28
Despite my morning trek across the desert, I was the first in the wedding party to reach Valhalla, arriving so early the casino floor sported more patrons from the night before than those beginning their gambling day. Go ahead, chase your money, I thought, watching a bleary-eyed man battle a slant-topped bandit. Someone needs to keep my food cheap and my taxes low. He eyed me back, less interested in what my black roller suitcase contained than in the stretch of my T-shirt and jeans. A predictable response in a predictable environment, and just the annoyance I needed to calm me before attempted patricide. Gotta love Vegas.
But now I was dressed in an Indo-Western sari, an amalgamation of eastern and western influences, with a black sequined halter attached to a pink satin bodice and matching lily embroidery. The bottom of the dress was a soft lavender that lightened into pink and ivory as the body scarf swirled across my middle, ending in a dramatic drape over my left shoulder. It was an elegance that was almost impossible to pull off, even without rusted weapons tucked into every fold.
Meanwhile, Valhalla’s pool area, spanning the hotel’s center courtyard, had been turned into an outdoor cathedral with velvet chairs rimming the pool and a Plexiglas aisle leading to an equally translucent dais. Suzanne and Arun had worked hard to make sure both Indian and American cultures were well represented. Physically it wasn’t much different than a traditional western wedding. Giant floral arrangements in the softest of pastels dwarfed stunted heaters dotting the patio surface, and silk banners threaded the entire area to create an enormous tent, more to shield the ceremony from the curious gazes of guests in the looming hotel rooms than out of any eastern tradition.
Arun’s culture would be more fully represented in the ceremony than anywhere else. Prayers and hymns were explained in a wedding program, and garlands and embraces would be exchanged at preordained times. Though Suzanne would enter to the traditional wedding march, an artist would perform it on a sitar rather than a piano.
I sighed, wishing there was no need to plant weapons among the silks and flowers, but ordered the wait staff on a mandatory fifteen-minute break anyway. I had to be safe, though it wouldn’t necessarily preclude me from being sorry. I placed the saber within the vase of the floral arrangement closest to the side of the dais where I’d be standing-and the bladed cane along the back of a pillar bolstering one of the soaring silks. The trident was perfectly holstered at the small of my back, one quirley hidden in the depths of my cleavage, and the gun with its bubbling green vials also disappeared beneath my sari’s folds. If I had to be in an enclosed area with both the Tulpa and Sleepy Mac, I was damn well going to wear something that would make a more lasting impression than my borrowed tiara.
Yet, as the Tulpa was immune to all paranormal weaponry, and Mackie was both aware of my identity and that I was armed, my greatest weapon was offense. The defensive protectant would only shield me from one blow, but it might buy me enough time to pull the trident from my back or the cane from the bushes. I didn’t anticipate using the quirley, as I’d need time to both pull it out and light it-though the sole candle in the dais’s center might prove useful if given the opportunity. And though Io had reinforced the protective coating on my organs, my preference was to avoid even the tiniest of flesh wounds. I scarred now, I hurt now, and as evidenced by Luna’s sad demise, I could suffer a worse fate on this side of Mackie’s blade than mere death.
“Any second thoughts?” I asked the bride once I’d returned to her…probably because I was having so many. I did my best not to sound hopeful. We were ensconced in the elevated bridal chamber, as scented, soothing, and relaxing as the city’s finest spa, and with a panoramic view of the pool area.
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Suzanne replied from in front of the vanity. Twenty minutes from showtime, and she looked like a living goddess. Her dress was a strapless lengha with a full underskirt of tulle, and done entirely in gold silk and threaded appliqués. Her veil, also gold, was more of a headdress encompassing the full of her forehead. Diamonds lined the sharp arch of her brows, the sparkle warring with the yellow gold earrings and glossed, flecked lips.
“Forever’s a long time,” I answered, still considering a forever spent with a consciousness encased in neverhealing flesh. I shivered, causing Suzanne to laugh.
She folded ornately hennaed hands in front of her. “If you’re lucky, you find the one who makes you feel like forever isn’t long enough.”
“If you’re lucky, you don’t puke when someone says something like that.” Cher entered the room with a necklace so large I wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t a breastplate. Now that she mentioned it, I did feel a little queasy. However, Suzanne’s responding squeal helped take my mind off the crowd gathering like a storm outside, and I held up her veil as Cher fastened the gold clasp around her neck.
“You young women are so impossibly jaded,” Suzanne said in a breathy sigh. “But I choose to be eternally optimistic. That’s why I’m getting married on Valentine’s Day. That’s why red, representing the heart, and gold, representing my faith in love, are my wedding colors. That’s why the little cupids, poised with bows and arrows, are featured in all my centerpieces. I wish this sort of love for everyone who witnesses mine.”
Her words would have increased my nausea if they weren’t so sincere. I bit my lip and privately swore not to let my red-blooded heart mess up her gold dress…though I wished even more that I were armed with a bow and arrow. Little cupid bastards.
But Suzanne wasn’t done rhapsodizing. I supposed it was allowed on one’s wedding day, though it did nothing to assuage my guilt over compromising her ceremony. Even if Arun was a freak. “Yes, I believe love’s the greatest motivator of all. It’s the reason the sun and moon chase each other across the sky. It’s vital to the breath of the stars.”
I huffed. Too bad nobody ever told that to Solange.
Cher, tilting her head, considered her stepmother. “You know, you should have gotten a boob job for the wedding.”
Suzanne stopped cold, straightening like an affronted peacock. “Really?”
“Yeah, you’re totally bossier than your boobies right now.” Cher shook her head, eyes angled down.
“Well, shit.” Suzanne looked down too. She pursed her lips, thinking. “Maybe we can stuff ’em with toilet paper.”
“Oh, I’ll go get some,” Cher volunteered. “You didn’t hear that, Ms. Board of Directors…”
“Didn’t hear a thing,” I said, pretending to cover my ears as she sailed from the room.
“I wish she would have told me this sooner,” Suzanne muttered, bending over like she was flexing her pecs. It created a little channel in the front of her dress. From the way her eyes widened it must have looked to her like the Lincoln tunnel.
“You’re gorgeous,” I reassured, momentarily putting my life/death issues aside, and my hand on her arm.
“Really. I didn’t even notice your boobs-” I broke off, immediately realizing that was the wrong thing to say.
“And it’s the most beautiful wedding gown I’ve ever seen.”
Suzanne relaxed enough to fluff her skirt, and twirled to face the full-length mirror. “Did you know white is the color of death in India? It’s true,” she said, not bothering to wait for my reply. “The women primarily get married in red over there, head to toe. Even their bindis. Arun and I compromised on gold, but I could tell it bothered him. Do you think it’s bad luck? Am I going to be unlucky in love if I wear something on my wedding day that is only a shade away from a color some believe signifies death?”