Author: Molly Harper

“I haven’t had a lot of good, soft things in my life,” he said against my forehead. “Not since my family sent me away. Apart from being your sire and feeling that pull to you, it’s that goodness, that softness and warmth, along with the resolve and strength in you, that I love. Being turned hasn’t taken that from you. If someone were going to design the perfect mate for me, it would be you. Even when you infuriate me with your pigheaded stubbornness and your temper and incredible lack of anything resembling self-preservation—”

“Stop describing me, please.”

“You’re the most fascinating, maddening, adorable creature I’ve ever met,” he said, sighing and pushing my hair out of my eyes. “So, when I seem possessive or I’m raving like a lunatic, it’s just that part of me is still very afraid that I’ll lose that—that I’ll lose you. I love you.”

“That’s such a normal boyfriend thing to say. I’m so proud and yet a little freaked out.”

“Stop joking and listen to me,” he said. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” I objected. “That was a very normal thing for a boyfriend to say.”

He grinned down at me. “Does that mean I’m your boyfriend?”

“Oh, my Lord, this is such a juvenile conversation to have with a hundred-and-fifty-year-old man,” I groaned. “Yes, Gabriel, I would like you to be my boyfriend. I think we should go steady. I don’t want to be with any other vampire but you. I love you. Idiot.”

“We need new nicknames for each other,” he said. When I shoved at his shoulders, he grinned. “I haven’t loved anyone in a long time. And I’m glad it’s you. I’m glad I met you on the worst day of your life.”

“Well, you certainly made it more memorable.”

12

Bachelorette parties are less about celebrating the bride’s acquisition of a husband and more about making the female relatives feel vindication after the wedding planning process.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

When we were kids, Zeb and I used to spend post-sleepover mornings eating Cap’n Crunch and watching the Smurfs. Somehow, I didn’t think Gabriel would appreciate the same routine.

I padded into the kitchen, still clad in flannel cows, and warmed up a healthy breakfast of donated Type A. Gabriel let Fitz out to snag the evening edition of the Half-Moon Herald from the end of the driveway. Unfortunately, Gabriel overestimated Fitz’s capabilities and had to get the paper himself. We climbed onto the porch swing to sip blood and read the happenings in the Herald while Fitz gamboled around the yard chasing his own tail.

It was strangely domestic, with the exception of finding another package on my doorstep. We were both relieved that it was just the genealogical information Daddy had found on Mr. Wainwright’s family. Despite my library background, my strength tends toward database research, whereas Daddy excels with the dusty-old-book route. After Mr. Wainwright lamented his lack of family history, I’d asked Daddy to use his mojo.

Gabriel left for some council meeting, and I ripped into the research without bothering to change out of my pajamas. Daddy had done an impressive job. He found copies of Mr. Wainwright’s old school pictures from Half-Moon Hollow Public School archives and an old newspaper clipping announcing Gilbert Wainwright’s engagement to Brigid Brannagan, a girl he met while traveling in County Cork. Daddy found Mr. Wainwright’s parents’ marriage certificate and both of their obituaries. Searching through old records kept in the courthouse basement—records Daddy accessed through a school chum named Deeter who worked there as a night janitor—Daddy found the origins of the Wainwright family. Gilbert Wainwright’s father, Gordon Wainwright, was the son of Albert Wainwright, son of Eugenia Wainwright, a laundry woman who had worked on the Cheney family farm. She had Albert in 1879 but drowned a short time later during the town’s inaugural Fourth of July picnic down at the riverfront.

Eugenia was unmarried, and there was no father listed on the birth certificate for young Albert. Albert was sent to an orphanage and raised there until he ran away at age ten. According to a book Daddy found in the library’s special collections, called The Hollow Frontier, Albert worked at the railway station and eventually took a job on a barge traveling the Ohio River, before returning home to the Hollow in the 1920s. He was known for opening one of the first successful saloons in the Hollow, the one my great-grandmother burned. While water-stained and crumbling, the book contained a copy of a tintype of Albert.

“Oh, man,” I breathed, startled by Albert’s face. I flipped to Daddy’s research on Eugenia, whom one of the groundskeepers at the Cheney farm described as a “big buxom piece of woman.”

I flipped back to the picture of Albert, who bore a striking resemblance to Dick. The same light, laughing eyes, the same devilish smile, the same long, patrician nose. But Albert looked to be at least fifteen years older than Dick had been when he was turned. I checked the date on the photo and did some quick math in my head, then groaned. “Dang it.”

I sat at Specialty Books’ counter, drumming my fingers compulsively against the glass. Mr. Wainwright was puttering in the back, tossing his way through the reference section I’d just spent the better part of two days cataloguing. Knowing that my nephew Andrew had a birthday coming up, he insisted that a tome entitled A Pop-Up Dictionary of Demons would be a perfect gift. I was inclined to agree with him, because it might make Jenny swallow her tongue.

In a rare show of discretion, I didn’t mention my discovery to Mr. Wainwright. I wanted to surprise him somehow, and I didn’t think blurting it out as soon as I opened the door would fit the occasion.

The front doorbell tinkled, and I turned to find Mr. Wainwright’s long-lost great-granddaddy standing at the counter with a scowl on his face.

