Curio (23 page)

She pulled back, and he reined in a vision involving her lips and his. It couldn't be worth the pain of another striping. She kept her torso pressed against him as she peeped around the corner. The warmth of her body against his made his pulse pound.

“It's Burge.”

Whit forced himself to slip around her and peered over the top of her head. At the other end of the alley, Burge hoisted the bag over his shoulder and stalked on down the street.

Marina slid back behind the safety of the building. “Give him a minute to get down the hill before you follow.” She caught the look on his face. “What's the matter?”

“I can't come back until Sunday. I have to go back to the mines.”

Her mouth dipped at the corners, but she jerked her chin down once. “That's all right. We make do. Burge'll be up again, and Maverick and I can make a trip to the South Quarter dealers.”

Whit's heart hammered. “How often do you have to go there, to the South Quarter?”

She hunched her shoulders. “Couple times a month. Depends on how much ration we get from our suppliers and who's sick and how bad, you know?”

“Why doesn't Maverick go alone to buy from the dealers?”

Her eyes slid to a point on the brick wall left of Whit's head. “Maverick gets in trouble when I'm not around.” Her voice lowered. “And the dealers like me.”

The words lodged deep in his gut like her arrow had stuck in the wall. He wanted to pound any degenerate dealer who'd ever so much as looked at Marina. He clenched his hands at his sides to keep from shaking a pledge from her. “Don't go there. Just promise me you won't go there. Someone else can go.”

She gave him a look he couldn't read. Her voice was gentle. “Time to go home, Ration Boy.”

She offered a smile before hoisting the crate of remixed ration and hiking up the street. He watched till she ducked behind a loose board propped in a doorway then he stomped down the alley toward the main street.

Why was he angry? True, he had a million reasons to be angry. But why did the rage push everything out now, even the pain of his stripes and the spasms in his stomach? The visions swirled in his head. Shaking Marina till she promised to stay safe. Kissing Marina until neither of them could breathe. Beating deputies. Beating ration dealers. He put his hands to his ears as though he could block out the thoughts and discovered the hat she'd given him. He yanked it off and pulled at the scarf.

Below him the hunters gathered in groups on the street, holding weapons, buckets, and strings of fish or rabbits. On the platform, visible over the storefronts, several deputies worked with two men to winch a deer carcass into an open-air car at the back of the train.

Whit tucked his hat and scarf in the doorway of the store where he'd deposited his tackle. With his fishing equipment in hand, he started toward the spot where the men congregated. A commotion halted his progress.

A swarm of deputies closed around one man. A flash of cropped red hair appeared in the sea of black. Burge.

Whit's feet moved forward.

One of the agents grabbed the bag Burge held and dumped the contents onto the snow at his feet. Pinkish liquid oozed through the paper-wrapped packages.

“I butchered a rabbit I caught,” Burge shouted. He held up a string of small dead creatures. “See, here's the rest.”

The deputy who'd dumped the bag pointed to the meat the refugees had traded for potion. Whit couldn't hear what the man said, but two figures in black dusters dragged Burge out of the street and toward the train. Whit craned his neck, but he couldn't see where they'd taken him.

“Hey, you,” a voice called from the deputy pack. “Yeah, you, kid, you were with Burgeous Clint. I saw you.”

Whit met the gaze of the deputy who'd accused him. Above the glowing mask covering the man's face, hard eyes targeted him.

“I—”

“What's your name?” The agent advanced, flanked by two others.

“Whitland Bryacre.”

One of the deputies yanked back his sleeve to reveal a gauntlet writer and whisked his fingers over it. He didn't look up when he issued his command. “Search him.”

Whit's heart pounded, but he stood still as the two agents approached. His jaw clenched when one grasped his shoulder. As they investigated his clothes and fishing equipment, the deputy with the arm device spoke.

“Whitland Bryacre, eighteen, Age of the Stripe. Breaking curfew and illicit contact. You adding ration dealing to this list?”

“No, sir.” Whit worked to steady his face as a hand dipped into his coat pocket. The bottle. Marina still had his potion bottle.

The other agents stepped back. One of them held his tackle.

“He's clean, Wade.”

The deputy took a step closer. “What are you doing at the outpost?

With a nod toward the tackle, Whit said, “Fishing.”

“Didn't catch much, did you?”

All three of them sniggered.

“You a friend of Burgeous Clint?”

Whit swallowed past the knot in his throat. “No, sir. Met him on the train just this morning.”

The deputy with the gauntlet writer jerked his head and the other two agents peeled away. His eyes trapped Whit's as if reading a confession there. A wisp of green, potion-laced vapor escaped his mouthpiece and evaporated in the winter air. Whit held his posture, feet apart, arms at his sides, and shoulders loose. Hopefully this potion head saw nothing but a submissive,
innocent
citizen.

“You can go.”

Whit hid a sigh of relief, retrieved his equipment, and shuffled toward the train, head bent. He risked a glance. No sign of Burge. As he placed a foot on the first step into the train car, the air drained from his lungs.

Marina had his potion bottle. She'd saved him from another striping. But there'd be no ration for him in the morning.

CHAPTER

15

T
he tin soldiers stationed inside the front doors followed Grey with their flat eyes. She lingered by the steaming fountain long enough to imagine dashing by the metal men, but the door they guarded was locked. So was the gate outside. For three days the platoon had only allowed assembly members in and out of Blueboy's estate.

She made a show of studying the arrangement of goblets and cups on a nearby trolley, but her eyes made trips to the various doors and hallways leading off the main gallery. The ballroom, formal entertaining room, and library offered no access outside. Every veranda and terrace had been closed off, and Drakon patrolled, checking and rechecking locks.

