Hi all,
Below is the second part of the freebie serial. As before: this is ROUGH, unedited, and way overdue! I’ve turned off comments here, but if you want to point out typos, or cannon inconstancies, you can do so at the Faith Hunter Official FaceBook page: https://www.facebook.com/official.faith.hunter (For link see below)
This story starts shortly after FINAL HEIR, and just before book 6 of the Soulwood series,
The Elopement That Wasn’t (prt 2) https://www.facebook.com/official.faith.hunter
Copyright Faith Hunter 2024
The cavalcade changed position constantly. Sometimes the rear car moved into the middle, sometimes we were out front or taking up the rear. Three cars did not a motorcade make. Twice we pulled into neighborhoods, the kind that make a circle back to the main road. No one was following us, unless a drone was overhead.
My wedding will be a disaster. Gaaaah!
Quint sat facing forward, her head swiveling side to side and to the screens that showed views from the cameras of the other cars. On guard. Bruiser played on his phone, in constant communication with all the security types everywhere because of the attack. Still. The silence in the limo only contributed to my unease. I tried to relax. I even sipped some more champagne. Didn’t help. I had the heebie jeebies, and that was un-queenly.
Eventually the truck and trailer left the attack site and caught up, though they now stayed a steady quarter mile behind. Later one of the armored SUVs passed vehicles until they were taking point. Fours late, at two a.m., we made it to the Dark Queen’s Winter Residence—now most likely my permanent residence and court, as NOLA had thoroughly pissed me off. The staff, who were used to vamp hours, was still up and quickly got us sorted and into our rooms or into the cottages, depending on who went where, a decision and dispersal also made without my input. Silver linings to not being in charge and all that.
The consort and I barely made it to the bed in our suite before we crashed and burned. It wasn’t romantic. And … Something was off. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the poop was about to hit the prop.
“Wedding jitters,” Bruiser murmured to me as he pulled me into spoon. “Sleep, love. We’re together. We’re safe.” Eventually I slept.
***
Bruiser woke me with feather kisses, just as someone knocked on the door. He sighed and called for them to, “Enter.”
“No wild hot monkey sex?” I complained, wiping the sleep out of my eyes.
Bruiser snorted.
“Only if I can join in,” Deon said, pushing a cart with multiple silver topper thingies keeping breakfast warm. “And don’t tell me three’s a crowd. Things I can do with—”
“Deon!” I said.
He laughed and batted his eyes at me as he positioned trays across us. “Love you queenie darlin’.” He pulled one of the topper things off, revealing two pounds of crispy bacon. “The things I can do with … bacon. What did you think I meant?”
“Out,” I said, pointing at the door with a slice of pig, the sheets clenched to my chest by the other hand, protecting my modesty.
The consort and I had breakfast in bed. Well, I had eggs and most of the bacon, while Bruiser ingested a more balanced meal that included waffles with rum sauce, some kind of hollandaise dish of eggs, cheese, and ham, with asparagus. Then we took a sudsy bath together while sipping fruit juice with champagne, which I quite liked, followed by glorious sex, which I liked even better. Bacon and sex eased my mind and calmed my nerves.
Repeat sex in the shower helped even more.
The interactions of fangheads was endlessly fascinating to me, except for this weekend when I wanted to get married without having to kill anyone. And splatter my fantastic dress. Yeah. I had a fantastic dress. Me. I was getting married. In a dress. Go figure.
***
The Tail of the Dragon is a coiled, twisty, hilly, totally hazardous, eleven mile long section of US 129. It cuts through Deals Gap in the Appalachian Mountains right at the Tennessee/North Carolina state line. Its 318 hairpin curves were also sometimes called, “that damn road to Tennessee,” and it’s been the site of hundreds of accidents by bicyclists, motorcyclists, vehicle drivers, families, shine transporters and revenuers back in the days of prohibition, and hikers. And the occasional idiot RVer. Over fifty of the wrecks had been deadly.
Those eleven miles also had some of the best scenery in two states, and has been revered—some say worshiped—by bikers since it was first carved along the ridge of the mountain range. I used to ride it every fall for the best colors in the world, and while winter-bare trees were not considered the optimal time of year for riding the dragon, the views would be longer, farther, and add to the scare factor as drops and cliffsides would be revealed in all their vertical glory. I hadn’t ridden the route in way too long.
