Velveteen (29 page)

Velvet couldn’t stand to listen to the instigator ramble a second longer. She stepped forward, elbowing her way to the front of the dais. The man’s eyes needled in on her approach. He stabbed a crooked, bony finger directly at her and cackled wildly.

“Look here. A representative of the council! What is it, dear? Have you come to abdicate to the revolution’s good cause?”

“Hardly,” Velvet snipped. “I’m just disgusted that so many”—she glanced with contempt at the faces around her—“that so many sheep are buying your bullshit.”

“Boo!” the crowd responded, and the man grinned, raising an eyebrow.

Velvet turned to plead with them. “You have to see that whatever this man tells you is the worst kind of solution. You can never circumvent what nature or God or whatever has in store for you. You can’t escape your demons!”

She knew that better than anyone.

The man roared over her final statement. “We can and we will. Nature has been manipulated by the station agents for long enough. You’ll see, little girl. Just wait until it’s your turn to dim, see what happens.”

“Nothing! Nothing!” The shouts were unanimous and horrifying.

Velvet shook her head; she didn’t want to hear it. But it was impossible to block out.
Of course
something happened when a soul dimmed. How did they explain the passing souls above purgatory? Dimming wasn’t arbitrary like human death. It was absolutely related to a soul’s remainder; everyone knew that.

The Departurists were insane.

It was only after Luisa had dragged her away by the arm that Velvet stopped shaking enough to notice the glut of departure flyers plastered on the alley walls. The pressed paper bricks were practically crimson with the things. They’d certainly been busy over in Vermillion, giving that printing press a workout.

“Did you hear that?” Velvet said, still riled up.

Luisa shrugged. “They’re crazy.”

Velvet steadied herself against the nearest wall. “At least we know what their motive is. That’s something, regardless of whether they’re wrong. If they believe that dimming is final and they can avoid death through this departure …”

“But where do they think they’re going when they
depart
?”

“Who knows? I’ll talk to Manny about this as soon as I can.”

They pressed on toward the end of the road and Logan.

The alley quieted beyond the buckle and thinned to no more than a hallway before the hill leveled off. At the bottom stood the entrance to the gas chamber. There wasn’t a
sign to point it out, but everyone knew it was there. Word spread about available vices in purgatory, quicker than a teenage boy could sneak in for a kiss.

The alley ended abruptly at the rounded walls of a structure covered in rags, banded and knotted here and there. The roof was a tarpaulin dome, with gas leaking from the seams in thin snaky spirals that greased the air colorlessly. The building was a bellows of sorts. Inside were the gasworks and escape valves to deal with variance in pressure and other stuff. Velvet had only a breezy understanding of the system. She had seen a documentary, with her mother, of course, about Indian sweat lodges, places where ceremonial purifications took place—though the gas chamber was all about the opposite.

Luisa grabbed one of the rags from a basket near the small door of the place and clamped it over her nose, tossing another rag to Velvet. They held their breaths, crouched, and crossed into the chamber.

“Shut the door!” came a shout from the shadows. Not Logan, one of the many other people flailing on the floor or propped up around the edges of the round room.

There must have been a hundred souls in various states of inebriation. Some laughing, some making out, but most just zonked and plastered flat on their backs.

Velvet clamped the rag to her face tighter as they carefully found footholds within the tangle of bodies.

Luisa pointed toward a lump near the center of the room. A child clung to an obese woman in a red dress, like a monkey clutching a wire mother in some pathetic psychology experiment. Logan was slack-jawed, his tongue lolling
from his open mouth and his eyes mere slits. Completely stoned.

Velvet didn’t need directions. She stumbled over to the boy, unwound his fingers from the fabric of the woman’s dress, and grabbed one of his feet. Luisa picked up the other. Logan twisted and groaned. Velvet scanned his eyes for some small hint of recognition flickering behind his blown-out pupils. The light in him diffused like a rolling blackout. Waves of dull gray alternated with whitecaps so bright she had to look away.

Totally gone. Huffed out of his mind.

Velvet wondered if things would have been different for him had he and Luisa not been on the road with the drunk driver who killed them, if Logan had been able to grow up, grow taller, get out of that ridiculous costume, become a man. What would he have been like?

