Velveteen (24 page)

Miss Antonia did insist on cleanliness.

The stage was set and draped with rich woven tapestries, candelabras, and stacks of sheet music teetering precariously atop a big mahogany lectern, though most people just sang stuff they remembered—or mostly remembered, or just thought they remembered when really those weren’t the
words at all. It was shaping up to be a pretty momentous salon, Velvet guessed. Particularly after the crappy night they’d all experienced. First the shadowquake, then Quentin. Then Nick.

Of course, she’d been the only one to experience that last one.

Still. Too much.

She clung to the shadows as far from the soft glimmer of lamplight as she could, crouching behind tables as she slunk toward the breezeway door. She lingered briefly, listening for the sounds of night owls, gas addicts creeping back from their drug dens, but there was nothing. It might just be too early for that, she hoped. As it was, she had no freaking clue what time it was. The gaslight told them when it was time to be active. She glanced at the dim glow as she crept through the courtyard and out into the square, stepping softly toward her secret.

Ahead of her, she could just make out a form winding its way from the shadows. Someone familiar. The soul’s heels clacked purposeful steps against the cobblestone. Even Miss Antonia’s outline was stern and stiffly postured. Velvet resisted the urge to bolt in the opposite direction before the Salvage mother could catch a glimpse of her.

But then something odd happened.

The shadows snagging on the sharp angles of her face, Miss Antonia crept from the darkness. As the woman neared, she began to stumble and stutter uncharacteristically, “Uh. Oh. Vuh-Velvet. I didn’t see you there. You must be off for another of your walks.”

If Velvet hadn’t been so on edge, she might have launched
into questioning. The woman seemed so guilty about something, but as it was, Velvet thought she’d be better off distracting her and moving on.

Miss Antonia seemed to readjust herself, ridding her voice of the weird vulnerability. Suspicion took the place of the Salvage mother’s alarm, crackled there like a fire.

Velvet tried not to bristle. “Just can’t sleep. All the excitement of yesterday, you know.”

“I do know.” The Salvage mother nodded, studying Velvet for any tiny hint of a lie.

And she did know, of course.

Miss Antonia had been a well-known undertaker in her day. Her team had even set a record at thirty-seven. Those were quieter times, Velvet thought. Nothing like the outbreaks of psychic phenomena they had to deal with and fend off now. But kids always think they have it worse than older people, or at least that’s what parents and teachers love to remind them.
Sometimes it’s true, though
, she thought.

“I rarely slept when I was on Salvage,” Miss Antonia said in a rare moment of wistful nostalgia.

Velvet snatched at the opportunity to redirect the woman, veer her off course from scrutinizing Velvet’s intentions for the evening walk. “I love hearing about your cases.”

Miss Antonia brightened immediately. “Perhaps I’ll share one at the coming salon.”

The Salvage mother loved telling her stories—they may have been the only thing she loved—though they always seemed to lead back to the one about the body thief on her
team, back in the day. Aloysius Clay was his name. He went missing after a botched mission where one of their poltergeists disappeared. Just went up in smoke during a raid on a séance.

Nasty business.

But Velvet thought there might be more to Miss Antonia’s obsession with Clay’s disappearance than simple camaraderie or the mystery of it all. There was a glimmer in her eye when she talked—and since she was a spirit, there was no way Velvet could mistake the bigger than normal glow for anything other than extreme nerves. Velvet thought Miss Antonia had been in love with Aloysius Clay.

Possibly had even been his lover.

The woman could never say so. Fraternizing with your teammates, while convenient, could really end up in some messy situations.

“I wish you would. I’d love to hear another.” She held the woman’s gaze, smiling, nodding, trying to be as pleasant as she could, until she realized that was completely out of character. So she shifted her weight, planted a hand on her hip, and sighed, breathing some annoyed life into the situation.
Normal
, she commanded herself.
Act normal or she’ll catch on to the ruse
.

Miss Antonia relaxed.

“Well, then. Be careful on your walk, Velvet. It’s early. There’s probably a few more hours in this long night, but not enough to rid the streets of hooligans. And …” She narrowed her eyes as she said, “You’ll want to get a little rest. We’re going to start testing Nick tomorrow.”