“Well, Jane, you crook your little finger, and I come running,” Dick said, clearly in a very grumpy mood. “Seems I’m always running after women who aren’t interested.”

“Andrea turned you down again, huh?”

He made a sour face. The more I stared at him, the more I saw a resemblance to Albert—and, for that matter, to Mr. Wainwright. My employer had a smaller build and more delicate features but the same tilting smile, the same green, twinkling eyes. I was a little ashamed that I had missed it.

“Well, we could reminisce about the girl who didn’t get away,” I offered. “Dick, do you remember a woman named Eugenia? She used to work at your house?”

“Yes,” he said. His lips quirked at a memory I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, then locked into a completely un-Dick-like grimace.

“Did you know that she left your employ because she got pregnant out of wedlock? And that she drowned about six months after giving birth to the—” He refused to meet my gaze, looking to the left.

“You already know, don’t you?” I said. “You know about the baby, about Albert. You know.”

“What are you—who told you—how—” he spluttered.

“Which question do you want me to answer first?” I asked, cringing.

“Jane, you need to stay out of this,” he whispered darkly. “Just forget you ever found any of this. Don’t say a word to Gilbert.”

“But why?” I asked. “Why not just tell him? I think he would be thrilled to know he had a family. I love him, but I’m not related to him. He loves talking to you. I saw you together at the Christmas party.”

“Stop,” Dick said, grabbing my shoulders and covering my mouth with his hand as he cast panicked glances at the rear of the shop. “You’re meddling in something you have no part in. Whatever good deed you think you’re doing here, just stop. This is none of your business.”

“But—”

“Just butt out, Jane.” The bell clattered to the floor as he slammed the door behind him. Mr. Wainwright, disturbing pop-up book in hand, hobbled up to the counter. “Was Dick here? I thought I heard his voice.”

I shook my head. “Just some guy who insisted that we were, in fact, the adult video store next door. He was very upset by our limited selection.”

Mr. Wainwright laughed, handing me the book. “Maybe we should think about getting a new sign.”

Generally, it’s considered a faux pas for the bride’s family to host a prewedding party for her. Fortunately, on the Great Invisible Scroll of Southern Wedding Etiquette, there’s a loophole stating that if most of the guests are in the bride’s family, it’s acceptable. And werewolf women are very into prenuptial events. Jolene’s festivities alone included two showers, a pounding, a mate-fasting, and something called a bloodening. The pounding is far less violent than it sounds, a party where family and friends give the happy couple a pound of some staple—sugar, flour—and items to set up their household. A bloodening, on the other hand … well, we’ll talk about that later.

Tonight’s agenda included kidnapping the bride to get her sloppy drunk and treating her to a parade of half-naked man flesh, which was some sort of McClaine female tradition. But since Jolene’s cousins hadn’t quite taken the initiative in planning, Jolene had to take matters into her own hands. She suggested we break into her trailer with a provided key to “surprise” her. It just happened to be on the night Jolene had reserved a table for eight at the Meat Market, the only all-male, nearly nude revue in the tristate area. Because nothing says “celebration of connubial bliss” like men who spend a suspicious amount of time at the gym thrusting their spandex-covered man parts at desperate dollar-waving soccer moms.

And because I was the best maid, I got the “honor” of writing Raylene a check for the genitalia-shaped cake that would be gracing our table. I was also expected to foot the bar tab and serve as designated driver. I ended up driving Mimi’s twelve-passenger van, which was necessary to haul the half-lit bridesmaids and gift bags containing penis-shaped note pads, refrigerator magnets, coasters, and ice-cube trays.

When the hell am I going to want penis-shaped ice cubes?

Our party was seated in the dark, humid, but surprisingly clean club, as Marcus the Matador completed his last twirl about the stage. Jolene was sporting a veil with little foam penises sewn on the hem and a T-shirt covered in Lifesavers that offered a “Suck for a Buck,” both of which were provided by her cousins, along with the penile party favors. Though the cousins’ attention was currently focused on the butt-cheek bacchanalia, Jolene just seemed happy they showed up.

She looked so content, sitting there in her obscene veil, oblivious to the improbably dressed fireman shaking it to “Hot Stuff.” Her expression was dreamy, extremely out of place considering the setting. It was just like the night she and Zeb announced their engagement, happiness bordering on a coma—the announcement that I responded to by questioning their brain functions for getting married after such a short time. Zeb had to cart me outside before I further hurt Jolene’s feelings. And when he told me she was a werewolf, I freaked out even more and accused Zeb of losing his mind.

Dang it. Dick had a point. I was a meddler.

“Do you think I’m intrusive?” I shouted over a remix of “It’s Raining Men.”

She started and turned her lazy gaze at me. “Hmm?”

“Am I intrusive?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “But in a good way.”

“How can you possibly be a good kind of intrusive?”

She set her drink down, barely noticing when the verdant liquid splashed onto the already sticky table. “Well, you can be bossy and suspicious and quick to judge. Sometimes your mouth writes a check your butt can’t cash.”

“We’ve discussed that you could agree with me less emphatically, yes?”