Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  I picked up the parchment and scrutinised it for the umpteenth time. “There’s no mention of that, here.”

  “Lay it down,” Gwyn urged. “Let me read it.”

  I placed it on the desk and she leaned over, quickly scanning the contents. Then she looked up and regarded me with surprise.

  “Have you said yes to this?”

  “Kind of.” I’d emailed after Charity had left earlier, and said I needed to iron out a few issues and clarify details, but theoretically there shouldn’t be a problem. I suppose I had in effect said yes. “Why?”

  “Well I just wonder what you’ve let us all in for.”

  I fidgeted with the paperwork on my desk. I really needed to get on with some work. “How do you mean?”

  “Sabien Laurent?” Gwyn pointed at the signature on the parchment with a long pale finger. “Aren’t the Laurents a well-known vampire family?”

  “Are they? No they’re not. Are you sure?”

  Gwyn nodded slowly.

  “Oh no.” I closed my eyes in dismay. What had I been thinking?

  Gwyn tittered. “Vampires and witches, Alfhild? Now there’s an explosive combination.”

  * * *

  Grandmama was right of course, as she was about so many things.

  A vampire? That explained the letter. The ancient parchment. It had probably been languishing in a drawer for hundreds of years. The elaborate handwriting. The red ink. Perhaps it wasn’t ink at all. Perhaps it was blood.

  My lip curled in distaste.

  I’d never fully understood the enmity between witches and vampires, but I recognised a deep sense of unease within myself whenever I thought about them. Part of that was due to my upbringing. My mother, Yasmin, had always been deeply suspicious of them, and I’d long suspected this was simply an innate prejudice against a species so different from ours.

  Any witch will tell you there are good witches and bad witches, white witches and black witches and every shade in between. I personally knew warlocks and mages, wizards and sages. But on the whole the witches I knew lived within a fluid and accepting creed. They worked with nature, harnessing natural forces, believing strongly in the tenet that what you send out into the universe will revisit you—tenfold.

  My mother had claimed that vampires sucked our energy. By their very parasitic nature, their urge to feed off humans whilst hiding in plain sight, tending to only show themselves under cover of the night, these things struck her as dastardly and ultimately cowardly. I could see why she had barely acknowledged the existence of those who moved within her social circle.

  For my part, I’d met very few.

  I slumped in my chair, wondering how to rescind my yes to the wedding event request. My thoughts were interrupted when the huge black Bakelite telephone on my desk rang, its throbbing vibration making the desk and all its contents, shake along with it.

  I blinked in excitement, enjoying the sensation of butterflies flitting around my stomach. I had yet to become accustomed to people calling to make bookings, but now that I’d started to market the inn—both online and in specialist magazines and newspapers such as The Celestine Times—the phone was ringing more frequently with enquiries and potential bookings. I had to kerb my excitement every time I answered it. I’ll be honest. I felt like a celebrity.

  “Whittle Inn, good afternoon,” I said, my voice as low and smooth as an Italian coffee (I thought anyway).

  “Alfhild Daemonne?” The voice on the other end sounded equally as deep and rich. George Clooney with some sort of accent.

  “Speaking.”

  “Ah, Alfhild. So good to reach you. It is Sabien Laurent here.”

  “Oh!” Quite coincidental that the very man I’d been thinking of had suddenly decided to call me. How prescient. I narrowed my eyes, suspecting telepathy or something dodgy and underhand.

  “You sound surprised,” Sabien said.

  “I was just thinking about you. So yes, it is a surprise.” I could place his accent now. French.

  “How nice to be thought of. I hope it was all ze good things,” he purred.

  Yikes. Good things? Not really. How could I tell him my concerns?

  I laughed nervously. “I was wondering whether Whittle Inn was the best location for your needs,” I began. His accent brought out my very proper English one.

  “It is perfection.”

  “You haven’t seen it yet.”

  “I Googled it. It is in ze perfect location. How do you say, magnifiquement rural?”

  “Rural,” I repeated. “Yes. It is that.”

  “Nicely out of ze way.”

