Nameless

“Yep.” And he whirled her to a halt amid a swirl of polite applause. A shadow loomed in her peripheral vision, and Cami almost flinched.

But it was only Papa, straight as a poker in his own tuxedo, mane of graying hair combed neatly and the Vultusino signet on his left hand glowing with its own sullen crimson spark. He moved stiffly, and the ruddiness in his graven cheeks told her he had Borrowed.

Stevens would be upstairs in the Red Room, probably with Chauncey transfusing him from canisters— breathing Family couldn’t take transfusion, it had to be straight from the living. It was dangerous for Papa to Borrow so close to the Kiss, and Cami gasped as a murmur swelled through the crowd.

Nico handed her over, and the music came back on a tide of strings. Papa’s smell—bay rum, leather, and copper—enfolded her. The world righted itself once again. She laid her head below his shoulder carefully, so she didn’t disarrange the charms in her hair or throw him off balance.

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 canapes 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.