Nameless

by Lili St. Crow

  She shouldn’t have worried. He was strong, especially so near the Kiss, and his iron grip was carefully gentle; she could feel the restraint quivering in his hard hands.

  “Bambina,” he whispered, his lips moving slightly. “My little girl.”

  It wasn’t like dancing with Nico. She could let Nico do the steering. Papa wasn’t being let. He just did it, like a tidal wave or a minotaur. There was no stopping him.

  That was an even greater relief.

  “You are Family,” Papa said, in that same stilted whisper. “Nico knows.”

  If Papa says it, it has to be true. She kept dancing. A nod, letting him know she heard, her cheek moving against his chest. His tuxedo smelled of fresh air and starch, and somehow it was subtly wrong. The humanity in him was burning out, and what was left was dry clove-and-copper, a mix of crusted blood and the ancient spice of the Unbreathing.

  Already, Papa’s great barrel chest was thinning. “When I am gone—”

  “No.” She had never in her life dared to interrupt him. “No, P-papa.” Unbreathing wasn’t gone, it was just changed. But things looked different on the other side of the Kiss, and the Unbreathing retreated from the world. At least, they didn’t keep charge of Family affairs, unless there was an inter-Seven dispute. Then they moved, swiftly, to punish—or simply to appear; their mere presence often solved any number of . . . problems.

  Papa’s hand tightened a fraction on her waist. “When I am gone, bambina, Nico protects you, eh? It is arranged.”

  It is arranged. Those three little words, the seal of finality. How many times had she heard him say it, deciding some detail, from a business deal to other, darker things? Things she wasn’t supposed to know or think about. The lump in Cami’s throat didn’t go away, and the water in her eyes was going to ruin Ruby’s careful work.

  It was arranged. Well, okay. Great. Except she didn’t want Papa to transition. There. She’d admitted it, at least to herself.

  Because once he was gone, the others with their flaming eyes and their cruel mouths would maybe not keep their disapproval whispered behind ring-jeweled hands. Nico wouldn’t notice, or if he did, it would only make him furious. There would be Trouble, capitalized and underlined, and there was no way she could head that trouble off without Papa’s breathing presence keeping the worst of it at bay.

  His certainty of her belonging was the only anchor she had, really.

  The music finally came to a close, and there was more applause as Papa handed her back to Nico. She tried to look happy. Papa patted her cheek, his hand feverscorching and dry. At least he looked pleased, an infinitely small smile creasing his coppery face, thinning as the Kiss hollowed him out.

  Trig was suddenly there, angular, scrubbed and slightly ill-at-ease in a black jacket instead of his usual violent plaid, his bowtie just a little askew. Papa took his proffered left arm, and the respectful murmur hushed even further.

  Nico was very still, watching.

  Something’s wrong.

  The wrongness crested. Papa stopped, Trig at his elbow, and his gray head lowered. A sigh went through the assembled Family—bright-eyed, clothed in expensive dark fabrics, their faces all slightly similar in some way outsiders could never quite articulate, broad high cheekbones and their foreheads all curved to the same degree, a similarity more instinctively felt than actually seen. Ruby and Ellie stood out in that sea of sameness, Ellie’s face very pale as she stood rigid next to Ruby’s bright flame. Rube had her fingers around Ellie’s arm, digging in.

  What’s wrong?

  The black-clad servants began to notice the hush. One of them was the garden boy. Tor stood by the door to the smoking room, and he was the only person not staring at motionless Papa Vultusino.

  Instead, his black eyes burning, his hair messily declaring war on whatever he’d tried to plaster it down with, he gazed directly at Camille. His lips moved slightly, as if he was mumbling a message, or singing to himself. There was a glitter at his throat—a silver chain, the necklace tucked below the black button-down shirt with its starched and ironed creases. Roaring filled Cami’s ears. She swayed on her heels, and Nico steadied her absently. High flags of feverish color stood out on Nico’s shaved cheeks, and the tips of his canines touched his lower lip.

