Velveteen (27 page)

“I was expecting one,” Manny said reproachfully. “But since it never came, I decided to swing by to find out what was keeping my best body thief as quiet as a church mouse.”

“I did send one, just recently, though. I’m sorry.” Velvet squirmed in her chair. Despite the fact that Mr. Fassbinder may have burst the case wide open with his theories, there was nothing like an inquisition after a hard day of illegal haunting to make a girl uncomfortable. “I did find out tons of stuff.”

Manny grinned and slapped her hands on the table. “Well, thank goodness. The Council of Station Agents was beginning to doubt your abilities. But I insisted you were the best team leader we had. ‘If Velvet doesn’t get to the bottom of this,’ I said, ‘no one will and we’ll all be doomed.’ ”

No pressure there
, Velvet thought.
And what is with the speedy time line?
She’d barely had time to blink, let alone
solve the case and get a message back to the station, in time for them to be worried.

Something must have them seriously spooked
.

Manny’s expression darkened, her eyes narrowed to dim slits, and she leaned in to whisper, “We have reason to believe the departure, whatever shape that may take, is to occur sooner rather than later.”

Velvet cringed and glanced at Miss Antonia, who nodded.

“Much sooner,” the Salvage mother whispered.

At that moment, Kipper bounded up like a shaved yeti, all massive boy muscles and jocularity. “So what’s new?” He plopped down in the chair opposite Velvet.

“We’re kind of having a meeting, doofus,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Manny set her hand atop Velvet’s. “It’s all right. We’ve asked Gary to attend this impromptu meeting. We’re going to need his help … and Nick’s.” She suddenly beamed as though just remembering. “Happy dimming, by the way.”

“Happy dimming,” Miss Antonia aped.

Neither Velvet nor Kipper returned the morosely cheerful sentiment. People said it when close friends passed. Or in this case, a close friend and coworker.

But Manny had mentioned Nick.

Nick’s help?

It must have been decided. Nick was in line to be her new undertaker and was therefore officially, indubitably off-limits to her and her lusts and ogling. It was like she’d taken a punch to the gut. All the air went out of her. She felt faint, which totally sucked, because more than anything, Velvet
preferred to put out a tough bitch persona when it came to work.

“What’s wrong, girl?” Miss Antonia asked.

She shook her head, peeking across at Kipper. The boy’s mouth was tight, and he was definitely avoiding her gaze. He’d probably talked to Nick. He knew. He had to.

“I’m fine.” Velvet inhaled and sat up as straight and stoic as was manageable under the circumstances. “We’ll do whatever it is you think is necessary for our mission to be successful.”

Manny winked at her. “Good girl. Now tell us what you’ve discovered.”

Velvet went over the nerve reading with their prisoner again, for the benefit of Miss Antonia and Kipper—the visions, Vermillion, the printing press behind the doctor’s office door, and the rows of effigies and crystal balls.

She told them about her meeting with Mr. Fassbinder and his idea that the revolutionaries might believe that the station agents were keeping the souls trapped in purgatory, and finally, after only the briefest hesitation, Velvet held out her hand for Miss Antonia to hold. Dramatic, yes, but the action served another purpose: to hold the woman close so Velvet could watch her reaction.

The Salvage mother didn’t move at first, her mouth twisted up in a quizzical expression. “What’s this now?” she asked.

“It’s about Aloysius Clay.”

Miss Antonia’s eyes widened to saucers, and Velvet could have sworn the Salvage mother shot a reproachful glance in the station agent’s direction. Manny was stoic—she showed
no reaction at all to the name. Miss Antonia gripped Velvet’s hand so tightly, the nerves under her fingers glowed through the creases of her knuckles.

“Mr. Fassbinder said that he’s heard a rumor that Aloysius Clay …” Velvet paused as Miss Antonia’s hand fell away and her eyes trained skyward, lost in some distant memory. “… became a master origamist, and he lives in Vermillion under a secret identity. He says it’s just talk, but it does explain a lot.”

Manny rubbed her temples. “Which explains the banshee’s knowledge of our ability to nerve read. Clay would have known that; he could have briefed the revolutionaries on our ways.”

Kipper whistled. “These guys aren’t foolin’ around.”

Everyone at the table nodded in agreement. Velvet was just relieved the topic had shifted. She’d already made all these jumps in logic. She was sold on the theory.

