Authors: MaryJanice Davidson
fiancé, Sinclair. So he always figured we were married, too. Even when I couldn't stand
him, he assumed we were hitched."
"Aggravating."
"Say it twice. Anyway, the last thing he wanted was a real wedding with a dress and a
caterer and a cake we can't eat."
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"Oh. And now he's gone?"
"Yeah."
Jeannie was probably a lousy poker player. I was grateful she was too tactful to suggest
Sinclair hadn't been kidnapped. She looked at me, bit her lip, and then went back to
staring at the ceiling.
"I hope we get this cleared up sooner rather than later," she fretted, shifting in her seat.
Her shoulder-length hair, normally curly, was bordering on frizzy, thanks to the humidity,
and she shoved a wad of it behind one ear and crossed her legs. "I haven't seen my son in a
week."
"Oh? How many kids do you have?"
"Lara here, and my son, Aaron. He'll be two next month." She sighed. "Obviously this trip was too dangerous for a toddler."
"Uh." I glanced at Lara, reassuring myself she was engrossed and paying no attention.
"Not to tell you your business, but I think it's too dangerous for anybody under thirty."
She smiled thinly. "Lara will be the next Pack leader. The more she knows about the world
before she has to take over, the better."
"Yeah, but—not much time to just be a kid, huh?"
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) Jeannie said nothing. But I could tell she didn't like it. What must it be like , I wondered,
to be a human in the middle of a bunch of werewolves? In love with your husband and
glad enough to have kids with him, but caught up in a society with completely different
rules?
I could so totally relate.
"So even though you have a little boy, Lara will—?"
"The mantle's passed down by birth order, not gender."
"How refreshing!" And I meant it. Men usually got all the breaks.
"Yeah. But I see where you're going with all this. And yeah, I wish I could protect Lara
from—well, everything. But a werewolf cub isn't like a human child. Even a half/half, like
my daughter. They're bolder than we are, and faster, more pragmatic and . . . well, crueler,
in some ways. From the day she was born she was different than any human baby. I swear,
she was born without the fear gene."
"Fear is a gene?"
"You want to get into it, blondie?" she demanded, but she was smiling. "Because we'll go, if you want to go."
"Don't call me blondie, fuzzball."
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"Mom, you worry too much," Lara said from the floor, drawing what appeared to be a
field of upside-down mushrooms on fire.
"That's my prerogative."
"What's—"
"It means that as your mom, I retain the right to worry about you pretty much until the
day I die."
"Oh, yay," the kid muttered, then giggled when Jeannie nudged her rump with the toe of
her sandal.
"So your husband and his buds are running around on all fours in the middle of St. Paul
right about now?"
Jeannie shrugged. This was obviously old stuff to her. I couldn't help but admire her. She'd
adjusted to her extreme lifestyle change a lot better than I had. Of course, she'd had a few
more years to deal with it.
"I wish I was on all fours right now," Lara said.
I looked a question at Jeannie, who replied, "Puberty, usually."
"Oh, that sounds like a fun time."
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) She grinned and opened her mouth, but before she could elaborate . . .
"Ah, Ms. Taylor! So nice to see you again."
"Yeah, hi, uh—"
"Misty, Sherri, and I will be heading out for a quick bite, but you're our only appointment
this evening. Christopher is in the back, selecting some gowns we think will superbly suit
your height and complexion."
"Superb," I said.
"Mega superb," Jeannie added.
"We've got some lovely things in from Saison Blanche, Nicole Miller, Vera Wang, and
Signature."
"Terrific. But you know, time's kind of an issue for me.
"And not wanting to be here is kind of an issue for my mom," Lara added, ignoring
another toe-poke from her mother.
"Can't I just go in the back and sort of look around? It'd go a lot faster, don't you think?"
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"I'm afraid that's against policy, Ms. Taylor. But we're willing to stay as late as necessary
this evening to be sure you find the perfect gown."
Jeannie groaned. I couldn't blame her. If I were in her shoes, I'd probably be bored out of
my mind, too. In fact, I was sort of amazed that—
(Beth)
"Sorry, what?"
Jeannie glanced at me. "What?"
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing out loud. But I was thinking all sorts of nasty things." She grinned. "What?
Vampires can read minds?"
"No." Not entirely true. I could read Sinclair's mind when we were making love. In fact, it
was just as well we were fated to rule for a thousand years, because he had ruined sex for
me with anybody else.
Wait a minute! The Book of the Dead said we were fated to rule for a thousand years.
There wasn't anything in there about Sinclair being killed before we even got officially
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) hitched.
Why hadn't I thought of that before?
I was so excited I wanted to run out of the bridal shop and—and—well, I wasn't sure
what I wanted to do, but I sure didn't want to sit there a moment longer. I—
"Here we are, Ms. Taylor." Christopher emerged from a side hall, where I knew he'd hung
three or four gowns in a dressing room for me to try on. It was good timing, since the
other three clerks had just left.
Concealing my excitement, I slowly got to my feet, sauntered over to Christopher, gripped
him by the elbow, and murmured, "Take us to all the dresses."
He wheeled around like a reprogrammed robot and started marching toward the back.
Snickering, Jeannie rose and followed, and Lara followed her.
Now we were getting somewhere. That's right, everything was coming up Betsy!
The salon had, at rough count, three thousand gowns in the back. I could eliminate some
right off the bat. No meringue dresses. Nothing with too many beads—I hated shiny.