  Enrico Vultusino collapsed, his rigidity crumbling and the rest of mortality sloughing from him as the tuxedo flapped on his suddenly slimming frame. Trig caught him; several other living Family moved forward to help. They halted, however, as a sound like a hot wind through a wet cornfield echoed in the ballroom. The living Family parted, and the Unbreathing came forward, moving like eerie graceful clockwork, their motionless bone-dry faces merely settings for the bright jewels of their eyes. They closed around Papa and bore him away, leaving Trig adrift-alone in the middle of the dance floor.

  The Kiss had claimed Enrico Vultusino, after long years of service to the Family. It was an honor to be allowed to see the Unbreathing, an honor to see them claim one of their own. The older Family daywalkers clustered about, clasping Cami’s hand and murmuring how they were proud to be part of the occasion, how lovely she looked, how Papa was an Elder now. The younger stared, some of the girls with frank envy, the boys getting close whenever the crowd took Nico away, one or two of them bending over her hand and pressing their lips to her gloved knuckles while she smiled and tried to look pleased.

  It was like seeing everyone celebrate because the sun wasn’t going to come up again. There was a Papa-shaped hole in the world now, and she just felt cold.

  For the rest of the evening, as the Family celebrated both a daughter’s birthday and the ascension of another of the Seven to the Unbreathing, Cami could not shake the image of Trig with his hands loose and empty, suddenly old as he watched the man he would have died for taken away into strange heatless immortality.

  Trig was mere-human too.

  Just like Camille.

  Even Ruby was yawning. She and Ellie leaned together at the bar, giggling, as a few Family bravos complimented them and did shots of vodka-lamb instead of calf. The charms on the girls’ hair glowed as the lights sank, the house preparing for dawn. Outside in the cold rain, small golden flames guttered out one by one in a randomness not even a Sigiled adept could discern a pattern behind.

  Camille leaned into Nico, his the only heat in the chill surrounding her. They swayed together in a private corner of the dance floor, near a bank of small tables littered with napkins, empty glasses, twists of paper from the canapés and jack-d’oeuvres. The crowd was thinning. The music, drifting from speakers hidden in the ancient moldings, had turned sleepy, but Nico was still bright-eyed and tense.

  “Hey,” he whispered into her hair. “You awake, babygirl?”

  Not really. But she nodded slightly. Her hair had held up wonderfully, though a single charmed curl had fallen free over her face. Leave it, Ruby had said in the ladies’ dressing room a few hours ago. Looks smashing.

  Smashing hell, Ellen had replied. You’re the one smashed. She was one to talk, getting another gin and tonic down with a practiced bolt. The blond’s mine.

  D-d-don’t, Cami had told her. The champagne had been fizzing in her head, loosening the knot in her tongue. She’d blinked, nodding sagely. He’s m-mean, and he has a d-disease. N-n-nico told me.

  For some reason, that had cracked both of them up—but Ellie had given the blond boy from the Cinghiale Family short shrift after that, and he’d left with a group of youngbloods for some club or another close to the core. Something about a minotaur cage, and Cami didn’t want to know.

  Family girls didn’t go out after dark. They were taken home in private cars, put to bed and fussed over. Some of them sneaked out and ran with the boys—but they were Wild, and even they had stringent rules to obey. They never went out alone, and absolutely never without a Family boy or two. Even Cami knew those rules.

  “Having a good birthday?” He didn’t sound angry, just thoughtful. But he was so tense, humming electricity going throu
gh him. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, trying to soothe.

  “Y-yeah.” The word was hollow. Papa was gone. Really gone. Not just up in the Red Room, listening to whatever seashore song the Kiss brought close. She would never comb his hair again. Or sit between his feet in the mothering dark below his desk, hearing the reassuring thunder of his voice from above. Never sit on his lap and play with his tie, while he patiently explained things to her or listened to her halting little-girl babble.

  Maybe if she’d been born Family she wouldn’t feel this hollowness.

  “Good deal.” He stopped moving, and the champagne made her head spin. He was digging in his trouser pocket, destroying the line of his jacket. It was a wonder he’d made it through tonight without a fight or anything. She’d half expected him to go off with the Cinghiale.

