My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

by L. A. Banks

  Not everyone present was in an advanced state of nerves. Some were not merely tranquil but downright apathetic. Among these lat­ter was Wylda's aged admirer, Middleton.

  "Oh dear," said Nora. We were standing together at the door to the Oak Room, where the preceremony cocktail reception was tak­ing place. "That's Mr. Middleton's third martini! I hope he knows what he's doing."

  "He knows exactly what he is doing," I told her. "He is getting drunk."

  "Drunk?" Nora's eyes went wide with shock, although there was the hint of a hotter emotion in her voice as she added: "At my daughter's wedding?"

  Being a gentleman, I could not reveal Middleton's motivation for seeking solace in liquor. I doubt it would have evoked Nora's sym­pathy. Instead, I offered her the weak consolation that excessive drink rendered Middleton melancholy and silent rather than loud and vulgar. His alcoholic excesses posed no threat to the smooth progress of Wylda's wedding.

  Nora saw matters otherwise: "I don't care; he's still being a jerk. What if he gets ugly later on? This is just like something one of my relatives would pull. I grew up thinking that you couldn't have a wedding or a funeral or a baby shower or even dinner without some­one making a scene. When your sister asked me to be her brides­maid, and when I saw how beautifully you people behave, it was like a glimpse of heaven. No arguments, no fights, no cursing, nothing but dignity and refinement and peace. I only wish that Freddie and I could've had a wedding like that, here at The Club, but he was so in­sistent about eloping to Vegas . . . ! Well, maybe I didn't get the wed­ding of my dreams, but Wylda will."

  Besotted as I was, I remained oblivious to the true sentiment un­derlying those words, namely: Wylda will get the wedding of my dreams, and God help anyone who gets in the way.

  The preceremony reception ended and we progressed to the mar­riage rite itself, conducted in The Club rose garden. The setting was idyllic, the air perfumed, the flowers at that ideal point of maturity, blossoming but not yet blown. The guests sat in rows of white fold­ing chairs decorated with snowy satin ribbons. As escort to the mother of the bride, I sat up front beside her, smiling like a senti­mental ninny. A string quartet played a delicate air by Vivaldi to her­ald the groom. Miles Martial looked striking in his Prince Edward coat and trim gray trousers. As he took his place beside the minister from St. George's (who, at the Austin-Cowleses' behest, had con­sented to make a house call) his grin was brilliant enough to blind legions of paparazzi.

  The lone bridesmaid, Solana Winthrop, walked down the aisle to a Mozart sonata, and then it was time for Wylda to make her entrance on her grandfather's arm. As the strings began to play Wag­ner's traditional tripe, we all rose on cue and turned to honor the bride.

  "Stop the wedding!" A towering beautiful naked woman appeared out of nowhere and hip-checked Hilliard across the laps of the guests in the back row. As chairs toppled like dominoes, she grabbed Wylda by the scruff of the neck and held the keen point of a foot-long golden projectile against the base of the girl's throat. "Nobody move! This is one of Eros's sharpest arrows, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

  A communal gasp of fear and dread arose from all of us. The woman's extraordinary stature and splendor, her utter shamelessness, and her casual mention of Eros, the ancient Greek god of Love, left us no doubt that The Club had once more worked its undesired magic. Alas, this time we had been invaded by a creature more dire than any sphinx, harpy, gorgon, or minotaur, a being who com­manded the most awesomely destructive power in the universe: Aphrodite, queen of Love and Beauty, had arrived.

  She had not arrived alone.

  "Way to go, Mom! Work that thing!" The vote of confidence came from one of a pair of tall, handsome young men who materi­alized beside the goddess. Their faces, hair, and clothing—tattered loincloths, nothing more—were all lavishly stained with smoke, ashes, gun oil, and blood.

  "Don't call me that!" the naked woman snapped. "Just because I screwed your father doesn't make me your mom, Deimos!"

  "So what does it make you now that you're not screwing him anymore?" the other one asked snidely.

  "Don't worry, Phobos," the woman replied. "That's all about to change."

  "Oh, my God!" Nora exclaimed, rising to her feet. "Doesn't this place have any security? You! Crazy naked lady! Get the hell away from my daughter!"