  Out of the way of what, I wondered. With any other client I know I would not have felt so suspicious, but my inner witch twitch was juddering like the rudder of a ship in a storm-tossed sea.

  “We’re just a small inn,” I tried. “Without much in the way of fancy facilities.”

  “We will bring our own entertainment if that eez necessary.”

  The mind boggled. What would vampires consider entertainment? I imagined young virgins being forced to dance to some primitive drum beat in a clearing in Speckled Wood and shuddered. “That won’t be necessary,” I replied hastily. “We have a brilliant Elizabethan ensemble.”

  “Splendide!”

  What was I doing? I seemed incapable of putting the man off. “But, but…” I cast around for another excuse. “Food. I mean… our chef… I’m not sure he can prepare the kind of delights you would find … erm … attractive.”

  “Do not worry, we are used to your British food. Your roast beef and Yorkshire puddings and your feesh and cheeps.”

  “Oh there’ll be none of that,” I said, properly aghast at the idea Whittle Inn would be serving up such mundane everyday culinary fare. “We have a proper chef. All the way from Paris.” I gave a little shriek. I could have bitten off my own tongue.

  “C'est le meilleur résultat pour nous tous, Alfhild?” he asked. “Surely this eez the best outcome for us all?”

  I had to admit defeat.

  “Écoute. The reason I was calling you today. I wondered if you would oblige me by visiting with my son in Hampstead, so that he can go through the finer details of his requirements with you. I know he would visit you himself but travelling can sometimes be a leetle bit challenging for our kind. I’m sure you comprehend zis.”

  “Well, I’m very busy at the moment, with the opening of the inn just over a week away.”

  “All expenses paid. First class. I will telegraph ze details and organise ze booking myself. C'est une petite faveur, n'est-ce pas?” When I didn’t immediately answer he repeated, “It is a small favour, is it not?”

  I closed my eyes in surrender.

  Trust me to commit myself to a weird wedding on the very day my wonky inn re-opened.

  Two days later, I arrived into Paddington Station in London. Exiting the railway station I found a rather swish limousine outside, the chauffeur clutching a clipboard with a version of my name— ‘Demon’—scrawled across a familiar looking piece of parchment.

  I made myself known to the driver and within seconds we were gliding away from the bustling station and moving easily through city traffic. I gazed out of the window, clocking those who turned to look as I floated past in my swanky automobile.

  They think I’m famous, I thought to myself. Ha! Hardly.

  The limousine pulled up outside a rather grand-looking block of private apartments. The 1930s façade, all stark clean lines and art deco windows, would have looked entirely at home on the set of an Agatha Christie film set. The chauffeur unlocked an iron gate that led to the entrance of the building and showed me inside to the foyer.

  “Take the lift up to the top floor,” he said, the first words he had uttered since we’d met. He pressed the button for the elevator to check it was coming. “Mr Melchior Laurent is waiting for you there.”

  I nodded, resisting the urge to giggle at him, he seemed so austere. I watched him walk away until the ting of the bell alerte
d me to my ride and I stepped in. The back wall of the elevator had been covered with a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and given how harsh the lighting was, I could see every piece of fluff my clothes had accumulated on the journey thus far. I brushed myself down, tugging nervously at my long black skirt and fitted jacket, and tried to flatten my unruly hair. The elevator began to climb before I’d even pressed the button. Someone else had called it upstairs. It rose slowly, and I quickly cleaned a smudge of mascara from under my eye, checked my teeth were clean with a grimace and then smiled brightly at myself several times, as though practising a trick I’d never tried out before.

  Arriving at the top floor—the penthouse suite I supposed—the elevator’s bell announced me, and I stepped out onto the thick cream carpet of the vestibule. With only one other door in sight, there was no mistaking where I was heading next. My feet sunk into the floor and I glanced guiltily at my old black boots, hoping they were clean.

  I waded across and tapped lightly on the door. It opened almost immediately, and I stared in surprise at an extremely tall and thin man with the most beautifully clear denim-blue eyes.

