Blood Bond (Anna Strong Chronicles #9) Page 18

  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?

  A sound from downstairs draws me to the window. Dad is greeting the first guests, the family from next door. He looks so handsome in his suit, white hair brushed straight back from a smooth forehead, smile erasing some of the worry lines that have formed around his mouth since my mother’s illness. Father of the bride. A title that probably surprises him as much as it does me!

  At ten, a knock and Mom and Trish walk in.

  Trish looks radiant. Lisette pulled her buttercream hair back from her face, fastened it at the crown with a garland of flowers and ribbon the same rose color as her dress. The rest falls to her shoulders in soft curls. I can only shake my head at how splendid she looks.

  As does my mother. Her hair, thinned by illness and medicine, has been transformed through the magic of a hairpiece. Lisette matched Mom’s hai
r perfectly, adding fullness at the top and back by expertly blending a short cascade of curls with her real hair. She did Mom’s makeup, too.

  “No one is going to be looking at me,” I say, hugging first Mom and then Trish. “They’ll be too busy looking at you two.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Trish says. “Look at yourself.”

  She says it in the offhand, casual way one does, but Mom and I know that’s not something that’s going to happen.

  Unless—

  “Mom. Do you have a digital camera?”

  “I do.” She turns to Trish. “It’s downstairs on Grandpa’s desk. Will you get it please?” When Trish is out the door, she raises an eyebrow at me. “You can be photographed?”

  “Not on film. But digitally . . .”

  “Then quick, let’s get your dress on. When Trish comes back we’ll take a couple of pictures.”

  I take off my robe and Mom helps me slip into the dress. She stands back, eyes shining, her expression saying more than words. Trish is back, camera in hand, and she, too, gives me the nod of approval.

  Mom takes the camera, but before she can start snapping away, Trish yelps. “We almost forgot! The ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ thing!” It comes out in a rush, one long hyphenated word.

  “You’re right.” Mom lays the camera down and pulls three small packages from the pocket of her jacket. She hands two to Trish, the third to me. “Your beautiful dress is something new. This is something old.”

  My hands are suddenly trembling. I tear at the tissue to find a small jewelry box. When I open it, there is a pair of pearl earrings nestled against black velvet. “Oh, Mom.” I touch the earrings. I recognize them. “These were your mother’s.”

  “And now they’re yours.” She turns to Trish.

  Trish is grinning. “Something borrowed.”

  “Uh-oh,” I tease. “Something borrowed from a teenager? What is this? Your iPod?”

  But when I open the package, it’s a simple gold bracelet of dainty heart-shaped links. “Trish, this is beautiful.”

  “It’s the only thing I have from my dad,” she says wistfully. “Mom said he gave it to her when he found out she was pregnant.”

  God. I have to fight to keep my expression from betraying a sudden wave of anger. Another in her mother’s web of lies. The bracelet couldn’t be from my brother. He died before knowing Trish’s mother was pregnant. With another man’s child.

  But I’m lying, too.

  Every minute of every day. Because I’ve perpetuated the lie.

  When I look at the strong, courageous young woman Trish has become because of that lie, though, I know I made the right choice.

  I accept the bracelet with a smile and slip it on.

  Trish holds out the last package. “Your fiancé picked this out,” she says with a mischievous smile.

  “He did, did he?” I tear off the paper. A blue garter. I hold it up. “Hmmmm. Now whatever is he going to do with this?”

  Trish is laughing and Mom motions for me to put it on so I slip the garter over my knee. Then she waits until I’ve made the last adjustment, putting on the earrings, to stand back and give me the once-over.

  “You are a beautiful bride, Anna.”

  “Take a picture, take a picture,” Trish says excitedly. Then, “Wait, wait. We forgot the bouquet.” And she’s out the door running down the hall for Mom’s bedroom. There’s a gasp as we hear her say next, “No. Don’t look in. Aunt Anna has her gown on. It’s bad luck. Go on downstairs.”

  Mom and I smile at each other. Frey must have snuck upstairs for a peek. He grumbles something, but we hear his tread on the stairs so he’s heeding Trish’s heated admonition.

  Trish is back with the bouquet. Roses. The same pale color as my dress. When I’m holding the bouquet, Mom starts snapping. After half a dozen shots, I’m too impatient to wait any longer. “Let me see,” I say, almost dancing with excitement. I haven’t seen what I look like in over a year . . . and that was a fuzzy newspaper photo.

  Mom hands me the camera and stands back to watch, her arms around Trish’s shoulders, her eyes shining.

  My hands tremble as I work the display. I can’t believe I’m looking at my own image. My hair is lighter than I remember, honey blonde, with even paler streaks highlighting a face I expected to look drastically different. It doesn’t. My eyes are softer than I would have imagined, still human, even after all they’ve seen. Lisette did a great job with a simple, subtle application of makeup that gives my tanned skin a glow. The dress hugs the curves of my body, my legs look long and lean, my arms toned.

