Frey shakes his head, tightening his grip on my hand resting on his knee. “Anna, that’s all water under the bridge. Why are you thinking of those things now?”
Why am I?
I don’t know.
I close my eyes.
I do know. I look at Frey. “Do you know how important you are to me? You’ve been the only real constant in my life since I became vampire. You’ve never judged me or tried to make me change. You’ve been by my side no matter how difficult the situation or what it ended up costing you. I don’t know why you love me. You shouldn’t, you know. I don’t give back to you half of what you give to me.” I close my eyes, feeling tears threaten. “I don’t know why you love me,” I repeat softly. “I’m just so glad that you do.”
Frey is quiet a moment. The muscles in his jaw tremble, then clench. He swallows hard and draws a deep breath. Finally he says simply, “I love you because it’s all I’m capable of doing.”
My heart leaps. I lean over and kiss his cheek. “That’s the nicest declaration of love I’ve ever heard,” I whisper.
* * *
DAVID AND TRACEY ARE SUITABLY IMPRESSED BY THE JET, by Cannes, by the drive to my folks’. They grill Frey and me about the details of the wedding, how we’ve been spending our time since we arrived (that gets a raised eyebrow from Frey), how John-John likes France. The subject that doesn’t come up is Mom. I can tell David is hesitant to ask about her condition. I bring it up myself before we get to the estate. I assure him she’s determined to play the mother of the bride to the hilt and that he’ll be surprised at how good she looks. I also tell them not to treat her any differently than they have before. David is skeptical that he can pull it off.
But he needn’t have worried. As soon as we stop in the driveway, the family is out the door to greet us. While my folks have never been big fans of David (bounty hunting was not their job of choice for their only child), Mom’s greeting is so warm and welcoming, her demeanor so relaxed, any qualms David had about how to act around her are quickly forgotten.
Mom shepherds everyone inside, to a feast waiting for us in the dining room. Frey, John-John and I sit on one side of the table, David, Tracey and Trish on the other, Mom and Dad at opposite ends. Everyone I love is here. Except one.
I bump Frey’s arm and whisper, “We didn’t invite Culebra.” Guilt that I hadn’t thought of inviting him before now floods my heart. He’s been as constant in my life as Frey and I didn’t think of him before right now.
David hears my comment and pauses, a forkful of coq au vin halfway to his lips. “Oh, I invited him,” he says. “Figured you’d want him here since you spent so much time in Mexico. You know, with Max . . .” His voice falters. Mentioning Max reminds us both that he is gone—killed in Mexico by a drug lord we helped put away.
The wound is raw. Still, I skewer David with a look. “How’d you know where to reach Culebra?”
“Searched your phone records.”
“What?”
“Hey, it’s what we do, right?”
I give him a mocking evil eye. “So. What did Culebra say?”
“Congratulations. And he sends his apologies. His niece is in her first drama production at her school and he has to attend. He said you’d understand.”
That makes me grin. His “niece” is a girl we rescued on that same trip. One of the few bright points in an otherwise nightmarish experience. She must be doing well. Couple that with Culebra’s reluctance to leave the confines of his supernatural kingdom in Beso de la Muerte, it isn’t surprising that he’d elect not to come. And perfectly understandable.
I sigh and give David a grudging smile. “Thanks for taking care of that for me. But stay out of my phone records from now on, okay?”
Tracey shakes her head at David. “I told you she wouldn’t be happy with your snooping.”
“Yeah, but look at her face now. She’s glad I did, aren’t you, Anna?”
“Don’t press your luck, David.”
It’s what I say, but I have to admit it, I am glad.
With the crowd at the table it’s easy to pretend I, too, am enjoying a meal that has every face beaming. Between John-John and Frey subtly helping themselves to nibbles from my plate and Mom spiriting away a napkin full of food to replace it with a clean one, neither David nor Tracey, my Dad nor Trish notices that I haven’t eaten a morsel.
