“Blade?” I asked.
“Specially made. Damascene 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 upper 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. Almost ceremonially, he bowed and then said, “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 brusque. I added, “I need a mimosa.” Fingers flying, I finished with, “Get in here.”
Within minutes, the female members of my wedding party were assembled and Molly was first in the door with Angie Baby in tow, then Molly’s witch sisters, twins Tia and Cia Everhart, and Liz Everhart, who was Eli’s girlfriend. Last in the door was Wrassler’s wife, Jodi. They were all wearing silk and lace dressing gowns in the queen’s colors, the fluff most women loved.
My male attendants were gathering elsewhere with Bruiser’s male attendants doing guy stuff, whatever that might be.
Quint should be here too, but she was in the hospital. Shiloh might have joined, 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, or there would have been hundreds attending. I missed some. Sabina, but she was . . . And Dell, but Dell was dead. Brenda. 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 was told to offer a toast to the Dark Queen of the Vamps but I refused. Instead—” 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 in a strangled whisper.
Killed her sister, the demon summoner. Yeah. I did that. For them. Because they couldn’t.
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. To save one of us, she’d ride the devil’s coattails into hell, put out the fire, and force the devil to not only set us free, but to take us all back to Earth. 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 planned to avoid the fuss of a wedding with . . .people. With all thesefeelingsand thisemotion, sensations that crackled through the group like electricity, and into my heart. My squishy squashy gooey heart.
“Mama, you cussed. You said hell,” Angie Baby grinned at her mother. “Can I cuss tonight?”
Everyone laughed except Moll, though she looked more affectionate than irritated as she tugged one of the girl’s strawberry blonde 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, Louisiana style.
Deon rolled in a cart of food: boudin, cheeses, petits fours smothered in dark chocolate and real truffles. Some nearly raw beef sliced so thin 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 salty and 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 wasn’t taking off the dressing gown or the see-through white knee-highs and risk them seeing that I was weaponed up, not 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 atehors d’oeuvresand drank more of Deon’s special mimosas, some of which appeared on the tray in individual glasses with a blue liquid layer on the bottoms and a blue orchid floating on top. My skinwalker metabolism didn’t let me get drunk, but I drankenough that I did feel a little sappy. Okay. A lot sappy, and not because of the mimosas.
Finally, it was eight o’clock, and I stepped behind the folded screen while my ladies-in-waiting and my matron-of-honor raced to their rooms to finish dressing. Blessed silence fell on my ears and I let out a noisy breath. “Alone at last,” I muttered. Not that it lasted.
With a soft tap, Deon stepped inside and shut the door.
His wedding outfit was in a bag in the changing room at the chapel, but he was never the sort to let an opportunity for dressing up go to waste, not when it could make me smile. I checked him out. For the pre-wedding rush, he was dressed in hot pink spangles, top to toe. Catching my eye, he pranced and spun around for me to get a good look, saying, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Queenie Lady!”
“I look forward to your ensemble,” I said, imagining him dressed like that piano player from the last century. Libertarian or something. “Bling covered cape? diamond covered shoes?” I asked.