  “I don’t look half bad.” I don’t realize I’ve said that aloud until Trish snorts.

  “Are you kidding? Didn’t you look in the mirror? You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”

  Mom winks at me over her head and goes to the window. “I hear the orchestra. I think everyone’s here.” She hustles Trish out the door. “Go see if it’s time, will you?”

  When Trish has left, Mom takes my hands and stands back as if taking her own mental snapshot. We don’t speak, don’t move, either of us. She looks happy, content. I feel happy, content. It’s so strange and wonderful. Unexpected. Magical.

  If only it could last forever.

  CHAPTER 31

  I PEEK OUT THE WINDOW WHEN I HEAR THE STRING quartet begin to play what I’ve chosen as my processional: Bach’s Prelude in C.

  Mom looks at me, her eyebrows raised.

  I grin at her. “This is my surprise for you. I remember you saying it’s what you chose when you married Dad.”

  Her eyes fill with tears, but I shake a finger at her. “No crying, remember? Your crying will ruin my makeup.”

  Another glance out the window. Trish is walking down the aisle hand in hand with John-John. They take their places in front, John-John at Frey’s side, Trish to the left. I look at Mom. It’s our cue. She takes my hand and we go downstairs to where Dad is waiting at the gate to the garden.

  Mom gives my hand one last squeeze before she places it in Dad’s. He leans over and pecks my cheek. “Your hands are cold as ice. Don’t be nervous. You look beautiful.”

  Mom winks at me. “Here we go.”

  She precedes us down the red carpet that’s been laid from the edge of the garden to a flower-strewn pergola. The officiate is waiting for us on the steps. It’s Pierre. I wonder with a grin if Frey will be disappointed that it’s not Hot Lips performing the ceremony.

  This is the first time I’ve seen the garden since the workmen arrived yesterday. Three rows of chairs have been placed in a semicircle facing a raised dais. The chairs are filled with Mom and Dad’s friends and neighbors and at the front, David and Tracey. Lots of flowers. Everywhere. I sense Chael, too, though at the moment I’m too excited, nervous, terrified to look around.

  My eyes focus on Frey. He’s waiting for me, John-John at his side. He steps forward to give Mom’s cheek a kiss and when she’s taken her place in the front row, his gaze turns to me.

  In that moment, all our history, all our mistakes, all our past evaporates. It’s as if I’m seeing him for the first time. He reaches out a hand and Dad places my palm in his. Then Dad kisses my cheek, too, and joins Mom.

  I can’t take my eyes off Frey. His wonderful familiar face suddenly looks different. It’s not a reflection of his clothes. He’s handsome in his tux, but he’s handsome in jeans and an old sweatshirt. It’s something new in his gaze when he looks at me.

  It’s devotion. In his eyes. Shining from his face. A promise that he will never let me down. I knew he loved me. I didn’t know until this minute how much. Or realize how much I loved him. It’s magical. Joyous. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve found my soul mate.

  He bends his head and whispers in my ear, “You are even more beautiful than I imagined you’d be.”

  And in that instant, nervousness and fear disappear. I throw my arms around his neck and hold him—so tight I feel his breath catch. And th
en he’s hugging me back and I’ve never felt so safe.

  Suddenly, laughter erupts from the guests seated behind us, and the officiate pulls us gently apart. “That’s at the end,” he quips.

  And so I disentangle myself from Frey and we’re both grinning as the ceremony really begins.

  The vows are simple, promises to be faithful, to love each other through dark days and light, to protect and defend each other. Uncomplicated concepts to mortals, but to us, vampire and shape-shifter, they take on a special meaning. We repeat them solemnly, together, eyes locked. We exchange rings, gold bands each engraved with one word: forever. Then Pierre proclaims us husband and wife.

  “Now you may kiss the bride.”

  And so Frey does. A deep, lingering kiss that has my heart pounding until the sound of applause brings us up for air.

  The recessional blasts from speakers hidden among the foliage. Frey watches my face as I recognize the song. Since I picked the processional, he insisted on choosing the appropriate recessional. “It’s perfect,” I say. “But who picked it out, you or Dad?”

  Then there’s another gale of laughter and applause when the audience, too, recognizes the familiar composition.

  What could be more fitting than the “Hallelujah Chorus”?

  * * *

  I’M MARRIED. I HAVE TO KEEP REPEATING IT LIKE A MANTRA TO BELIEVE IT. EVEN WITH ALL THE PEOPLE OFFERING CONGRATULATIONS AND MY FOLKS BEAMING, IT doesn’t seem real.

  Chael approaches with his guests. Plural. He not only has a very young, very human, very French model type on his arm, but he’s brought someone else, too.

  Vlad’s eyes twinkle as he bends low to kiss my hand. “You make a lovely bride,” he says.

  You kept a low profile, I say with a smile. I didn’t know you were here.