My certifiable adrenaline junkie drivers (and one security team) had driven on last night—still driving the box trucks that had been shot up on the way out of Louisiana—reaching “Begin the Dragon” at the junction of HW 28 and 129 before they stopped to rest. The drivers had slept the night at the motorcycle resort there, and probably drank themselves into oblivion. At daybreak, while the bridal couple (Gah. I was part of Bridal Couple) ate breakfast and dallied—that’s what my fiancé called splashy soapy sex—the drivers had left the bikes and gear in the tender loving care of my very sober security team and had driven the road themselves to the end of the route.
Even I wasn’t brave enough to take a box truck up the Dragon, but my teams were hyped up on adventure and considered themselves ten feet tall and bullet proof. As usual.
My local security team had other plans to get me from my HQ near Black Mountain, east of Asheville, NC, to Begin the Dragon. Sweet Cheeks and I planned to take one of my two helos. My life was weird. I had two helos. Two.
The instant I opened the front door, icy air shot in, along with the distinct, rhythmic thuds that said “helo ready to depart.” The cold winter air cut against my face and the thudding pounded into my ribcage.
Deep inside, my Beast grumbled something about being in the air with no ground beneath her paws, a complaint I ignored as I jogged across the compound toward the helo landing site, bent over to protect myself from spinning rotors. Artificial wind spun up grit and debris. I slitted my eyes and, slid on sunglasses to protect them while I crab-ran.
Sitting in belly of stupid bird with no wings, Beast muttered.
Agreed, I thought back at her. But better than spending all night with the nut job truck drivers I call friends.
Should be in Beast form. Cling to top of truck. Scream at top of lungs, “Beast is here! Beast claims all territory on mountain top! Beast rides Dragon! Beast. Is. Not. Preeey!” Screamscreamscream! “Mine! All mine!”
Sure? But claws on a box truck. On the Tail. Clinging. You do know you’d be thrown off into the gorge, right?
Beast is not prey. Beast likes to ride trucks. Like riding bison. Wil-de-beast. Like taking down big prey. Jane did not ask the I/we of Beast.
Okay. Um, Sorry? Next time?
Beast will not forget Jane’s promise. Next time. On box truck.
I might forget, but Beast wouldn’t. Dang cat remembered everything.
I strapped in to the seat and dropped my comms around my neck to put the proper headgear on. It sealed tight to my head to cut the worst of the rotor and engine noise. Instantly I was again tied into comms. It seemed as if I was perpetually tied to comms these days, my IT team and security units chattering in my ears twenty-four, seven. No privacy. No silence.
No way was I taking a comms unit on my honeymoon. I’d shift into Beast and disappear into the woods, letting only Bruiser follow. Yeah. That would work. I scowled at the back of the pilot’s head. “I should have let her ride on the truck,” I muttered, though that would have caused an all-out scramble by my teams.
“Beg pardon, love?” Bruiser asked, leaning close.
I let my grimace fall away, pecked his cheek in a chaste kiss, and smiled. His brows went up in amused consideration. He knew I was thinking about running away. The man was becoming a mind reader. I shook my head in a nothing important gesture which only made his brows go higher and his smile widen.
I was so gonna let Beast off the chain. Soon.
I glanced around to spot three security types. One was a newbie, Manuel, I thought. One was Quint, her cold eyes scanning out the window. One was Eli. On that weird deeper level where we were tied, gut-to-gut I had known Eli was aboard. I grinned a real smile at him and he smiled back, a bit less exuberant than my own, though the tug in my guts said he was excited to ride the Dragon. Yeah. We both had issues with this tie, but we were working on it.
The helo lifted off and once we were airborne, I closed my eyes. A little airsick, but nothing to throw up over.
As the crow flies it wasn’t far from Black Mountain to Begin the Dragon at Deal’s Gap North Carolina, but there was no helo pad, and the approach and landing was … difficult? Insane? Suicidal? I kept my eyes closed as the pilot banked around hills and dodged trees until we hovered over the parking at the Deal’s Gap Motorcycle Resort. I might have started hyperventilating. The rectangle our advance people had marked off in the parking area looked the size of a matchbook.
Precision landing. Crap in a bucket.
Beast hates belly of stupid bird.
Flying is fine, I thought back, but the landings can suck.
Our pilot settled down with only a wobble. I tossed the headgear and hopped out as though my heart hadn’t been lodged in my throat. Bending double, Bruiser and I followed Quint, with Eli and Manuel at our rear, all of us racing to the rest of the sec-unit, our gear, and the bikes. The air shivered with cold in the wind of the rotors. My long black braid whipped in the wind.
