I pulled the dress from its garment bag, laying it across the bed. It was a striking piece made of raw silk in a red so dark it was almost black, with a pattern of glittering silver and gold abstract flowers and contrasting black bamboo. It was dark enough to set off my pale coloring and blonde hair and looked good with the black jacket and matching picture hat I’d be wearing to protect the delicate skin of my face.
Isaac had come through with the solution for my hands and feet: handmade gloves and boots covered in illusion spells that made them look eerily like bare hands and feet—with a perfect manicure and pedicure to match my dress, no less. My skin would be covered and protected, but I’d look like everyone else. I was more grateful to him than I could say.
When I was dressed, I went downstairs to join the others. I’d accessorized with a boatload of concealed weapons as well as the ruby-and-diamond earrings and bracelet that I’d used to have Gilda spy on Olga and Natasha for me—not because I needed their special properties, but simply because they were the best match for my outfit.
I was directed to a tall stool, where an elderly woman with close-cropped curls and skin the color of café au lait whipped a black plastic cape over my shoulders and began using a wide-toothed comb to detangle my hair. It took a bit of time. I have a lot of hair.
“It’s a bit windy today, and I understand you want to wear a hat, is that right?” she asked. There was no censure in her voice.
“Yes. I need to protect my skin.”
“In that case, why don’t I pull it over to one side, and arrange it in curls trailing over your shoulder?” She combed it into place, to give me an idea of how it would work.
“I like that.” I smiled at her.
I sat still, letting her do her thing with a variety of pleasantly scented hair products, a blow dryer, and a pair of tortoiseshell combs. All the while I wished fervently for a cup of black coffee. I can function without caffeine in the morning, but I’m never happy about it.
The stylist was working with the curling iron when Hiwahiwa arrived at the head of a parade of servers pushing carts laden with food and drink—everything from capers to caviar, bagels with cream cheese to scrambled eggs, English breakfast tea to—oh joy and rapture—
coffee.
It smelled glorious. They even brought me a Sunset Smoothie that must have been made from Juan and Barbara’s recipe. It was all I could do to sit still and let the hairdresser finish what she was doing instead of pouncing on the tray like some ravening beast. I’d have to brush my teeth again to get rid of the garlic and onions, but the coffee and the wonderful food were worth every second.
“All done.” She turned the stool around so I could get a look at myself in the mirror behind the bar. “What do you think?”
I looked great. Even without makeup. “Wow.”
“You have great hair,” she said as she whisked off the cape. “Now go eat. When you’re done they’ll want you down the hall for makeup.”
“Thanks, so much.” I wished I could tip her, but I hadn’t brought down my purse. “Um…” I tried to think of an apology that didn’t sound lame, but couldn’t think of a thing.
It was as if she read my mind, or maybe just my uncomfortable expression. “Don’t worry about it,” she assured me. “Everything’s been taken care of. Tips and everything.”
I enjoyed my breakfast while my hairdresser worked on Natasha. I half expected Hiwahiwa to approach me with word about Laka or Okalani, but she didn’t. Most likely, there wasn’t anything to say. Still, I was glad to move to the next room and put some distance between us.
“I’m going to use a base with the heaviest sunscreen available,” the makeup artist assured me as she swept another little capelet over my shoulders. This one was hot pink and marked with the logo of her company. The color was an almost exact match for her short, spiked hair and perfect manicure.
“I appreciate that.”
“My name is Brenna.”
“Celia.”
“I know.” She smiled, showing straight white teeth. “Now try to relax.”
I tried, but wasn’t very successful. It was weird having somebody paint makeup on me. I didn’t like it. Still, I couldn’t argue with the result. When she stepped aside so I could see myself in the mirror, I was stunned.
That was me? Wow. I had a moment of pure ego—which was deflated the minute I got a look at my cousin, seated nearby.
Everybody says brides are radiant, and Adriana was. Her long red hair was held to one side by pearl-encrusted combs carved from abalone shells; it fell in a cascade of curls over one shoulder. The lavalava she wore was dark gold, cream, and yellow, and was tied in a way that showed off her dangerous curves. The cross King Dahlmar had given her the night before nestled in her ample cleavage; the colors of the dress picked up the topaz in the necklace and her topaz-and-pearl earrings.
