It must not, because the question isn’t acknowledged. Owen watches us leave, expressionless, then yells after us, “Hope you packed a lint roller. I hear they shed.”
One of the agents stops us in front of the double doors that lead into the courtyard. “Councilman Lark, Miss Lark, one minute. They’re not quite ready for you.” We wait side by side for a handful of uncomfortable moments, then Father turns to me. In my stylist-mandated heels, I nearly reach his height, and his eyes easily catch mine.
“You should smile,” he orders in the Tongue. “According to the Humans, a wedding is the most beautiful day of a bride’s life.”
My lips twitch. There’s something grotesquely funny about all of this. “What about the father of the bride?”
He sighs. “You were always needlessly defiant.”
My failures spare no front.
“There is no going back, Misery,” he adds, not unkindly. “Once the handfasting is complete, you will be his wife.”
“I know.” I don’t need soothing, or encouragement. I’ve been nothing but unwavering in my commitment to this union. I’m not prone to panic, or fear, or last-minute changes of heart. “I’ve done this before, remember?” He studies me for a few moments, until the doors open to what’s left of my life.
It’s a perfect night for an outdoor ceremony: string lights, soft breeze, winking stars. I take a deep breath, hold it in, and listen to Mendelssohn’s march, string quartet rendition. According to the bubbly wedding planner who’s been blowing up my phone with links I don’t click on, the viola player is a member of the Human Philharmonic. Top three in the world, she texted, followed by more exclamation points than I’ve used in my cumulative written communications since birth. I must admit, it does sound nice. Even if the guests glance around, confused, unsure how to proceed until an overworked staffer gestures at them to stand.
It’s not their fault. Wedding ceremonies are, as of a century or so ago, exclusively a Human thing. Vampyre society has evolved past monogamy, and Weres . . . I have no clue what Weres are up to, as I’ve never even been in the presence of one.
If I had, I wouldn’t be alive.
“Come on.” Father grips my elbow, and we start down the aisle.
The bride’s guests are familiar, but only vaguely. A sea of willowy figures, unblinking lilac eyes, pointed ears. Lips closed over fangs, and half-pitying, mostly disgusted looks. I spot several members of my father’s inner circle; councilors I haven’t met since I was a child; powerful families and their scions, most of whom fawned over Owen and were little shits to me when we were kids. No one here could even remotely qualify as a friend, but in defense of whoever came up with the guest list, my lack of meaningful relationships must have made seat-filling a bit of a challenge.
And then there’s the groom’s side. The one that emanates a foreign kind of heat. The one that wants me dead.
The Weres’ blood beats quicker, louder, its smell coppery and unfamiliar. They are taller than Vampyres, stronger than Vampyres, faster than Vampyres, and none of them seems particularly enthused at the idea of their Alpha marrying one of us. Their lips curl as they eye me, defiant, angry. Their loathing is so thick I taste it on the roof of my palate.
I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anyone for not wanting to be here. I don’t even blame the whispers, or the catty comments, or the fact that half the guests here never learned that sound carries farther than shit.
“. . . she used to be the Collateral with the Humans for ten years, and now this?”
“I bet she likes the attention . . .”
“—blade-eared leech—”
“I give her two weeks.”
“More like two hours, if those animals—”
“. . . either stabilize the region once and for all, or cause full-out war, again—”
“—think they’re actually going to be fucking tonight?”
I have no friends on the left, and only enemies on the right. So I ground myself and look straight ahead.
At my future husband.
He stands at the end of the path, turned away from me, listening to what someone is whispering in his ear—his best man, perhaps. I can’t get a good look at his face, but I know what to expect from the picture I was given weeks ago: handsome, striking, unsmiling. His hair is short, a rich brown cut to a buzz; his suit is black, well fitted across his broad shoulders. He’s the only man in the room not wearing a tie, and yet he manages to look elegant anyway.
Maybe we share a stylist. As good a starting point for a marriage as any, I suppose.
“Be careful with him,” Father whispers, lips barely moving. “He is very dangerous. Do not cross him.”
What every girl wants to hear ten feet from the altar, especially when the hard line of her groom’s shoulders already looks cross. Impatient. Annoyed. He doesn’t bother glancing in my direction, as though I’m inconsequential, as though there are other, better things for him to do with his time. I wonder what the best man is whispering in his ear. Maybe a mirror copy of the warnings I got.
Misery Lark? No need to be careful. She’s not particularly dangerous, so feel free to cross her. What is she gonna do? Chuck her lint roller at you?
I snort out a soft laugh, and that’s a mistake. Because my future husband hears it, and finally turns to me.
My stomach drops.
My step falters.
The murmurs quiet.
In the photo I was shown, the groom’s eyes looked an ordinary, unsurprising blue. But as they meet mine, I realize two things. The first is that I was wrong, and his gaze is actually an odd pale green that borders on white. The second is that Father was right: this man is very, very dangerous.
His eyes roam over my face, and I immediately suspect that he must not have been given photos. Or maybe he just wasn’t curious enough about his bride to check them out? Either way, he’s not pleased with me, and that’s obvious. Too bad I’ve cut my teeth on disappointing people, and I’m not about to start caring now. It’s on him if he doesn’t like what he’s seeing.
I square my shoulders. A small distance separates us, and I let my eyes pin his as I close it, which is how I see it all happen in real time.
Pupils, widening.
Brow, furrowing.
Nostrils, flaring.
He watches me like I’m something made of maggots and takes one deep breath, slow. Then another, sharp, the moment I’m delivered to the altar. His expression widens into something that looks, for an instant, indecipherably shaken, and I knew it, I knew that Weres didn’t like Vampyres, but this feels beyond that. It feels like pure, hard, personal contempt.
Tough shit, buddy, I think, lifting my chin. I step forward, again, until we are standing in front of each other, this side of too close.
Two strangers who only just met. About to get married.
The music wanes. The guests sit. My heart’s a sluggish drum, even slower than usual, because of the way the groom looms over me. Leaning forward to study me like I’m an abstract painting. I watch his chest heave hungrily, as if to . . . inhale me. Then he pulls back, licks his lips, and stares.
He stares and stares and stares.
The silence stretches. The officiant clears his throat. The courtyard breaks into bouts of puzzled mumbles that slowly rise to a sticky, familiar friction. I notice that the best man has unsheathed his claws. Behind me, Vania, the head of my father’s guards, is showing her fangs. And the Humans, of course, are reaching for their guns.
All through that, my future husband still stares.
So I step closer and murmur, “I don’t care how little you like this, but if you want to avoid a second Aster—”