Authors: Clare Willis
The man in the baseball cap lit a cigarette. “Do you want us to call you when it’s done?” he asked, exhaling in Dennis’s face.
Sunni and Dennis exchanged glances.
“That’s not necessary,” Sunni replied. “We’ll know. ”
“Okay then.” The man dropped the lit cigarette on the sidewalk. He started to turn the corner.
“Wait!” Sunni said.
He looked back at her, his expression neutral.
She closed the distance between them. Up close, she saw his teeth were nicotine stained and his glasses were smudged.
“This man is very, very dangerous,” she whispered.
He smiled. “Yeah, okay.”
She grabbed the arm of his jacket. “I’m serious,” she hissed. “You can’t mess around with this guy. Don’t try to do it with one man, it needs to be several, and they have to be experts. You’ve got to kill him right away; don’t talk to him first. Riddle him with bullets, do you hear me?”
He stared steadily at her hand until she released him. “People like me generally don’t like it when people like you tell us how to do our job,” he said, and then he turned around and walked away.
Sunni ground the man’s cigarette under her heel. “I don’t like this, Dennis.”
He shrugged. “They come very highly recommended.”
“What if they get killed?” Sunni shrieked.
“Quiet.” Dennis tucked Sunni under his arm. “These are trained assassins, Sunni,” he said quietly. “If anyone can do the job, they can.”
Richard left the hotel with plenty of time to spare: St. Sebastian’s was only five blocks up Powell Street. It was a beautiful evening. The perpetual wind and fog had finally receded, leaving the city looking brand-new. San Francisco in the fog was a Monet, all muted colors and soft focus. In sunshine it was a Van Gogh, chaotic and bright. Richard liked the city either way, but to be honest, it was hardly more than the backwater it had been before the Gold Rush. He couldn’t wait to get back to London, to show Sunni what a real city could offer.
He thought about the wedding that was about to occur. It would be his third—no his fourth, actually. He’d forgotten about the barmaid in Munich in 1943. His latest coupling had been to the Countess Yvette de la Foucault, of Lyon, three years ago. It had been a daring move on his part. She was a very rich, very high profile woman. Their marriage was all over the news in Europe. The nerves of every vampire in the Council had been jangled, especially when the countess began to grow ill, of a wasting disease—anemia, septicemia—something nasty but impossible to diagnose. Within two weeks of the marriage she was dead, and her entire fortune had passed to her new husband. It was only then that he found out that the fortune consisted of a mortgaged estate filled with antiques encumbered by the claims of twenty-four different descendants. Isabel, on the other hand, had assured him that she was the sole heir to the LaForge millions.
Lazarus smiled at a pair of attractive women passing him as he strolled up the hill.
“Nice tux,” one of them said.
He lowered his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“God damn it,” Richard snapped. “What do they want now?”
The women heard him and looked alarmed, but he wasn’t speaking to them. He was referring to the black limousine that had just pulled into the bus stop. As the door opened Richard prepared himself to deal with Scipio and his henchmen again. He wasn’t worried, but he wanted to get to the church on time. Dealing with the Council might make him late.
But the person who opened the door wasn’t a vampire. It was a red-haired man in a dark suit. Gingers, they called them in England. He held a gun, very discreetly tucked into the crook of his other arm, just the muzzle showing. There was another man in the car: larger, bald, and with a dark complexion. He wasn’t displaying a gun, but Richard guessed he was probably carrying one. Two humans, armed with guns. This was an interesting development.
He stepped into the car at their request. Immediately he pulled a cologne-scented handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose. The car stank—of sweat, dried blood, and the rancid stench of fear. These men had been busy. Richard took a deep whiff of cologne and put the hanky down.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?”
The bald man answered. “Dennis LaForge sent us. ”
“I see. You have a wedding gift for me?”
The bald man smiled without showing his teeth. “You could say that. ”
The windows were tinted but Richard could see easily as the car drove a block and then turned into an underground parking garage. They circled down a few floors and parked. Richard could smell the tension coming off the men. It was decidedly more pronounced from the ginger. He had sensed something about Richard that was making him nervous.
