“I just wish Bulan had told me he wasn’t coming,” Mandy sniffles between rabid rips of candy.
“He was never going to join us anyway. Think about it. Most humans would be terrified of a bouncing head at their wedding. No one wants a party interrupted by John the Baptist.”
“Is that his costume?” asks Mandy.
“Who knows?”
“You know,” says Mandy, “I think the way Bulan moves is SO impressive. My head can’t move like that! Neither can yours!”
I draw my hand to my neck, feeling very self-aware. “I’m grateful mine is still attached to my body.”
“Right?! That’s why I wonder, is he… I mean…” Mandy turns contemplative. “What is he?”
Now that’s surprising. As a paranormal being herself, I assumed she knew. I twist fully to look Mandy in the eyes.
“You don’t know?”
“No, not a clue! Gosh. From your expression, I’m guessing he never told you either?”
“I never asked. I figured there were loads of disembodied heads wobbling around the planet. It would explain all of those headless horsemen myths.”
Mandy doesn’t seem taken with my theory. I guess I haven’t thought about it much since the first few days he and I started cohabitating at Grandma’s. I figured it wasn’t important. I maintain that, actually.
But itisinteresting how quickly this mysterious being has become integrated into my life and my routines. This morning, I caught myself readying Bulan’s bucket of fresh water before realizing he wasn’t home. And wondering idly when exactly he started spending so much time with those crows. Maybe he’s always been a crow-head? Was he just waiting for me to become comfortable in Salem, to prove I could handle myself in the Community without him, before going back to his normal routine of crow hangouts?
HowdidI become so comfortable around him, anyway? And living here in Salem—how has this routine become so easy that it seems all but instinctive? When did I start wanting to know more about the paranormal community instead of working off a strict need-to-know basis?
I’ve been here too long. I’m sure that’s all it is.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Mandy gives me a fat-lipped pout and says, “I tried asking him.”
“Yeah?” I ask, refocusing on the present. “What’d he say?”
“NOTHING! He wouldn’t tell me, no matter how much I begged. He was completely immune to my wiles! Even when I did this.”
Mandy twists a curl around a finger and cocks her head, the expression guileless and doe-eyed. I have a feeling this is supposed to be more than simply cute, as she waits a few moments for me torespond. When I don’t, she throws herself against the grubby alley wall in dejection.
“It didn’t work again! Why? Am I not as good-looking as I used to be?” she cries. “Is working wearing me down, Sabby?”
I offer her a consoling pat on the shoulder. This also gives me the opportunity to brush off dirt. “It’s only been two weeks. Give it a year, maybe?”
“I should ask Bulan. See if working is why he lost his legs? If they just… wore away.”
“He claims to be a couple centuries old, at least. And that he was once a warlord of some kind. I think he’s tougher than he lets on.”
Which is why Bulan should be fine today, wherever he is on his costume-hunting mission. I’m glad he has something to do while we handle Sidney and Brett’s wedding reception. Like I said to Mandy, Bulan’s presence would disrupt the guests’ otherwise sentimental experience.
And I have a dark feeling that my saboteurs will cause enough disruption on their own.
After the butcher’s, we make a pit stop at the cake caterer, then set out for North Marblehead—only to be blockaded by a truly evil swarm of cars. It pains me that Sidney chose to be married the night before Halloween, the holiday better known to Salem’s paranormal community as All Hallows’ Eve. This holiday is, unequivocally, the reason Salem traffic has taken on such an on-theme, nightmarish cast. We inch forward, recirculated air engulfing the interior of the van with the smell of raw meat and cake. I’d prefer to be sniffing Bulan’s used bathwater. Hell, I might even prefer drinking it.
All right: if I’m ever in charge of planning a whole wedding or doing another day-of coordination again, I should require caterers to handle their own catering. I bet it’s possible to request on-site delivery. While at a standstill, I’m typing this note into my phone when my attention catches on the fizzing navigation panel of my most recent rented SUV.Fighting off a weird embarrassment, I tuck my phone away and refocus on the road. I won’t be stuck doing this job much longer. There’s no need to get better at it.
Especially when this highway wants to kill us.
By some miracle, we arrive almost on schedule at the reception venue. Sidney and Brett, unlike us plebes, will travel here by helicopter, landing on the roof an hour ahead of their guests. Yes, that’s right: this luxury hotel has ahelicopter pad. Among other bougie features. Mandy whistles in appreciation as I park beneath the vaulted porte cochere. Soon these marble columns will be lit with accent lights, the urns loaded with flowers in Sidney’s wedding colors. Already the venue is more than gorgeous. The hotel lobby has wall-to-wall windows, so I can see right inside through the entryway, bar, and lounge straight to the sea. Everything’s bright and subtly sparkling—the crashing waves, the custom-looking chandeliers. It’s all high-end without seeming like it’s trying to be a palace in France.
No sooner have I opened the door than I’m greeted by a valet in crisp, modern black.
