Too bad. It was a sweet little tongue . . . but sharp, too.
Too sharp to stay in Connie’s mouth.
Kyra would have loved to kill the woman, but she couldn’t do that. She didn’t want any more Crowbait around. Not when she was so close.
Johnny eyed Kyra, a lustful sneer on his lips.
“Man. You look good in that dress, babe.”
“Thanks.”
“Erik fucking Hearse.” Johnny laughed, shaking his head. “The son of a bitch ain’t got no taste whatsoever.”
“Go figure.”
They started across the parking lot.
“Where we headin’ now?” Johnny asked.
Kyra eyed the darkening heavens.
“Third star to the right,” she said. “And straight on till morning.”
The Crow did not follow Dan Cody for long.
Just as Cody was his own man, the black bird was no man’s pet. With a brittle caw it soared above the black strip of highway, hurtling through the cool evening air, searching for a sign.
Fifty miles southeast of Vegas, at the spot where Johnny Church had proposed to Kyra Damon, the bird found one.
No other creature would have noticed it, but to the Crow the sign was unmistakable. A tearstain there on the ground, a dead lover’s tear that had spilled from a living woman’s face.
The Crow pecked at the spot where Leticia’s tear had forever stained the earth, then looked to the heavens.
There were no stars in the sky. No constellation, beckoning in the distance.
But the Crow knew that Dan Cody was on the right path.
And the bird flew on, leading the way now.
Blazing a black trail in the waiting night.
Las Vegas, Nevada
Johnny Church pulled across three parking spaces, shot his heel against the emergency brake, and cut the Merc’s engine.
“Man,” he said. “I don’t know why we needed the fucking stars to find this place. A telephone book would have done the trick.” Kyra nodded. She almost wanted to laugh. It was kind of funny, after all they’d been through. You start off cracking a vision like some exotic code . . . then you commit a couple murders and steal another woman’s eyeballs . . . and finally you end up chasing a moving constellation through the desert, knowing the bewitched stars will lead you to the spot where destiny awaits.
And when you’ve done all that, and you arrive at the spot where the stars shine down, you find that a neon sign marks the spot as clearly as a big fat X that even a blind man could recognize:
THE LITTLE CHAPEL OF THE STARS
A no-brainer, Kyra thought. And the sign was here all the time . . . complete with a sprinkling of neon stars.
“Think Satan called ahead and made a reservation for us?” Johnny asked. “Church, party of two . . . and one-quarter?”
“Most amusing,” Raymondo said. “But let’s cut the witty repartee, shall we? I’ve got a feeling we shouldn’t waste any time.”
“Bad vibes?” Kyra asked.
“Let’s just say my stress-load will be greatly reduced once Mr. Church slips that ring on your finger, Ms. Damon.”
“Yeah,” Johnny agreed. “I’m kind of stressed myself I’ll feel better when we get this done and put Vegas in the rearview.”
Kyra shivered. She was stressed, too, though she wasn’t about to admit it. Her trepidation had nothing to do with Johnny Church, or any other mortal. She was worried about her bridegroom, her real bridegroom, a force she had only dreamed of. That force was waiting, just ahead, and it wasn’t something that stood on two feet like I man. It waited, instead, in the shadows, in scant inches measured by the hands on a clock.
And she would meet with it very soon.
“You okay, Ky?” Johnny asked. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”
“No way,” Kyra said, grabbing Johnny’s .357 and handing it to him. “Itchy trigger finger.”
Ella Valentine—and that was her real name—was one happy woman.
She stood behind the counter in the Little Chapel of the Stars reception area, counting the money in the till.
Over fifteen hundred bucks, and that didn’t count the credit card receipts. Ella figured she’d be over five grand easy once she totaled those. Not bad for a day’s work.
She’d earned it, though. Ten years in the bustling Las Vegas wedding industry, pulling in one small deal after another . . . and almost every one of them trouble. Couples who ended up in fist- fights before they got as far as “I do,” pregnant brides who gave birth on the way down the aisle, and about-to-be-pregnant brides who banged the best man in the John as soon as the ceremony was over—Ella had seen it all and then some.
She glanced at the People magazine cover in the big gilt frame that hung behind the reception desk. Erik Hearse and Lilith Spain. Ella owed them a lot. They could have been married in any chapel on Las Vegas Boulevard, but for some strange reason they’d picked Ella’s place, and now her business was reaping the reward.
Celebrity weddings were nothing new in Vegas, of course. Elvis had married Priscilla here. Bruce Willis married Demi Moore. Even Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra were wed in the city of neon.
Of course, none of those unions lasted. But that didn’t matter to folks in Ella Valentine’s line of work. What mattered was word of mouth. Because if your chapel was lucky enough to be the locale for the latest celebrity nuptials, you were definitely going to get some free publicity. Couples heading to Vegas with rings in their pockets—and there were plenty of those every day—were going to seek you out, hoping a little of that celebrity magic would rub off on them.