The ginger had kept his gun trained on Richard the entire time. To his credit, his hand didn’t shake. Richard’s eyes lingered on the man’s gold wedding band. It was shiny, with not a scratch on it.
The bald man cracked two knuckles. “You aren’t getting married today, I’m afraid. You’re going to leave town now and you aren’t coming back.”
“And if I decline? ”
The man’s expression hardened. He was good at his job, Richard thought. If he were human he’d be quite frightened.
“You don’t get to decline.”
Richard clicked his tongue. “Did your employer tell you anything about me? ”
“He told me enough,” the bald man said.
“Let’s stop talking, Charlie, and just do it,” the red-haired man interjected.
The bald man opened his mouth to reply. It was still open when Richard grabbed his head and snapped it neatly to the side, severing his spinal cord. His head flopped forward, pulling his body along with it, onto the floor. The other man’s gun went off as Richard knocked his hand aside. Whoever had been driving behind the frosted glass panel jumped out of the car. The sound of footsteps on concrete receded into the distance. Richard smiled at the one human left behind.
“Newlywed, are you? ”
The man couldn’t answer. Richard felt his fear like a damp cloud. Like fog, it was, really. Quite unpleasant to be around.
“Well, you should be grateful to me. There will never be a chance for the marriage to go sour. She’ll always remember you like this, young and handsome and virile.”
“Please, sir,” the man babbled. “I’m begging you …”
“Well, perhaps not virile.”
Richard grabbed a hank of the man’s distinctive hair, yanked his head back, and then sank his fangs into his remarkably tender flesh.
The sun coming through the rose window of St. Sebastian’s Cathedral cast a kaleidoscope of color onto the rose petals strewn in the aisle, and its rays illuminated the faces of San Francisco’s glitterati in the front rows. Sunni recognized Francesca Savonarella, first violinist of the San Francisco Symphony; Maribelle Sneed, pulp novelist, multimillionaire and serial bride; and Elizabeth Wexler, San Francisco grande dame and chief of protocol for the mayor’s office. Only a man of Dennis’s stature could have brought this illustrious group together after an engagement almost as brief as that of Britney Spears in Las Vegas. But of course all of them were dying to catch a glimpse of the mysterious London financier who had captured Isabel’s heart.
A wizened old man played the processional music on a two-story tall pipe organ, the notes so resonant that they buzzed in Sunni’s gut. Three more bridesmaids stood at the altar with Sunni, in purple dresses that complemented but didn’t matcheach other. The thinnest woman—Isabel’s cousin, Maxine—was wearing a sleeveless sheath. Her friend from college, Angela, who was a bit plump, sported a fifties-style dress with a full skirt. Francie, Isabel’s colleague from the Museum board, who was built like a telephone pole, was wearing an A-line shift dress.
Four groom’s men balanced the women on the other side of the altar, wearing black tuxedoes and purple vests the exact shade of the girl’s dresses. Richard hadn’t chosen a single one of these gentlemen. They were all Isabel’s cousins or the sons of Dennis’s golfing buddies. According to Isabel, Richard had claimed that he couldn’t bring over any of his friends “from across the pond” at such short notice.
The groom stood in front of the altar, his gaze turned toward the door at the end of the aisle where Isabel would soon emerge. His full shoulders and slim waist formed an inverted triangle under his impeccable tuxedo. His dark hair was perfectly coiffed. His expression was reverent and sentimental, but not maudlin. Sunni had felt a moment of hope when Richard was late for the ceremony, but then there he was, with a few hairs out of place and his bow tie slightly askew. He had stared pointedly at Dennis while he told Isabel that he had been “unavoidably detained. ”
A collective intake of breath announced the arrival of the bride. Isabel was wearing a strapless ivory Vera Wang original, its shape resembling an inverted calalily. The dress was chosen from a dozen that had been brought to the mansion theday before and tailored on the spot. There had been a discussion as to whether Isabel should walk down the aisle or not, with Dennis encouraging her to just step out the side door used by the priest. Isabel had replied that the people had signed up to see a gimp get married and that was what they were going to get.