“And neither shall we,” Manny said finally. “Kipper, I want you to follow up on this lead in Vermillion. See if you can find Clay there and take him into custody.”

“But what about Nick’s testing and training?”

Velvet cringed. Kipper was the primary Salvage trainer, but with him gone on a mission, that would mean …

“Why, Velvet will take over the proctoring and tutelage, of course.”

She sighed and slunk in her chair.
Of course
, she thought.
Of course. Of course. Of course. Why couldn’t she catch a break?

“Do you have a problem with that, Velvet?”

She didn’t have an answer, not one that didn’t include a metric ton of F-bombs.

A
fter the discussion, Velvet was left to wrestle with the whole Nick thing by herself.

Kipper darted for his assignment. Manny was likewise swept away from the conversation by the grotesquely overdressed Connie Lawrence. She was wearing something on her head that Velvet guessed was supposed to be a hat but looked more like a bloated old boot, the leather soggy and listing to the side. A moment after that, Miss Antonia breezed off toward the stage, chatting with the various groups gathered around the tables as though she were hostessing a cocktail party.

Velvet wondered whether she could sneak all the way across the courtyard without drawing any attention. It wouldn’t be the first salon she’d skipped out on. She glanced at the stairwell as a pair of wingtips appeared there, followed shortly thereafter by a certain tall blond boy.

Now was as good a time as any, she thought. They would have to talk about everything sooner or later, and the way she’d left it felt so cold and final. Now, of course, she realized that there wouldn’t be any closure on their interlude at all. Just a constant reminder in the form of proximity.

Velvet pushed herself up out of the chair, just as Tony Falk took the stage to sing along to Stephen “Tin Tin” Duffy’s “Kiss Me.”

“Kiss me with your mouth,” he sang, and several girls were sucked toward the stage like lint to a sock fresh from the dryer. He preened, running his fingers through his longish black hair, and swiveled his hips suggestively.

Velvet stabbed a finger in her mouth as if she were gagging, for the benefit of a table of Salvage guys, spies or other support staff, who seemed to readily agree. Though after she moved on, Velvet wasn’t certain they were talking about the same thing.

Up ahead, blocking the stairs and Nick like some underworld hit squad, was Isadora Lawrence and two henchgirls—Shandie, and another one with a nose like a rat and close-set beady eyes to match. Isadora wore a miniskirt nearly as short as her temper and a vicious smile that seemed to broadcast her intentions—those being to devour Nick like a praying mantis.

Velvet opted for a shadowy spot to see how Nick would handle the temptation. Purely for supervisory purposes, of course.

“Look at this, girls,” Isadora said, inspecting him up and down. The other girls did, too, running their eyes over him like he was a bar code. “Little boy lost. You lost, Nick?”

“Um … no.”

Velvet raised her brows, tying her lush mane of hair up with a strip of leather as she watched.

Nick tried to squeeze past, but Isadora threaded her arm under his and pressed in tight. “Well, never mind. I just wanted to say, we Collectors have been a little lax with our welcoming party and thought you might like us to show you the ropes.”

“Ropes,” Rat Girl repeated, and giggled sinisterly.

Velvet didn’t doubt they had a stockpile of ropes in their warehouses, probably handcuffs, too.

“No, thanks. I’ve got to—” Nick began.

Isadora reached up and took hold of his chin, directing his eyes toward hers. “Maybe you’re not understanding what I’m saying here, Nick. I’m asking if you party.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got that.”

Velvet tensed.

But then Nick did something remarkable. He shot the girl a clearly identifiable look of disinterest.

Isadora’s mouth dropped open, even as her fists balled up tight and her cheeks glowed with embarrassment. Shandie and the other girl covered their mouths, chuckling as they backed away from the beautiful girl, as though she might explode.

“I see how it is.” Isadora glowered and shot a look across the courtyard, possibly looking for her, Velvet thought. “You’re after
Velvet
.” She shook her head, and a look of nausea grew on Isadora’s perfectly made-up face, even as actual nausea blossomed in Velvet’s stomach. “Well, I’ll tell you this,
because I like you and I know we’ll be great friends someday. Velvet’s crazy. Certifiable. Clearly insane, huh, girls?”

The other two nodded adamantly. Rat Girl added, “So crazy.”

