Nameless

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 through 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 FETE,

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