After dinner Frey and I offer to clean up so David and Tracey can visit with my folks. We make short work of clearing the table, storing away leftovers and loading the dishwasher. As the machine cycles on, I lean against it, pulling Frey close.
“Just a few more hours of freedom. How do you want to spend them?”
At that moment, David appears in the doorway, Dad by his side. “We’ve been discussing that,” David says. “You need a bachelor party. Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Frey’s tone is as surprised as his expression.
“I know just the place,” Dad says. “In the village. Come on. It’s your last night of freedom.”
Frey glances at me. I lift my shoulders. “Sounds like the menfolk have it all thought out.” I stand on tiptoe, peck his cheek, give David a hard look over Frey’s shoulder. “No strippers.” Then I whisper in Frey’s ear, “And no shifters.”
Dad and David take Frey by each arm before he can resist and hustle him toward the door. “No promises,” David says.
“Don’t wait up,” Dad adds, winking at me.
“Good luck,” I call to Frey as the door slams behind them.
* * *
MOM MUST BE TELLING TRACEY SOMETHING ABOUT TOMORROW SHE WANTS TO BE A SURPRISE BECAUSE WHEN I join them in the living room, conversation comes to a halt.
“Well. Should I leave and come back?”
Mom laughs and pats the seat beside her on the couch. “Course not. I was just giving Tracey a hint about what to expect tomorrow.”
Tracey’s eyes sparkle. “It’s going to be beautiful, Anna. I’m so jealous.”
Trish and John-John are sitting across from us, and John-John says, “Aren’t you and David going to get married, too?”
Trish gives him an elbow nudge. “That’s not a polite question.”
He turns wide innocent eyes her way. “Why?”
Tracey interjects before Trish can reply. “No. It’s an honest question and, John-John, I wish I could answer it. David and I care about each other very much, but I’m not sure David is ready for marriage.”
She sounds wistful and a little frustrated. I can’t help thinking one of the reasons David is reluctant to commit is a bombshell bitch named Gloria.
But it’s not my place to offer an opinion.
Mom deftly steers the conversation to another topic. “I hope you can stay on after the ceremony. It’s so beautiful in Provence this time of year.”
“We can stay a day or two,” Tracey replies. “But I’m afraid we have work waiting for us. And we don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality.”
And so the discussion turns to how best to make the most of a short trip, what to see, where to go. I watch Mom closely for any sign of fatigue, any indication that she’s not feeling well. All I see are bright eyes and a luminous smile, an erect bearing radiating happiness.
Maybe the doctors are wrong. Maybe Chael doesn’t know what he’s talking about. This glowing woman cannot be dying.
It has to be a mistake.
CHAPTER 30
I SPEND THE NIGHT DOZING, WAKING, CHECKING THE clock, impatiently waiting for Frey.
After the night we had last night, he must be exhausted. Of course, no one else knows about that.
Finally, at three a.m., I get up. I go to my parents’ room and listen at the door. I hear Dad snoring softly. At David’s door, I hear him and Tracey doing something other than sleeping. Where the hell is Frey?
I tiptoe downstairs and look outside. The car is parked in front. I take a quick trip through the house and finally find him.
Stretched out on the couch. His
clothes are in a pile on the floor, a quilt has been thrown over his hips.
I kneel down, bend over him and whisper, “What are you doing?”
Frey sits up with a jerk. “Jesus, Anna. You scared the shit out of me.”
“When did you get back?”
He glances at the glowing dial on his watch. “About an hour ago. You didn’t hear us?”
I shake my head. “Must have dozed off. What are you doing down here?”
He gives me a “do you really have to ask?” look.
“Ah. My dad.”
Frey nods. “He thought it inappropriate for us to sleep together the night before the wedding.” He smiles and lifts a corner of the quilt in invitation. “But if we’re really quiet, we can have some fun and you can go back upstairs and he’ll never be the wiser.”
