Page 19 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

For a moment, Nicholas couldn’t speak. This was an old argument that had surfaced many times through the years, and until recently Nicholas’s protests had been half-hearted, more to flex his independence muscle than to actually use it—but lately any thoughts of “the rest of his life” sent him tailspinning into a kind of grasping, frustrated hopelessness he couldn’t articulate.

The problem was he knew exactly what the rest of his life looked like: a continuing monotony of marble hallways, needles, simmering cauldrons of blood, stinking herbs, crisp new paper, cramping fingers, doctor’s visits, iron supplements, the same faces day in and day out. Once in a while, like tonight, he’d be trotted out on his short leash and allowed to sniff a few ankles before being tugged along home again.

The last time he’d felt this airless, this desperate for change, was ten years ago in San Francisco, when he was thirteen. Back then he’d been raging at Richard for weeks, alternately begging for and demanding more freedom, and what had happened? All Richard’s fears had come true. Nicholas had lost an eye—and nearly his life, like his parents before him.

A tremor of remembered panic ran through him, and his anger defused suddenly, like a wire had been cut.

“I understand how you feel,” Richard said, looking down at him with so much pitying affection that Nicholas couldn’t return his gaze. “But being in danger is its own kind of lock and key. There’s a freedom in safety, Nicholas. Remember that.”

“Richard!” called Sir Edward from across the room, waving him over, “I want you to meet someone!”

A possible client, probably, which was no doubt why Richard had deigned to attend this farcical party, and why he would stay. To promote the product. The product being Nicholas, whom Richard dispatched with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before stepping onto the carpet and disappearing back into the crowd.

“Come along,” Maram said. “The car will be waiting.”

A member of the staff fetched their coats, and the remains of Nicholas’s anger vanished as he settled its weight onto his shoulders. He’d been constantly riding these waves lately, these little surges of rage followed by exhaustion, one feeding into the other in a feedback loop. He needed more sleep, probably. More exercise. (More iron, his doctor’s voice droned in his head.)

Instead of any of that, he got a long, silent elevator ride down to a wet black London street and a lightly falling November rain, headlights shining off the pavement. Collins was waiting for them, arms crossed. One of the Library’s cars, a sleekly anonymous black Lexus, rolled to a stop in front of Nicholas and Maram, and the valet climbed out and dropped the keys into Maram’s outstretched hand, looking doubtful. No doubt he’d been expecting a professional driver, not a woman in a floor-length dress. But drivers were out of the question: only Richard and Maram’s blood was on the Library’s ancient wards, so only Richard and Maram could even find the place—and Nicholas, of course, because magic couldn’t touch him as it touched other people, but he didn’t know how to drive.

Nicholas climbed into the spotless leather back seat of the car and was joined by Collins, whose broad shoulders made the space suddenly seem smaller.

“Have fun tonight?” Collins said, smirking.

“Not as much fun as you had,” said Nicholas. “Guarding the most precious treasure at the party.”

“You mean babysitting,” Collins said.

Collins had been hired six months ago and while he was probably not the first of Nicholas’s bodyguards to disdain him, he was the first to show it—and for some reason Nicholas found this relaxing. His last bodyguard, Tretheway, also American, had been wide-eyed and deferential to Nicholas, but so casually cruel to other members of the staff that he’d asked Richard to let him go, unnerved by his double-facedness. Collins had only one face: a scowling one. It was evident that he resented being bossed around by a guy his own age, a guy he considered spoiled, soft. This only made Nicholas want to boss him around more.

“Put your safety belt on,” he said.

Collins ignored him, busy loosening his tie and flicking open the top button of his shirt.

“Fortinbras,” Nicholas tried.

This got a reaction. Collins’s lips twitched and he shook his head. “Real close,” he said. “Any day now.”

“Pity. Fortinbras Collins has a nice ring to it.”

The tires shick-shicked across the slushy pavement and Nicholas watched out the tinted back window as the building undifferentiated itself and became just one more light in a city made of them. He thought of Mr.Welch’s distasteful commission; and then of how most of his commissions were distasteful, no artistry to them, only blunt demands. Even this last book, for all its interesting challenges, was ultimately nothing but fatuous nonsense, all hedonism and status.

Had it always been like this? Tiresome? Or was Nicholas just getting older? It was more difficult these days to bounce back after he’d written a book, his blood seemingly slower to replenish itself, leaving him weak and shaky and slow for days. And for what? Money? He didn’t need more money. Nor did he need people to kiss his feet, obviously—but a “thank you” would be nice, or even a bare nod of acknowledgment from someone other than Maram or his uncle. For once, he wanted somebody to look at him and see what he could do. And to see, maybe, what it cost him.

Maram caught his eye in the rearview and gave him a small, sympatheticsmile. “How’s this,” she said. “I’ll take you to dinner tomorrow. We can come back into the city early, go to that boot shop you like, people-watch to your heart’s content, and if you pick the restaurant, I’ll make sure we get a reservation. Anything but bloody pasta.”

Their chef was from Italy, and it showed, though Nicholas’s meals tended to look rather different from everyone else’s.

“Anything but bloody steak,” he countered.

Maram rolled to a stop at a red light. “How about well-done?”

Nicholas opened his mouth to reply but suddenly, with absolutely no warning, the front-seat passenger door flew open, and a man launched himself into the car, slamming the door and turning in one fluid motion so he was kneeling on the seat beside Maram’s, hand outstretched into the back. Nicholas had an impression of pale skin, a thick neck, broad shoulders, unfamiliar face, before he saw that the hand held a gun, and the gun was pointed directly at his head.

There was a beat of absolute silence.

Collins said, “Drop it.”

“You shoot me, I shoot him,” the man said. Collins had pulled his own gun, but he hadn’t drawn it fast enough to aim; it hovered in his lap, his whole body rigid. Through the wet windshield, Nicholas saw the blur of green as the light turned. “Drive,” the man told Maram.

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