  “Hi!” he said, without a trace of French accent. Not like his father at all. Perhaps he had lived here in London his whole life. “You must be Alfhild?” He reached out to shake my hand with just the right pressure. Neither too limp nor too firm. “Come in! Welcome to Laurent Towers.”

  I stepped into the hallway and he closed the door behind me. The walls in the hall were painted red, and the floor had dark wood. No carpet or rugs. I wondered whether the people living in the apartment below were troubled by the sound of people in the penthouse walking over the hard floor. And if they were, did they ever dare to complain?

  There were no windows. A number of lamps cast mute lighting, but not enough to dispel the shadows.

  “Call me Alf,” I said automatically. This man wasn’t what I’d been expecting at all. He was older than I’d assumed, maybe mid-thirties, with the beginnings of a receding hairline. What hair he had was blond, and cut short, but clumsily as though he had done his own barbering after a few beers. Pale and slender, at well over six feet, he towered above me by a good 8 or 9 inches.

  “Alf,” he repeated and smiled, his teeth white and even, and no obvious hint of fang. “I hope you had a pleasant journey?”

  “It was uneventful and extremely comfortable in first class, thank you. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

  He laughed. “May I offer you some refreshments? Marshmallows? Gin? Anything you like really. I’m sure I’ll locate it somewhere.”

  I smiled, amused. Marshmallows? “I’d love some tea. I’m addicted to a good cup of tea.”

  “Coming right up.” He nodded his head down the long hall and I followed him to the kitchen. “How do you take it?”

  “A little milk, one sugar please.” I couldn’t believe my luck. Melchior came across as a perfect gentleman, nothing like the vampires my mother had warned me about.

  “Is almond milk alright? Only I’m a vegetarian and Melchior doesn’t drink milk.”

  I blinked in surprise. “You’re not Melchior?”

  Realising our mistake, he opened his eyes wide and pulled a face. “Oh no, sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. How rude of me. I’m Marc. Marc Williams. I’m… well I’d like to say I’m one of Melchior’s oldest friends, but given his advanced age, I’m probably a relatively new friend, as I’ve only been around for thirty or so years.”

  “Oh I see.” I tried to hide my disappointment. Hopefully Melchior would be just as easy to get on with as Marc. Time would tell. Then my brain back-stepped through what he’d said. “Wait. You’re a vegetarian?”

  “Yes, I always have been.” He waved the container of almond milk at me and I nodded for him to go ahead and add it to my mug.

  “Doesn’t that make being a vampire difficult?”

  “Extremely.” He grimaced. “I’ve adapted over the years, but even so, it’s a blessing and a curse.” He handed me my tea, so hot, the steam opened the pores on my face when I bent down to take a sip. “And you? You’re a witch?”

  “Not a particularly good one.” I hurriedly blew on the scalding liquid to cool it down. “Hopefully getting better with time.”

  “That’s all any of us can strive for,” Marc responded with a gentle smile. “Let me take you through to see Melchior. He won’t have been awake long, so do forgive him if he’s a bit groggy.”

  I followed him along the hall. He paused and tapped at a door, listened for a moment and then pushed it open, walking into what can only be described as some kind of enormous mock -renaissance boudoir. I followed him in, gawping at the array of scantily clad stone statues arranged around a massive water feature in the centre of the over-heated room. The floor was marble, or mock-marble at least, and delicate silk curtains billowed as air was injected into the room through vents in the wall. The windows were tightly shuttered. Melchior was sprawled in a super-king-size bed, wearing little more than a black satin sheet.

  He was not alone.

  Two dark-haired beauties with milk-white skin had draped themselves around him and each other and were sound asleep, perfect rosebud mouths sighing in unison. They might have been sisters, twins even.

  “Oh,” I said, but the sound my mouth ejected sounded more like ‘eww’.

  “This is Alf,” Marc said, oblivious to the odd scene playing out in front of us.

  “Alf?” Melchior sat up and blinked at me, his eyes red and bleary.

  “Alfhild Daemonne? Your father wants you to talk to her about the wedding, remember?”

  “Oh drat. Yes.” Like Marc, Melchior’s accent was decidedly British.