I open my robe and let it drop to the carpet. “I’m so happy you’re not the superstitious type. And if I remember correctly, I owe you.”
Then I go to work with hands and tongue and watch Frey become even happier.
* * *
AT SEVEN, MOM IS AT MY DOOR, KNOCKING SOFTLY. I’m back in bed, alone, and feeling smugly like a kid who has pulled one over on her folks. I slip on my robe, adjust the blankets and cheerily call, “Come in.”
She enters with a breakfast tray of coffee and croissants. “Anna, I can’t tell you how sorry I am at your father’s ridiculous insistence that Frey sleep downstairs last night.” She puts the tray on the nightstand, goes to the window and yanks open the curtains. “When I found Frey on the couch this morning, I couldn’t believe it. But you know how important these things are to your father.”
Now the “we fooled you” mind-set morphs into something that feels a lot like guilt. “Ah. Where is Frey?”
“He’s in John-John’s room showering.”
“John-John’s room?”
Mom shakes her head, frowning. “Another of your father’s hardheaded ideas—that the bride and groom should not see each other before the ceremony the day of the wedding. Honestly, I don’t know where he comes up with these things. You’d think it was the eighteenth century.”
I start to get out of bed, but she waves me back.
“Stay in bed a little longer. You have a big day ahead.” She pours me a cup of coffee. “Your father will take Frey down for breakfast and I’m supposed to move his clothes into John-John’s room. Those three must have had quite a time last night if your father convinced Frey to go along with this nonsense, to say nothing of talking him into sleeping on the couch.”
He may have talked him into sleeping on the couch, I think, as I sip away on my coffee to keep from grinning, but not to forego a pre-wedding conjugal visit. Should I feel bad about it?
The pleasant lingering glow of good sex makes me decide no.
Besides, in a few hours, we’ll be legal.
I finish the coffee, throw back the covers and swing my legs off the bed. “So what’s the agenda?”
Mom wags a finger. “For you? Nothing for now. The hairdresser is arriving at eight. She’ll also do your makeup.”
I get a little tingle of panic. “Hairdresser? Mom, you know about me and mirrors . . .”
Mom holds up a hand. “Not to worry. Your friend Chael recommended this stylist. She does both vampires and . . .” There’s just a moment’s hesitation as Mom chooses her words. “Regular women. She’ll do you first in here, then Trish and me in my room.”
But I’m still hung up on Chael recommending a stylist. “When did you speak with Chael?” I ask.
Mom’s hand flutters. “Yesterday. I think. He said he was calling to ask if he could bring a guest to the wedding. Of course I told him the more the merrier. We’ve ordered more food and drink than we can possible consume. Especially”—she gives me a conspiratorial wink—“if some of the guests won’t be consuming any at all.”
She helps herself to a croissant. “But then he asked a strange question. He asked if you and Frey had gotten back all right from the party.” She pauses. “When were you with Chael?”
My brain shoots into overdrive. “Funny thing,” I say. “We ran into Chael in Lourges the other night. He invited us to a party and we went along with him. But it was too crowded and noisy. We left before he did and didn’t have a chance to say good-bye.”
Did that come out all right? Most of it is even the truth. Chael doesn’t know anything about what transpired with Vlad, Frey and I. And Frey and I never did get the chance to talk to Chael before we set off after Archambault. I wonder how long he wandered around the party looking for us before he gave up and left?
I wait for Mom to react.
She just nods. “I told him you were both right as rain.” She looks up at me. “You are all right, aren’t you?”
“Yep. We just left before Chael and couldn’t find him to say good night.” I throw my arms around her, “Mom, I can’t believe how great you’re being about—well, you know.”
She hugs me back. “Anna, when I think of all the time I wasted being critical of you, I could kick myself. I’m so happy that you’re here, now, that you’ve agreed to share this day with us. That you’ve forgiven me for the way I treated you.”