That’s what the deal was with the first couple who’d booked Ella’s quaint Victorian chapel tonight. A couple of kids from L.A., a chubby little blonde and her skinny, pizza-faced boyfriend who had popped for the Double Deluxe Happiness Package—a one- hour extravaganza including limo; ceremony; videography (Ella had just installed an automatic four-camera system that was a lot more reliable than the shaky-handed alcoholics who were Vegas wedding chapel fixtures); silk flowers (silk lasts . . . take your bouquet home with you!); a ten-pack of professional photos; unity candle ceremony; peace dove ceremony (an Ella Valentine original); deluxe cake . . . and, of course, a complimentary bottle of champagne.
Imported champagne. Hey, it was good stuff, even if Ella did get it at a deep discount.
Add it up, and it came to just over a thousand bucks on the new bride’s father’s MasterCard, and wasn’t that a sweet way to start the night shift? Why, if Ella got lucky, she’d do the honors for eight or ten more couples before she closed up shop and went home.
Sure, some of her clients were a little weird. Especially the crowd who were attracted by those Erik Hearse/Lilith Spain vibes, the ones who seemed to wear nothing but black, with faces that looked like pincushions. And if Ella had trouble remembering their names she could usually find them tattooed on their arms.
Still, they were mostly good kids, just like the busy little blonde doughball and the acne-enhanced beanpole who were getting hitched at the moment. Leather or spandex or Dockers or a tux and tails, it didn’t make a difference to Ella Valentine. The way she saw it, every person who entered The Little Chapel of the Stars deserved to get their money’s worth. And if they wanted a little extra starshine sprinkled over it all while they walked the same aisle that Lilith Spain and Erik Hearse had trod, well, there was nothing wrong with that—
The door swung open. Ella smiled up at another couple ready to do the deed in their best duds—electric midnight sharkskin for him, black satin and organza for her.
Thank you Erik and Lilith, she thought.
The young woman stepped toward the counter, staring at the framed magazine cover featuring the famous couple.
“Was Lilith Spain married here?” she asked.
“Yes, she was,” Ella said, surprised that the woman seemed . . . well, genuinely surprised to see the photo. “Ms. Spain and Mr. Hearse were married in our chapel just a
few months ago.”
“Man, that’s soooo weird,” said the woman’s fiance. “First the dress . . . now this. That just about maxes out the crazy coincidence meter, huh, Ky?”
Ella stared at the couple, hoping to unravel the thread of their conversation, but the woman in the black wedding dress didn’t say a word. She just stared at the framed magazine cover, and she didn’t even blink.
“There are no coincidences,” the young woman said finally.
Ella was certainly ready to agree with that one. Fate, destiny . . . they were always good selling points. If these two didn’t know that Lilith Spain had been married here—and if that knowledge gave them a little starstruck frisson—well, Ella Valentine certainly wasn’t going to pass up an opening like that.
Ella leaned forward, whispering seriously, “You know, you two remind me of Erik and Lilith. You’ve got a special energy about you ... a special glow.”
“Really?” the man said.
Ella nodded. “Erik and Lilith had the same energy. They said that something drew them to The Little Chapel of the Stars. They were cruising in their limo, looking for a chapel, and . . . bang! When they saw my neon sign out front with its little neon stars, they knew that fate had delivered them to my doorstep.”
“Wow,” the man said. “I’m gettin’ shivers up and down my spine!”
“And well you should,” Ella said, pushing to close the deal. “Because it was fate that brought you here tonight.”
The woman didn’t say a word.
The man did.
“Screw fate,” he said. “We just wanna get married.”
In the next room, behind closed chapel doors the color of dove’s wings, the nuptial clock was ticking.
The minister’s name was Brian Brunswick Cooke. He slipped a peppermint between his lips, hoping to mask the smell of Irish whiskey. Half-bagged, and this was only his fifth wedding of the day. He was way ahead of schedule.
But he looked fine. That was Cooke’s secret. White-haired and just this side of sixty, his appearance was deemed “distinguished” by almost everyone he encountered. As long as he didn’t slur his words, the shopworn homilies that were his stock and trade seemed nearly Shakespearean.
Certainly, a few cliches and a smattering of old-fashioned schmaltz was more than adequate for this audience. Cooke doubted that the male half of the company would hear a word he said. Talk about n-e-r-v-o-u-s, the boy-groom who stood before the altar had a poor complexion, and it seemed to Cooke that ominous new ridges of pimples were appearing on the lad’s face even as he sweated out the big moment.
The groom stared up the aisle as the music began. “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” Sweet Jesus, if Cooke had a free-pull slot machine token for every time he’d heard that one . . .
Or seen the wedding dress the bride was wearing as she came down the aisle carrying a bouquet of silk flowers.
Puffy hair, puffy body, puffy sleeves. Brian Brunswick Cooke sighed. Behind him, peace doves cooed in their cages. Above him, video cameras whispered, recording all for posterity. To one side, the still photographer snapped away.
