10
Adult werewolf children are expected to stay within the confines of pack territory. Those who move more than a five-minute run from pack headquarters are either disowned or hosts to frequent weekend guests.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
From the dawn of time, women have formed friendships for one purpose only: to make sure they’ll have someone to provide unpaid serf labor for their weddings. And we all just go along with it, spurred by fear that if we don’t submit to the bridal demands, there will be no one to slave over our own weddings.
That’s why, six months before the actual wedding, I was spending an evening measuring and cutting exactly fourteen inches of cornflower-blue ribbon over and over and over and … over. These ribbons would be sent to a printing company to be stamped with “HMS Titanic” on one side and “Zeb and Jolene—Struck by Love” on the other. They would then be tied around old-fashioned hurricane lamps as part of Jolene’s carefully planned tablescape. Each table was going to be named for famous (read: deceased) Titanic passengers, such as John Jacob Astor and Molly Brown, then decorated with hurricane lamps and fake ice. Of course, no one would pay attention to a seating plan, which is another Southern wedding tradition.
Jolene had the gall to call this gathering a “work party,” in the style of Amish people who get together to make a quilt or build a barn. I didn’t think Amish women typically had a Camel hanging from the corner of their lips while they worked, like Jolene’s aunt Lulu. Also, the Amish employed more lenient leaders than Jolene, who had the tendency to become a little bossy when it came to her nuptials.
“It has to be at least fourteen inches to make sure each bow has about three inches of hanging ribbon on each side,” Jolene told us. I would have questioned whether Jolene was serious, but she didn’t respond well when I laughed at her “All bridesmaids must cut their hair to exactly three inches below the shoulder by March” edict.
Pointing out that the printing company would have cut these ribbons for an additional $250 would have resulted in huffy eye rolls from Jolene’s battalion of cranky cousins. Besides, Aunt Vonnie, who had somehow heard my full opinion of the bridesmaids’ dresses, was already giving me the dagger eyes.
The McClaine clan alpha couple—known to Jolene as Mom and Dad—lived in the main house on the compound, a quaint little yellow farmhouse, with white shutters and a porch swing, surrounded by a series of increasingly dilapidated trailers. Inside, the walls were decorated with Thomas Kinkade prints and silk floral arrangements saved from funeral services. Everything was neat and clean and protected by doilies. And everybody was naked. Which explained the doilies.
Jolene and her cousins whipped their clothes off the moment they got in the door, the way most people kick off their shoes.
“Does this bother you?” she’d asked the first time I stumbled into her mother’s house.
“I just don’t know where to look,” I said, settling for a strange orange silk-flower arrangement mounted on the wall. The truth was, as the only clothed person there, I felt weird. I felt more naked than Jolene.
The only cousin who was remotely friendly was Charlene, who had asked for my home and e-mail addresses twice in the four hours since meeting me. She wanted to be my best friend. Seriously. My best friend. You cannot be nice to people like Charlene. It’s like feeding a stray cat. The cat just keeps coming back until you have to move. So I was being overtly rude to her, which wasn’t really helping my standing with the rest of the family.
Fortunately, among werewolf women, the word “bitch” is not offensive. I was having a lot of fun with that.
“Hey there, bitches!” I called as I came through the door. “What are my favorite bitches up to today?”
The only response was a chorus of unenthusiastic, drawled “Hi’s” and “Heys.”
“I know what you’re doin’,” Jolene muttered as she hugged me. “And it’s not funny.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I said, tucking wavy crimson hair behind her ears. She scowled at me. “I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”
Jolene was clearly the Golden Child in her clan. Her mother, Mimi, and all of the aunts fawned over her, telling and retelling cute stories from when she was a cub. Any accomplishment or news from the other cousins was matched with something about Jolene. Jolene was the only one of her cousins to attend community college. Jolene could skin a rabbit in two bites. Jolene was Miss Half-Moon Hollow 1998. Jolene and Zeb would be the first couple in her family to plan an actual honeymoon—to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, which was where you went when you couldn’t afford to go to Florida but wanted to be far enough away that your parents couldn’t “drop in” on the wedding night.
“Jolene works at Uncle Clay’s sandwich shop,” Aunt Lola said, beaming beatifically at Jolene. “He says all the customers just love her. She’s so helpful, so sweet. She just makes everybody she meets so happy.”
Raylene, Angelene, Lurlene, and Company let loose a collective sigh and synchronized eye roll. Sensing that the mob might be turning ugly, Jolene asked, “How’s the new job, Raylene?”
“Fine,” Raylene said, her voice flat as she concentrated on cutting the ribbon without fraying it.
