Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  “Where did this happen?” he demanded.

  “Right here in the bar,” I told him quietly, leading him to where the armchair had been positioned facing the window. “Thaddeus was seated here. Tied to the chair. We couldn’t see him in the dark.”

  “You destroyed him?” Sabien asked mournfully.

  The hackles on my neck bristled. How dare he? “Now stop there,” I snapped, quivering with indignation. “The person you need to blame for this is whomever tied Thaddeus to that chair and sabotaged the electricity downstairs. We can’t be held responsible for what happened. Yes, we opened the shutters, but no, we had absolutely no intention of hurting one of our guests.”

  My raised voice caused some curious looks from the other vampires gathering in the bar, no doubt to wage more destruction on my inn. I’d had enough.

  “To a witch,” I said pointedly, “intent is everything.”

  Sabien nodded curtly at this. “But even so, it was careless—”

  “Opening the shutters was an accident Sabien. We couldn’t have known.” Fury bubbled inside me, like a champagne bottle that had been shaken too hard, desperate to explode. “Who destroyed Thaddeus?” I asked.

  Sabien shrugged.

  “He had a run-in with Gorkha just last night.”

  “I’m sure zat was something and nothing,” Sabien said. “A disagreement about a woman, that’s all.”

  “So Gorkha didn’t do this?” I indicated the chair.

  “No.” He reconsidered and then offered. “Perhaps you are right, and ze whole thing was an accident.”

  Thaddeus had been tied to the chair. That hadn’t been accidental. Sabien fixed me with his cool inscrutable gaze. He didn’t want to discuss the incident further, that much was clear.

  I changed the subject. “Talking of accidents, there have been many of those in the past few days. Your party are responsible for wrecking my furnishings and creating a terrible mess.”

  Sabien tried to cut me off, but I wanted to have my say. “I had an understanding with your son that none of your party would go into the village and bother the locals.”

  Sabien began to protest and I held my hand up. “But residents have reported back to me. You’ve been seen, and I am not happy. Not happy at all. We had a deal. You have broken your side of that.”

  “If it’s a question of ze money—”

  “When it comes to this inn and the village of Whittlecombe, it is about more than money. I believe you have all outstayed your welcome.” I stood solidly in the centre of the inn and gazed around at the hushed wedding party.

  From outside came the unmistakable sound of horses on gravel. I turned my head to the door.

  “You can’t make us leave, there are more guests arriving now,” Melchior said triumphantly, sidling up to his father.

  Furious, I rounded on him. “This is my inn! I say who stays here and who doesn’t. As far as I’m concerned the inn is closed.” I turned on my heel and stormed back to the bar, ready to extinguish the lights and turn off the pumps. I’d put an end to this wedding once and for all.

  Melchior and Sabien huddled together wondering what to do, but assistance for their plight came from an unexpected source.

  “Please, Alf?” The clipped Russian accent that belonged to Kat. “Won’t you reconsider?”

  I turned to look at her. I wanted to ask her what she was playing at. Why was she marrying into this monstrous clan? But the look on her face held me back.

  “You’ve worked so hard to stage this event, and everything is almost ready. This time tomorrow it will nearly be over. If you send us all away now, where will I get married? Who will help me the way you have? Please let us stay, Alf?”

  What could I do? Kat looked at me with such beseeching eyes, I was a sucker, even though I thought she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life. Resisting the urge to smack my head against the bar’s wooden surface, I had to reluctantly give in.

  “Okay,” I said. There was a whoop from some of the vampires, but I moved back into the general bar area, standing among the stools and chairs and tables, as the first plates began to float out from the kitchen, served by my friendly ghosts.

  I stomped over to Sabien’s table and glared at Melchior. “Nobody is to go down to the village tonight,” I said. “If I hear that anyone has, you will pack your bags and leave. If I find out tomorrow, while you’re sleeping during the day, that you broke this promise, I’ll drag your coffins out of the cellar myself and have them opened on the lawn.”

