* * *
AT SEVEN, MOM IS AT MY DOOR, KNOCKING SOFTLY. I'm back in bed, alone, and feeling smugly like a kid who has pulled one over on her folks. I slip on my robe, adjust the blankets and cheerily call, "Come in."
She enters with a breakfast tray of coffee and croissants. "Anna, I can't tell you how sorry I am at your father's ridiculous insistence that Frey sleep downstairs last night." She puts the tray on the nightstand, goes to the window and yanks open the curtains. "When I found Frey on the couch this morning, I couldn't believe it. But you know how important these things are to your father."
Now the "we fooled you" mind-set morphs into something that feels a lot like guilt. "Ah. Where is Frey?"
"He's in John-John's room showering."
"John-John's room?"
Mom shakes her head, frowning. "Another of your father's hardheaded ideas-that the bride and groom should not see each other before the ceremony the day of the wedding. Honestly, I don't know where he comes up with these things. You'd think it was the eighteenth century."
I start to get out of bed, but she waves me back.
"Stay in bed a little longer. You have a big day ahead." She pours me a cup of coffee. "Your father will take Frey down for breakfast and I'm supposed to move his clothes into John-John's room. Those three must have had quite a time last night if your father convinced Frey to go along with this nonsense, to say nothing of talking him into sleeping on the couch."
He may have talked him into sleeping on the couch, I think, as I sip away on my coffee to keep from grinning, but not to forego a pre-wedding conjugal visit. Should I feel bad about it?
The pleasant lingering glow of good sex makes me decide no.
Besides, in a few hours, we'll be legal.
I finish the coffee, throw back the covers and swing my legs off the bed. "So what's the agenda?"
Mom wags a finger. "For you? Nothing for now. The hairdresser is arriving at eight. She'll also do your makeup."
I get a little tingle of panic. "Hairdresser? Mom, you know about me and mirrors . . ."
Mom holds up a hand. "Not to worry. Your friend Chael recommended this stylist. She does both vampires and . . ." There's just a moment's hesitation as Mom chooses her words. "Regular women. She'll do you first in here, then Trish and me in my room."
But I'm still hung up on Chael recommending a stylist. "When did you speak with Chael?" I ask.
Mom's hand flutters. "Yesterday. I think. He said he was calling to ask if he could bring a guest to the wedding. Of course I told him the more the merrier. We've ordered more food and drink than we can possible consume. Especially"-she gives me a conspiratorial wink-"if some of the guests won't be consuming any at all."
She helps herself to a croissant. "But then he asked a strange question. He asked if you and Frey had gotten back all right from the party." She pauses. "When were you with Chael?"
My brain shoots into overdrive. "Funny thing," I say. "We ran into Chael in Lourges the other night. He invited us to a party and we went along with him. But it was too crowded and noisy. We left before he did and didn't have a chance to say good-bye."
Did that come out all right? Most of it is even the truth. Chael doesn't know anything about what transpired with Vlad, Frey and I. And Frey and I never did get the chance to talk to Chael before we set off after Archambault. I wonder how long he wandered around the party looking for us before he gave up and left?
I wait for Mom to react.
She just nods. "I told him you were both right as rain." She looks up at me. "You are all right, aren't you?"
"Yep. We just left before Chael and couldn't find him to say good night." I throw my arms around her, "Mom, I can't believe how great you're being about-well, you know."
She hugs me back. "Anna, when I think of all the time I wasted being critical of you, I could kick myself. I'm so happy that you're here, now, that you've agreed to share this day with us. That you've forgiven me for the way I treated you."
The last is said quietly and with great emotion. There is regret and sadness in her voice, and my heart catches because I sense what she is not putting into words. That she will not waste any of the time left to her being petty or judgmental. That, finally, I have her approval.
There could be no better wedding present.
She and I chat while I drink coffee and she polishes off the croissants. She catches my lingering gaze as she pops bits of the buttery pastry in her mouth. "Do you miss this?" she asks.
"Do I. Especially Italian food and chocolate."
She nods appreciatively. "One of the good things about being ill," she says, "is being able to eat anything I want. Modern medicine is wonderful."