Behind us, the helo took off, flying toward our pickup spot at the end of the run. Security, standing around the bikes, broke out in applause. Which I barely heard over the thud of helo blades, and … shouts?
That was weird enough that I looked around. Also clapping and yelling approval was a dozen bystanders, most with cell videos recording. I put my fake smile on and waved as the helo lifted off. Dang. Just one day of privacy. I looked at the heavens, silently begging, seeing the helo doing a death defying maneuver that practically took it upside down. Oy.
I posed for a few pics before the team stepped between me and the lookie-loos, allowing me to stroll toward my bike. Bitsa, my bastard Harley, looked great. For a bike that had been out of service for way too long, she seemed fine, showing signs of recent maintenance in a faint gleam of oil and a smear of grease here and there. I didn’t really miss doing my own maintenance on her, but did miss having the time to do it.
Bitsa was beautiful, her paint job perfect, the snarling Cougar, fangs bright as she leaped forward across the tank, claws outstretched on either side.
But there was no motorcycle helmet strapped to the seat. “Crappity crap,” I muttered. I distinctly remember strapping it to the seat. My eyes darted left and right, hoping to spot the helmet. I loved that old helmet. It was not on my bike. Not beside my bike. Not being held by my unit.
My heart tumbled. It was illegal, and stupid, to ride a motorbike in North Carolina and Tennessee without helmets.
But security were—to a person—wearing what they called shit-eating grins, though the eating of shit would not make me smile. My eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What?” I demanded.
“A present, Queenie girl,” Quint said. Her tone was droll, amused, as if she knew full well I was confused, growing ticked off, and couldn’t do a thing about it. She swaggered around a crotch-rocket, a Kow-bike in an iridescent shade of black-cherry that glistened with hints of sapphire and ruby. She extended a brown box tied with a huge red bow. “Happy wedding and all that shit, from us.”
“I… “ I stopped dead and stared at the box and bow. Flushed. Wiped my palms on my riding pants. I didn’t do presents well. “Uhhh.”
“Chicken?” Quint whispered at me.
I narrowed my eyes at her, giving my queenly how dare you look. “Language,” I said. She laughed. Snidely. Sneeringly. Scornfully. I couldn’t think of any more S words, so I scowled at her and she laughed again.
“Come on. You give away sh—stuff all the time. Take it.”
This time she sounded almost kind, which made me think the box held venomous snakes or—
“The bloody head of my worst enemy?” I asked.
Quint laughed and I grinned. “Give me time. Besides, all your enemies are dead.”
“A girl can hope,” I said, knowing I’d have enemies no matter what I did.
I took the box and put it on Bitsa’s seat, pulling one end of the bow so the loops slid out of place and fell away. The box wasn’t taped and no snakes slithered out. No stench of old blood. Pulling away the brown paper packing material, I felt something smooth, cold, and some part of my brain knew what it was before my hand followed the rounded contours to the bottom of the box and the edge of the … bike helmet. I pulled it out, dislodging a long twisted mass of crunched brown paper.
Reflexes like the snake I had half way expected to be in the box, Quint caught the paper.
The helmet was gorgeous. It was Beast’s head, a near duplicate of the art on Bitsa. I was gonna ride the Dragon in Beast art. “This is gorgeous,” I said aloud, holding it up. My team clapped and wolf whistled
Beast is best hunter. Beast is beautiful.
Yeah. We are.
I snugged the helmet on over my head and tucked my long braid into my leather riding jacket.
“Rules, people,” Eli shouted, holding up one finger. “No skin left on the roadway.” He lifted another. “No bikes on the Tree of Shame.” Everyone roared or hooted approval. Eli grinned, his greenish eyes bright in his light brown face. His heart beat fast, happy, his breathing steady. I cut off the connection between us. I was getting batter at that.
I glanced at the tree. Attached to the tree by rope, wire, string, cable, steel hardware, physics, and gravity, were motorcycle parts. It was a rite of passage for any biker who crashed and survived to attach a bike part to the tree. It was a colorful junkyard of art from the ground, up the trunk, and over every reachable limb.
I snugged my leathers tight and made sure comms was on inside the new helmet. No armor today, though there was a thin layer of Kevlar incorporated into the leather’s kill spots. And I wasn’t wearing my colors. None of us were. No black and gold decorations. No visible weapons. No super-strong, super-fast vampires, since the sun was shining. Just humans and an Onorio and Eli (whatever he was now) and me. And Quint, my personal psychopath. All on the Tail of the Dragon. What could go wrong?