Those thoughts led down the same road.

Every time.

Velvet knew enough to realize Logan was doing the same thing his father had, though the man was a drunk, not a druggie. A functional alcoholic was how Luisa had put it once. Logan would probably have been smoked out by his senior year anyway. It happens like that.

As they dragged him through the labyrinth of drug addicts, his head bumped over shoes, discarded or still attached to feet, newspaper bolsters, and wadded-up rags.

“Ow. What are you two …,” he slurred, drifting into and out of consciousness.

They hauled him into the alley, careful not to breathe in too much of the gas when they tossed the rags aside.

“Shut the door!” the crowd called in unison this time.

Velvet slammed it. “Damn, I’d hate to release their valuable drugs.”

“Right?” Luisa agreed, shaking her head.

“Wha?” Logan mumbled, a doped-up look on his little face.

“Oh, I’ll tell you what,” Luisa replied, grabbing his cheeks in her fists.

The boy tensed with a pain that cleared his eyes somewhat.

“You gotta cut this shit out before you end up down here for good. You hear me?”

He shrugged.

“That means no more poltergeisting. You won’t get to cross the veil. It’ll just be you and your stupid gas chamber.”

Logan winced when he saw Velvet. He pulled away from Luisa, lay down in the street, and curled up on his side into a ball.

Velvet held back, watching so intently that she didn’t notice Nick approaching from the direction of the square until he was almost on them.

“Hey, you guys,” he said softly. “Do you need some help?”

Velvet sighed. The boy had followed them. Perfect.

“How did you know we were down here?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

Luisa rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Velvet.”

“What?”

“Look at Nick’s mouth and ask me that question again.”

Velvet assessed the boy’s face and this time noticed the rouging from their make-out session. She looked back at
Luisa and shrugged. “So what? It’s probably a nervous condition. He rubs his mouth or something.”

“I am kinda weird,” Nick offered.

Luisa nodded noncommittally. “It’s just that, well …” She pointed at Velvet’s face as she strode past them. “Your mouth looks exactly the same.”

“Dammit,” Velvet said, and trudged behind the girl, grimacing at Nick as she passed him. “Would you mind carrying Logan?”

She caught up with the girl where the alley bowed out. The revolutionaries had dispersed, and Luisa had taken a seat on the little stage. Velvet found her grinning wildly.

“I knew it,” Luisa said.

“It’s not going to happen again.” Velvet flopped down next to her.

Nick stomped by with Logan draped over his shoulder like some laundry. He tipped an imaginary hat in their direction and smiled sheepishly.

“He’s very cute,” Luisa said.

“I know.”

“I’ll keep your secret. You don’t even have to ask me, or talk about it again. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

The girl patted her on the knee and sprang up. “Just don’t get caught.” With that, Luisa strode off after Nick and her brother and out of sight.

So Luisa knew. It was sort of a relief, Velvet realized. But it wasn’t permission. Luisa had meant what she said.

Which didn’t matter, because it wasn’t going to happen again.

B
efore she even opened her eyes, Velvet reached out under the sheet to make sure Nick wasn’t haunting her bed again. Her fingers slipped over the fabric, but when they didn’t find skin, instead of feeling relief, Velvet left her fingers there as though the boy might magically appear.

Her disappointment stung.

She wasn’t supposed to be like this. Wasn’t supposed to want, or desire, or need anything but her work, both sanctioned and the volunteer work she did over at Bonesaw’s shed.

“This is ridiculous.” Velvet sighed, tore off the sheet, and launched herself out of the bed. She pulled on a black tee, some pants, and a plum-colored jacket, stuffed her feet into her boots, and tied her hair up in a knot. If anything, Velvet would
look
ready for an intensive day of Salvage training, even if she wasn’t looking forward to it. She was about to
leave when she noticed the box Mr. Fassbinder had given her and pocketed the sturdy little thing.

Outside, the tenants of the dorm were waking, shuffling onto the three levels of balconies framing the courtyard in their pajamas like loose newspaper blown across vacant streets. Velvet followed suit, closing the door behind her. She stood at the rail, yawning, and looked down at the third floor.

