason, but better late than never. She couldn't be smart as Ellie, but at least she
learned
.

The drizzle was icy. You couldn't tell that a week ago it had been hot enough to roast turtles in the shade. She ran for the front door, her keys jangling, head down against the rain, but she needn't have worried with the keys. The doorknob turned easily, and as soon as she stepped inside she coughed, rackingly, her eyes watering afresh.

It smelled
awful
, and there was that terrible brassy depth to the reek she wouldn't have been able to place if she hadn't been in Woodsdowne Park yesterday. Was it only yesterday?

Oh, Mithrus. No
.

She hesitated, torn between looking for the source of that smell or going up to the second floor to find something, anything, that could serve as proof.

It didn't matter, she realized as she raised her head and took another few nervous steps into the living room. The smell, as far as she could tell, was coming from upstairs.

The living room was a shambles. The tapestry had been torn down, the couches and overstuffed chairs sliced and shredded, Gran's careful arrangement of pictures and candlesticks on the mantel a shattered jumble on the stone hearth, her charming supplies scattered. Lamps knocked over—the curtains were drawn, probably to hide the state of the place.

Again, the scope of the damage he'd been able to cause in so short a time was nothing short of fantastic. Just thinking about how she would have to somehow clean it all up was exhausting.

For a moment, she stared at the fireplace's dark cavern. The metal screen, worked with enameled decorations—a hummingbird, a swan—had been pulled loose and lay crumpled under the front window. Gran's rocker was also smashed to flinders.

I burned it. . . . I spoke in anger
. . . .

What had happened between Katrina and Gran? What had Gran burned?

Forgive me . . . forgive me. . . . Experimenting with live flame and a Beaudry's charm . . .

It didn't matter what Gran had been burning. She could think about it later.

Ruby eased for the stairs, moving quietly even though there was nobody here. At least her nose wasn't running, although it would be really nice if she didn't have those images of splayed limbs and brackish, rotting blood flashing through her head, along with . . .

She stopped, head upflung, on the stairs. Sniffed cautiously, little tiny sips through her nostrils to untangle every thread. A familiar musk, full of fierce silence and dark eyes, quick graceful movements and a coolness against her nape, a smell that filled her with unsteady, vaporous hope.

“Thorne?” she breathed, and ran up the stairs.

It was a faint fading thread, as if he'd been damping his scent like any kin could, and the upstairs was empty.

Well, mostly empty.

Her room hadn't been torn apart too badly. Her dresser had been rifled, and her mirror was broken, but that was it. Thorne had been here, too, but only briefly. She followed the thread of his scent to the spare room, bracing herself as the smell of death and rotting thickened, and peered in.

Thorne had spent a while in here. Had he been looking for proof too? Where had he been
hiding
? When kin wanted to find you, they
found
you, unless heavy-duty charm or fey was covering your tracks. Thorne wasn't a charmer, so . . .

The spare bed was made, neatly. Burnt-out candles stood in built-up wax everywhere, and the mirror over the dresser was starred with one large chunk of breakage, as if a fist had crunched into it but not shattered the glass completely. On the spare bed, with its dusky rose comforter, was Conrad's duffel bag, opened and ruthlessly scattered. Thorne's scent was very, very strong here, and if there was anything to find he probably would have found it.

Still, Ruby looked. An empty leather wallet caught her eye, amid the tangle of clothes. Two books, ripped to small shreds and impossible to identify, and a thin silver chain holding a fluidly twisted medallion.

The key to the collar. She grabbed that, stuffing it in her pocket as well, where it clicked against the lone luckcharm from her broken maryjanes.

She turned in a full circle. The dresser drawers were empty, the closet door half-ajar and showing a few lonely hangers. Nothing else.

Why hadn't he unpacked? He'd been here long enough. Or was he planning to leave, once he'd . . . once he'd what?

You're my way out!

She stood, hugging herself as drizzle beaded on the window. Thorne's scent was fresh. If she'd gotten here earlier, could she have caught him? Told him she believed it wasn't him? He was smart as Ellie, even if he was difficult; he'd have an idea or two. She wouldn't feel so . . . alone.

She shook herself, and checked the bathroom. Nothing in there, but the mirror was broken too. Had he broken
all
the glass?

Maybe he didn't want to look at himself.

The master bedroom at the end of the hall had a tightly closed door. Gran usually left it open; even as a child Ruby would rarely dare to step over the threshold unless invited. Gran wasn't mean, but she gave scrupulous privacy—and expected it in return. It was different at night, when the childhood terrors came.

Ruby twisted the knob, bracing herself.

There was no bracing for this.

The body lay on Gran's antique cherrywood bed with its high posts and red curtains. Opened up like a meat flower, white chips of bone showing through rent skin and torn muscle. Arranged as if sleeping, her dyed-red hair spread on Gran's crisp white pillows, her head turned to the side and the internal architecture of her neck bared because the skin was hanging in a loose flap over her chest. The remains of jeans and a bright red T-shirt, cheap cotton probably bought at a discount store, because the dye had bled onto her wet skin.