“Just fine?” Jolene asked. “I mean, it’s got to be fun, right?”
Raylene shrugged. “Sure.”
“Well, you seen one, you seen ‘em all, right, Raylene?” Angelene asked slyly.
“Angelene,” Mimi growled. (Yes, literally.)
“I just started as a cake decorator at the Sweet Tooth,” Raylene explained. “I specialize in adult cakes.”
“Like Black Forest?” I asked. “That always seemed pretty grown-up to me.”
I really missed Black Forest cake, or any kind of cake. I missed chocolate. Bah! I still can’t believe the last food I ate was potato skins.
“No, Raylene makes cakes that look like”—Aunt Tammy looked around as if there were spies lurking behind the lace curtains—”sex parts.”
Raylene sighed. “I make penis cakes.”
Well, at least I knew what we were serving at the bachelorette party.
“How does one get into the penis-cake field?” I asked. “Where do you buy the cake pans for that?”
Raylene stared at me, unsure whether I was teasing her or honestly interested. Sensing a lull in the conversation, Aunt Lola—Raylene’s own mother—changed the subject back to Jolene.
“We’re all just so excited about Jolene’s wedding.” Lola sighed. “We’ve all waited for this, for just years now. And Zeb’s such an … he’s a sweet boy. Tell us again how he popped the question?”
Arlene muttered, “‘Cause we haven’t heard this story in almost an hour now.”
Jolene obviously heard her cousin but ignored her. To be fair, I had heard the story a few times myself.
“Zeb had this big plan with a restaurant and hidin’ the ring in a soufflé,” Jolene said, smiling dreamily. “And then I stepped out my front door, he saw me all dressed up, and he blurted out ‘Willyoumarryme?’ and shoved the ring at me. It was so cute!” Jolene cooed, looking down at the little diamond ring for which Zeb had plunked down two months of his teaching salary. “He almost shouted at me when he proposed. He was supposed to have the waiters at Julian’s sing this cute little ‘Will You Marry Me?’ song. Most of them are in the high-school swing chorus, and when we got to the restaurant and they found out we were already engaged, they were so mad they had missed their chance to perform! After that, Zeb was afraid to order the soufflé. Who knows what they might have done to it?”
“Did he cry?” Lurlene asked. “I heard that human males cry at the drop of a hat.”
The amazing thing about werewolves, who spend half their lives behind a human mask, is that they have terrible poker faces. It’s part of that canine earnestness thing. For a brief second, a look of pure annoyance flashed over Jolene’s perfect features. Lurlene smirked.
“How’s it goin’ with Roy?” Jolene asked. “Isn’t he the one who drives the ice cream truck?”
There was that annoyed flash again, only on Lurlene’s face.
“That was Ray,” Lurlene said, glaring. “Roy and I aren’t dating anymore.”
“Wait, didn’t I see his name in the paper for somethin’?” Jolene said.
“Oh, he got busted for trying to sneak a brisket out of the Super Saver in his jacket,” Tammy said in the most helpful tone I’d heard in a while. “He would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t dropped the brisket.”
“Oh! Is he the one who yelled, ‘Who threw this meat at me?’ and then tried to run out of the store?” I giggled. “Didn’t it take three Taser shots to get him down? Knowing that he’s a werewolf now, well, that makes a lot more sense … I’m not helping, am I?”
I ducked my head and pretended that measuring ribbons exactly was the most important thing in the world.
“So, Jolene, tell us all about your dress,” Aunt DeeDee squealed. “I haven’t seen it yet, but Vonnie said it’s just gorgeous.”
Cue another eye roll from the cousins.
“It is,” I volunteered. “Really gorgeous.”
Cue another eye roll. Sensing the shift in the tide, Jolene generously switched subjects to Braylene’s son. “Mama finished Jake’s little captain’s outfit.”
At my questioning eyebrow, she said, “Jake’s going to be our ring bearer. We found a pattern for an authentic period captain’s suit. I just hope he can get down the aisle without stripping it off.”
“Have you found a figurehead yet?” Aunt Tammy asked.
“No, I’m thinking about having Uncle Deke carve one.” Jolene pouted.
“Titanic didn’t have a figurehead.”
Three guesses who said that. They all turned to me, the person who had dared to disagree with Jolene.
“I know.” Jolene shrugged. “But it’s just so nautical and romantic.”
“Actually, most figureheads on ships featured bare breasts because sailors believed that the best way to keep storms and misfortunes at bay was to have a woman sacrifice her dignity to the gods. Flash a little boob, get smooth sailing. It’s not so much romantic as Clash of the Titans meets Girls Gone Wild.”