“Good morning,” Luisa said cheerfully, buttoning her jacket as she bounded toward her.

Velvet leered at her. “I guess. It’s morning, anyway.”

Luisa rolled her eyes and leaned over the banister to watch Nick, a floor down, shambling from his room and rubbing his eyes. His hair was tousled, and his pajama bottoms narrowly clinging to his hips. He was, of course, shirtless and wickedly aware that Velvet had noticed, if his grin was any indication.

“Morning!” Luisa called, waving. “Thanks for helping with my dumb-ass brother.”

Nick nodded politely, bit his lip, and stretched his arms up over his head. His muscles rippled and tensed like some guy from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. Velvet couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to look away from his erotic pose. Seriously, he had to know what he was doing; even Luisa had raised an eyebrow.

Logan, heavy-lidded and cringing, stumbled from his room with a pair of earmuffs on. He wasn’t the most hungover person Velvet had ever seen, but he was definitely the youngest-looking hungover person she’d ever seen.

Luisa groaned in his direction and trotted off toward the stairs.

“I guess she’s not speaking to me,” Logan said, and yawned.

“Probably,” Velvet agreed. She was going to say something else, but Logan was already retreating into his room, a train of blanket sliding across the hall floor.

“Good morning, Velvet,” Nick called from below, in a tone that suggested he thought she was ignoring him. She glanced in his direction, only to be greeted by that painfully beautiful smile, those perfect teeth. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Always.”

Nick continued to stretch. “Well, I had a rough night. Mattresses are a little lumpy down here in the ghetto. You were probably curled up on your pile of down feathers like a kitten?”

“Like a web of gossamer.” She sucked at her teeth, trying to look as disinterested as possible.

He nodded, catching on. “Right.”

Velvet strode toward the stairs, and Nick started to follow suit. She stopped and shot a look in his direction.

“Are you going to dress, or were you hoping for a camera crew?” she asked, lips pursed.

“What?” He glanced down at himself and smiled. “Oh, yeah. We’ve got that test thing, huh?”

She cocked her head in his direction, as though he were the biggest doofus ever, which was a distinct possibility. “Yeah. That test thing.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Really, your team’s
got a lot going for it, Velvet, but what it doesn’t have is a Nick Russell.”

Cocky bastard
.

A smile curled skeptically on her lips. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty awesome.”

Velvet cocked an eyebrow. “I hear he’s kind of annoying. Needy.”

“Oh, no.” He laughed, leaning casually against the stair rail and scratching his bare belly. “No way. Not at all. He’s super smooth.”

“Really? Not completely arrogant and douche-baggy? Are you sure?”

Nick shook his head aggressively. “Well. If he is, it’s because he’s awesome, like I said earlier. And quite a storyteller, come to think of it.”

“Well, then. I’ll make of note of all that. Thanks for the reference.”

Nick shoved his hands into the pockets of his pajama bottoms and shrugged his shoulders. “No problemo.”

“Except for one.” She raised an eyebrow at his state of undress.

“Oh, yeah!” He nodded excitedly and ducked back into his room. Clangs and thuds echoed out into the gap between the balconies, but thirty seconds later, the boy had managed to put together an outfit and tousle his hair in that effortlessly sexy way that is impossible for girls to do.

“Let’s get you tested,” she said, annoyance threading through her words. “The first one’s the math portion. That won’t be a problem, will it?” Part of Nick’s salon story had detailed a terrible math phobia for which a tutor had needed
to be called in. It was important to remember these things about potential employees—keeps the hierarchy straight.

Nick’s gulp was audible a floor up.

Velvet smiled and trod the uneven stairs down to the second floor. Miss Antonia’s office was off to the right. The door was open a crack, and Velvet couldn’t resist stealing a secret peek before announcing herself.

The woman stood bone straight with her back to Velvet, looking down at something in her hands. There was a sharp clicking sound, and then Miss Antonia placed one item into her pocket gingerly and, after stepping precariously onto a stool, placed the other on the highest of her bookshelves, dusting the space around it.

It was a tiny black box, similar to the one Velvet carried in her pocket, the one Mr. Fassbinder had given her.