“Why, she even sneaks out at night, you know? I found her in an alley early this morning.”

“Ew,” Shandie said. “Wallowing in the gutter, no doubt.”

Velvet had to hold herself back. She was furious. And she hadn’t had the satisfaction of beating anything to a pulp lately. The interrogation, while fun, hadn’t been nearly as aggressive as she’d have liked. If only she’d launched that cleaver at Bonesaw a second earlier.

The idea of the weapon quivering from a deep hold in Bonesaw’s skull made her smile grimly.

Maybe Isadora
was
right. She felt herself relax.

But when Velvet looked back at Nick, she saw a shadow of doubt spread over his face. He was squinting, his gaze askance. He was remembering something.

“You’re too good for her, Nick.” Isadora pulled back and assessed him again. “And far too pretty. Besides … she’s a whore.”

Velvet flinched as Isadora’s backup dancers nodded, and Velvet began to stride toward them, ready to fight.

She was stopped by a flush that sparked on Nick’s cheeks brightly.

“We’re not going to be friends, Isadora. We’re not going to be anything. You think you can talk like that about the girl that saves your butts every other week?” He leaned in close—close enough that Velvet couldn’t hear.

But as she approached the stairs, she heard this …

“I know you. You’re a predator. There’s nothing good in you. And I bet … I just bet that if you ever found something good in yourself, you’d move on to wherever it is souls go after here. Or are you afraid it’s the frying pan for you?”

Velvet nearly choked on her laughter. Isadora had spotted her and was seething. Velvet just shook her head and grinned.

“And you,” Nick said, turning on Shandie. “After seeing what Quentin was willing to do for you, and you’re in on this little lynch mob. It makes me sick.”

They weren’t impressed—or pretended not to be. Nor did they back down.

Isadora just shook her head and laughed. “Wow, you really don’t get it, do you? Things aren’t like before. You better figure that out quick. Maybe your whore can fill you in.”

She stabbed a finger in Velvet’s direction.

Velvet returned the favor and a different finger.

Nick turned to Velvet and shrugged playfully.

“Shit!” Isadora cried. Then she pivoted and snapped for the other girls to fall in line—which they rushed to do like the lemmings they were. The three stomped off, a snotty drill team wobbling away on the unlevel cobble.

Nick joined Velvet in her laughter.

“That was impressive,” she said.

He shook his head. “Nope. Just necessary.”

She nodded. “You’re not nearly as soft as I pegged you as, Nick Russell.”

“Wow!” Nick staggered back clutching at his heart. “A compliment? Was that—I didn’t—Really?”

She slugged him in the arm and was about to launch into her spiel about training him for the team, when a familiar voice bellowed through the courtyard.

“Good evening!” Miss Antonia shouted from the stage. “Welcome to another exciting salon.”

The chattering dorm tenants sank into their chairs, and the din quieted to an eerie silence. Miss Antonia licked her lips, nodding pleasantly to various people. Taking note.

“I thought we’d change things up a bit this evening. Considering the hardships we’ve had to endure over the past days, let’s start with a story. I’m going to forgo the box entirely and choose someone special this evening.”

The audience clapped and wooted uproariously.

“Nick Russell, come up here!” Miss Antonia pointed at the boy, and he turned and searched Velvet’s face for a clue.

She shrugged. “Good luck.”

A moment later there were hands on his back, leading him forward through the crowd.

Velvet climbed the stairs and found a spot on the balcony.

Nick was already standing on the stage. The courtyard was silent, waiting. His knees shook, his voice wobbled; he looked adorable. “Wha-what am I supposed to be doing up here?” he asked.

“Tell us!” the crowd members hissed, like mythical beasts, threatening, beseeching.

“About my death?” Nick asked as he crammed his hands into his back pockets.

“Yes, dummy!” Luisa barked from a table she’d commandeered in the front. Velvet hadn’t even seen her come into the courtyard. She wished she had, though. After the night and day she’d had, Velvet was in dire need of a little girl time.

Logan sat next to his sister rubbing his hands together greedily.

Nick’s head craned around, scanning the crowd, the foot of the stair, and finally his gaze landed on Velvet where she stood on the balcony. His smile was unforgettable and unfortunate. It was the kind of smile that made knees shake, wicked and divine. Velvet clutched the railing and waited for the weird feeling shuddering through her to abate.