My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

by L. A. Banks

  The Jager-Suchers are a select, secret group of operatives attempt­ing to make the world safe, if not for democracy, at least for people who don't grow fur under the light of the moon. Unfortunately, the job is never ending. Werewolves not only like to kill; they also like to multiply—as do all their demonic cohorts.

  I drank half the cup of coffee before coming up for air. My headache was still there, but it wasn't quite as bad.

  "How long do I have until the wedding?"

  "Long enough."

  "I doubt it."

  "You say that as if you're going to a funeral." Leigh sat on the bed. "What gives, Jessie? I've never seen anyone more in love than you and Will Cadotte."

  Unless we were talking about her and her husband, Damien, but we weren't. At least not today.

  "Love isn't the problem."

  "What is?"

  "I don't want to get married."

  "Then why are you?"

  I looked her straight in the eye. "I have no idea."

  "You lost me."

  "Will's been asking me to marry him for nearly a year."

  I hadn't met William Cadotte under the most normal of circum­stances. We were as unalike as two people could be. Will was a pro­fessor with a specialty in Native American totems. I was a cop—or at least I had been then. He was an Ojibwe, an activist, a glasses-wearing, tree-hugging book geek.

  He was also hotter than hot. Women's heads nearly twisted off their necks when he walked by. He might like books, but he also liked to work out. He'd been practicing tai chi—a type of martial art that strengthened the mind as well as the body—for longer than I'd been carrying a gun. But what had gotten to me in the end was his sense of humor, if not the golden feather that swung from one ear.

  I never had figured out what Will saw in me. Guys like him usu­ally go for a girl like Leigh, but he'd never given her a second glance. I'd have thought he was gay if I hadn't enjoyed multiple evidence to the contrary.

  I was a big girl—everywhere. My hair was neither brown nor blond, my eyes more shrewd than dreamy. I suppose I could have made myself presentable, if I'd cared, but I had better things to worry about.

  I was tall, strong, in shape, because I had to be or die. I could drill a bullet through the eye of just about anything at a hundred yards. I had a job that I loved and a man I loved, too. Getting married . . . well, that hadn't been on my agenda.

  Until the last time Will had asked me and I'd inexplicably said yes.

  "I can't count how many people I've known who've gotten along just fine until they throw vows and rings and forever into the mix," I said. "Then bam, two months after the wedding they hate each other."

  "That won't happen to you and Will. You'll be together forever."

  "Forever isn't very long in our profession."

  Understanding spread over Leigh's face. "Is that what's bugging you? That we might die tomorrow?"

  "We might die tonight," I muttered.

  One never knew.

  "We're safe here."

  'We aren't safe anywhere, Leigh, and you know it."

  She shrugged. "Safer then. No one's going to sneak up on us in this place."

  We'd rented out a lodge on Lake Superior in Minnesota. Will wanted to be married at the spirit tree, a twisted red cedar rumored to be three, four, even five hundred years old, depending upon whom you listened to. The tree was sacred to the Grand Portage Ojibwe, of which Will was one.

  He'd grown up on the reservation, raised by his grandmother af­ter his parents took off. When she'd died, he'd been passed to a suc­cession of aunts and uncles. Now none of them were alive, either, but Will remembered this place with a great deal of fondness and the tree with a great deal of respect.

  Since I had no strong feelings one way or another, Grand Portage was okeydokey with me.

  "What if someone does sneak up on us?" I asked.

  "Then we know they're werewolves and we blast them into the hell dimension. That's what we do, Jessie."

  "I'd prefer we not be doing it at my wedding."

  Hell, I'd prefer not to be having a wedding. So why was I?

  Because I might be the roughest, toughest Jager-Sucher around, but when it came to Will Cadotte, I had no guts at all. I didn't want to lose him. And wasn't that just the saddest, most pathetic admission of all?

  One night he'd blindsided me with a silver band and a moon-shaped diamond. With the bodies of wolves that weren't really wolves surrounding us, he'd pulled the thing from his pocket, slipped it onto my finger, and charmed me into marrying him.