  Melchior snarled at me.

  “I want your word!” I slammed my hand down on the table and Melchior jumped.

  Sabien lay his hand down on top of mine.

  “You ‘ave it,” he said calmly. “Nobody will venture into ze village.”

  * * *

  Charity arrived back from the village an hour or so later and was surprised to see how subdued the wedding party were. Gone was the hollering and disorderly behaviour of the previous few nights, instead the vampires conducted themselves like ladies and gentlemen, drinking in moderation and playing cards in some cases, or simply conversing among themselves.

  “Alf had words,” Zephaniah told her, stifling a grin, as he cleaned out one of the pumps for me.

  Charity ogled me. “Did you?”

  “I’d had enough,” I said crossly. “They’re pretty much taking my inn apart and making our lives a misery. I don’t want that.”

  I offered Charity a drink, but she settled for a coffee. And why not? We had another long night ahead of us.

  “How were the villagers?” I asked.

  “Well.” Charity twisted her face. “I don’t know what’s got into people down there. Lots of moaning about what’s happening up here. I’d be surprised if they don’t turn up here at midnight clutching pitchforks like they used to in the old days and set fire to the place.”

  “What?” I shrieked. “Don’t say that!”

  “Don’t worry.” Charity indicated the vampires. “They’d be on our side.”

  “What went on?” I asked.

  Charity sighed. “For the most part the villagers accepted Millicent’s potion and said they’d take it. She’s very persuasive, our Millicent.”

  I wondered if she had used magick. That would work on most of the villagers, I was sure.

  “Then there were a few that refused point blank. Claimed you were in league with the devil and you needed to go back where you came from, that kind of thing.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Go back to where I came from? I only come from the next county. My father was born in this inn. So was my grandfather. What is wrong with people?”

  “There’s no accounting for stupid, Alf, you know that.”

  I did.

  * * *

  We had another half dozen guests show up through the course of the evening, but none of them were for Kat’s side of the family.

  “No friends, no family,” I observed to Marc when he came up to the bar to hang out with me for a while. “It’s a very one-sided affair.”

  Marc nodded, looking a little shifty, not meeting my eyes. “What is it?” I asked. “You know something.”

  He cast a glance warily around, making sure Melchior and Sabien were otherwise engaged. I took that as a cue that we needed some privacy.

  I walked to the frosted glass door, “Marc,” I called, loud enough for any eavesdroppers to hear, “can I show you the cake? I could do with a second opinion.” I shot Charity a meaningful glance, indicating that she should stop anyone following us, and then led Marc through to the kitchen. I firmly closed the door behind us, and switched on the light over the stove, startling Florence who was snoozing on a chair in front of me, waiting for orders from the bar. Of Monsieur Emietter there was no sign. Perhaps he was keeping Gwyn company somewhere.

  “Sorry, Florence,” I said, and she scuttled away into the storeroom.

  Keeping my voice low, and an eye on the door to the passage, I addressed Marc. “What aren’t you
telling me?”

  Marc reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He was always so understated in comparison to the other vampires who wore designer labels and the most expensive clothes they could find, and drowned themselves in cologne. Marc pretty much settled for jeans and casual t-shirts and shirts and sweaters, more relaxed about the world generally, and nicer for it.

  He pulled out a sheath of envelopes and lay them on the counter. They were addressed to homes in Russia.

  I shuffled through them. “Are these what I think they are?”

  “Invitations to the wedding,” Marc confirmed. “Kat wrote these and gave them to Melchior to send. He told me to destroy them.”

  “Does Kat think her family are coming?” I asked, disturbed once more by Melchior’s deviousness.

  Marc laughed without humour. “I doubt it. I think she knows him better than that.”

  I pushed a hand through my tangle of hair, getting my fingers snarled up in the knots. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why is she putting herself through this. She’s a beautiful young woman. She could do whatever she wants. Choose from so many different partners. What does she see in him?”

