Bride(2)
“One has to.”
“But if you care to live a bit longer, try tossing a stick when he starts mauling you. I hear they love to fetch—”
I halt abruptly, causing a slight commotion among the agents. “Owen,” I say, turning to my brother.
“Yes, Misery?” His eyes hold mine. Suddenly, his indolent, insult-comedian mask slips off, and he’s not my father’s shallow heir anymore, but the brother who’d sneak into bed with me whenever I had nightmares, who swore he’d protect me from the cruelty of the Humans and the bloodthirstiness of the Weres.
It’s been decades.
“You know what went down the last time the Vampyres and Weres tried this,” he says, shifting to the Tongue.
I sure do. The Aster is in every textbook, albeit with vastly different interpretations. The day the purple of our blood and the green of the Weres’ flowed together, as bright and beautiful as the blooming flower the massacre was named after. “Who the hell would enter a marriage of political convenience after that?”
“Me, apparently.”
“You are going to live among the wolves. Alone.”
“Right. That’s how hostage exchanges work.” Around us, the suits hurriedly check their watches. “We have to go—”
“Alone to be slaughtered.” Owen’s jaw grinds. It’s so unlike his usual careless self, I frown.
“Since when do you care?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because an alliance with the Weres is necessary to the surivival of—”
“These are Father’s words. It’s not why you agreed to do this.”
It’s not, but I’m not about to admit it. “Maybe you underestimate Father’s persuasiveness.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t do this. It’s a death sentence. Say you’ve changed your mind—give me six weeks.”
“What will have changed in six weeks?”
He hesitates. “A month. I—”
“Is something amiss?” We both jump at Father’s sharp tone. For a split second we’re children again, again scolded for existing. As always, Owen recovers quicker.
“Nah.” The vacuous smile is back on his lips. “I was just giving Misery a few pointers.”
Father cuts through the security guards and tucks my hand into his elbow with ease, like it hasn’t been a decade since our last physical contact. I force myself not to recoil. “Are you ready, Misery?”
I cock my head. Study his stern face. Ask, mostly out of curiosity, “Does it matter?”
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.