Ruby backed up, her hand clapped over her mouth. Gran's dresser stood closed and secretive as always, but the full-length mirror across from the antique spinning wheel lay in shards on the floor. The wheel, draped in sheer fabric to keep the dust off, hunched in the corner, Gran's old stool behind it. Sometimes, late at night when Ruby was very young, she would hear the hiss-thump of the wheel, just like a heartbeat.

Oh Mithrus, Mithrus please . . .

Dim alarm spilled through the roaring. It had come back, unwanted companion, filling up her head with static like the space between stations. What was that?

Car door slamming
.

Someone was here.

S
HE
MADE
IT
TO
HER
ROOM
JUST
AS
THE
FRONT
DOOR
creaked open. The sound of breathing filled the cottage, or maybe it was just that her ears were straining past the roaring, past even a kin's sensitive hearing. Her window slid up, letting in a drench of chill night air laden with rain and the smell of wet leaves. Autumn filled her nose, the season of harvest.

Summer had lingered, but it was gone now.

“Don't.” He was in the doorway. “Don't run.”

She swallowed, hard. Turned from the window, balanced on her toes in case he came for her. Stared at him.

Conrad stood easily, feet braced, the collar dripping and twisting from his left hand. Some speckles of drizzle on his hair—it was longer than when he'd arrived at the train station, but just as black. His eyes were just as golden, and the faint shadow of stubble on his cheeks made him look just as sharply handsome and dangerous as ever.

Now Ruby could see the abyss behind those compelling, aching eyes.

Her throat was dry. “Why are you doing this?”

Now there was a flash of expression crossing his face. Puzzlement, perhaps, or pain. “I . . . you're . . .” A deep breath. “You're my way out, Ruby. When you're with me,
really
with me, I'll have everything.” A slight twitch, the collar swinging, chiming flatly to itself. “We'll go away. To a different city, or into the Waste. You'll be perfect. Once we get this . . . this little thing done.”

“You want to collar me and take me out into the
Waste
? Are you insane?”
Stupid question, Ruby. He's
obviously
insane.
“You've
killed
people! You've killed
kin
!”

“I
solved problems
!” he shouted. “I've solved
every
problem! Nobody's between us now! Nothing can stop us!”

“Nobody's between . . .” The roaring in her head got worse. Was that what he thought he was doing? Solving problems?

What had happened to the boy who
was
a problem, just like her?

“I was only going to stay the night. Each day I thought, well, today's the day they'll get news. But I couldn't leave. Because of
you
. You're beautiful, you're
perfect
, and you were meant to be his.”

“Meant to be . . .” She couldn't get enough air in. That empty gaze swallowed everything, burrowed inside her head. “What?
Whose
?
”

“I had a brother.” He was moving forward, one slow step at a time. Her school uniform, still tangled on the floor, was crushed again under his boots. The rash spreading up from his clan cuff, angry red, had begun to weep a little. “He had everything first, and best.”

“And always,” she managed, remembering. How could the two of them—the boy who had hunched next to her on the front step and this . . . this
thing
 . . . live in the same body? Why didn't it explode from the sheer incomprehensibility of its own existence?

“Until I solved that.” Conrad took another step forward. He was at the end of her bed now. “And then I saw you.” The collar jangled, musically. “You're
mine
now, and we'll be together. You want it, your grandmother wanted it—”

“How do you know?”

He actually stopped, cocking his head. Stared at her. “She wants what's best for you.”

Ruby opened her mouth to reply, but there was a sound from downstairs. Her breath caught, her pulse jackrabbiting in her throat and wrists, ankles and temples, her entire body a shivering heartbeat.

“Mithrus Christ, look at this.” Ellie's voice, a soft breath of wonder. “What the hell?”

“Ruby?” Cami, sounding worried. “
Ruby?
Are you here?”

“The pendulum says so.” Ellie's footsteps crunched on something broken. “Careful, Cami.”

“Ruby!”
Cami's voice cracked halfway through the word, and Conrad's face distorted into a thick, congested snarl. The shift rippled through him, glossy black fur sprouting and muscles bulking, his tallness turning a little stooped as his spine lengthened. Except it was somehow
wrong
. Ruby had seen kinboys shift all her life, especially at fullmoon, but something in Conrad's slumping growth was off, and nausea slammed hard into her midriff.

“
Problems
,” the beast growled, and he whirled with fluid grace. He bulleted out the door, taking a chunk of the wall out with one of his clawed hands as he spun.

Heading for the stairs. The downstairs.

And her helpless, vulnerable friends.

Not my friends, you bastard. Not . . . my . . . friends!

Ruby bolted after him. The shift burned inside her, silverglass spikes, and she realized she was snarling too, a low musical note of bloodlust.