Nothing strapless—I'd freeze my ass off. Nothing with a long train—I'd trip and make a
fool of myself, guaranteed. No mermaid styles—the clingy gown that flared out from the
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) knees.
And none of that new slutty style, either—the kind that looked like a traditional dress from
the back, but from the front the skirt split just below crotch level and showed miles of leg.
Not that my legs weren't fabulous. But this was a wedding . . . some decorum was called
for.
I was looking for a nice, creamy ivory. Pure white was too harsh with my undead
complexion. Even off-white was a little too much.
Lara went back to coloring, and Jeannie paced around the back like a caged cat. I would
occasionally emerge for a thumbs-up or -down.
"No."
"Uh-uh," Lara said, glancing up from her new drawing.
"Doesn't suit you," Jeannie said when I emerged again.
"Mom's right."
And again . . . "Nope."
"Too billowy."
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) And again. "Your tits are just about popping out. Now, if that's the look you're going for .
. . "
And again. "You're lost in all those ruffles."
"Buried," Lara agreed.
"What about some color?" Jeannie asked. Her voice was muffled, as she was pretty far in
the back.
"No, I want traditional, yet fabulous."
"I don't mean all red or all blue. But how about this?" Jeannie emerged holding a cream-
colored gown with a plunging-yet-not-slutty bodice, cap sleeves, an A-line style with a
simple skirt that fell straight to the floor. Small red silk stars and flowers were
embroidered all over the skirt and bodice.
I stared. Lara stared. Then Jeannie looked at the price tag and stared. "Fuck a duck," she
said. "Never mind."
"Hold it!"
And that's how the alpha female of the Wyndham werewolves found my wedding gown.
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“It fit you perfectly." Jeannie still couldn't get over it. We had just gotten back to the
mansion. "Didn't you say you're getting married in a few days? You really lucked out.
Whoever heard of an off-the-rack wedding dress that didn't need alterations?"
"Proof that it's The Gown For Me. Thanks again. If you hadn't found it, I never would
have thought to ask for such a thing."
"No need to thank me, my motives were purely selfish. That's three hours of my life I
didn't have to waste in that taffeta hellhole. Lara, go find your bag and get ready for bed."
She turned to me. "We grabbed one of the bedrooms on the third floor, is that all right?"
"Sure. There's plenty of room up there." I glanced at my watch. Nine o'clock. I was giving
serious thought to flipping through the Book of the Dead. But I was also afraid. The last
time I'd tried such a stunt, I'd turned into a truly awful bitch for the better part of the
evening. Hurt my friends. Hurt Sinclair. It had taken me a long, long time to forgive
myself.
And there was Jeannie and Lara to think about. Michael hadn't left them in my care so I
could attack them after reading the wrong chapter in the vampire bible.
Worse: the Book didn't have an index, or even a table of contents. There was no way to
look anything up. I'd have to flip through it—skim as much as possible—and hope I
stumbled across something helpful.
On the upside? The Book was never wrong. It had successfully predicted me, Sinclair, my
powers, and come to think of it—
"My baby," I said out loud, ignoring Jeannie's curious look. How did it go? "And the
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) Queene shalt noe a living childe, and he shalt be hers by a living man." Yeah. That was
more or less it. When Sinclair had told me at the time, it had depressed the hell out of him.
He assumed it meant I'd get knocked up by someone else. But I "knew" a living child who
was mine by another man . . . my father.
So the Book of the Dead had been right about a baby. It also foretold that Sinclair and I
were supposed to be the king and queen for a thousand years. Did that mean I could quit
worrying? That everything would work itself out?
(Beth)
"What?"
"Betsy?"
"What?"
"Your purse is ringing."
I glanced at the table where we habitually tossed our purses, wallets, and keys. Jeannie
was right. My purse was ringing. I opened it and grabbed my cell.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me. Whoa, you actually answered your cell!"
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"Hi, Jess, and yes I did. What's up?"
"I was wondering how the dress shopping went."
"Awesomely."
"I'm pretty sure that's not a word."
"Who cares? I found it."
"Great! It's still cream, right? You stayed away from the pure whites?"
"Yeah, and—"
"Great. Come on over to the hospital, will you? I've got something for you."
"You mean right now?"
"No, I mean next month. Yeah, now."
I glanced at my guests, who I assumed were more interested in going to bed than running
around the oncology ward at this hour. I covered the bottom half of the phone. "Do you
guys mind if I run out for a bit?"
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"No," Jeannie yawned. Lara was already sleepwalking toward the stairs, a toothbrush
clenched in one fist.
"Okay, Jess," I said. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
“If this is an ambush so Nick can shoot me in the head," I announced, walking into her
room, "I'm going to be very upset."
"He went home to crash in a proper bed for a couple of hours. I practically had to call
Security to get him out of here."
"Well. He's worried about you, the fascist."
"He'll get over this latest, uh, wrinkle." Jessica didn't look—or sound—at all sure of
herself. In fact, she looked generally ghastly. The new round of chemo was not being kind.
And as I'd said, Jessica couldn't afford to lose any weight. But she was smiling and had an
expression on her face I knew well: Jessica had a secret.
"You mean the whole mind-rape thing? He hates me. And Sinclair."
Jess didn't bother denying it; we'd been friends for too long to take refuge in false comfort.