  Or maybe I'd just been charmed by the moon. Everyone else was.

  "If Edward thinks we're safe, we are," Leigh said, and I knew she was right.

  Our boss, Edward Mandenauer, was one spooky old man. But he was the best hunter on the planet. He knew how to set up a secure operation. If he said my wedding would be safe from werewolves, it would be, or he'd die trying to make it so. I trusted him with my life. More important, I trusted him with Will's.

  Back in WW 2, Edward had been sent to obliterate Hitler's best-kept secret—a werewolf army. Too bad they'd escaped before Ed­ward could complete his mission. Not to worry, he hadn't stopped trying.

  "Want some food?" Leigh stood.

  "Gack." I imitated throwing up.

  "Lovely. I can see why Cadotte's so enamored of you."

  "I can't."

  Leigh tilted her head. "You don't think he loves you?"

  "I know he loves me. And I love him."

  "Then what is your problem?"

  "Marriage is an outdated custom that's run its course."

  "Oookay." Leigh twisted her wedding ring around her finger.

  "No offense," I said.

  "None taken."

  I threw up my hands. "I can't figure out why I said yes."

  "You're just having cold feet."

  Hope lightened the weight in my chest. "Did you?"

  "Well, no."

  The hope died. There was something seriously lacking in me if I was unable to commit to the only man I'd ever loved. But I'd sus­pected that for a long time.

  "Maybe you should talk to Will," Leigh ventured.

  "I thought it was bad luck to see him before the wedding."

  "It's worse luck to get married if you aren't really sure."

  She was right, except—

  "Every time I see him, I pretty much want to—"

  "Do him. I can understand that."

  I rolled my eyes. "I was going to say 'agree with anything he says.'"

  Leigh frowned. "That's not like you."

  "Exactly."

  Nevertheless, I needed to make one final attempt to figure out why I was in northern Minnesota with a wedding gown in the closet and an appointment with a justice of the peace at the spirit tree at just after four this afternoon.

  There'd been a small amount of trouble obtaining permission to have a wedding there, since the Grand Portage band had bought the tree a few years back. A sanctioned guide was required if you wanted to go anywhere near the place.

  I'd suggested a shaman perform the wedding, but Will insisted the ceremony be legal, which was a first.

  He'd been arrested for more protests than he'd bothered to count. His activism on the part of the Native American community had put him on more law enforcement watch lists than even I knew about. I'd always found his police record kind of arousing. An embarrass­ment for a woman who'd always played by the rules—at least until I'd met him.

  In the end Will had managed to get permission for the ceremony on the grounds that he was a member of the Grand Portage band and therefore part owner of the tree. Sounded like bullshit to me, but Will had always been very good at it.

  I brushed my teeth and threw on jeans and a T-shirt; then with a wave for Leigh, I padded down the hall and knocked on Will's door.

  No one answered. Maybe he was in the shower.

  I used my key, stuck my head in just a little, and murmured, "Will?"

  I didn't h
ear water or anything else. Feeling kind of guilty, I stepped inside.

  The bed had been slept in. His wedding clothes were laid out. No tuxedo for him. Instead Will would wear traditional Ojibwe dress— leggings, leather overskirt, a cotton blouse with beaded panels, and a pair of brightly beaded moccasins.

  All of his things were here, but he wasn't, and I became uneasy. I wouldn't put it past one of the werewolves that had escaped—and a few always did—to kidnap Will in order to get to me.

  I was a hunter, Will a professor. Sure he'd killed a few fanged and furry demons, but nowhere near what I had. Next to Edward and Leigh, I was the most feared Jager-Sucher. There had to be bounties on my head, and those who'd put them there wouldn't flinch at mur­dering the man I loved.

  Lycanthropy is a virus passed through the saliva while in wolf form. Until recently the only cure was a silver bullet, which wasn't really a cure, but you get my drift.

  Once infected, humans can become wolves whenever the sun goes down. They live to kill, to destroy, to make others of their kind. Their selfishness, their evil, is what we refer to as the demon. It's as close a description as anything else.