The makeup artist hadn’t needed to do much for her. Adriana had amazing skin and she was so excited and happy that cosmetics were almost redundant—almost.
Natasha and Olga were both looking lovely as well. I studied myself again in the mirror and was pleased with what I saw. Today I could hold my own with the other bridesmaids, and that was good, because even if the bride was going to be the center of attention, I’d be in lots of the wedding photos, and the event was being televised all over the world. Too, there’d be press photographers taking shots for all the international print media.
There was a light tap on the door.
It was time to go.
The drive from the guest house to the parade route was surprisingly quiet. Nobody bothered making small talk. I didn’t mind. I was enjoying staring out the window at the milling throngs of happy people waving and shouting congratulations as we drove past.
We arrived at the starting point exactly on schedule. Stepping out of the car into the bright morning sun was like stepping into a pool of thick, burning magic. It hurt. I’d known about the protective spells everywhere, but ow, ow,
ow
. Damn. And it was going to be like this for the long, long walk to the courthouse. I’d have to really fight not to wince the whole way—and wouldn’t that look special on the front page of every paper in the world?
The procession probably looked casual, but of course that was an elaborate illusion. Everything had been planned to the last nuance. Adriana and Dahlmar were at the head of the group, walking hand-in-hand. The queen would be directly behind them, escorted by Gunnar Thorsen. If there were any concerns about whether she was strong enough to walk a couple of miles so soon after being released from the hospital, no one I knew had dared voice them. Truthfully, she looked good, and it wasn’t the makeup, either. Being so close to the ocean and back on her home island seemed to be doing wonders for her. She was beautiful in bright turquoise, her golden hair left long and loose so that it fell past her shoulders in shining waves. We three bridesmaids were next, with our escorts. Mine was Griffiths, who looked terrific in traditional long shorts and a flowing white shirt. Igor followed—with Baker at his side, which gave her a reason to stay close to me. I noticed that she and Igor were smiling at each other in a genuinely friendly manner. Hmmm.
I settled my hat on my head, activating the little spell disk that insured it wouldn’t fly off, even in a gale-force wind. Griffiths stepped forward, extending his arm. I took it and we began the stroll to the courthouse steps.
For all the expense, trouble, and elaborate planning, the actual ceremony at the courthouse would only take about fifteen minutes. It boggled my mind. I wondered what the cost added up to per minute, and decided I really didn’t want to know.
We walked down a wide brick street that had been strewn with flower petals of various colors. It smelled fantastic, and probably felt wonderful for those going barefoot. Somewhere, someone on the Internet was probably decrying the waste, and someone else was totting up how many flowers had been denuded to make this happen. But it was beautiful, and I took deep breaths, enjoying the fragrance as I turned from side to side and waved at the crowd.
“You do not know, do you?” Griffiths spoke softly, keeping a smile on his face as he waved cheerfully to the people on our right.
His voice hinted at something amiss. I forced myself to keep smiling, even though I felt a chill of foreboding. “What?”
“Your business associate has not called?”
“I left my phone in my room.” I’d figured it would be rude to leave it on during the morning’s events, so I decided not to even carry it.
“Ah. I see.”
My smile had probably gone brittle. Waving to the cheering crowds on the left, I whispered, “Is anyone dead?”
“No.”
“Maimed?”
“No.”
“Then just tell me.” Military jets roared overhead in formation. I looked up. The crowd looked up. Despite the ooohing and ahhing of thousands of voices, vampire hearing, activated by my rising level of tension, let me hear Griffiths clearly.
“Because of all of the various threats against Adriana and the sirens, my king has had me put intelligence feelers out throughout the world. An informant brought us word of a threat to a siren in Santa Maria de Luna. He had helped plant a bio-magical bomb in the upstairs bathroom of a Victorian office building.”
My stomach lurched. “Shit.”