Velvet thought she might have actually gulped. “Wh-what?” she sputtered.

Miss Antonia pressed her palm to the gray lapel of her matronly suit. “Oh. I thought you were aware. Now, with Quentin’s dimming and all, your team does have an opening.”

Velvet stood there with her mouth agape. She couldn’t find the words to describe her horror. Her big-ass mistake had just turned into something a hundred times worse. Training Nick? Working alongside him? Hell, she could barely keep her hands off him last night. But now, if they expected him to be a part of her team, she could never have him. It was against the rules.

No fraternization.

Never again.

And seriously? Why the hell did they think he was so special?

Nick had the strength for the job, certainly. Her memory wandered to his glowing flesh, the curve of his muscles, the smooth strength of his jaw. His bright smile. Normally she wouldn’t have thought twice about a guy like Nick. The type made her nauseous. Or used to, rather.

Perhaps, but that was a long time ago. The old Velvet had been replaced by a warrior. Mostly. Still, the attraction was undeniable. And attractions were distractions, no matter how cute, and totally dangerous in her line of work. Dangerous and deadly.

“I see” was all Velvet could bring herself to say.

Miss Antonia’s gaze sharpened. “You disapprove.”

“Of course,” Velvet said flippantly.

“Well, that’s par for the course.” The Salvage mother sneered. “Disapproval is your middle name.”

Velvet huffed and stomped off into the shadows.

“Don’t be long!” Miss Antonia called behind her.

Velvet waved without stopping, passing through the town square quickly. Souls milled about, even at that early hour, chatting under the soft glow of the gaslight flames flickering behind charred glass, or rushing home to catch a few moments of rest before the day started all over again. The streets narrowed, and in the distance, the funicular rails hummed with the distant shuttling of souls. The farther she traveled, the sparser her company, and soon her footsteps were the only ones echoing against the stone walls. Velvet could hardly see her feet beneath her.

At the Paper Aviary, she slowed. It was dark, and Mr. Fassbinder was sure to be asleep inside. She’d make certain to pop in on the way back, not only to add whatever special bird he’d made for her to her collection, but to ask him questions about the effigy. About the paper from Vermillion. She knew she could count on him to help, unlike others, who were merely obstacles.

Velvet made a sharp left into a narrow alley. The light did not follow.

But something had.

“Where are
you
going, then?” The voice was crisp, bitchy, and distinctly British.

Isadora.

Velvet, astonished at her terrible luck, stiffened and felt her fists balling up for a fight. “A better question is, what
is a mere Collector doing out in the early morning hours, Isadora?” The girl’s name caught in her throat like phlegm. “It’s still night, you know.”

Turning, she saw Isadora leaning against the thick glass of the Paper Aviary, the last of the gaslight glinting off her wolflike teeth in the moonlight. Isadora wasn’t nearly as tall as Velvet, but she fought like an animal. They’d never had a skirmish, but Velvet had seen the girl take on a boy twice her size and swat him down, all without disturbing a stitch in her Jean Paul Gaultier gown.

“I won’t lie.” Isadora’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I
was
following you. I know you’re up to no good.”

Velvet held her breath. What could the girl possibly know? If she even had an inkling that Velvet was on the haunt, the brat wouldn’t think twice about reporting her. As a matter of fact, Velvet knew Isadora would be more than happy to see her stripped of her duties as a body thief. She’d totally get off on it. No question.

“Sneaking off from the dorms in the middle of the night? I’ve seen you.”

“I’m simply taking a walk, Isadora. There’s no rule against that.”

“Hmm. I suppose.”

“I could say the same thing about you!” Velvet barked, her grasp on her temper slipping. She heard a clang of something dropping inside the shop, as though they’d roused the origamist.

“No, you couldn’t.” Isadora’s grin was even bigger than before. “And look at you getting defensive. Now I really
do know I’ve caught you doing something bad. What is it? You’ve got a secret boyfriend or something?”

“No!” Velvet started to shout, and then hushed to a whisper. “Of course not.”

Hell, she couldn’t even make the words sound convincing.

“Well, what is it, then?”

“Just walking.”

“Down a dark alley?” Isadora crossed her legs and made a show of examining her fingernails. “Gotta tell ya, Vel. I’m skeptical.”