And if they weren’t staring before, they certainly were now. “I’m the only person in the room who knew that, aren’t I?”
Jolene wrapped an arm around me. “I love it when you pretend to be normal.”
“Even when I was human, I wasn’t normal,” I admitted. I lowered my voice as the pack returned to their handiwork. “So, what’s Mama Ginger been up to lately?”
“Nothin’,” she muttered. “That has me worried. It’s been too quiet. Zeb said she’s been distracted by hatin’ your boyfriend, which is kind of nice. I know it can’t last long, but I’m enjoying it while it lasts.”
“I think that’s about as healthy as you can expect to be,” I assured her.
Mollified for a moment, Jolene measured out several lengths of ribbon, rolled it back on the spool, measured it again, rolled it back. Grunting, she yanked the entire length of ribbon off the spool in a heap of blue sateen. When she picked up the scissors, I gently took the ribbon out of her hand. “Jolene, I may be going out on a limb here, but is something else bothering you?”
“Have you noticed anything odd about Zeb?” she asked. “I know this wedding stuff has him all stressed out, but he’s just been so distant, like he doesn’t even want to talk to me. And he’s been kind of mean. Some of the things he’s been saying are just hurtful.”
When I gave her an intentionally blank look, she said, “Like that joke about me not being very smart. And I don’t think he realizes how much he talks about you. We’ll be out to eat, and he’ll talk about what sort of food you used to like. We’ll watch a movie, and he’ll say, ‘I’ve already seen this with Jane.’ It’s just hard, you know? It’s like you’re an ex-girlfriend, but you never really broke up with him.”
“I never really dated him, either,” I told her.
“I know that,” she said, nudging me with her arm. “It’s just hard to live up to you, Jane.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve already got me beat hands down on looks.”
“I know,” she said, grinning.
“Agree with me a little slower, please,” I said, smacking her arm. “And you can go out during the day, have kids, eat, tan, grow old with him. And Zeb loves you. He’s just going through a weird phase. Just watch him at the wedding. He’ll be the happiest groom ever.”
Jolene didn’t look quite convinced but mumbled, “OK.”
The conversations became even more awkward as my night wore on.
“This is just beyond the pale,” Gabriel grumbled as I opened my door for him.
I’d been halfheartedly Googling Wilbur’s name, hoping I could find some relatives I could warn about Grandma Ruthie’s marital record before it was too late. Unused to Google failure, I was thrilled to have a distraction, even if that distraction was my agitated sire waving what looked like a ransom note at me.
“I found this in my mailbox tonight,” he said, holding a slip of bright yellow paper with letters cut out of magazines and newspapers—the standard font for crazies.
“ ‘Your bustin’ up a happy home. Brake it off with Jane or else,’ “ I read aloud as he stormed inside. “Mama Ginger’s spelling is atrocious.”
“If you’re to write harassing letters in upsetting type, you should at least have the courtesy to proofread,” he muttered, stretching across my couch.
“Some people,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“She did, however, ruin her anonymity by enclosing this,” he said, handing me a check for $352.67 from the account of Ginger and Floyd Lavelle. “I think she’s trying to pay me to stay away from you.”
“What gave it away?” I asked, holding up the check with a finger on the memo section, where Mama Ginger had scribbled, “To stay away from Jane.”
“Well, that is a lot of money,” I said. “It was good while it lasted.”
Gabriel barked out a laugh. “I’m glad to see you,” he said before leaning across the cushions and kissing me.
I gave him a bemused smile and blithely ignored the fact that it had been almost a week since he’d called or visited. Or that I’d been going crazy wondering where he was and what he was doing, but I didn’t want to be “that girlfriend” and call his cell phone constantly. Instead, I said, “I’m always right here.”
Gabriel opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Maybe we shouldn’t answer it,” I said. “It could be Mama Ginger. She might try to throw remaindered sausage products into the deal.”
“I’m not going to hide from a middle-aged woman who cannot spell,” Gabriel insisted darkly, advancing on the front door. I held him back with a hand against his chest.
“Well, let me answer the door, at least. She’s much less likely to douse me in battery acid.”
It was not a pleasant surprise to find Ophelia Lambert, the scary forever-adolescent head of the local panel for the World Council for Equal Treatment of the Undead, at my front door wearing a man’s shirt and tie with a skirt that might have been originally marketed as a headband.
Ophelia oversaw my failed prosecution for several random killings and fires the previous year and ultimately decided that I was justified in dusting Missy the Realtor with one of her own yard signs. Despite her being reasonably civil to me and electing not to set me on fire, I still found 300 years’ worth of predatory grace wrapped up in a fifteen-year-old’s body to be extremely offputting. On her part, I think she found my convulsive antics charming, but she was afraid to admit it.
