Ким Харрисон - For a Few Demons More

As expected, Piscary was in the front row with Ivy and Skimmer, and I stifled a surge of anger at him for giving Kisten to someone to murder for some twisted pleasure and the clout he had with the I.S. to get away with it. But I needed his help, so as much as I hated it, I'd have to be damningly politically correct.

I couldn't look at Ivy. Not yet. But I recognized her stiff carriage from under a gray, wide-brimmed hat beside Piscary. Ivy's dad was here, too, and what had to be her mother beside him, looking like an ice queen from Asia next to his elegant, rugged fatigue. Mr. Ray and Mrs. Sarong made an unusual showing together, banding up since they lacked their usual packs. Al was standing up with Trent, and, catching sight of me, he grinned, the pure-Al expression looking odd on Lee's strongly Asian features. Quen was beside him, his face blank. He mouthed something at Trent, and Ellasbeth's grip on his arm tightened.

The bride's side was entirely full of thin, tan people. They hadn't listened to me, and they all dressed all alike to look as if they were extras from a Spielberg movie at a Hollywood commissary. I thought they ought to be more careful if they didn't want their little secret to get out. Jeez, they all looked the same to me.

The holy guy's spiel faltered when the usher stumbled in from outside. I glanced back in warning, seeing his hand still over his nose, a white handkerchief stained with blood.

Piscary slowly turned, drawn by the scent of blood. He smiled delightedly at me, making my own blood burn. He knew I hated him, and he liked it. The usher went pale at Piscary's attention, and when Quen motioned for him to leave, he beat a hasty retreat, trying to hide the blood.

"Sure about this, Rache?" Jenks said. "You could always retire and open a charm shop."

I thought of Kisten, a spike of fear coming from nowhere. "I'm sure." Hiking up my shoulder bag, I tucked the focus under an arm and headed for the altar. Jenks took to the rafters, and whispers started in my wake. The eyes of Cincy's finest were on me, and as my boots smeared the flower petals, I prayed that I wouldn't slip on them and fall on my ass.

The holy guy gave up trying to remember his place and fumbled in his Bible for his crib sheet, jowls shaking while he tried to act normal. That he was ignoring me spoke volumes. Quen inclined his head at me, and when the holy guy's voice faltered to a stop, Trent turned.

Okay. I'll admit it. He was absolutely stunning in his white tux, his almost translucent fair hair perfect, the tips shifting in the slight draft. Elegant and polished, he made anger look damn good. From his black-orchid boutonniere to his embroidered socks, he was the apex of elite power and grace. And he was really, really ticked, by the choleric look in his green eyes.

Ellasbeth spun with him, her elaborate dress with the arranged train rustling all over Creation. If Trent was stunning, she was stunning taken to the nth power, her icy beauty done up with perfect makeup and an exquisite gown. Her defined cheekbones were faintly blushing, and I marveled that the makeup artist had managed to hide her tan and give her a porcelain beauty. Her hair still looked like a cheap imitation of Trent's, though, especially in the candlelight.

The maid of honor was in that ugly green dress, and I gave her an apologetic wince. Figures Ellasbeth would have picked that one. "Sorry I'm late," I said cheerfully, my voice loud in the expectant silence. "I was held up on the bus. Traffic, you know." Setting the focus in its disguise of a wedding gift on the steps, I shuffled off my shoulder bag and settled in behind the maid of honor, clasping my hands demurely before me. Yeah. Right .

"Rachel," Trent started, his hand slipping from Ellasbeth's.

"No, no. Go on," I said, making shooing motions, though my insides were wound tighter than a pixy on Brimstone. "I'm all set."

Ellasbeth's painted lips were pressed tight. A veil would have been nice , I thought, then mused disparagingly upon my own makeup, slapped on almost at the last minute. Green eyes vehement, she took Trent's arm and turned her back on me, shoulders trembling. The holy guy cleared his throat and started in where he had left off, talking about devotion, understanding, and forgiveness. I tuned him out. I had to get my pulse down; I might be here a while.

The cathedral was beautiful, the scent of Queen Anne's lace faint in the closed air. Flowers decked every available flat surface and a few vertical ones, with little bouquets pinned to ribbons. There were exotic vines, and lilies, but it was the simpler blooms I liked the best. The world-renowned stained-glass windows were muted from the fog and moonlight, and the shadows of the nearby trees moved against them in the breeze like dragons circling. The candlelight flickered, and the smooth voice of the holy guy was like dust given resonance.

I blinked when I realized Al was making eyes at me from across the couple-to-be. Beside him Quen was scowling. They were in marvelous black tuxes that looked like dress uniforms from a classic eighties space opera. Nervous, I adjusted my dress. I'd gotten a spot on it somewhere, and I wished I had a bouquet to hide it with, but that's what you get when you're late.

I turned my attention to the audience to find Jenks's twinkle in the rafters. He was dusting heavily, and Takata sneezed in the artificial sunbeam he was making.

"Bless you," I mouthed to him, and his bushy eyebrows rose. The middle-aged rock star looked worried, but the scarred Were woman beside him—Ripley, his drummer—was clearly amused. Thank God Takata was in a suit instead of the orange monstrosity he'd been wearing the one time I'd seen him. He even had his blond tangle of curls in order, and I could see the charm about his neck that did it.

Glancing over the congregation, he mouthed back, "What are you doing?"

"Working," I said without a sound.

I glanced at Mr. Ray and Mrs. Sarong behind him. They look like little kids plotting. I wouldn't worry about it. It would be over soon.

Finally I grew brave and looked at Ivy. Fear slid through me. She was numb. Blank and empty. I'd seen that look on her before, but never this deep. She had shut herself down. Beautiful in her elegant gray dress and a wide-brimmed hat, she looked remarkably like her mother, a pew behind her. She sat stiffly between Skimmer and Piscary. The blond living vampire glared at me jealously, clearly part of Piscary's camarilla now despite the little detail that the city had let Piscary out because of Al, not her skills in the courtroom. I had to believe Ivy would be all right. I couldn't rescue her. She had to save herself.

Seeing my pain at Ivy's state, Piscary smiled at me, mocking and confident. My breath hissed in when my demon scar sent a surge of tingling sensation through me. Damn it, I hadn't counted on that. Ticked, I mouthed at him, "I want to talk to you."

Piscary inclined his head, looking fabulous in some authentic outfit from Egypt. Apparently thinking I wanted to discuss Ivy, he lifted her slack hand and kissed the top of it.

I stiffened, suddenly realizing that Trent was watching me out of the corner of his eye. Actually, the entire church was paying more attention to me and Piscary than the couple on the stage. If Ellasbeth's clenched jaw was any indication, she was pissed.

Grimacing, I tried to find a kick-ass posture while wearing a lace dress and flowers in my hair. "Not Ivy," I mouthed. "I want your protection. Both me and Kisten. I'll make it worth your while."

Piscary seemed confused at my request, but he nodded, deep in thought. Al's amused grin went sour, and behind Takata, Mr. Ray and Mrs. Sarong started talking in hushed voices that every Inderlander could probably catch. Skimmer's satisfaction turned to hatred, and Ellasbeth… Ellasbeth was gripping Trent's arm hard enough to make her knuckles white.