City of Night (56 page)

Carmenta snarled something. Laughed.

They ran.

 

Duster and Angel took the first left that opened up, heading away from the river. Carver and Lander? They headed farther down the road; she glanced back once, saw them disappearing. Carmenta’s den broke, depending on whom they were following, and she heard Carmenta shouting like a rabid freaking dog.

Angel signed something; hard to see and run.

She started to tell him as much, heard shouting come closer, and shut her damn mouth.
Move, move.

But she knew where they were going. Taverns weren’t closing yet, not tonight, and they still had one it was safe to duck into. They didn’t hang outside Taverson’s, picking off drunks; Jay wouldn’t let them. She liked the man and his wife, and she wanted to hit outsiders first, if they had to hit anyone.

If they’d had time, Duster would have stayed in the thirty-second, because Carmenta was risking his den there. Yes, he wanted to take them out—but doing it, full den, in another den’s turf was just
asking
for trouble. Maybe not right away, maybe in an hour or two if they took that damn long. But word was sure to get out to whomever now claimed the thirty-second, and they’d come hunting Carmenta.

But . . . she didn’t know the thirty-second. And with maybe a minute’s head start, they could dead-end in the wrong damn alley or the wrong backyard, and then it was over. The impulse to see Carmenta crushed by his own stupid mistake warred with the imperative to cut risks wherever possible, but it was close. Angel would follow her; they wouldn’t split up again.

She could think and run.

Yeah. Think. Run. Carver had Lander. Lander wasn’t good in a fight; didn’t like ’em. He could stand shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the den—he could do that; could make himself
look
useful. But he couldn’t fight. And if the odds were bad, he’d spook. Didn’t scream, though. Didn’t make much noise at all.

Damn it.

She hit the long road that led to the twenty-fifth; it wasn’t empty, never was. But nothing between them and Carmenta’s gang was going to be much help; there were no magisterians in the thirty-second anymore. If she and Angel were lucky, they’d hit a place to lose the gang before they reached Taverson’s. If they weren’t, they’d get in before Carmenta’s boys. She tried to count steps; too many. Four. Five. But she hadn’t heard Carmenta’s ugly howl since they’d split up.

Probably meant Carver had him.

She took another corner, skidding on purpose to make the turn faster. Soon, they’d hit the stretch of alleys and yards that they knew well enough; they’d hit the obstacle course and keep going. Angel was better than anyone at it; taller, for one. But Duster was good.

Had to be good.

Because—

Jay needed her. Jay needed them all, now. Even Lander, who didn’t talk much and couldn’t fight. Fisher had hit her, hard. But Lefty? Lefty, crippled, terrified Lefty, had gutted the den. Arann was still lost in silence and rage. Finch and Teller barely took their eyes off the damn door. Jester had gotten damn quiet the past few weeks. Lander’s hands were mostly still in his lap, and he’d never talked out loud much. All of them.

Even Duster. Damn it. Even her. How many times—she cornered by a building, this time, her palms losing skin to some of the only brick wall at the crossroads—had she wished he’d just
go the Hells away
? She’d never been good at numbers, and couldn’t count that damn high. He’d bugged her. His cringing. His hiding behind Arann or
Finch
. His stupid humor, when he bothered to try. Would have said she almost hated him, if anyone had asked.

So now,
now,
the little rabbit was
gone
. Finally gone.

And she
hated
it.

She hated it. Everyone else was lost, wandering around the hole he’d made in the den. She would’ve expected that. She would
never
have expected to be so damn lost
with
them. It made
no sense
.

There, Felstone Ave. Small alley between the standing buildings; gap in fence and a run-up you could use to get over it. They’d gain minutes there, if they were lucky.

She liked to think she’d never been lucky. But she was still here. Fisher was gone. Lefty was gone. No one knew where, no one knew how. If she died here, if Angel did, at least they’d know. Carmenta would probably leave their bodies in the middle of the damn street as a warning or a boast, or both.

But it’d break Jay. It’d break what was left.

Why do you care?
she snarled at herself, drawing breath, feeling the dry walls of her throat try to stick together. Her hand fell to her dagger, as if it were an answer. Maybe it was. Maybe it was all the answer she could carry.

Jay should have let her slit Carmenta’s damn throat. She’d
asked
. She’d asked a hundred times. He was a danger. Duster’d always known it: Carmenta was
what she knew
.

But it wasn’t the only thing she knew, not anymore. She knew that they couldn’t get caught, couldn’t die. Not her—but also: Not Angel. Not Carver, not Lander. For Jay’s sake. For the rest of them. Because if losing Lefty hurt—and it hurt
her,
and she
hated it
—what would losing anyone else be like?

Worse. So much worse. She’d killed her uncle. She’d been savagely, fiercely, exultant. She’d left her kin, not that they cared. She’d never had anything to lose before.

How was this supposed to be
better
?

 

Duster and Angel came in, opening the door into the flickering light of a candle. They hesitated there, and Jewel glanced up; saw them looking, not at her, but at the floor, as if they were counting.

Chalk snapped in her fingers as her hand tightened; it wasn’t a loud sound, but they both looked up.

She asked the only questions that mattered. “Where’s Carver? Where’s Lander?”

They glanced at each other. She saw the bare hint of fear cross Duster’s face. Angel’s was shuttered tightly. Neither Duster nor Angel answered her question, and she pushed herself out of her chair. The chair toppled, the clatter followed by a silence that contained no breathing but her own.

No one was sleeping anymore.

“You were
supposed
to stay together!”

Angel met her gaze, held it a moment, and then looked away.