“I didn’t do it,” I blurted out after opening the door.
“Do what?” she asked, her brow arched.
“Whatever,” I said. “Whatever big suspicious badness brought you to my door.”
She smirked, her carefully painted coral lips quirking into a bow. “Some people believe that the best way to avoid suspicion is not to declare their innocence before they’re accused of anything.”
“Well, I played it your way last time, and we see where that got me,” I said, waving her inside.
“As I understand it, it got you a very nice triumph settlement,” she said, slinking into the living room and perching on the nearest settee. She nodded in cool greeting to my sire.
“So I keep hearing,” I muttered. “I’ll believe it when I see a black balance on my bank statement.”
Ophelia grinned, her fangs glinting from the low-burning firelight, and offered me a slip of paper. It was my bank statement, and the balance was black. Very, very black. Apparently, Missy’s holdings had been transferred into my checking account. And her holdings were a little more extensive than I’d estimated. But it made sense, considering how many vampires she duped, cheated, and murdered to get their property. Plus, she did charge a healthy commission on her sales.
I’d been raised to think of discussing money as vulgar and rude. So I’ll just say that I would not have to worry about money. Ever. I could live the rest of my unnaturally long life, sitting on a sofa stuffed with twenty-dollar bills, sipping dessert blood, and avoiding any form of effort, and I would still have a little left over to make sure my alma mater named a parking lot after me.
“I guess the council decided that I’ve learned my lesson about being a good little vampire and staying out of trouble?” I said.
“Something like that,” Ophelia said, smirking again.
“The council couldn’t legally hold on to the money any longer without charging me with something?” I suggested.
“Something exactly like that.” Ophelia grinned, delighted by my grasp of the situation. “What do you plan to do with the money?”
“I’m still in the ‘Yay, I won’t lose my house’ phase of processing this information,” I told her. “Give me some time.”
“That’s very normal,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Given the brevity of her skirt, it wasn’t exactly comfortable for any of us. Out of deference to me and continued indifference to Ophelia, Gabriel made a comprehensive study of the window treatments.
“We will be getting back to a long discussion of how exactly you came by my account information, by the way,” I said, avoiding eye contact with her lack of skirt. “Can I ask why you brought me this news in person? This sounds like the sort of thing that should be delivered by registered mail. I thought you were supposed to be a disinterested third party.”
“You interest me,” she said nonchalantly. “You’re very entertaining.”
“Like a dancing monkey,” I muttered.
Ophelia smiled nastily, her bone-white fangs fully extended as she threw her head back and laughed. When she was done, she wiped at her eyes and smirked at Gabriel. “Actually, I needed to see Gabriel as well. As much as I’d love to let you and your charming paramour return to … whatever it was that you were doing, there is something I need to discuss with you.”
Silence.
I looked from the ancient teenager to my sire. Gabriel stared at Ophelia, who returned his silver gaze, unmoved and unimpressed. Clearly, whatever it was, Ophelia was not going to talk about it in front of me. And neither of them seemed willing to ask me to leave. Apparently, that would be rude. Pretending I didn’t exist, however, was totally OK.
“I’ll just go check on … something,” I said, scurrying into the kitchen with as much dignity as possible.
“All the way outside, Jane,” Ophelia called after me.
Well, there goes that.
I would like to say that I stood on the porch and enjoyed the pleasant evening air, contemplated the fullness of the moon and my place in the universe, giving not one thought to what was being said in my own house and how it might affect me. But I crept around to the front door and used my vampire hearing to eavesdrop.
I’m a deeply flawed person.
It should come as no surprise that I am not good with stealth. Ophelia and Gabriel obviously knew I was doing it because they spoke in hushed tones that I strained to hear. All I could make out were furious whispers and Ophelia saying the words “unhinged,” “nightmare,” and “Jeanine.”
There was that name again. Who the hell was Jeanine? I stepped closer to the door, catching the wrong porch board and sending an ear-splitting creak directly into their ears. They were now more than aware that I was standing outside listening. Ophelia snickered and said in a louder voice, “This is your problem to deal with, Gabriel. But if you cannot handle the situation, the council would be happy to step in.”
I could hear Gabriel’s insistent, almost desperate whisper in return, but I could not understand his response. I think he was speaking Chinese. I could only speak bad high-school Spanish. Ophelia, clearly exasperated at his pretense, responded with a rather impressive tirade that I could not understand. But then again, everything sounds sort of angry in Mandarin.