I straddled Bitsa and kicked her on, my worn, comfy boots on the ground beside her, bringing me to something that felt like home. Quint gunned her crotch rocket into a spin around the Tree of Shame and out of the parking lot, heading for the hairpin turns of the Dragon.
***
The most famous twists and hairpin turns on the Dragon had names like Copperhead Corner, Hog Pen Bend, Wheelie Hell, Shade Tree Corner, Mud Corner, Sunset Corner, Gravity Cavity, Beginner’s End, and Brake or Bust Bend. Eli and Bruiser were side by side slightly in front of me. The rest of the crew were spread behind at our six.
Quint was riding point, in front by a good hundred yards, leaning into the turn beyond Parson’s Branch, a one eighty twist in the road where it crossed over the small waterway that gave the turn its name, and the primitive road entering 129. She demanded of the bike everything it had. If she misjudged, it could have deadly consequences. But Quint rode like a boss, like she was born on a bike. I bent over the front of Bitsa and blasted between the boys, leaving them in my dust and closing the distance between us. Quint glanced back and laughed into comms, her manic expression visible through the face shield.
Her front tire blew. The sound of a rifle shot cracked. Time stuttered. Stalled.
In slow motion, Quint’s front wheel spun around. Her bike followed. Her lean fell into a slide. Grinding. Sparks. A guttural scream into her mic. She released the bike and it slid away. Toward the drop off and the creek below. Her body rolled.
I braked. Hard.
Eli whipped his bike around and up the primitive dirt road. Toward where the sniper had to be. Shouting orders.
Bruiser braked, positioning himself between the sniper’s likely location and me. We let momentum carry us forward to the downhill side of the curve and off the road, down a few feet. Out of sight unless the sniper was in the trees. Possible. Cut the engines. Left the bikes. Bending low, we approached the tangled limbs, bloody flesh, and ripped ricing leathers.
The sec unit had broken up, three following Eli up the rutted dirt road the wrong way. Two of the unit, Sarah and Hernando, split up and pulled off the road, running into the winter underbrush to either side of us. Hernando called 911 for the cops and medic. Sarah called for backup.
Bruiser reached Quint first. His long fingered hands found a pulse. Came away bloody. “Pulse. Breathing.” Gingerly he checked her limbs. “Severe fracture of left tibia and fibula. Right humerus. Severe deformation, but no compound. Major loss of flesh.”
“Fucked up my manicure. Sorry about the language, Queenie.”
“Not the first time I heard rough language,” I said. “Not the last.”
Quint laughed and groaned as Bruiser checked her left limbs, jarring her slightly. She gagged, any movement ratcheting up the pain levels. “Holy hell this hurts. I guess that means I don’t have a spinal injury.” She laughed again, a sound full of agony.
There wasn’t a dang thing I could do.
Another rifle shot echoed. Two more. They sounded more distant.
Long gun. White man gun. Hate white man guns, Beast thought.
Did the shooter miss? Or was the shooter that good?
Beast rumbled in my mind, Not that good.
I checked my people.
Sarah was prone, binocs in hands, searching the trees for the shooter. She was a crack shot but none of us had long rifles. “Hern.” Her voice cracked through the comms, this channel including only the four of us at the site. Five if Quint was able to hear. “Cops and medic?”
Hernando, farther up the road, said into comms, “Cops’ ETA fifteen to twenty. Medic closer to forty by land. MAMA’s helos are already at a multi victim crash site.” MAMA was Mountain Area Medical Airlift, which covered medical air rescue and transport for a large region. Without them we were stuck with an ambulance. Hern went on, “I got air splints and Second Skin in my saddle bags. Working my way over. Cover me.”
“You psychic, now Hern?” Sarah asked. “Knew we’d be attacked?”
“Nah. I’m just real smart about staying alive. Besides the queen always gets attacked.” He slid down the embankment to where the three of us hunched. Hern was short, barely making the requirements for military service, wide, and solid, a former medic with the Rangers in some middle eastern country. He winced as he took in Quint, but his voice held no pity, only banter, when he said. “Damn, Quint. You’d go to any lengths to avoid wearing a dress to a fancy event.”
“I hate dresses. Waste of cloth.” She gagged again and shivered as shock set in.
“Boss man,” Hern said to Bruiser as he held up a medic box with my crest on it. “Key.”
