Scar Night Page 0,154

chains had sought only to hurt his daughter. One look at him had been enough to shatter three millennia of defences, to reopen her deepest scars. It had left her vulnerable, but, Rachel suspected, it had also exposed her heart.

Carnival hugged her knees. A tracery of cuts engraved her arms. One wing hung crooked from her broken shoulder; the feathers limp and matted with grime.

Rachel squatted on the floor beside her. She picked up a handful of the chain links and let them drop. “It’s Scar Night right now, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

A pause, then: “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry he’s your father. I’m sorry for everything.” And she was sorry. Sorry her own life had ended up like this. Sorry Dill was dead. Sorry her father was dead.

When she thought about the old man, it was always the same image: him returning home from some campaign, a solid, earthy man in a starched white shell of a uniform, silver buttons liquid in the light of the hearth. She remembered his comical frowns as Mother fussed around him, babbling on about the books she’d read, the gossip from the officers’ wives club, Mark’s scuffles with the authorities at the academy. And she remembered her father’s face when she told him she’d joined the Spine: the grim line of his mouth, the wounded look in his eyes.

You could have stopped me. Why didn’t you stop me?

Rachel looked down at Carnival, at the lank black hair strewn all around her ruined face, the broken feathers in her wings, the rotting leather vest, patched a thousand times and flecked with ancient mould. Carnival was curled up tight, making herself small, childlike. Her thin scarred arms wrapped tightly around her knees, like bandages.

“Talk to me,” Rachel said softly.

Carnival was weeping again. “Leave me alone! You’re trying to save your own worthless flesh.” Carnival raised her head, teeth clenched, thin dark eyes swamped with tears. “You think I give a damn about you? You’re nothing to me. You’re meat. Meat!”

“You can fight this.”

“Fight this?” A pained laugh. “Fight this!” The angel spat out the words. “You ignorant bitch!”

“Your life didn’t begin with that rope, and it didn’t end with it.”

“It should have been a chain!”

“Stop feeling so sorry for yourself.”

At once, the tightness left Carnival’s face. Tears now flowed freely over her scars. She dropped her chin to her knees again, and took a deep, shaky breath. “I hate this.” Anguish tapered her voice. “I hate them—you. I’ll kill them. You. All of you. Everyone!” She wailed. “Get away from me! Get the hell away from me!”

Rachel touched her shoulder. “Rebecca.”

Carnival slapped her away, hard. “My name is Carnival!” she screamed.

“I’m sorry, I—”

A key rattled in the lock of the cell door. Rachel whirled round.

A giant stood behind the bars, dressed in filthy robes, his bulk filling the doorway. At first she thought Ulcis had returned, but then she saw that this man was built more solidly than the god, a mass of dense muscle. Bruises and stubble shadowed his face. Human bones strapped to his left leg formed a rude splint, while more, longer bones had been lashed together into a crutch on which he leaned. He fumbled with keys in his massive hands. The door creaked open.

“Abigail?” he said.

29

The Scrounger

Mr. Nettle’s heart soared as his daughter picked herself up from the cell floor. She approached him warily, her face shadowed by the overhanging lid of the lantern at her hip. He felt like rushing over, scooping her up in his arms, and holding her tight.

He said, “I’m taking you home.”

“Balls you are.”

Abruptly his elation collapsed. This girl was too short, too slim, too fair. She moved lithely, with a grace Abigail had never possessed. And she wore the leather armour of a Spine assassin.

The assassin lifted her lantern and regarded him with shocking green eyes. Her face was skeletal. Bruises marched in a line from her neck to one side of her forehead. “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

“You’re Spine,” Mr. Nettle said.

She studied him, her expression pinched. “I’m Rachel Hael.”

Mr. Nettle scratched the scabs amid his stubble. “You dead too?”

An odd look. Maybe this Spine didn’t know she was dead. He’d heard of ghosts like that, the ones who never settled easily in Deep, the ones who resisted. Often they didn’t realize they were dead.In denial, League folks said—but, then, what did those bastards know?

“You seen her?” he grunted.

“Who?”

“My daughter.” He leaned his big face closer. “She won’t