  "What did you call me?" The goddess's eyes narrowed danger­ously. She pressed the arrow point even closer to Wylda's flesh. The poor child's moans of terror sent the two ill-clad young men into ecstasies.

  I clamped my hand across my beloved's mouth and dragged her back down into her seat. "If you value Wylda's life, be quiet," I whis­pered vehemently in her ear. "This is exactly what I feared might happen." Then, as swiftly and as succinctly as possible, I informed my delectably undereducated sweetheart as to the true nature of our un­invited guests.

  For those who know the old Greek tales, there is a special irony to the catchphrase Make love, not war. Though Aphrodite was the wife of Hephaestus, weapons maker for the gods, the goddess of Love could not resist the potent attraction of Ares, god of War. Their adulterous union became, quite literally, the stuff of myth.

  Now, for whatever reason, Ares apparently had tired of his divine ladylove. Like many another randy god—including his own sire, Zeus—Ares had disguised his true nature the better to conquer a comely mortal maiden.

  "Unfortunately, it seems that Aphrodite is not the sort to deal well with rejection. What is worse, her rage is such that it has attracted Ares' sons, Deimos and Phobos, the gods of Fear and Terror. They are—ow!"

  Nora had bitten my hand.

  She fought free of my grasp and leaped back to her feet, bristling with fury. "Are you telling me that my baby's wedding is being spoiled because that two-bit toy soldier's been boinking that bimbo behind her husband's back for how long?"

  "Hey!" There was nothing wrong with Nora's lungs or the gods' ears. Ares and Aphrodite heard her well enough and objected in cho­rus. The soi-disant Miles Martial strode forth to confront Nora. With each step, another facet of his mortal masquerade blew away like morning mist before the advent of the bronze helmet, breast­plate, and greaves, the bloodred loincloth, the shining spear, sword, and shield, and the iron-soled sandals of Ares. He ignored Aphrodite and Wylda, behaving as if his bride-to-be were not still in peril of her life at the hands of his mistress-that-was.

  "What did you just say about me, woman?" he bawled in Nora's face. (Or rather, down upon it, for Ares had regained his divine stature and now towered over her by at least three feet.)

  "Great, you're as dumb as she is." Nora jerked her thumb at Aphrodite. "Pay attention and take notes: You've got two minutes to ditch the bitch and the brats; then we're going to get this wedding back on track before the ice-sculpture swans melt, or else. Got it?"

  "But Mommy, I don't want to marry him anymore," Wylda whimpered. "He lied to me, and he's got kids, and a girlfriend, and he's not even human, and—"

  "Shut up!" Nora stamped her foot. "I spent the past twenty-three years of my life planning this day. You'll marry him and like it!"

  "Wow," Phobos breathed, his eyes brimming with admiration as he gazed upon the wrath of Scruggs. "Now that's scary! I think I'm in love."

  "I saw her first, loser!" Deimos yelled, and sprang upon his brother. The two of them vanished in a whirlwind of punches, kicks, and obscene name-calling. Fear and Terror might be potent forces in the short run, but they had very little staying power in civ­ilized society.

  "Don't you dare talk like that to the woman I love!" Thunder re­verberated over our heads. However, it had nothing to do with the god of War, who had not so much as opened his mouth. The boom­ing command had come from Middleton. The older man swept down upon Nora with a warrior's battle wrath. "If Wylda doesn't want to marry this scoundrel, she won't. She's a grown woman, not your dress-up bride doll, and it's about time you knew that!"

  In spite of her stated yearning for sophistication, elegance, and peace, Nora's fami
ly heritage could not be suppressed or denied. She had been raised by people who never fled the field of battle except to fetch larger guns, and it showed.

  "You're drunk," she spat. "You're drunk and you're old and you'd like it just fine if my daughter were your undress bride doll. Well, guess what, Grampa? Not gonna happen. This wedding is go."

  "Never!" Aphrodite protested. The goddess of Love was not used to being ignored and had decided to drag the spotlight back onto herself. "Ares doesn't really want to marry this little jellyfish. He started this whole stupid oooh-I'm-in-love-with-a-mortal thing be­cause I haven't been paying enough attention to him lately. Just be­cause a girl goes to a couple, nine Brad Pitt movies—"

  "Who asked you?" Before the astonished eyes of gods and men, Nora stormed up to Aphrodite and slapped her face. The goddess was so startled that she dropped the golden arrow of Eros and lost her grip on Wylda. "Don't blame my baby if you don't know how to hold on to your man."