“What you are, Isadora, is a bitch, and I’m done talking to you.” Velvet spun and stomped into the darkness.

The other girl chuckled.

“Well,” she said huffily. “I guess I won’t tell you about meeting your fancy new boy.”

Velvet stopped dead in her tracks.

Isadora continued. “You got a thing going with him yet? ’Cause the lad’s got yummy all over him and Isadora’s in the mood for a snack.”

“Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?” Velvet snipped.

“I did.”

Velvet fumed. She’d be damned if the snotty Collector got her mitts on Nick. She’d sooner be banned from dimming than let that happen.
Wait a minute
, she thought.
Why should I be jealous? I’m not. Nick was a mistake
.

Wasn’t he?

“Well, since you’ve no response …,” the other girl said.

“Oh, I’ve got a response.” Velvet spun back toward
Isadora intending on punching the girl in the face, but there was no one there.

Nothing but a thin wisp of mist. Isadora loved to get the last word almost as much as Velvet hated not getting it herself.

“Gah!” Velvet spat, looked around nervously for onlookers, and rushed back into the dark gap between the buildings. She stripped off her clothes, wanting nothing more than to put a great deal of distance between herself and the vermin that was Isadora. Instinctively she found the crack and slipped into the fracture and away from purgatory.

Her body shuddered, and the blackness gave way to a rush of vibrant light as she sped along a brilliant surging vein of phosphorous. The experience stripped her of all the hate she felt toward Isadora, the confusion over Nick, and the sorrow about Quentin, leaving her calm and ready for Bonesaw.

Velvet fell from the crack in the tree and onto the forest floor. Exhausted, she felt a strong urge to curl up in the ferns and the coils of ivy vines forever. There was definitely something comforting about the dewy undergrowth. Of course, with things as stressful as they were, a bed of nails seemed snooze-worthy.

She glanced back at the tree and sighed.

“Rachel + Jimbo = TLA” was carved inside a heart with horns and a little tail like a devil. Velvet remembered chuckling the first time she’d seen it. Jimbo must have thought himself quite clever. And really, if Velvet were to be honest, if Jimbo had carved it for her, she might have given a tiny pause before rolling her eyes. It was a winning move—a little cliché, sure, but nonetheless romantic—for some.

She wondered if Nick was the kind of guy to carve meaningless symbols into perfectly healthy unscarred trees.

Nick.

“Bah!” she shouted, banishing the boy from her mind, and stormed from the copse of trees.

And stopped.

The sun was halfway up the sky, but warm, melting ice from the stiff, sugared blades of pasture grass. All around her the world was crisp from an overnight freeze. The oak branches behind her crackled from the weight, and birds caught by frost’s surprise attack cawed with a newfound urgency; their sound echoed like a warning over the hills and gullies.

The ghost of Velvet’s heart skittered with excitement. Bonesaw might have already left for the day. It wasn’t her first choice, but his absence would free her up to work on releasing the madman’s victim.

She darted for the meandering gravel road that ran from farm to farm to slaughterhouse horror show and finally to nowhere. Her stomping and kicking stirred up dust storms and devils that twisted away from the phantom pressure of her feet and the memory of the Fluevog boots surrounding them.

As the Simanski farm came into view, pegging the horizon like a gray knife handle stabbed into the ground, Velvet was oddly reminded of her mother.

And a movie, naturally.

A Clockwork Orange
had played a brief run at the Hallmark theater two towns over from New Brompfel Heights, where people drank coffee in small cups, read things that
didn’t have celebrity gossip in them, and mused about the state of the capital
A
Arts in America. Velvet loved the place, with its gold burnished alcoves and private curved balconies with thick curtained entrances. The seats were a plush velveteen, and sitting on them made a twelve-year-old-Velvet feel like she was in the exact right spot; her mother’s homage to her love of cinema was Velvet’s proper name. Most people suspected “Velveteen” referenced the sappy children’s story about the bunny that wanted to be real, not a luxurious mass-produced fabric.

“It’s subversive,” her mother had said of
A Clockwork Orange
, not her choice of name for her daughter. Though there was definitely a foreshadowing in the selection, any idiot could see that.