Bruiser opened the box with a key and Hern took out a prescription bottle. He slipped Quint two pills. I didn’t ask what they were. The injured woman—my freaking lady-in-waiting—swallowed them whole and dry. Bruiser and Hern worked to stabilize Quint. He started an IV with a small bag of fluid and more supplies from the box. Bruiser cut away clothing exposing the extent of road rash that scored large parts of her body.
Without looking up from his IV, Hern said, “Let’s not move her for the splints or to take off her helmet until we have a cervical collar in place.”
“Agreed.” Bruiser opened and unfolded a metallic-looking space blanket. “See if you can get the Mylar blanket around her without making things worse.”
Hern grunted.
I crawled up to Sarah and asked, “Nothing?”
“Something. Flash of red.” She glanced at me and back into the oculars. “Could a been a cardinal.” After a minute she said, “We did a real good job of not telling anyone but our most trusted people about this ride. “I’m a find who popped off his mouth and rip his wanker off.”
“Good,” I said. “But that shot was either really lucky or really excellent. What if it was just made to look like a hit?”
“Huh. Small charge inside the wheel. Countdown. Fire rifle and detonator together. Could work. I’ll check her bike when we get free.”
We fell silent.
Eventually we heard sirens and something inside me went from stone cold to shaking, not that it showed on the outside.
I crawled back to Quint. I was covered in mud and plant material. Didn’t much care. Bruiser glanced up, meeting my eyes. He gave me the slightest of nods to let me know he thought she’d make it. His gaze shifted from me to the dirt road across the way, his expression questioning.
I let my guards down and felt for Eli. He was frustrated. Eli became aware of me and I got some impressions. We didn’t converse like ESP, and I didn’t see through his eyes or anything weird like that, but I got enough to know he’d found tracks to a spot where a bike had been parked. One bike. Gone. No sound. No disturbance. Electric? Several companies made full E-bikes now, even E-dirt bikes. Fast and silent. I pulled away from Eli and closed my shields.
“Gone,” I said to Bruiser. “Maybe an E-bike.”
Bruiser touched his comms near his helmet, taking him to different channel, and said, “ETA for helo to our twenty? Medic is delayed. Quint will need a fast trip to the nearest trauma center.” He listened. “Copy that. Landing in five. We’ll close off the street.
I finally turned my comms to the general channel. There was a lot of chatter. I turned it back off. “I’ll get out flares,” I said. “Once the cops get here and we have the ‘all clear” from Eli, I’ll start positioning them up the road.” I pointed my direction and began the crawl to my bike.
“Same,” Bruiser said. “Opposite direction. Interesting pre-wedding incident.”
I paused and said, “Yeah. Too interesting. Sarah is going to rip the wanker off whoever told about this ride.”
“Bleed and read.” He said grimly, sounding far more British-formal than usual. “Every single person. Koun will be awake at HQ around dusk. When he’s done and has found our culprit, Sarah may rip off anything she wishes.”
“Shiii. I wanna see that,” Quint slurred.
Hern chuckled. “I’ll video it for you.”
“I lo’ you Hen,” Quint said.
The man shook his helmeted head and look at Bruiser. “I’ll ride with the helo to the hospital.”
From across the road, Eli said into comms, “I’ll arrange transport for both bikes. Alex. You copy that?”
“I copy, my brother. Truck was already on route. ETA a half hour, give or take.”
“Sarah,” Eli said, “let’s check out Quint’s bike.”
She gave a curt nod, made her way upright, and to the road.
By the time the cops had blocked the road, Bruiser and I had traffic flares in place, and the helo was hovering inches off the roadway. It set down as gently as a feather, and the team got to work putting a stretcher together, one that could be lifted from Sarah’s position, and moved through the air on cables before being winched up into the belly of the helo.
Once again I was useless. Just the queen. Standing back while my people worked. Not that I wasn’t proud of them—I was totally proud of the team they made—but it was boring being queen. Freaking boring.
***
The rest of the ride fell flat. My people were nervous, on guard. We had checked all the bikes after my hunch about Quint’s bike proved true. Someone had gotten to her bike at some point and set a small charge into it. The box truck her bike had been delivered in was one that had to stay behind when we were attacked on the way New Orleans. Maybe someone got inside while the tires were being changed, maybe before we ever left NOLA.
Why Quint’s and not mine? None of us knew why. Was she a deliberate choice or an unlucky opportunity?