  Melchior nudged the two women lying either side of him. They opened their eyes, and one reached up to drag him back down next to her, but he clapped his hands irritably. “Go, go, go!”

  I turned away to examine the water feature as the women slid out of bed and headed for the door. One of them came close and brushed past me, hissing as she did so. I recoiled in revulsion.

  Yep. These were the vampires my mother had warned me about.

  “I’ll leave you two, to it, shall I?” Marc asked, and every bone and fibre in my being wanted to hold him back and yell, ‘No, stay here and protect me’, but of course I couldn’t do that. Perhaps he could read my mind, for he winked at me conspiratorially. “If you need anything, I’ll be down the hall in the kitchen preparing Melchior’s breakfast.”

  I watched him go and turned back into the room with trepidation.

  “Shall we get started?” Melchior asked, already sounding bored. He indicated a seating area, next to the shuttered windows. The delicate curtains covered both blinds and shutters, and not a hint of the bright sunny afternoon infiltrated the room.

  “Do you mind if I take my jacket off?” I asked. I was feeling the heat. Melchior shrugged and threw himself onto a chaise longue. Fortunately he was now wearing a long robe, which spared my blushes.

  “Oh,” he tutted and rubbed his eyes. “I should have asked Marc to being me a protein shake. I skipped dinner last night and I’m feeling the lack of iron a little today.”

  I shuddered. “Is Marc your friend or your manservant?” I asked curiously.

  Melchior frowned in confusion. “Is there a difference?”

  Taken aback, I thought about his response. Perhaps he was right. I certainly counted Florence and Zephaniah among my friends, and yet they worked for me. Some relationships can be complicated, can’t they? I decided it would be better for me to plough on with discussing the organisation of the wedding. The sooner we hammered out the finer details the better. I fully intended to be back on the train to Devon before it began to get dark.

  I pulled a clipboard and pen from my bag. “I need to clarify a few things with you.”

  “Well I can certainly tell you what I want which should make things easy for you.” Melchior fixed me with his dark eyes. I was taken by the coldness in them, as though any sense of lif
e had long been extinguished. The frigidity of his stare bled through my skin and sunk into my bones, and now I shivered despite the heat in the room.

  “We can certainly try to—”

  “There is no try, Alfhild. I take it you have never hosted a vampire wedding before?”

  I held my tongue. Truth to tell, I’d never hosted a wedding full stop.

  “I thought not.”

  The arrogance and rudeness of this young man was breath-taking.

  “Sabien is paying for everything so you don’t need to worry about the cost of anything.” This much I knew, as Sabien had promised to deposit a sizeable amount of money in my bank account just as soon as I had met with Melchior. “He will supply the celebrant who will conduct our ceremony in the garden of the inn under the light of the Hunter’s moon.”

  I blinked, curious about the reference. “I wasn’t aware that vampires were much bothered by phases of the moon?” Sabien had mentioned the importance of the moon ceremony too, but I was under the impression that such things were unimportant to vampires, in stark contrast to us witches, who used the moon cycle for all manner of magickal rites and spell workings.

  “Some old hag somewhere has brainwashed Sabien into thinking that marrying at midnight on the 31st October under the Hunter’s moon will guarantee him, me, and any of my offspring, a long and auspicious immortality with great prosperity.” Melchior picked at his ear. “For some reason those things are important to him.”

  “But not to you?”

  “I couldn’t care less whether I was married in a witch’s hovel in the countryside… or a hay loft, quite frankly.” His eyes bore into mine and I shifted uncomfortably, bristling at his slur on my inn. The reference to The Hay Loft was deliberate. He’d been checking me out.

  “Cessabit,” I hissed under my breath, calming the indignant fizz of my rising blood pressure and imagining water from a deep-rooted natural spring running through my veins and over my skin, cleansing me and soothing my ire.

  When I had control I met his dead stare again and smiled, lifting my pen to begin writing. “So you’ll supply the celebrant,” I agreed, keeping my tone light and gracious. Something in his gaze shifted, like oil on water, slippery and dark. He didn’t like the fact that I’d regained control of myself.