  Aphrodite was still immobilized with shock as Nora grabbed Wylda by the wrist, hauled her down the aisle, and shoved her into Ares' arms. When Middleton tried to intervene, Nora laid him low with an impressive right cross.

  Wylda witnessed her mother's summary treatment of the older gentleman and looked ready to burst into tears. The god of War kept darting nervous glances from his bride to his potential mother-in-law. His expression was that of a man firmly in the grip of second thoughts, his feet grown cold enough to bring on a new Ice Age.

  "Was she always this big a control freak?" Ares asked his be­trothed.

  "Only since I told her we were getting married," Wylda said qui­etly. "I don't know why, but that started it. That was when Mommy . . . changed." Wylda shivered at the awful memory. "She made me ask my grandparents for this huge, silly wedding as if it was all my idea, but I never wanted to get married at The Club."

  "I'll tell you what you want and don't want!" Nora declared to her daughter.

  "And what if I no longer wish this marriage to take place?" Ares brandished his sword in a menacing manner, but his attempt at last-minute intimidation was crushed the moment he looked Nora in the eye. The poor deity trembled so hard that his armor rattled. "Uhhh, forget I said anything," he said hastily sheathing the blade.

  As I sat nursing my bitten hand and observing this heretofore un­known aspect of dear Nora's personality, I realized two things: one, that there are far worse fates than bachelorhood, and two, that while my beloved Club did attract monsters, alas, they did not all derive from Greek mythology. The tantrums of the most outrageous Bridezilla in the world are trifles beside the blazing chaos incarnate of the Mother of the Bridezilla.

  Not that you could call sweet, timorous Wylda any sort of 'zilla. The poor thing seemed to be so thoroughly browbeaten by her monstrous mother that I wondered whether Wylda had a stick of striped sugar candy where her backbone should be.

  I have since learned that it is possible to kill a man by stabbing him to death with a broken candy cane.

  "You don't want to marry me?" Wylda asked her beau.

  "Of course I do," Ares replied. But his eyes were still fixed ner­vously on Nora.

  "No, you don't," Wylda stated. His mouth trembled. "You don't, and everyone here knows you don't, and the only reason you're say­ing you do is because Mommy's got you so terrified you're going to pee your pants."

  "I am not!" Ares maintained. "I'm not wearing pants."

  "And I'm not getting married." Wylda tore off her veil and flung it to the ground. "I quit."

  Before Nora could reexert her imperious power over her daugh­ter, the girl fled up the aisle. Aphrodite cheered. Nora took to her heels in hot pursuit of the wayward bride, but if she thought that simple escape was Wylda's intent, the girl quickly proved her wrong. At the head of the aisle, Wylda stooped suddenly and seized some­thing from the grass, then whirled around just in time for her mother to collide with her head-on. The two women went cartwheeling over the lawn and fetched up in a thorny heap at the foot of a Mamie Eisenhower rosebush.

  "Wylda, you get back to your groom right this minute!" Nora shrilled. "You're ruining my wedding."

  "If you want this wedding so much, you have it," Wylda shot back, and stabbed her mother to the heart.

  Nora looked down slowly at the slim, glittering shaft protruding from the center of her chest. She touched it lightly, and it crumbled to dust that blew away on the wind. There was no mark to show where it had been, no drop of blood, not the smallest tear in the bosom of her dress. She turned her head slowly from side to side as if she were awakening from a deep sleep with no idea at all of where she was or how she had come to be there.

  Cadby Middleton was a gentleman of the old school. Although Wylda's mother had creased his jaw like a championship prizefighter, he could not allow a lady in an awkward public posture to remain unassisted. He stepped gingerly around Wylda—whom he now re­garded not so much with love as apprehension—and approached the fallen Fury.

  "May I?" he said calmly. Still dazed, Nora accepted the hand he proffered.

  The sky rippled. The earth moved. The birds broke into hosannas of song. The roses exploded like fireworks, shooting fountains of fra­grant petals everywhere. A halo of blinding silver light engulfed Middleton and the former Miss Scruggs, and when the flash faded they were locked in a kiss of such intensity that Aphrodite herself gave them a standing ovation.