I bounced into a small pothole. I jerked my wandering mind back to the road. Braked. Got back on track.
At the End of the Dragon, we discovered that Quint had been delivered to the trauma center and was in surgery. Alive. Being given blood, but not vampire blood, not blood to help her heal. Just blood to keep her alive, which was the best I’d get until the vamps woke.
Koun, with his healing blood, and his appreciation for the near suicidal danger Quint presented, would feed her. The other vamps were on the way, sleeping in Leo’s … in my Lear jet. It had been Leo’s. It had become mine when he tied true dead. Except he hadn’t died true dead, though he’d left all his stuff and all his power in my totally incapable hands. No one, including me, thought he was done with his multilayered machinations. Still, there would be plenty of vamps to feed Quint and the blood loss wouldn’t be totally on Koun.
As I stood back and watched, our bikes and gear were put into the trucks. A couple shooters with long rifles on top kept watch. We were sitting ducks, but no one got shot. I took the win. Bruiser and I got in the helo for the long trip back home. The sunset from the air was magnificent over the mountains, the sky scarlet, the shadows in the hollows like the shade of Death. Glorius view. Morbid thoughts.
I tried to think of ways to feel festive, but I had a dark, nagging sensation that something was going to go wrong and that people would die. Especially as I was getting married in a few hours, and clearly enough people knew about my plans to lay traps.
***
Bruiser looked like … Holy crap. He looked good in a white tie and tails. I know. I was peeking through the cracked open door when he left his dressing room. I sighed with what might have been romance or something girlie like that, and closed the door as he disappeared down the stairs from his dressing room, next to our suite at HQ.
“That man has a tush to die for,” Deon said from behind me. “And I am a tush connoisseur.”
He was posed with one hand over his heart and the other over his butt. I smiled at him from the doorway and he blew me a kiss. With the butt hand, of course.
“Get over here Queenie and let me weapon you up. I’m better at tarting women up, but I can do this. You do have your undies on, don’t you? And that so sexy smoother? Not that you need the smoother, but it will make the dress lay just right.” He reached for the lapel of my dressing gown—another silk dressing gown, this one black—and jumped back, when I swatted at him.
Both hands over his heart he gasped, “Queenie!”
I scowled. “I can dress myself. Okay, doing up the dress is a problem, but I can weapon myself just fine.”
Deon’s eyebrows went up, his mouth turned down, and he looked more than a little skeptical. He lifted one hand from his heart and raised a finger with each item he named. “You have one hand gun, one vamp-killer, and three throwing knives to wear beneath your ensemble.” His hand was open, his expression still skeptical. “Madame Melisende worked for, literally, hours with Quint and Koun to create the holsters for you. Each is one of a kind, and attaches to your undergarments with hardware you cannot reach, even if you were as bendy as your big-cat.”
Beast is lissome and lithe, she thought at me, using my words for her. Jane is worried and muscles are tight. Jane is not bendy.
Deon took a threatening step toward me. “With Quint in the hospital, and Koun there feeding her, without me, you will not know how to wear your weapons. I am your only choice to assist dressing you, Queenie darlin’. It’s me or wait for Koun to come home and let him, all six sexy feet of tattooed Celtic gorgeousness, touch you near your lady parts.”
“Koun is not dressing me.” He’d die for me. I’d drink from him to heal in a heartbeat. But dressing me near my “lady parts,” was out. Totally. Out.
I walked to the bed, where my clothing—except the dress which was hanging from a closet door—and my weapons were neatly placed. Deon was right. I’d never seen a holster like this one. My back to him, I picked up the cloth contraption and ran a hand along the strap, touching the little industrial-feeling metal hooks. The strap felt like silk-covered flex, slick, yet thick enough to hold a weight. The metal hooks were half of hook-and-eye closures. I hadn’t lived at vamp central so long without picking up a lot of useless fashion info. I let out a silent sigh.
I felt around my waist under the black silk dressing gown. The smoother had the corresponding parts to the hooks on the holster. Deon was right. I hated when I … I scowled harder. I hated to need help. Which I did so freaking often now. Like every single day. I had help to buy food, cook food, clean, to protect me, to drive me, to buy me clothes—okay that part was good, because I really hated shopping for and putting together clothes.
Crap in a bucket. How was I going to get into this?
“I am not wearing panty hose.” I tossed the torture garment across the room. “The see through socks are okay.”
Deon, who had walked around until he was in my peripheral vision, cocked out a hip and crossed his arms over his chest. “Knee highs, Dearie. Knee highs. You have never worn knee highs?”