  There are hundreds, make that thousands, of the beasts roaming loose in this world, walking the streets as human as you and I, run­ning through the night as monsters until dawn. Any one of them could have snatched Will in the hours I'd been asleep.

  I hurried to the phone, intending to call Edward, get a search party started. But as I moved past the bed, I noticed an odd bulge in the pocket of Will's wedding shirt.

  Being me, suspicious always, I pulled out what appeared to be a medicine bag, though I'd only seen one in a textbook. Some of the Ojibwe kept them, put all that was important inside, but I'd never known Will to have one.

  I upended the bag. Herbs, seeds, a piece of cloth, tumbled onto the pristine white sheet. Nothing unusual there. What was unusual was the tiny wooden figurines carved into the shapes of a man and a woman, then tied together.

  I'd seen talismans before. Twice now the werewolves had used them to try to rule the world. But those totems had been fashioned into wolves—one black, one white, equally magic.

  I had no idea what this carved wooden man and woman might mean. That I'd found them on my wedding day couldn't be good.

  I stirred the herbs and the seeds with one finger, then picked up the cloth. A chill whispered over my skin. The scrap appeared to be from my favorite pair of sweatpants. I'd had them since I was in technical school and took them everywhere I went.

  Feeling naked without my weapons, I stuffed everything back into the bag and hurried to my room. I wanted to examine my sweatpants.

  Leigh was gone, thank goodness. I didn't have time to explain anything now, even if I could.

  I set the medicine bag on the nightstand, pulled a silver switch­blade from between the mattress and the box spring, then unlocked my suitcase and withdrew my .44 Magnum.

  I'd once had a boss who liked to quote Clint Eastwood. An an­noying trait, however, he had been right about the Magnum being the most powerful handgun in the world. I'd blown a lot of heads clean off. When dealing with werewolves, that was a good thing.

  Suitably armed, I opened the closet and became distracted by the wedding gown I couldn't believe I'd bought.

  The champagne shade of the satin sheath would make anyone re­semble a princess. Even I looked spectacular in it. So why did the sight of the garment always make me want to punch something?

  Just another mystery out of so many.

  I left the dress in the closet, dragged out the sweats, then searched for a rip or a hole. The idea that some dickhead werewolf, or worse, had taken a chunk out of one of my favorite things was enough to make me want to kill something.

  There. That was more like me.

  I didn't find any telltale signs. No hack in the knee, no slash across the butt. How could anyone have obtained a swatch without leaving a clue?

  I turned over the elastic band at the bottom of each leg and found a tiny notch in the excess fabric on the right side.

  "Bingo," I murmured.

  But what did it mean?

  I had no idea, but I would find out. After I found Will.

  I spun around and would have shrieked if I were the shrieking type at the sight of a man just inside the door. Instead I drew my gun.

  Luckily I didn't follow Jager-Sucher procedure and shoot first, worry about identity later, because the man was Will.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" My chest hurt as my heart tried to thump its way out.

  I was both thrilled to see him alive and annoyed he'd snuck up on me. He did that a lot.

  "You left the door open."

  "Oh."

  His dark gaze lowered to my .44. "You know I love it when you point guns at me. Takes me right back to the night I first saw you."

  As I'd said, we hadn't met under the most normal of circumstances.

  "Ha-ha." I lowered the weapon. "Where have you been?"

  "Doing tai chi."

  Since he was wearing only loose cotton pants and nothing else— though he did have a shirt crumpled in one hand—I should have fig­ured that out for myself.

  His smooth, cinnamon skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat that should have been unattractive but wasn't. The sheen only em­phasized the ripples and curves of a well-honed body.

  In the year we'd been together, he hadn't cut his hair, and it hung nearly to his shoulders, the blue-black strands playing hide-and-seek with that feather.

  Maybe we could skip the wedding and head straight for the honeymoon.

  He craned his neck. "Is that your dress?"

  "Back off, Slick; you're not supposed to see."

