“Excuse me,” he says, pushing aside his earpiece. “Do you mind wiping your shoes?”
I glance down, past my subtle, black, and wedding-vendor-appropriate attire, to my Crocs. They have a sheen of blood on them, courtesy of the butcher delivery. Eww.
“My bad.” I shrug. “Some of the meat must’ve leaked. Anyway, I’m here for the wed—”
“The vendor entrance is around the back,” the valet says with a look that doesn’t have to be snooty. It’sbeyondthat, like I don’t even deserve snooting.
Fine by me. I’m all about keeping a low profile. Dutifully, I follow the valet’s directions. Once my shoes and feet are rinsed in a bottle of Evian, Mandy and I divide and conquer.
Like the good pixie she is, Mandy swishes off to deliver raw meat to the kitchen and to remind the hotel’s catering staff not to light the grills. I check in on the team of florists. They’re moving flower-covered foam squares into the venue entryway, where they’re affixing the panelsfrom floor to ceiling. The idea is to create a ten-foot-long, arched flower tunnel out of enough baby’s breath, hydrangea, and roses to smother a four-alarm forest fire. I leave Mandy to supervise that beautiful debacle while I double-check the tables, chairs, place settings, and flower arrangements against the printouts on my clipboard. I’ve got to ensure Sidney’s vision comes to pass. Every linen must be the correct shade, well-ironed, and pressed. Not one candle can go unlit—or be positioned too close to any arrangement, potentially setting it and the table ablaze. Midway through setup, I meet up with the first of the four photographers, a youngish guy named Levi. While he jabbers on, I eyeball the room again. A critical part of my work tonight—both as a Spük and as a wedding planner—is to ensure no one figures out Sidney’s a werewolf.
So far, everything seems to be going normally. Completely unsabotagey.
I don’t trust it.
Yet, by the time the staff tells me Sidney and Brett’s helicopter has landed, the venue appears ready. With the flower wall complete, the florists have dispersed to do final touch-ups to their arrangements and the décor exterior to the ballroom. A vaguely famous-looking jazz crooner and band have arrived, along with the ballerina troupe and the mirrored surface where they’ll perform a reprise of their en pointe wedding march. Drapery is pinned to the vaulted ceiling; the electricians are testing the accent lighting. Everything’s beautiful and opulent. And more importantly, on the surface, paranormal-free.
Could the gnomes be keeping the saboteurs occupied? That’s got to be it.
With a quick flash of gratitude to Hanry’s foresight in hiring the little critters, I head to the penthouse suite. When I waltz into the open-plan living area, Sidney is seated at a marble high-top counter on a silk-cushioned stool, getting her blush touched up by a makeup artist, or MUA. Having avoided the traffic by gift of helicopter, she looks like the picture-perfect New England bride. She’s wearing the first of her two reception dresses. It’s more than incredible: the corseted white dress is high-necked, long-sleeved, and sheathed in a layer of romantic3D floral motifs and botanical lace. Full coverage was a wise move, though Sidney doesn’t seem the least bit furry. That said, the hair on her head is particularly luscious and thick. It’s being re-pinned up in a classy bun-thing, revealing diamond earrings that probably cost as much as her helicopter.
“Congratulations!” I say over the pop music pulsing from the room’s hidden speakers.
“Thank you!” Sidney’s earrings shimmer as she shakes her head delightedly. “This is the best day of my life.”
“Yay!” cheer her bridesmaids, showering the room with equally unrestrained enthusiasm.
Surveying the suite for signs of sabotage, witches, or plastic bags, I catch a blond bridesmaid in the process of lifting her friend’s dress. She sniffs her friend’s butt, then gives a thumbs-up.
“Looks like you’re all having fun,” I say.
“We are! Samantha, please—have a macaroon!”
I consider the elegant but vaguely disturbing dessert and raw meat charcuterie spread artfully laid out on the counter.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I say. I’ve got a niggling worry starting that in spite of all I’ve done downstairs, these werewolves may—by nature of their canine behavior—fail to blend in with the rest of the guests as well as I’d initially hoped.
“You’re all still wearing your little wristbands, right?” I ask. “The ones with the magic runes or whatever on them, to keep yourselves from… becoming too noticeably wolfish?”
“Of course we are!” laughs a bridesmaid. “But ours arejeweledbracelets. Only the best!”
“Is everything okay, Samantha?” Sidney asks. “Wait. Please don’t tell me if anythingisn’tworking out, okay? Oh, and can you check on Brett? I miss him already!”
“Awww,” chime more of the bridesmaids. “She’s so loyal!”
“Aww,” I echo, and plaster on a smile. “I’ll go visit him now. You just enjoy your day. I’ll take care of everything. By the way, you look gorgeous.”
“Okay! Thank you, yay! And let me know how he likes the drinks I sent!”
Theoretically, Sidney could text her new husband to ask. But I’m being paid handsomely for this, so I muster up the strength to match her enthusiasm and give a peppy “Sure!”
As I exit the room, I nearly trip over a person.
“Merry Christ—I mean—ahh,” the person says. “Sorry about that.”
Expression dazed, Levi the photographer rightens himself. He lifts his camera and struggles to focus his lens. I step aside, meaning to let him into the suite. But he hasn’t recovered his footing. He stumbles into a glass bar cart, splashing his face with vodka, making the bridesmaids bark with laughter. Meanwhile, my heart thuds hard in my chest. Because even the most awkward person should still be able to enter a room successfully.
Something’s off with Levi.
