Grave Visions (Alex Craft, #4)(49)

For her part, Tamara sat serenely in front of the large vanity mirror, apparently unfazed by her mother’s incessant commentary or meticulous administrations with the curling iron. Personally, I would have been cowed, or at least annoyed. But Tamara only sat there, beaming at the room as a whole. A month ago she’d nearly deteriorated into a ghoul as her life force had been drained away. We’d stopped the process, but the experience had turned her normally full-figured, curvy form to one that was skeletally thin. A month’s time to recover had helped, but she was just now barely out of her first trimester of pregnancy, and the unending morning sickness had made it hard for her to regain the weight. But while she was still a little too thin, her honey-colored skin had a glow to it that said she was much healthier.

Her mother had created a gorgeous maze of corn rows along her scalp, leading to a high ponytail, her hair spilling out in dark ringlets from around a thick wall of pearls. She wore a matching necklace of pearls, and even more accented her dress, hanging like opaque teardrops from the gauzy material over a white satin sheath. In a word, she was stunning.

“You look awesome,” I said, walking up to squeeze her hand. Her smile brightened a shade more, her eyes sparkling.

“Knock, knock; everyone decent?” a male voice asked from outside the tent flap. “I’m finished with the groomsmen and groom photos. Are the bridesmaids and bride ready?”

“The photographer,” Mrs. Greene said, a hint of panic in her voice. She tossed the curling iron onto the vanity top and grabbed Tamara’s veil, looking frantic.

Tamara took it calmly from her trembling hands and attached it to her hair. Her mother and sister fussed over the veil and the hang of her dress as she stood, even Holly moved forward to help. Me? I stayed out of the way. I thought she looked great, but they tugged at what seemed to me to be imagined misalignments. Finally everyone stood back. Even Mrs. Greene smiled.

We were ready.

? ? ?

By the time I took my place at the end of the line of bridesmaids at the steps of the gazebo, my feet ached from standing in the new heels, my head hurt from all the pins taming my blond curls, and I was tired of carrying the bouquet of faintly glowing orange mums. But, at least I hadn’t tripped and fallen as I walked up the aisle.

The music changed to the obligatory rendition of “Here Comes the Bride,” and everyone turned. Tamara appeared between the arch at the end of the carpeted aisle, her arm hooked around her father’s. He was a tall man, age just beginning to bend him. He carried a cane, but today, for this walk, he seemed determined to use it as little as possible. The sun was steadily sinking, casting a warm glow over everything. Tamara’s white dress practically blazed as she all but floated down the aisle. Under her veil, I could see her smile trembling.

Did she still have second thoughts? I hadn’t seen any indication of the panic she’d called me in a few days ago when we had all been in the tent. No, likely her lips trembled from her attempt not to cry from joy—I’ve heard brides do that sometimes. I tried to imagine how I’d feel, but I couldn’t picture myself a bride. Though Death would look good in a tux. . . and so would Falin.

I frowned, and then forced the expression off my face. This was Tamara’s wedding. I focused once again on her slow glide up the aisle.

By the time she reached the front, her father’s eyes twinkled with unshed tears. He lifted her veil and kissed both of her cheeks before formally handing her off to her soon-to-be husband. For his part, Ethan beamed, his smile wide as he watched Tamara. His hands were steady as he engulfed her smaller, trembling ones and they both took the squat two steps up into the gazebo.

Then all hell broke loose.

We were all focused on the bride and groom, so no one noticed the two wedding crashers slink into the back. At least, not until the child screamed.

I think, at first, everyone tried to politely ignore the child. But the louder she screamed, the more eyes slid in her direction and discreet glances were tossed over shoulders. Finally even the bride and groom turned.

The mother, a young woman on Ethan’s side, looked more than a little embarrassed as she tried to calm her young daughter, who was maybe three years old. Someone muttered that she should take the girl to the car, and the woman ducked her head, uttering both agreement and apologies. The woman scooped up the small child, but the girl twisted in her arms, crying and pointing at a couple who seemed to be trying their best to ignore the girl’s attention. But now she wasn’t the only one.

Tamara’s nephew, who was just shy of two, lifted his voice to join the young girl’s. At first I thought he was crying because she was, but though he buried his face against his father’s leg, he kept peeking at the back row. At that same couple.

I frowned. The couple looked inconspicuous enough, she in an ankle-length navy dress and him in dark slacks and a polo shirt. I didn’t recognize them, but they were sitting on the groom’s side, and I didn’t know most of Ethan’s friends or family. Still, more than one young child being terrified was odd.

Before the magical awakening, some normal-looking—at least to adults—people scared children for reasons no one understood. Now we knew that there were certain fae whose glamour worked only on older adolescents and adults. Young children saw right through it. In particular, Bogies couldn’t hide what they were. That is, the traditional bogeymen who hid in closets and under beds but were never there when mom or dad looked, and of course, all the folk that mothers once warned naughty children would gobble them up if they played by lakes or under bridges.