I wrinkled my nose and studied the contraptions my handgun and my vamp-killer were holstered and sheathed in. In no way did they look … normal. “Fine,” I snapped. Deon was not in my direct line of sight, so I could be honest and not see his reaction. “I hate being naked. In front of people.”
Deon didn’t reply at first, which made me clutch my robe together tight.
“You are not naked. And I am not people Janie,” he said softly, his posture relaxing. “I am your loyal and loving servant. Your friend for as long as I live. I will carry your secrets to my grave. And I will love you even in heaven, where I will finally be able to gossip about you to that angel who used to hang around. Do you think he’s into boys?”
I spluttered out a laugh. “Deon.”
“Made you laugh. Come on, Queenie. Let me help. Once you are weaponed up and the weapons hidden beneath your dressing gown, your court can come in and do the whole makeup and hair thing. Molly brought in a stylist and a makeup artist and there’ll be mimosas.”
“I do like mimosas. But you do the best makeup.”
“True,” he said, with no modestly at all. “I’ll touch up your face once they leave and help you straighten your gown.”
I inhaled and tried to relax as the breath escaped. I let the silk slide from me and extended the robe to Deon. He never once met my eyes. He took the dressing gown and hanged it on the hook beside my wedding dress. He lifted the holster with the nine mil already in it and made a little twirling motion. I turned away a hundred-eighty degrees.
Starting from my upper right pelvic bone, he began to attach the custom cloth holster. With each action he warned me where I’d be touched, all the way to my mid left hip. The narrow strap that went from my spine to my lower left hip was surprising, but it would keep the holster in place if I needed the weapon. He worked around until he was kneeling in front of me. A sly smile twisted his mouth and I spoke before he could. “No.”
His eyes flicked up to mine and back to his work. Naughty. His eyes were very, very naughty.
“You would have laughed. You need to laugh more.”
“Not while I’m … Not like this.”
“Mmmm. Chicken.”
“I am.”
“So long as we’re clear, Queenie.”
He started work on the vamp killer. That weapon harness was attached to my left lower thigh, above my knee, and hung to midcalf. It was shorter than most vamp-killers, the blade only ten inches long, and because it was wavy and curved, it resembled a kris-knife more than my bigger blades. I hadn’t practiced with it. In fact I didn’t recognize it.
“Blade?” I asked.
“Specially made. Damascene steel from iron and nickel steel. Hilt determined from the length of your palm and fingers, fired and shaped specifically for you. It’s a wedding gift, and was designed with you in mind, from sketch to final product.”
My heart swelled. “Bruiser,” I stated.
“Nope. Want to hold it?”
Not Bruiser? I dropped my hand. Deon removed the blade and placed it in my palm. “Wow,” I said, raising it and studying the way the light glinted off the supersharp blade, the perfect balance, the light weight. “It’s like holding a blade made from a piece of silk. Lightweight, smooth except for the grip. This is beautiful.”
Deon attached the last part of the blade sheath straps to my calf. “Check the bottom of the hilt,” he said.
I flipped the knife and saw the polished citrine nugget positioned there. It was the color of my eyes. “This is freaking gorgeous.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Deon said, standing. “May the blood of your enemies always bring you peace. May the heart of those you love always beat free.”
“Ummm,” I started and stopped. There were hundreds of sayings related to blades, usually culturally significant. Carefully, I said, “I haven’t heard that one.”
“Do you really think I’d use someone else’s saying for that blade? Happy wedding, Queenie girl.”
Before I could reply he was out the door. It slammed shut. Faster than human, I raced to the door and opened it, yelling down the hallway, “Did you give this to me? Because it’s the best!”
“I’m glad you like it!” He yelled back from the floor below.
The two security guards on either side of my door turned to me in shock, weapons half-pulled. I slammed the door, knowing I had just flashed them in my smoother. “Crap.” I pulled on the black dressing gown and texted Molly. “I look like crap,” and figured that was too brusk. I added, “I need a mimosa.” Fingers flying, I finished with, “Get in here.”
Within minutes, my wedding party was assembled, though only the female ones. Molly, Angie Baby, Molly’s witch sisters, twins Tia and Cia, and Liz, who was Eli’s girlfriend. Last in line was Wrassler’s wife, Jodi.
Quint should be here but she was in the hospital. Shiloh, but she was on a hunt. I’d rather be on a hunt too, but here we were. Various vamps had sent elaborate gifts and their regrets, thank God. Sabina, but she was … And Dell, but Dell was dead. Old grief spread through me. So many gone.