Grey pretended to decide against a sip from the fountain and moseyed toward the back of the great house. She wandered to a small door set in the rounded corner. It must contain a stairway to the tower and maybe a door to the outside, but the handle wouldn't budge. A frisson of panic clenched her lungs, but she shook it off. She just had to wait out the porcies' alarm and safety measures. Benedict was still on alert after the explosion in the city center. And Fantine hid in her room, haunted by the hydro hub flood even though she'd escaped injury by dashing into the galleria when disaster hit.

Raised voices carried from behind the double doors of the assembly room. Grey ducked into the copse of jeweled trees and strained to pick up any tidbit of news, but the conversation quieted. With her back to a smooth trunk, she slid to the ground and drew her knees up. Her shimmering green dress blended with the glittering leaves all around her, concealing her from passersby.

A muffled swish signaled the opening of the chamber door. Grey tilted her head as Drakon's voice carried to her hideout.

“Right this way, please. I'll show you out.”

“I hope his lordship isn't angry,” a female tone pleaded.

Drakon murmured his response and the group moved past the jeweled forest. Grey crawled between two large trees near the front of the sculpture and peered out.

The tock butler's stiff back was visible between the bodies of two porcelains, a man and a woman, who followed him toward the fountain in the entryway. The man patted the woman's arm.

“I'm sure Lord Blueboy understood our predicament, Penelope dear. We did the right thing in coming forward. Especially under present circumstances.”

The three stopped at the fountain, and Drakon slid a palm toward the bubbling shell. “May I offer you refreshment before you leave?”

Grey scooted back to the oval beneath the canopy of emerald leaves. What information had this couple shared? They showed no signs of damage, so it probably wasn't about the flood, yet whatever they'd said had caused an uproar among the assembly.

The jingle of Drakon's key ring and the whoosh of the heavy front door drifted from the front of the house. Grey settled in to wait and listen. She closed her eyes and held in a
breath as a dark-eyed face floated before her. The tree trunk at her back became his firm torso aligned with hers, filling her with the reality of him. Another human in Curio.

Find him and bring him back
.

It had to be Blaise. He belonged in her world even if he was a renegade and a mutineer. All those cracked and shattered porcies, and she couldn't stop thinking about a flying boy and wishing he'd spent more time with his mask off.

She banished that liquid gaze and full lower lip and opened her eyes, occupying her vision with ruby primroses, amethyst lilac blooms, and colored glass tree trunks. The Mad Tock would be caught. Benedict would see to that. Then she had a job to do. But how would they get out of this world within a cabinet? And what could it change? Father was probably dead.

She drew her knees up once again, folded her arms over them, and dropped her head.

Sometime later, footsteps sounded close by, jerking her head to attention. Blueboy entered the bower, his gaze over his shoulder as if he watched for followers. Grey tensed. She had no time to duck out.

He turned and his startling blue eyes widened.

“Grey, what are you doing here?”

She tilted her head back against the trunk as he stepped closer. One of his dark brows arched.

“Your face is leaking. My dear, are you well?”

Grey rubbed at the tears on her cheeks before Benedict did something crazy like lick them off. He held a hand out, and she accepted his help, scrambling to her feet with a wince. Tingling spread through her foot.

“You're not well. What is it?” He retained her hand in his and bent his dark head.

“It's nothing. My foot's—” She stopped, searching for an explanation. “My foot is stiff.”

“Oh.” His lashes lowered as he swept her body with his gaze. “Do you need warming?”

“No, no. I'm perfectly warm. I just need to stretch.” She tried her weight on both feet, wiggling her toes in the soft slippers Nettie had paired with her dress.

Benedict dropped her hand and straightened. “You haven't answered my question. What are you doing in the emerald arbor?”

“I like it in here. It's beautiful,” Grey said. When he didn't reply, she stammered on. “With Fantine, um, resting, I've been exploring on my own and—”

“Listening in on assembly meetings?”

Grey's cheeks flamed. Benedict brought a finger up to trace her cheekbone.

“This heat, where does it come from?”

Grey opened her mouth but no explanation came out.

He moved his hand to the pulse in her neck. “You never cool. Tell me how I can be the same, and I will forgive the secret you've kept from me.”

“W-what secret?”

His mouth hitched into a smirk. “Did you think I wouldn't find out? Nothing happens in Curio City that I'm not aware of. Now”—his thumb glided beneath her jaw—“tell me how I can be soft but strong like you, never cooling, unbreakable.”

“I am breakable.” Grey bit her tongue.

Ice glinted in his eyes before he hid the expression behind hooded lids. His fingers tightened at her throat. “I would never break you, Grey.”

Grey tried to swallow past his choke hold. He loosed his grip, stepping away and back into the role of charming host.

“Again, please tell me what makes you always warm, and I'll overlook your offense of withholding information.”

Grey slid a hand to her bruising neck. What did Benedict suspect her of? “Blood, I suppose.” She held her wrist out, tapping the veins with one finger. “You have hot water running through your system and I have blood, but it's more complicated—”

He drew close again and snatched her hand. The languid façade was gone as he examined the blue lines beneath her skin. He brushed a hand over her navel, and she shivered despite the gown covering her skin.

“Is this the source, the mark on your stomach?”

Grey frowned. Her mark did resemble a trellis of curling veins. But what did that have to do with her blood? Her stomach fluttered. No, not a flutter. The sensation flickered from her mark, spreading out like a shell growing beneath her skin. The same reaction she'd had the night Whit was taken.