But to Sunni’s eyes the crutches were invisible, so radiant did Isabel look as she proceeded down the aisle with her father at her side. She wore no veil, nothing to distract from her face, which was illuminated by love as if there was a candle burning behind her eyes. Sunni let her tears flow, knowing that they’d be misinterpreted as tears of happiness. Isabel had no bouquet, as she didn’t have a free hand to carry it. When she reached the altar she handed her crutches to her father. Dennis and Sunni glanced at each other, but then both quickly looked away. Dennis took his seat in the front pew.
Sunni saw now that what she’d perceived as radiance when Isabel walked down the aisle was in fact the sheen of perspiration. Her face was pale, with a bluish cast that was visible even under the layer of makeup she wore. But her smile was beatific, and Sunni smiled back, even though it pained her to do so. Isabel swayed as she turned around. Sunni put out a hand to steady her, but Richard reached her first, sliding his arm protectively around her waist and holding her other hand. The organ gave one last shudder and wheeze and everyone sat down.
“Dearly beloved,” the priest began in a sonorous tone, “we are gathered here today to witness the holy union of Isabel Agnes LaForge and Richard Lazarus …”
Sunni watched Richard take the vows that she knew he had every intention of breaking as swiftly as possible. He played his part to the hilt, even tearing up a little as he placed the platinum band around Isabel’s ring finger. Isabel repeated her own vows in such a soft voice Sunni could hardly hear her. She could only see the back of Isabel’s head, and beyond her, Richard, wearing a smile that chilled Sunni to her core.
When Isabel reached “until death do us part,” her voice completely faded away. As Sunni stared in stunned horror, Isabel stumbled backward. Her eyes rolled up until they showed only whites, and then her legs crumpled. She hit the floor like a doll tossed by a bored child. Richard caught her head before it hit the marble floor. Sunni heard shouts from the audience. Several people started forward, including Sunni, but Richard waved everyone back.
“Give her some air,” he shouted. “And someone fetch a glass of water. ”
Maribelle Sneed, the novelist, had old-fashioned smelling salts in her purse. Sunni was surprised to see that they proved completely effective in reviving Isabel, although she recoiled from the small bottle as if a skunk had sprayed her face.
The priest stood up, smoothing his cassock. “Do you want to continue?” He directed his question to Isabel.
“Yes.” Isabel nodded emphatically. “Daddy, my crutches.”
Dennis grabbed her crutches as Richard helped her to stand up. She finished her vows, her voice a bit stronger. The priest asked for the ring. Sunni fished it out of her pocket, wishing it was a gun with silver bullets, or whatever kind of bullets might work on vampires.
“Help me, Sunni,” Isabel whispered.
Sunni felt a sudden panic wash over her as she looked at Isabel, whose arms were encased in the crutches. Surely she wasn’t going to ask her to put the ring on Richard? Sunni’s hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold onto the heavy platinum band.
“Hold my elbow,” Isabel said.
Sunni secured her friend, holding her by the elbow and waist, but she couldn’t bear to watch the travesty that was occurring. Her eyes drifted out to the crowd. They were misty-eyed and smiling, all of them blissfully ignorant. She knew Jacob wasn’t there, because she herself had banished him, and yet her eyes still searched, moving to the same spot in the back of the audience where she’d seen him at the last wedding.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest said, and Sunni felt Richard pull Isabel away from her.
“She’s mine now,” he whispered, in a voice only Sunni could hear.
The world stopped at that moment, not because Isabel and Richard were married, but because Sunni had seen Jacob. He was standing, as was everyone else, but he wasn’t craning for a glimpse of Isabel. His eyes were focused like a laser on Sunni. What had made her think that just telling him to go away would be successful? He had vowed to watch over her, and here he was. What she felt on seeing him wasn’t anger, it was relief, that she had someone to share this moment with, someone who understood. She gave him a small smile, and he smiled back.
But then two men in dark suits who had been standing nearby grabbed him by the arms and dragged him toward the door. No one else noticed because all eyes were on the wedding couple.
“Jacob!” Sunni screamed. She jumped off the platform, ignoring the tearing sound as her dress ripped up the side. The shocked guests stared as she charged down the center aisle, kicking up a cloud of rose petals.
“Stop them,” she shrieked at the idiots who stood frozen near the door while Jacob was hustled out, but everyone else was moving at human speed and she couldn’t expect them to be able to do anything.