  “Who wouldn’t want immortality?” Marc asked. “Perhaps that’s all there is to it. That and the fact that Melchior—or Sabien at least—are wealthier than most of us could ever imagine.”

  “Do you think that matters to Kat, though?” I was puzzled. “The way she spoke about her mum to me the other day, I think she knows there’s more to life than money and power.”

  “But that’s what she gets by marrying Melchior,” Marc said and although his tone was mild, I sensed an undercurrent.

  “What is your relationship with Melchior?” I asked the question that had been burning in me since I’d first met him.

  “Best mate. Best man.” Matter of fact.

  I studied Marc’s face looking for clues, and he wriggled under my scrutiny. “Come on,” I urged.

  “He’s always been there for me. Since I was turned.”

  “He didn’t ‘turn’ you?” I asked, unsure about the terminology.

  “No, that was one of Sabien’s wives.”

  “One of them? How many does he have?”

  Marc shrugged. “I don’t know. Lots.”

  “So, Sabien’s wife turned you and Melchior became your… brother… by extrapolation, I suppose?”

  Marc nodded. “That kind of sums it up.” He tipped his head back, thinking. “It was over thirty years ago now, relatively recent in vampire terms, but it was a shock for me. Getting used to it. Particularly as I’m vegetarian.”

  “How do you cope?”

  “I use a protein supplement. It’s not ideal, but it works.”

  “Okay. And Melchior?”

  “Showed me the ropes. Stuck up for me when the other vampires wanted to tear my throat out. That kind of thing.”

  “So you owe him?” Marc nodded. “But you definitely don’t agree with him on everything.” I remembered his reaction to the dress.

  Marc shook his head. He flicked through the invitations again, then held them up. “I hate this. It’s wrong. The way he treats her… the dress he had made for her… it’s all wrong. He’s trying to turn her into some sort of vampire queen. That isn’t who she is. At all.”

  A noise from the passage startled us both. We looked over and waited, but the door remained closed and I couldn’t sense anyone out there. Perhaps someone had just entered or exited The Snug or The Nook.

  “You know what I think would be nice?” I whispered to Marc, and he turned his soft blue eyes on me. “If we could find a way to get Kat’s mum here at the ceremony tomorrow. A bride deserves to be happy on her wedding day, and I have a feeling that seeing her Mum would make Kat the happiest woman in the whole of the south west of England.”

  “I’m sure it would,” Marc replied, and I tipped my head pointedly at him.

  “It’s raining!” My first thought on waking the following morning. After months of largely dry weather, it seemed ironic that today of all days, we would have rain. And heavy by the sound of it.

  I closed my eyes and lulled by the rhythmic drumming of the cascade outside, quickly drifted away once more. My second thought jolted me wide awake: wedding minus fourteen hours! So much to do.

  I’d set the alarm for ten, and now it began blaring beside me. I’d managed another magnificent four hours sleep, but today at least I could console myself with the knowledge that by the following morning it would all be over.

  “I wonder where they’ll honeymoon?” I said to no-one in particular as I swung myself out of bed. I tapped the bedframe where Mr Hoo liked to perch. “Miss you, fella,” I said and dragged my sorry self into the shower.

  Thirty minutes later I was sharing tea, toast and marmalade with Charity. “We’d better ask Zephaniah to erect the marquee,” I said.

  “The forecast says it will pass over later this afternoon, early evening,” Charity replied, showing me a weather tracking app on her phone. We put our heads together to watch a huge dense cloud pass over the whole of the south west of England.

  “Why is that triangle red?” I asked, and Charity looked at the symbol more closely.

  “It’s a red alert. Danger to life. Risk of flash flooding,” she said.

  “Great.” I picked up another slice of toast. “Have the marquee put up - just in case.”

  My own mobile rang, and Millicent’s name appeared on the screen. I picked it up and accepted her call, smiling.

  “Morning Mill—”

  “You have to come down here, Alf,” Millicent said, and there was alarm in her voice.

