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 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.