  It was a lovely wedding. Ares gave the bride away as quickly as he could, with Aphrodite as her maid of honor. Hilliard Austin-Cowles proposed the first toast at the reception. (It was less a toast than an announcement in which he declared he would see us all in hell be­fore he paid for one second of this wedding. The happy groom promptly wrote out a check for the full amount, crumpled it up, and stuffed it in Hilliard's ear.)

  Wylda Serene was unable to attend her mother's wedding recep­tion. Ever the altruist, she instead volunteered to drive me to the hospital so that my bitten hand might be treated before infection set in.

  We drove in silence until at last I remarked, "What a pleasant sur­prise to discover that a person of your generation is so familiar with Greek mythology. You knew that Love's own arrow would transform your mother's heart to the point where it would overrule her wedding-mad mind, and that the halo effect of Eros's power would enamor the first person with whom she came into physical contact. Brilliant."

  "Not really," Wylda replied with becoming modesty. "I just wanted to kill her. But the way it all turned out was pretty good, too."

  I arched one brow and gave the girl a speculative look. "It would appear that I have underestimated you, my dear. What other surprises are there beneath your facade of meekness and docility?"

  "You're cute, for an older guy. Why don't we find out?" she re­sponded with a smile, and reached over to pat my leg.

  That is, I presumed she wished to pat my leg. As to which portion of my anatomy she did pat—

  It was a long drive, but another lovely wedding at journey's end. A Las Vegas wedding, true, but at least the drag artiste/minister at the Church of Eternal Glitz was a Harvard man.

  * * *

  Nebula Award-winner ESTHER FRIESNER is the author of thirty-one novels and more than one hundred and fifty short stories, in addition to being the editor of seven popular anthologies. Her works have been published in the United States, the United Kingdom, Japan. Germany, Russia, France. Poland, and Italy. She is also a pub­lished poet, a produced playwright, and once wrote an advice col­umn: "Ask Auntie Esther." Her articles on fiction writing have appeared in Writer's Market and Writer's Digest books. Her latest publications are Tempting Fate from Dutton/Penguin and Turn the Other Chick from Baen Books; the fifth book in the pop­ular Chicks in Chainmail series that she created and edits. She is mar­ried, the mother of two, harbors cats, and lives in Connecticut.

  Charmed by the Moon

  Lori Handeland

  I awoke on the morning of my wedding with a big fat headache. Most likely the result of too much wine at what
we'd jokingly called the rehearsal dinner but had in truth been a security check complete with steaks and cabernet. Then again, maybe the pain in my brain was a reaction to the words "marriage," "wed­ding," and "Jessie McQuade" in the same sentence.

  I'd lost my mind, but I wasn't exactly sure when.

  Had it been the day I'd told Will I loved him? Or maybe the eve­ning he'd asked me to marry him and I hadn't had the heart to say no again? I'd definitely been long gone when I'd agreed to a cere­mony with all the froufrou nonsense that went with it.

  Groaning, I levered myself out of bed and pulled back the cur­tain. Bright June sunlight shafted into my eyes like ice picks, and I let the drape fall over the glass.

  "I still can't believe you agreed to go through with this."

  I gave a little yelp and spun around, wincing at the movement, then putting my hand to my head so it wouldn't fall off.

  "I told you not to drink that last gallon, but you wouldn't listen."

  Leigh Tyler-Fitzgerald, one of my few friends left alive, stepped into the room. She appeared too tiny, blond, and cute for this early in the morning. She always did.

  "Who the hell gave you a key?"

  "Ah-ah-ah." Leigh waggled a Styrofoam cup. "Is that any way to speak to a woman bearing coffee?"

  "Gimme."

  I held out my hands like a child reaching for candy, and she took pity on me.

  I suppose I should clarify why I'm short on friends. Not that I'd had all that many in the first place. Folks who hang around me tend to wind up dead. An occupational hazard. The same could be said of Leigh, which was probably why we'd bonded.

  We're Jager-Suckers, which translates to "hunter-searchers," for those of you who prefer English. We hunt things that prefer the night. Werewolves are our specialty.

  Hey, I didn't believe it at first, either, but when you're staring death in the face and death has the eyes of someone you once loved, or at least knew, your belief system takes a big kick in the teeth.