  “Wha—”

  “There’s a meeting at The Hay Loft this morning to complain about the goings on at Whittle Inn. They’re putting a petition together or something.”

  “At The Hay Loft?” I repeated. That blasted Lyle Cavendish and his interfering friend Gladstone Talbot-Lloyd no doubt. They’d been out to get me since I’d first moved to Whittlecombe. “Today of all days? The day the inn opens?”

  “When better?” Millicent asked crisply. “Get down here. Fast.”

  I jumped to my feet, scattering toast crumbs across the table. “I have to go.”

  “What’s the matter? Who was that?” Charity called as I dashed away, but I didn’t stop to answer.

  Damage limitation was all I could think of.

  * * *

  I ran through the rain into the village, barely noticing the fresh herby smell of the leaves as the hard rain bruised them, and the scent of damp earth rising from the ground. I was wheezing with exertion by the time I reached The Hay Loft. Bursting into the lounge bar, I found myself face to face with an angry mob.

  At least, that’s how it felt.

  But rocking back on my heels and taking time to survey the room gave me a better sense of perspective.

  Fortunately the ‘mob’ was much smaller than I’d imagined on my way into the village, and Millicent was already in situ, so I had at least one friend on hand. Some people were sitting on chairs, listening intently to the speaker, but appeared more bewildered and confused about the proceedings than anything else. There was a small minority gathered at the front, including both Grace and Bob Gretchen, who looked hostile, and seemed to be cheerleading the speaker on.

  The speaker? I’d been right. None other than my old adversary Gladstone Talbot-Lloyd.

  “What a surprise,” I hissed under my breath. Soon after I’d moved into Whittle Inn, Gladstone had been implicated in his involvement with The Mori. He was a property developer who had wanted to buy the land Whittle Inn stood on, along with Speckled Wood. I knew Wizard Shadowmender and Mr Kephisto were looking closely at the awful man’s past but given that he was a mere mortal—albeit one of the most annoying ones I had ever met—there was little they could do. So far Talbot-Lloyd remained at large and able to torment me.

  I wondered whether I should confront him straight away, but I recognised there were people in the room who might ru
sh to his defence if I did that, who might otherwise take a more balanced view. No. Far better to remain polite and measured, behave with dignity, and refuse to add fuel to the fire.

  I smiled politely, at Talbot-Lloyd. “My apologies for intruding,” I said, as the gathered congregation turned to look at me. I took a seat behind everyone else and folded my hands in my lap, planting my feet flat on the floor, grounding myself against the wave of indignant emotions that rushed through me. ‘Calm and strength,’ I told myself. ‘Calm and strength.’

  “Ah, Ms Daemonne,” Talbot-Lloyd greeted me. Outwardly pleasant, but with eyes as cold as ice. “Delighted you could join us. We were just discussing some problems with your inn. Perhaps you could address the village’s concerns?”

  My invitation must have been lost in the post, I thought surveying the room once more. Out of the two-hundred and fifty or so folks who lived in Whittlecombe there were less than thirty present. “I’m happy to hear you out,” I said, and smiled around the room once more, placing my hands carefully in my lap and maintaining a non-defensive body posture.

  For some reason this infuriated Grace Gretchen, who launched straight into an attack. “Look at her sitting there like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,” she shouted, almost as though I couldn’t hear what she was saying, and peering around at everyone else for support. “We all know that it’s her fault that everyone in the village has been sick these past few days. Why else would she have sent around her lapdogs to hand out some potion to everyone.”

  Millicent’s face went red and she shot up from her seat. I was sitting too far away to stop her.

  “For shame, Grace,” Millicent said. “I created that tincture to help relieve people’s flu symptoms– and from my own pressed blackberry juice. The pharmacy at the health centre, and Whittle Stores, have been overrun and people haven’t been able to find any relief. I was trying to help the community I love, and Alf was good enough to assist me by lending me her kitchen at Whittle Inn.”