  Typically, he ignored me, kicking the door shut, then crossing the room, stopping so close I could have sworn I felt steam rising from his skin.

  "I'm not supposed to see you wearing the dress until the wedding—"

  "I don't think you're supposed to see me, either."

  He brushed my hair from my cheek and whispered, "I couldn't stay away."

  When he said things like that, I could deny the man nothing. Not my heart, my body, or my future.

  At the moment, I wanted to promise Will everything all over again.

  Sure marriage scared me, but so had the werewolves once. I'd got­ten over it.

  My panic attack was understandable given my upbringing. My father had taken off right about the time I'd started to talk—can't imagine why—and I hadn't seen him since. My mother had never really liked me.

  Seriously. She hadn't. She'd waited until I turned eighteen, and then she'd taken off, too. Oh, she'd left a forwarding address, but she'd invested in caller ID and rarely picked up the phone on the few occasions I'd gotten drunk enough to call her. She hadn't bothered to respond when I'd left a message about my wedding.

  Of course she was of the old school—Indians and whites did not mix; they certainly didn't match. That I was marrying one had prob­ably gotten me taken off the speed dial, if I'd ever been on it in the first place. Which was just fine with me.

  The only family I had was in Grand Portage with me now. The family I'd chosen, and that was as it should be.

  "You're thinking too much again."

  Will's hand slid around my neck. His lips brushed the frown line between my eyes, the tip of my nose, then settled against mine. I sighed and let him remind me of the only thing that mattered.

  Us.

  He pulled me closer. Our bodies aligned just right. They always had. He was tall enough so I could lay my head on his shoulder. Not too short that I couldn't wear high heels if I was of a mind to, not that I'd ever be that out of my mind. He was strong enough to pick me up, sling me around, kick my ass if I let him. Everything about Will was perfect, except his uncharacteristic desire for a wife.

  He tasted like a winter wind in the middle of the summer heat. I gave myself up to the lust. From the beginning we'd wanted each other, and that desire had never weakened. Sometimes
I wondered if we were truly in love or only dazzled by the sex. Then again, there were worse things to be dazzled by.

  The backs of my knees hit the bed, and I tumbled onto the sheets, grunting when he landed on top of me. Something jabbed me in the shoulder. My wiggling only served to rub my T-shirt against my nipples. They hardened at the contact, poking against Will's bare chest.

  If his low-voiced murmurs and the sudden thrust of his erection were any indication, Will believed the wiggling was encouragement.

  I considered ignoring the pain, focusing on the pleasure, until Will tugged at the button on my jeans. The resulting shift of his body weight made me say, "Ouch!"

  Will's fingers stilled. "Ouch?"

  "Get off a minute, will you?" Without question he rolled to the side.

  I reached behind me and came up with the medicine bag. Before I could explain, he snatched it from my hand and leaped off the bed.

  "Hey!" I protested, but he was already picking up his forgotten shirt from the floor and removing his glasses from the pocket, before pouring the contents into his palm.

  For a minute, I was transfixed by him. Besides the earring, his glasses really did me in. That absentminded-professor thing always made me want to jump him.

  "Love charm," he muttered. "Ojibwe."

  "What does it do?"

  "Uses magic to make one person love another."

  "You believe that?"

  He tilted his head. "Don't you?"

  Something in his voice made my eyes narrow. "Wait just one damned minute. You think I made this? I don't know jack about Ojibwe love charms. Besides, smart guy, I found it in your shirt."

  "Mine?" He patted his chest, realized he wasn't wearing anything above the waist, and frowned. "Huh?"

  "In your wedding outfit."

  He froze. "You were in my room?"

  He said it as if I'd stolen his diary and read the good parts on CNN.

  "Is that a problem?" I asked. "You have something to hide?"

  Although I was angry at his accusations, I was starting to get un­easy, too. Maybe Will did have something to hide. Like a love charm.

  I'd wondered why I'd been so damn agreeable lately to every­thing he said. Sure I'd joked about being charmed by the moon, but I'd never considered a literal love charm. Really, I should have.