  Maybe he was behaving just for her birthday. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Papa was gone. How was she going to keep Nico out of trouble now?

  “Listen. Are you listening?”

  She looked up, blinking fiercely. Everything was blurry. The last glass of champagne had filled her head with half-heard whispers, and the cold was all around her.

  “Mithrus, Cami, don’t cry. He’s just transitioned. You’ll see him again. But I’m the Vultusino now. I’m finishing out at Hannibal. There won’t be any more problems there, I promise. When I come back, you’ll finish at Juno’s and go to college, right? And then—” He had finally found what he was rummaging for, and she wished he was still holding onto her. The world was tilting off-course even more, and she had the sneaking feeling it wasn’t all the champagne’s fault.

  “Then,” Nico said in a rush, cracking the small red velvet box open, “we can get married.”

  It was the Vultusina’s ring. A blood-diamond glittered in clawed scrollwork cage, heavy white gold alive with charmlight to make it fit the chosen one, and Cami swayed again.

  What? “What?” Why was she having trouble breathing? And why was there blackness closing in around the edges of her vision?

  He had never looked like this before. As if she might snatch something he wanted away, as if she was the one who could tilt her head and say let’s go, kid and be meekly followed.

  “We can get married. If you . . . After, you know, college. Unless you don’t . . . don’t . . . ”

  Don’t what? How could I not? A small seed of warmth bloomed under her ribs, and she almost swayed with relief. “Yes.” Her cheeks were wet. Nico. My God. “Y-yes.”

  Maybe she should have thought about it. But it was Nico, the warmth under her ribs dilated, and the ring glittered as she touched it with a trembling fingertip. Its charmlight flushed a deep crimson as it popped a single spark.

  If she hadn’t been the chosen one, his chosen one, the ring would refuse. It was like the Heir’s rings, or the signets. Sometimes things could be charmed for so long they seemed . . . alive.

  The world righted itself, and the terrible cold fell away in invisible shards. The box snapped shut and she flung her arms around him, hugging so tight the charmstick in her hair tilted, and as he hugged her back, there was a pair of black eyes across the room.

  Watching.

  TWELVE

  THE END OF OCTOVUS HAD ALWAYS BEEN A CELEBRATION, even before the Reeve. New Haven crouched under the lash of cold rain and spatters of sleet as Dead Harvest dawned, and curled itself down still further as the afternoon wore on under iron-colored clouds. Despite the wet and the keening east wind, last-minute costume-booths were still open on Southking, the thrift stores were crawling with customers—it was lucky to have something used as a part of your Dead Harvest attire—and the invitations flew fast and thick.

  THE PLEASURE OF

  YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED

  AT A COSTUME FÊTE,

  so on, so forth.

  No celebration at the Vultusino house, because of the observance of Papa’s transition. But the invitations had to be sorted, and Nico didn’t know how. It had always been Cami’s job to go through them with Papa and make a plan for their separate appearances—the arcane dance of Family etiquette dictated some parties must be attended by the Head and some by the Heir, some by a junior member; others would be important but it could give the wrong impression if the Head attended, and above all there was the careful balance of power among the Seven to take account of. This year she didn’t have Papa’s comments to guide the whole process, but she’d been swimming in the Family’s etiquette for so long there were no real problems.

  It still took a while, even with Stevens making one or two helpful, if dry, remarks. Cami finally decided that since Papa had transitioned the only party that was absolutely required was the formal costume ball, hosted by the Stregare this year since one of their ruling family had transitioned too, just before May Eve.

  The Vultusino would be responsible for the next May Eve party, because of Papa transitioning so close to Harvest. That was something Cami could worry about later. It would take months to make arrangements, but Stevens and Marya would help. So it ended up with only one Dead Harvest appearance to agonize over, the great Family costume ball.

  Ellie was stuck home handing out candy to trick’s-treaters while the Evil Strep attended the Charmer’s Ball, and Ruby had plans with Hunter, Thorne, and some of the other Woodsdowne clanboys. So there was no help there, and Cami’s Moon costume from last year would have been fine . . . except her chest had gotten bigger, and she was taller. It looked ridiculous, and Marya muttered it was ill-luck to alter a Moon. Which meant the feywoman sent a few maids a-marketing for cloth and necessaries, and made the costume as she did every year.

