“That’s my girl,” he said. “Will you be okay for a second? I want to do a periphery.”
“Yup,” I said, taking the steps with my dress hitched up high.
Jenks zipped off, and when I reached the landing before the doors, I settled my dress and smiled at the guy. He was dark like Quen, and I wondered if he was one of the Withons’ personal attendants. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said with a soft surfer-boy accent. “The wedding has started. You’ll have to wait and join the party at the reception.”
“You’re not nearly as sorry as you’re going to be if you don’t get out of my way.” I thought it a fair enough warning, but he saw the pretty dress and the present in my hands and assumed flake. Okay, I was a flake, but I was a flake in ass-kicking boots.
I went to edge past him, and he touched my shoulder. Oooooooh, big mistake.
Jenks came back right about then, whooping as I spun, gripping the guard’s wrist and swinging my elbow into his nose without ever dropping the present. “Oh! That had to hurt!” the pixy cried as the man stumbled back, hand over his broken nose, eyes tearing and hunched in pain.
“Sorry,” I said. Shaking out my dress, I drew myself up and pulled on the door. From behind me came a harsh toot from the bus. Framed in the threshold, I turned and gave them all a bunny-eared “kiss-kiss.”
Still, the man wasn’t unconscious, and I ought to move before he remembered to do something. I strolled in, my dress getting me past the hangers-on between the front doors and the christening pool with no resistance save whispers.
Adrenaline shivered through me as a wave of flower scents hit me. The church was dim with candlelight, and the soft intonations of the holy guy up front created a sensation of comfort. By the looks of it, they were just getting started. Good. I had to go along with this until I got Glenn’s call, and I didn’t know when that would be.
Someone in the back row turned, starting a slow chain reaction. My pace bobbled, and I took a deep breath. Shit. The mayor was here, and Takata? Oh, God, I was going to arrest Trent in front of Takata? Talk about performance anxiety.
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 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.