Realizing that further listening was pointless, I spent the next few minutes tossing a beloved but much-abused tennis ball to Fitz. He was in hyper-doggie heaven, running at me and making playful nips at my jeans. I heard the front door open and watched with dread as the ecstatic “New person!” expression flashed in Fitz’s eyes. I could hear myself yelling “Nooooo!” in slow motion as Fitz ran at Ophelia. My brain had just enough time to calculate exactly how much time I would be spending in the council clink if Fitz ruined one of Ophelia’s indecently expensive outfits or, worse yet, if Ophelia would leave Fitz with all of his appendages intact.
Instead of the canine carnage I foresaw, I was shocked as Ophelia smiled warmly at my loping mutt. She held up one finger and said something soft in German. Fitz skidded to a halt directly in front of her and plopped obediently on his butt. She smiled again and gave another command. Fitz held up his paw, and she deigned to shake it, scratching him behind the ears with an expression of … well, it was the first genuine expression I’d ever seen on Ophelia’s face, so I can only describe it as “young.” For a moment, the centuries fell away, and she was just a beautiful girl standing on my lawn, petting my dog.
I’m pretty sure my jaw was resting on my chest, because when Ophelia looked up at me, all traces of the young human faded like smoke. Her face hardened into more familiar lines. She narrowed her eyes at me. I raised my hands in defense.
“I didn’t see a thing,” I promised her.
She arched her eyebrow, gave Fitz one last pat on the head, but said nothing. Gabriel came out the front door, leaning against the porch post as Ophelia made her way toward her sporty red Corvette. I’m sure the act of driving that down Main Street made her an object of obsession and envy, but frankly, I found it rather obvious in terms of jail-bait appeal.
Ophelia opened the door, tilted her head, and considered me for a moment, her piercing blue eyes glowing at me through the shadows. “I am very glad that Missy’s money has landed in your hands. I think you’re going to do far more fascinating things with it than some tawdry housing development.”
“So, now isn’t the time to tell you about the Dracula theme park I have planned for the back fifty acres?” I asked brightly. Gabriel snickered but covered it by a hearty clearing of the throat.
“For both of our sakes, I’m going to assume that was a joke,” she muttered, climbing into her car and giving us one last flash of thighs.
Ophelia departed, leaving my head spinning with the possibilities of Missy’s money. I would never have to worry about paying the property taxes. I would be able to keep the house up for centuries to come. The Early family legacy, such as it was, was secure.
I could travel. I could finally see all of the places I’d dreamed of seeing all my life. Edinburgh. Tahiti. Beijing. Granted, I would see them at night, but still, I could go. I would just have to talk to Gabriel about safety precautions and passport issues for the undead.
I could adopt one of those orphans on TV who make you feel so guilty. Hell, I could adopt a whole family. I would donate a catalogue full of children’s and young adult books to the library. I could secure funding for Half-Moon Hollow High School’s computer lab. (The students were still using Commodores.)
I would have to do all of this anonymously. You wouldn’t believe how quickly relatives come out of the woodwork when money comes into play. Lottery wins bring out kin you never knew existed, and they all have inventions to invest in, trailer payments to be made. My cousin Glory (who was, sadly, male) won a $10,000 scratch-off once, and within twelve hours, our great-uncle Stuart had moved his camper onto Glory’s driveway.
Of course, if my family found out I had money, I’m pretty sure I would die in a mysterious window-treatment accident, and Jenny would immediately claim it as my next of kin. And given my last couple of months, death by Venetian blinds was becoming more likely.
Note to self: Write a will. Leave everything to Zeb.
I squealed and hopped into Gabriel’s arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. Fortunately, he did not drop me. “You are now dating a very well-off woman. And I know it would be against your gentlemanly principles to ask just how well off. And it’s even further against my own good character to tell you. But let me put it this way, if you ever run into financial trouble, you don’t have to worry.”
“That’s sweet but unnecessary,” he said, pulling me against him.
“Maybe I’ll let you be my cabana boy.” I sighed.
“I will not dignify that with a response.”
He chuckled but held me to his chest with a sort of quiet desperation, pulling me so close that breathing would have been an issue if I needed oxygen. Obviously, his conversation with Ophelia had upset him more than he was letting on. Was this Jeanine an old girlfriend? A current girlfriend? What sort of “situation” would require the council to step in and interfere?
As Gabriel clung to me, I stroked his hair, knowing that no matter what I said or asked, it wouldn’t make either of us feel better. So I let him hold me and pretended that everything was fine. It was the loneliest I’d ever felt in his presence.