Duster bridled. “Carmenta had his entire gang out by the river. We ran into them. We ran.” She shrugged, but it was a stiff, jerky motion, no grace in it. “We split up. We thought Carver and Lander’d come back here.”

It had been a long damn time since Jewel had had to work so hard to keep her mouth shut. She did the work because the words that wanted out would be said to wound, and it would just be a transfer of pain and fear; it would do no damn good. In silence, she turned her back, took a breath, and picked up her chair. She pushed it halfway under the table, and then thought better of it, and pulled it out again.

When she could trust her voice again, she said, “Which way did they run?”

Angel answered. “We went to Taverson’s. They went in the direction of Fennel’s warehouse. We said we’d meet back here.”

Arann rose, shedding bedroll and the one thin blanket he often used as a pillow when it wasn’t too damn cold. “I’ll go.”

“No,” Jewel told him, struggling, still struggling, to keep the heat out of her voice.

He started to speak, and she lifted a hand, den-sign. “Carver could outrun Carmenta in his sleep. He knows the holdings,” she added.

“Lander—”

“Lander’s with Carver.”

“We could all go.”

Jewel looked at Teller. He had come out of the bedroom fully dressed, but that wasn’t surprising; he often didn’t sleep until she did.

“Go where?” she demanded.

“Fennel’s?”

“Carver’s not stupid enough to get boxed in there.”

“Duster said Carmenta had his whole den lying in wait. He might have no choice. We can all go.”

What good will you be in a fight?
She didn’t ask. He heard it anyway.

And she hated that he did; hated that it seemed to be coming down to this, more and more: Worth was defined by the streets, and by what you could beat, or terrify. That wasn’t why she loved Teller. It wasn’t why she loved Finch.

As if all thoughts were shouts, Finch stepped quietly out of the bedroom as well, glancing at Duster. After a brief pause, Finch squared her shoulders and headed to the kitchen. Clinking plates were, for a few minutes, the only sound in the room. They were oddly comforting, even given the lack of substantial food to put on them.

Finch came back bearing that insignificant food to Duster and Angel, neither of whom had eaten. Angel, who ate anything, took the plate in silence. Duster stared straight through hers as if it were invisible.

“We’re not going out,” Jewel told them all. “We won’t find them.”

“You’re sure?” Teller asked.

Jewel nodded, because she suddenly was. It was not a happy feeling. “Duster,” she added, her voice lower, and wearier, “eat.”

Duster took the plate from Finch’s hand; Finch, knowing Duster, hadn’t moved it far. The cat came out of the bedroom as if aware that there was a very real possibility that Duster would simply drop the plate on the floor. Duster glared at the cat; Teller came and picked her up.

“We don’t eat Duster’s food,” he said softly.

Duster snorted and looked at the plate. But she didn’t eat, not yet. Instead she drew one sharp breath. “Jay—”

“No. You were right. Splitting up was smart. I’d’ve done it, if there were only four of us and his entire damn den was out. Eat,” she said again. “We can’t afford to waste the food, and we can’t afford for you to go hungry. We need you to be as sharp as you can be, especially now.”

Mollified, Duster leaned back against the hall wall and then slid down its surface to the ground. But she was quiet, for Duster, as if she’d been winded. Her anger was almost a legend in the den, but tonight it was brittle and easily broken. Not, Jewel noted, by hunger; Duster was pushing the food around her plate. Easy to notice, when there was so little of it.

“He’ll be back,” Jewel added.

Hours later, he was.

He opened the door into an apartment that was, as usual, carpeted with the sleeping; Arann, closest by far to the door, with a gap between him and anyone else who might be unlucky enough to roll over in their sleep. Keeping Arann off the streets had put an end to his sudden, terrifying rages—but if they’d ever thought he’d woken up badly before Lefty’s disappearance, they knew now just how wrong they were.

She’d heard the door; you couldn’t be awake in the den’s space without hearing it. Working at the table, working in the mess of candle wax with its flickering light, she listened for the sound of the floorboards’ creak. She heard Carver’s breathing, and she did not want to look up.

Because she
only
heard Carver.

And she
knew,
sitting in this not-quite-dark, that she could listen until Moorelas rode again, and she would only hear Carver.

Something broke in her. It didn’t feel strange, and it didn’t feel new; hadn’t she broken this way three times now?

She knew what Carver would say, and she made him say it
anyway
. She needed to let him talk; if she spoke first, she wouldn’t hold on to her words or her fury or her fear, and she knew they’d be aimed at him.

But she also let him talk because she wanted him to tell her that Carmenta had caught them, or had caught Lander. Because if he could say that, she’d believe him. And if she believed him, they could find what was left of Lander, and they could bring him home.

She asked him questions and he answered, but she didn’t really hear his words, and didn’t really hear her own, although she knew some of them were bad. She knew what Lander and Carver had done. She
knew
. But she made him tell her
anyway,
because even knowing it, she could try to lie to herself; she could try to pretend.

But Carver didn’t lie to her.

Carmenta’s den
had
boxed them in at Fennel’s. He and Lander had gone to ground in the maze.

And only Carver had emerged.

She slapped him. She didn’t even realize she’d raised her hand before her palm was stinging. He made no move to stop her or block her—and he could have easily done either. She stopped herself from hitting him again, but she didn’t know how, and she almost didn’t know
why
anymore.

But she understood Arann’s rage, his uncontrollable fury: it was, for a moment, her own. And she
could not
take it out on Carver. She couldn’t.

His eyes were already filmed with tears and certainty.

Gods, Duster had been
right
. They should have killed Carmenta ages ago. They’d had the chance, more than once, and it would only have taken
once
. Without Carmenta, Lander would be home.