  Little mayfly, growing like a weed, Marya had said around the pins in her mouth. Stand still, little sidhe. Be good.

  The sun slipped below the horizon on the last day of Octovus, and New Haven took a deep breath. The Dead Harvest had begun.

  The gates of every great house—even the Seven’s fortresses—stood open, the charmbell buttons and antique cold-iron knockers ready to be pressed into service. The Sigiled charmers’ houses were alive with foxfire charmlight, shimmering veils through which ghostly faces pressed, half-heard whispers and screams spilling through cold night as the veil between living and dead thinned.

  Every cemetery and graveyard was jammed with willo’wisps and families feasting in celebration, the gauzy shimmers of ancestral spirits hovering above the altars erected by their descendants, piled with hothouse flowers and sugar skulls melting in the damp even under the temporary canvas roofs. The first masked and gowned trick’s-treaters rang bells or knocked, and the first cry of Trick’s-treating! rang out; the first jewel-bright bits of wrapped candy showered into waiting bags. The first charmpoppers exploded against pavement, flung by shriek-laughing children.

  The limousine slowed to a crawl, one of a line of shining glossy expensive cars flowing toward the Stregare’s palatial main house. Cami shivered, her tissue-thin fey-woven veil tucked aside for the moment so she could breathe. The veil hung from a silver-tinsel crown; the dress’s heavy length was brocaded with silver thread, the wand with its small golden crescent at the end, the reticule, and the fan secured at her belt. This year Marya had made Cami’s costume in the style of the Renascence, high-waisted and bound with silver ribbons at the sweeping sleeves, as if she had known what the new Vultusino had planned to wear.

  Nico lounged next to her, sipping at a whiskey and calf. The new Vultusino, ill-luck be damned, had chosen to dress as pallid Pierrot. White velvet tunic, white close-fitting breeches, white glove-boots, his face smeared with white and gray and his dark hair frosted, the red-thread bracelets at his wrists and the dagger-shapes of the black cloak alluding to the Little Lover’s suicide, driven mad by the Moon-maiden who had promised . . . and left him.

  Cami sighed. Nico was even being careful to sip instead of bolt his drink. If it spilled on him, the stain would never come out.

  No fights, no running off, no explosions of temper. This was a new Nico,
and one Cami wasn’t quite sure about.

  “You’re worrying.” He frowned, took another sip. The bloody gleam of the Vultusino’s ring sent a dart of ruby light against the limousine’s roof, and Chauncey whistled tuneless between his teeth, a familiar sound of concentration. “You look great.”

  The heavy weight on her left hand was the Vultusina’s ring, its stone merely blushing instead of bloody. It clasped her third finger gently, lovingly, and the metal was warm. It should have been comforting, even if there was a party looming. Her tongue was a knot, so she didn’t answer, just looked out the window.

  At least la Vultusina couldn’t be openly insulted. Etiquette would demand she be treated with distance if not warmth, and Cami was fairly sure she could handle smiling and nodding. It didn’t take a lot to be agreeable, even in the Family.

  Despite the rain and the fear, there was a throng on the wide pavements of the Helhurst neighborhood, where the Stregare had settled. It was lower on the Hill than the Vultusino residence, and older, but just as beautifully kept. The smaller trick’s-treaters were in groups, with more adults hovering over them than Cami could ever remember seeing on a Harvest night.

  Another disappearance had been all over the newscasts. A teenage girl, full of charm-Potential, vanished on her way to the corner market to buy a quart of fey-milk for her apartment building’s concierge, a brughnie which couldn’t have comfortably gone itself.

  Brughnies, like Marya, were housebound fey. Marya went a-marketing, but always with a stone or three from the Vultusino household to anchor her so she didn’t lose her way.

  “Say something,” Nico persisted. He drained the dregs, a slight flush rising up his freshly shaven cheeks and a dim red gleam lighting in his pupils for a moment before retreating.