“I sent my people to check it out. The device they found involves both explosives and powerful curses and was linked to your DNA by strands of your hair. It is a particularly nasty piece of equipment. The bomb squad is on their way. But, based on the photos my colleague has sent me, your police are not going to be able to disarm it. They will insist on a controlled explosion.”
My smile faltered and I gripped his arm tightly so that I wouldn’t stumble. My building. Damn it. Damn, shit, hell, crap, fuck! Swearing internally helped me fight back the tears that stung my eyes. I loved that building. I’d loved it since the day I’d seen it while looking for office space, long before Vicki had left it to me. Yes, it was just a thing, but it was
my
thing. It was unique. And we’d
just
gotten Ron moved out.
This was why Dottie had taken the cat, had had my things sent away, had looked sad. She knew but, like Vicki, couldn’t tell. Because if she had, we might all be dead; our searching for the bomb might have set it off.
I took a deep, shuddering, breath. I could handle this. Nobody I loved was dead. Nobody had been badly hurt. I’d rebuild if I could, or find another office. I could deal.
Griffiths waited until I had myself fully under control. “There is more.”
Wave, smile, turn. Wave, smile, turn. My movements were a little mechanical, but the audience probably wouldn’t notice. “Of course there is.” I didn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
He gave the tiniest nod of acknowledgment. “My people have traced the magical signature and have found out who created this bomb and hired the man to plant it.”
“The terrorists?”
“No. A woman. A human. Her name is—”
I didn’t even have to guess. I finished the sentence for him. “Angelina Bonetti.”
His eyes widened, his eyebrows rising. “You are not surprised.”
Oh, I was surprised. I’d known Angelina was jealous. But a
bomb
? Really? How over the top was that? Still, in a weird way, it made sense. If she was going to kill me, now was the perfect time, and with all of the Guardian of the Faith crap going on, a bombing of my office would likely be written off as an act of terrorism. The terrorists might even lie and take credit for it, which would make the police less likely to look for any other culprits.
Beautiful and smart, she was quite the adversary. If it hadn’t been for the informant, she would probably not only have succeeded in killing me, she’d most likely have gotten away with it.
The knowledge was both shocking and frightening. But it also made me mad. She’d tried to kill me. She actually tried to fucking
kill
me. So much for not being much of a threat to her.
“I’m smiling, Griffiths, but heaven knows what people are reading in my mind.”
He squeezed my arm reassuringly. “That is why I am walking with you. I’m blocking your mind from outside reading or attack. Your thoughts are your own until this is over.”
It was a relief to hear. “Thank you.” Now I could be angry and hurt and terrified and still pretend for the public and the cameras that everything was fine. Everyone would think I was happy while in fact, I felt a level of rage that, if not held in check, was likely to bring out my inner monster. I managed to control it. But it wasn’t easy.
As a consequence, the ceremony was something of a haze to me. I was there. I did my part, but I don’t remember anything specific. Adriana and Dahlmar made their public declarations of love and fidelity, then kissed on the steps of the courthouse amid deafening cheers. We all made happy-happy in our lavalavas, and congratulated the beaming couple by tossing a few thousand flowers’ worth of fragrant petals into the air to fall in a cloud around them. Flashbulbs went off so fast that the air turned white.
Fortunately, there were no other threats. I’m a professional, but I have my limits. Knowing that someone hated me enough to plant a bomb likely to kill not only me, but pretty much anyone within a full square block, was mind-boggling. Shock and anger washed over me in alternating waves as I struggled to wrap my head around the idea.
How the hell had Angelina Bonetti gotten a sample of my hair? After the events of the past couple of years I have become almost fanatically paranoid about preventing that sort of thing, for exactly this reason.
I could only think of one logical possibility. Well, actually two.
John Creede had lost his siren charm, which was made from my hair, in our battle with Glinda. Someone might have found it and made it available on the black market. The other choices were that it had been destroyed … or that it had been taken to Hell. I didn’t want to think too much about the latter option. It was just too frightening.
It was much more likely that Angelina had gotten my hair from the charm I made for Bruno. Maybe that was how she knew he didn’t have it—because she did.