I shoved the grief away, pasted a smile on my face, and hugged everyone, which was totally not me, fought tears, also totally not me, and accepted a flute containing a mimosa and an orangish orchid. Pretty. Totally not me. Should have been beer and pizza. Did not say that.
Molly raised her glass and said, “I’m not about to offer a toast to the queen of the vamps. But—” she turned to me and said, “To Jane. My bestie. A biker chick with mechanic’s grease under her fingernails when I met her, the day she singlehandedly defeated a group of redneck witch-haters out to cause trouble to my sisters and me. The godmother to my children. The woman who …” She choked. “Damn,” she said on a strangled whisper.
Killed her sister, the demon caller. Yeah. I did that.
Molly wiped her eyes and continued, with a catch in her voice, “The woman who never gave up on anyone, even if they gave up on her. Strong. Fierce. Loyal to the very end. She’d ride the devil’s coattails into hell, put out the fire, and force him take her back. And he’d end up loving her, like we do. To Jane.”
They toasted me. Drank. I pretended to sip, but my throat was too clogged with … something. Crap on crackers. I wanted to weep. This was why I had wanted to avoid the fuss of a wedding with … people. With all the emotion that crackled through people.
“Mama, you cussed and said hell,” Angie Baby grinned up her mother. “Can I cuss today?”
Everyone laughed. Moll tugged one of the girl’s strawberry red curls. “No. And I’ll be covering your ears for the rest of the toasts.”
Angie gave a fake pout and sipped her mimosa. A real mimosa, though only a spoonful poured from the same pitcher as the others. Growing up.
Deon rolled in a cart of food: boudin, cheeses, petits fours smothered in dark chocolate and dipped in real truffles. Some nearly raw beef sliced so thinly I could almost see through it. Crackers. He piled beef on a large cracker, handed it to me, winked, twitched his butt at me, and exited.
The rest of the toasts were silly, called on a memory or two, some were a bit wicked, and Molly did indeed cover Angie’s ears during those. Then they discussed my hair, and curls, and hot irons, and hair gel, while I braided my black hair into a single long braid and stared them down, which made them laugh so hard that I realized they had been teasing me. They painted my fingernails, and only my fingernails, because I was already weaponed up and I wasn’t letting them know that if I could help it. They “did my face,” which looked okay, except for the mascara, so heavy it made my eyelids blink slower. We had hors d’oeuvres and a lot more of Deon’s special mimosas, some of which came in with a blue liquid layer and blue orchids. My skinwalker metabolism didn’t let me get drunk, but I drank enough that I did feel a little mushy inside.
Finally it was eight o’clock, and I stepped behind the folded screen and slid into my dress. Molly bullied her way in, caught a glimpse of the harness, and rolled her eyes. A slightly drunken eyeroll. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
She laughed, a giggle that tinkled against my heart. She smoothed my sleeves into place and began doing up my dress in back. I had an instant of being inside Eli. He was smoking a cigar and sipping very expensive scotch. Laughing. I shut my shields between us. Fast. Before he noticed.
My dress wasn’t white. It was very slightly gold, with shimmering gold threads here and there. The silk at the pointed cuffs, the buttons, and buttonholes were in black. The beading at the V-neck was black. The train was lined in black. My colors. Black and gold. My dancing shoes matched the dress. There was no veil. I was what I was. I wasn’t hiding anything.
My female attendants were supposed to be able to wear whatever they wanted. Deon vetoed part of that decision and presented them with a limited color palette from which to choose, though they could wear what styles they wanted. Molly and Angie were wearing some sort of color that looked like the teal of peacock tails. The others were in dark scarlet or midnight blue, and none of the dresses matched.
It was all so girlie. Even the idea of the male attendants was girlie. Between Bruiser and me, there were so many attendants that I was pretty sure no one would be sitting in the pews.
My male attendants were said to be in black and gold. Except Deon. Deon was wearing a bedazzled tux that matched Molly’s dress, with a peacock feather boa and a teal hat with a two-foot-long peacock feather in it. And from what I had heard, he was giving orders like a major general on a battlefield.
This was all girlie. So freaking girlie. But a tiny part of my heart thought it was also beautiful. And maybe kinda cool that my friends wanted to do all this crap for me.
Part two of The Elopement That Wasn’t
Copyright Faith Hunter 2024