“I’d love it if we could have our weddings together,” she said. “If you’re okay with it.”
“As long as Shane gives me the taco he just straight up snaked off my plate.”
Shane solemnly put it back. They all looked at each other, and then Michael took Eve’s hand, and then Shane’s, and Shane took Claire’s, and Claire took Eve’s . . .
...and it was a little like a prayer, and a little like a hug, and a lot like home.
“So,” Shane said after the silence went on just a beat too long. “Tacos, or orgy?”
“Tacos,” the rest of them said, all together.
“I knew you were going to say that.”
Somehow Claire hadn’t expected to be quite so scared.
She’d faced down humans, vampires, and draug. She’d regularly done things that most people would go a lifetime without ever having to deal with even once. And yes, she’d been scared, even terrified from time to time. . . .
But not like this.
“Breathe,” Eve advised her, and tugged slightly at her dress. It felt heavy and close around her, and in the warm air of the church’s dressing room, Claire was afraid she might pass out if she tried to move. The person in the mirror was someone else entirely—someone dressed in a long white gown of satin, with a high-waisted beaded bodice that managed to make her look tall and regal and still gave her curves. A long fall of sheer fabric cascaded from the back, almost touching the floor. Along with the fancy necklace and sparkly bracelet (both lent from Amelie’s no doubt vast collection), and with her hair worn up and fixed with glittering pins, she felt like a princess.
She felt like a woman, and somehow she’d never thought of herself that way before. She’d never stopped being a girl, had she? Well, she had, but gradually, so gradually that she hadn’t even noticed.
Her mother was sitting in the corner of the room, and now she came forward to put her arms around Claire and rock her slowly, side to side. “You look amazing, honey,” she said. “I could not be happier for you.”
“Really?” Claire turned to look at her, trying to remember not to cry. Eve had been very strict about that rule, because of the makeup. “I didn’t think you totally approved of Shane. You or Dad.”
“He’s . . . changed,” her mother said. “And you love him. And I think your dad’s smart enough to know that you’re the second most stubborn person in the world, and he’d be wise not to cross you.”
“Only the second?”
“Well, you did get it from me. Someday, when you’re older, I’ll tell you all about how I convinced your father to marry me,” her mom said. She picked up the bouquet from the table—red roses wrapped with white ribbons. Eve’s bouquet, of white roses wrapped with red ribbons, beautifully complemented her totally nontraditional red dress. Of course, it looked awesome on her and even showed off her tattoos well. “If you’re ready, dear, I just heard the knock on the door.”
“Mom—” Claire didn’t know what to say, or what to do, so she just lunged forward and hugged her mother. Hard. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she forced them away. Because, mascara. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetie,” her mother said, and kissed her cheek, then rubbed the lipstick away in an absent gesture so familiar it melted Claire’s heart. “I’m so proud of you. Always.”
She opened the door, and Claire almost couldn’t take the step, except that her dad was standing right there, looking tall and trim and—for the first time in a long time—healthy, despite his heart condition. Maybe it was the suit he was wearing, or just the pleasure of the day, but she’d take it—she’d take every day she had with her parents gladly.
Her dad gave her the biggest, most amazing smile she’d ever seen, and then offered her his arm.
It wasn’t so much like walking as gliding through a dream . . . Eve was walking ahead of her, vivid in her dramatic red dress with its train. And she had a vampire giving her away, remarkably enough: Oliver. He was wearing some extremely old-fashioned tuxedo thing with a gold sash over it, and he looked feral and handsome and slightly bored, but when he left her at the altar next to Michael, he kissed her hand, and that looked honestly nice. He took his place to the side, next to Amelie. Out of deference to the brides, she’d forgone the white suit she normally wore and instead had chosen a tailored teal blue that still looked like it cost more than the jewels heavy around Claire’s neck.
The church was packed with people. Regular humans and vampires. And one hundred percent Morganville.
She hardly felt the steps down the aisle, though she did feel the weight of all the eyes on her as she walked. It was over in what seemed far too little time, and then her dad handed her off to Shane, and her heart almost stopped as his eyes met hers.
She hadn’t seen Shane all morning, and sometime since she’d seen him last, he’d gotten his hair cut—not short, but shorter. It suited him, brought out the strong lines of his face and made him look fierce and amazing. He’d never, ever looked so good, she thought; he probably hated the tuxedo, but he utterly rocked it, even down to the ruby pin in the lapel.
Then he winked at her, and she knew that he was still Shane, and the tension in her eased. She had to fight the sudden, dizzying urge to giggle.
The service passed in a blur of words she wasn’t sure she got out right, and then the cool touch of the ring sliding onto her finger, and then the warm pressure of Shane’s lips on hers, and the sudden dizzy rush as he bent her backward, because, of course, and the laughter from the audience.
She didn’t completely get her breath or her sanity back until they were in the reception hall, and Myrnin, resplendent in an utterly (for a change) appropriate suit and tie, pressed a cup of punch into her hands and said, “Nonalcoholic. Also not containing actual blood. You seem to need it.”
“Oh,” she said, and looked down blankly at the red liquid. She sipped; he was right. It was just fruit juice with a sizzle kick of ginger ale. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome,” he said, and leaned against the wall beside her. “So. Happy?” He crossed his arms, staring out at the people milling about the buffet and taking seats at round tables. “Truly?”
She thought about it for a few seconds, and then said, very quietly, “Yes.” She resisted the urge to apologize for it, and he nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Clearly, that’s good.” He was watching someone, she realized, and after searching for a second Claire spotted Lady Grey—Jesse—talking with Amelie; two queens, chatting together like friends, although there was just a little stiffness between them if you knew what to look for. Jesse had on a black leather dress, probably just to be sure that she thoroughly contrasted; her red hair was loose around her shoulders, like a coat of fire.
Claire sipped her punch again. “She looks pretty today.”
“Doesn’t she?” he said, and sighed. “Terrifyingly so.”
Up on the raised stage, Michael finished tuning his guitar and pulled the mike close to say, “So, welcome to the afterparty,” which made quite a few people laugh. “This is a song I wrote for my wife. Feel free to get out there and dance.”
He started playing, and it was an aching, amazing song that poured out of him, and Claire was so intent on the music, the passion of it, that she was surprised when Myrnin took the cup out of her hands, put it aside, and pulled her out onto the dance floor. He twirled her around in a rush, and then settled into an easy, effortless glide.
Myrnin could dance. Who could have predicted that?
Claire caught her breath on a laugh, and fell into the rhythm.
“I’ll miss you,” she said. She didn’t know where it came from, but this close to him, it needed to be said.