The last is said quietly and with great emotion. There is regret and sadness in her voice, and my heart catches because I sense what she is not putting into words. That she will not waste any of the time left to her being petty or judgmental. That, finally, I have her approval.
There could be no better wedding present.
She and I chat while I drink coffee and she polishes off the croissants. She catches my lingering gaze as she pops bits of the buttery pastry in her mouth. “Do you miss this?” she asks.
“Do I. Especially Italian food and chocolate.”
She nods appreciatively. “One of the good things about being ill,” she says, “is being able to eat anything I want. Modern medicine is wonderful.”
My shoulders tense. Wonderful? Her tone is cheery, but it chills me to the bone. If modern medicine is so wonderful, why can’t it do more than improve her appetite?
Mom sees my reaction. She leans toward me and takes my hand. “I’m sorry I said that. This is your day. No more talk of illness.” She makes a motion across her lips, a key turning. “Promise.”
After a long moment, we’re off to other subjects, the weather (perfect for a late-morning garden wedding), the caterers (already setting up in the kitchen), the last-minute prep to the garden (chairs positioned, the archway decorated with flowers, the carpet being laid down).
At eight exactly, there is a discreet knock on the door and Dad shows the hairdresser in. His eyes are wide as he steps aside to let her pass into the bedroom. “Lisette,” he says simply.
I understand immediately why Dad looks slightly uncertain when he shows her in. Lisette is a woman in her thirties, pretty in the way a wildflower is pretty, bright, tenacious, unconventional. Her arms are covered in tattoos, elaborate designs of intertwined vines and roses that climb her neck and up one cheek. She’s dressed in dark slacks and a bright peasant blouse, leather sandals on her feet.
I leave the three to chat while I shower, wash my hair, towel dry it and return to take a seat at the vanity.
Mom hands Dad Frey’s clothes then, and they leave me with the stylist.
Lisette is friendly and obviously comfortable with working in front of a mirror that reflects only her own image. She blow-dries my hair, fluffing and smoothing it as if the heft of it will determine what style to choose. I tell her not to do anything fancy, that I want a simple, slightly more polished look. That’s all.
She assures me she knows exactly what I want, brandishing her hairbrush with a flourish. In a minute, she’s done. Next, she applies a little eye makeup and blush. I haven’t had makeup on in so long, I start feeling nervous that Frey will like this version of me better than the original and it’s a look I can never hope to duplicate. Since becoming vampire, I only tried once to apply mascara without a mirror. After poking myself in
the eye twice, I gave up.
While she works, she chatters in broken but passable English about what a beautiful bride I will be. Then she asks, “Is your groom also de vampire?”
“No,” I reply quickly. “And you can’t mention vampires to anyone else, okay?”
“Not to worry. Chael explained all to me.”
Curious, I ask, “How do you know Chael?”
She gets one of those love-struck smiles that answers the question more eloquently than words. “We have been friends for many years. He spends a lot of time in Paris. It’s where I live.”
“Paris is almost five hundred miles away.” I know. I ran it. “You came all that way to help today?”
“Ah, if Chael asks, I cannot refuse.” She sighs. “Besides, he sent a first-class airline ticket to Cannes and the limo to drive me back to the airport is waiting outside. Chael is a very generous man.”
Whew. Chael to the rescue once again. My thank-you note to him is going to be pages long.
Lisette finishes up, pinning the one simple rosebud I chose as my hairpiece over my right ear. She stands back, nods and proclaims me done. I take her down the hall to Mom’s room where I know she and Trish will be waiting. I have to duck quickly back to my room when John-John’s door opens. After all Dad went through to keep at least one wedding tradition intact, I’m not taking any chances. He’s got me half believing in the superstition now.
It’s almost nine.
Nervousness nibbles away at my self-assurance. After battling almost every conceivable enemy both mortal and not, why would the idea of getting married make me nervous?
I touch my hair. Wonder what I look like? I run a gentle fingertip over mascara-thickened lashes. Is it too much?
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