Chance laughed. "Too many to list, Bones, and so are yours. If you don't mind, I'd like to add to them."
"Indeed. Desecration of the confessional, coming up straightaway."
There was a tear of metal, and then the grille separating them was gone. Bones—this was the vampire her grandmother spoke about?—gave a hard tap at the wall behind him and it fell away, revealing an exit had been recently cut but then dry-walled back into place.
"The rectory," Bones supplied, crawling through. "Let's not dawdle."
Chance and Isa climbed through the space as well. With all the commotion, there should have been sufficient sound coverage to muffle their escape, but soon people would notice that the gun-toting bride was nowhere to be seen.
Once inside the rectory, Bones gestured to the window. "Your car's across the street. I'll stay here and delay anyone who might have a mind to come after you. Best get moving, or Greta may take off without you."
"You let a hundred and twenty-six-year-old woman drive my Camaro?" Chance asked in disbelief.
Bones laughed. "You're older than she is, who are you to throw stones?"
"How old are you?" Isa gasped. Okay, so she hadn't gotten around to asking some things.
"One hundred and forty-three," Chance supplied, giving her a quick kiss. "But don't worry, darling. I don't feel a day over the century mark."
"Nice meeting you, luv," Bones called out as Chance swept Isa in his arms. He vaulted through the open rectory window at full speed, making everyone they passed look like no more than a haze of colors.
Across the street, Greta revved the engine of the Camaro. Chance dove in the open passenger door and Greta took off without waiting for him to close it, swinging the car into the street with a squeal of tires.
"Where are we going?" Isa asked, her head firmly clasped to Chance's chest. He had the seat reclined to avoid them being spotted—or so she guessed.
"Anywhere you want," he replied. "We have time."
Isa looked over at her grandmother, who was wheeling the muscle car around, and she smiled. Following your heart is always the right decision, Greta had said, and Isa agreed. That's what she was doing, so it didn't really matter where they went. Besides, Chance was right. They had time. All the time in the world, if she wanted.
"Surprise me," Isa said, and kissed him.
About Jeaniene Frost
JEANIENE FROST lives with her husband and their very spoiled dog in Florida . Although not a vampire herself, she confesses to having pale skin, wearing a lot of black, and sleeping in late whenever possible. And while she can't see ghosts, she loves to walk through old cemeteries. Jeaniene also loves poetry and animals, but fears children and hates to cook. She is currently at work on her next paranormal novel.
To know more about Jeaniene, please visit her website at http://www.jeanienefrost.com/.
GHOULS NIGHT OUT
Terri Garey
Chapter 1
"I look like a giant pineapple," I muttered. "Put a bowl of fruit on my head and I could give Carmen Miranda a run for her money."
How many ruffles did one dress need? Ruffles from waist to ankle—in shiny yellow taffeta, no less.
"I'm Chiquita Banana and I'm here to say, bananas need to ripen in a certain way…"
If I craned my neck just right, I could see in the mirror how the giant bow on my butt made my ass look at least four sizes bigger. The waist was too big, and the flat bodice and off-the-shoulder sleeves squashed my boobs down to nothing.
Not like they were big to begin with, but they were usually something.
And this particular shade of yellow was so not my color—it didn't go with the pink streaks in my hair.
"How are you doing? Need help with the zipper?"
I whipped the curtain to my dressing room back with a rattle.
"Oh," the saleslady smiled, clearly blowing smoke up my newly huge ass. "You look lovely."
"Are you sure this is the dress Debbie picked out?" I asked hopefully. "She said she was going to keep it simple." The stiff tulle of my underskirt rustled as I stepped forward—walking in this thing would be a nightmare, and I was going to have to do it in front of witnesses, with a smile pasted on my face.
The woman actually looked disappointed. "Don't you like it? All the other bridesmaids loved it."
That's because they're all morons, I thought to myself. Redneck morons.
Though to be fair, only half of the Hathaway clan were morons, the rest were idiots. Debbie and her three sisters would welcome the chance to dress up like a Brazilian bombshell in pineapple season, particularly if there were hats or ribbons involved.
Cousins on my mom's side, the Hathaway sisters made me glad I was adopted. But I knew my mom would've wanted me to do the right thing, and when Debbie called me out of the blue and begged me to be in her wedding, it had been Emily Styx's voice I'd heard in my head. "Family is everything, Nicki," she'd have said. Besides, as cousins go, Debbie had always been my favorite—I couldn't erase the mental image of the little tow-headed girl who used to follow me around at family reunions.
Which is why I'd driven an hour into the middle of nowhere to be fitted with one of the ugliest bridesmaid dresses I'd ever seen.
Taking my silence for consent, I suppose, the grimly cheerful saleslady ushered me up onto a pedestal in front of a wall of mirrors. I stared at myself in dismayed silence as she fluffed a few ruffles and tugged at the sleeves.
"And here's a lovely hat to complete the ensemble," she said, fake smile firmly in place.
I watched in horror as she held out a floppy yellow concoction, dripping with ribbon.
"You're not serious," I said, unable to muster even a pretense of politeness.
"Oh, but I am, dear," she answered, nodding. "It's your cousin's day, after all, isn't it?"
Her day. Her beautiful, precious, I'm-getting-married-and-you're-not day.
"No bride in the world is going to let a bridesmaid outshine them on their wedding day, dear," the woman said, not unkindly. "Now put your hat on and stand up straight. Time to break out the measuring tape if we're to have this dress ready by Saturday."
Ten minutes later I was still standing there, waiting impatiently while the hem was pinned; it was going to have to come up at least an inch and the ruffles made the pinning difficult. The shop door opened, and a woman came in. She was in her early twenties, dark hair in a messy ponytail, and stopped short when she saw me standing in front of the mirrors.
"That's my dress," she said, clearly surprised to see me in it.
The seamstress, whose name I'd learned was Bebe, looked up. "I have to get that door fixed," she said absently. "It keeps blowing open."
"Who are you?" the dark-haired girl asked me, "and why are you wearing my dress?"
Bebe ignored her, rising to her feet with a relieved sigh. "That's it," she said to me. "Be careful of the pins when you take it off."
"Hell-ooo," said the girl, obviously exasperated. "Cat got your tongue? I know you can see me. You're looking right at me."
My heart sank to the level of my newly pinned hem.
Not another one.
I glanced at Bebe again, hoping against hope that the seamstress saw the dark-haired girl, too.
Bebe gave me a quizzical look. "You okay, hon? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Ghosts, spirits, phantoms, spooks—call them what you like, just don't call them too loudly.