My shoulders tense. Wonderful? Her tone is cheery, but it chills me to the bone. If modern medicine is so wonderful, why can't it do more than improve her appetite?
Mom sees my reaction. She leans toward me and takes my hand. "I'm sorry I said that. This is your day. No more talk of illness." She makes a motion across her lips, a key turning. "Promise."
After a long moment, we're off to other subjects, the weather (perfect for a late-morning garden wedding), the caterers (already setting up in the kitchen), the last-minute prep to the garden (chairs positioned, the archway decorated with flowers, the carpet being laid down).
At eight exactly, there is a discreet knock on the door and Dad shows the hairdresser in. His eyes are wide as he steps aside to let her pass into the bedroom. "Lisette," he says simply.
I understand immediately why Dad looks slightly uncertain when he shows her in. Lisette is a woman in her thirties, pretty in the way a wildflower is pretty, bright, tenacious, unconventional. Her arms are covered in tattoos, elaborate designs of intertwined vines and roses that climb her neck and up one cheek. She's dressed in dark slacks and a bright peasant blouse, leather sandals on her feet.
I leave the three to chat while I shower, wash my hair, towel dry it and return to take a seat at the vanity.
Mom hands Dad Frey's clothes then, and they leave me with the stylist.
Lisette is friendly and obviously comfortable with working in front of a mirror that reflects only her own image. She blow-dries my hair, fluffing and smoothing it as if the heft of it will determine what style to choose. I tell her not to do anything fancy, that I want a simple, slightly more polished look. That's all.
She assures me she knows exactly what I want, brandishing her hairbrush with a flourish. In a minute, she's done. Next, she applies a little eye makeup and blush. I haven't had makeup on in so long, I start feeling nervous that Frey will like this version of me better than the original and it's a look I can never hope to duplicate. Since becoming vampire, I only tried once to apply mascara without a mirror. After poking myself in the eye twice, I gave up.
While she works, she chatters in broken but passable English about what a beautiful bride I will be. Then she asks, "Is your groom also de vampire?"
"No," I reply quickly. "And you can't mention vampires to anyone else, okay?"
"Not to worry. Chael explained all to me."
Curious, I ask, "How do you know Chael?"
She gets one of those love-struck smiles that answers the question more eloquently than words. "We have been friends for many years. He spends a lot of time in Paris. It's where I live."
"Paris is almost five hundred miles away." I know. I ran it. "You came all that way to help today?"
"Ah, if Chael asks, I cannot refuse." She sighs. "Besides, he sent a first-class airline ticket to Cannes and the limo to drive me back to the airport is waiting outside. Chael is a very generous man."
Whew. Chael to the rescue once again. My thank-you note to him is going to be pages long.
Lisette finishes up, pinning the one simple rosebud I chose as my hairpiece over my right ear. She stands back, nods and proclaims me done. I take her down the hall to Mom's room where I know she and Trish will be waiting. I have to duck quickly back to my room when John-John's door opens. After all Dad went through to keep at least one wedding tradition intact, I'm not taking any chances. He's got me half believing in the superstition now.
It's almost nine.
Nervousness nibbles away at my self-assurance. After battling almost every conceivable enemy both mortal and not, why would the idea of getting married make me nervous?
I touch my hair. Wonder what I look like? I run a gentle fingertip over mascara-thickened lashes. Is it too much?
A sound from downstairs draws me to the window. Dad is greeting the first guests, the family from next door. He looks so handsome in his suit, white hair brushed straight back from a smooth forehead, smile erasing some of the worry lines that have formed around his mouth since my mother's illness. Father of the bride. A title that probably surprises him as much as it does me!
At ten, a knock and Mom and Trish walk in.
Trish looks radiant. Lisette pulled her buttercream hair back from her face, fastened it at the crown with a garland of flowers and ribbon the same rose color as her dress. The rest falls to her shoulders in soft curls. I can only shake my head at how splendid she looks.
As does my mother. Her hair, thinned by illness and medicine, has been transformed through the magic of a hairpiece. Lisette matched Mom's hair perfectly, adding fullness at the top and back by expertly blending a short cascade of curls with her real hair. She did Mom's makeup, too.