Brian closed his eyes . . . searched for his distinguished inner self
Tonight, the search was difficult.
Dear God, but he wanted a drink.
Johnny couldn’t believe the place. Even the lobby was outrageous. Man, it looked like a whorehouse run by some demented grandma. Gilt-edged crap everywhere, and little plaster cupids with bronze bows and arrows, and wallpaper patterned with flocked valentine hearts, and sachets.
Lots of sachets. Man, his sinuses were closing up. He didn’t even know how much of this shit he could take.
At least the little grandma behind the counter had stopped prattling on about fate and destiny. She slid a thick binder across the desk, opening it to reveal laminated pages with photographs. “Erik Hearse and Lilith Spain chose our Deluxe Double Happiness Package,” the grandma said. “It’s very popular . . . modestly priced, but inclusive. Most Vegas weddings last no more than fifteen minutes, but our package entitles you to a full hour in our chapel. It also includes a special peace dove ceremony, in which two snow-white birds are set free as the bride and groom celebrate their vows—”
“Forget the birds,” Johnny interrupted. “We don’t like birds."
The woman’s eyebrows quivered, as if she didn’t quite understand, but Johnny didn’t have time to lay it out for her. There was too much waiting for him, dead ahead, too much that he needed to get his paws on right fucking now. He wanted to get that ring on Kyra’s finger, and he wanted his slice of that Crow power pie, and most of all he wanted to get to the heart of the matter.
His wedding night. Yeah. Kyra Damon, with his ring on her finger. Forget Erik Hearse and Lilith Spain. That was nothing but a prelim. This was the main event.
Kyra would be a tigress tamed, and Johnny would be the only man who’d even done that to her.
The only man who ever could.
“Look,” Johnny said. “We’re in a hurry. We want to get married right now.’’
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. There’s a couple in the chapel at the moment. They booked the Deluxe Double Happiness Package, and their ceremony has only just begun. The chapel won’t be free for at least another forty-five minutes—”
“We can’t wait that long,” Johnny said.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing I can do about it. . . .”
Johnny reached under his coat, filled his hand, and shoved the .357 in the woman’s face. “I think there’s a whole lot you can do, granny.”
The woman closed her eyes, stood there shaking while Kyra locked the front door, hung a CLOSED sign in the window, and pulled the red velvet drapes tight.
Okay, Johnny thought. Things are kicking into gear now. Forget the Little Chapel of the Stars. Welcome to the Church of Johnny.
Plaster cupids stared down at him, aiming their bows in his direction. Frozen, astonished little plaster faces. The flocked valentine wallpaper seemed to glow—
Soft music spilled from behind the chapel doors.
“The Wind Beneath My Wings.”
In the time it took to say “I do,” Johnny’s anger went on the boil.
He listened to the lyrics. He couldn’t help himself
Lyrics about wings . . . and birds . . .
No way was he listening to that shit tonight.
Not here.
Because this was the Church of Johnny.
And, as far as Church was concerned, the deity had definitely arrived.
Dwayne looked so handsome in his burgundy tuxedo. Krystal thought so, anyway. She walked down the aisle, the music swelling inside her. Dwayne couldn’t even look at her, he was so nervous. Or maybe she was just too beautiful . . .
Krystal felt that beautiful. The minister smiled at her. He looked so nice, so—what was the word?—distinguished.
Krystal took another step . . . and then another, in perfect time with the music. This was the moment. Her moment. She’d waited for it for such a long time—
A loud pop sounded behind her.
That wasn’t right—it was way too early for champagne.
Another pop. Jesus, they were only supposed to get one bottle . . . complimentary French champagne. The second bottle was fifty bucks extra! No way Krystal was paying for that!
And, Jesus, she and Dwayne weren’t even married yet! They hadn’t even had the unity candle ceremony, or the peace dove ceremony! By the time they finished with that stuff, the champagne would be way flat!
No way Krystal was drinking flat champagne on her wedding day . . . complimentary or not! The stupid cow at the front desk was screwing up royally! And after Krystal had just put down nearly a thousand bucks on her father’s fucking MasterCard!
Krystal was pissed. She whirled, reversed course, started up the aisle.
“Wait!” Dwayne cried. “Krystal! You can’t leave me like this!”
Krystal ignored Dwayne. The dummy. She’d be ba
ck. But right now, she had to set things straight. She wasn’t going to have some fucked-up wedding with way flat champagne.
Just as she was about to reach for the gleaming brass doorknob, the big white doors banged open.
A king-sized goth berserker stood in the doorway.
“Is this the best man?” the photographer asked, clicking away.
“No way!” Dwayne said. “I don’t even know this guy!”
The giant held a smoking pistol in one hand. In the other he held Ella Valentine—or Ella Valentine’s tightly permed hair, anyway.
Ella screaming beneath it; “He’s going to kill us all!”
Krystal dropped her silk bouquet.
“Fuck me,” she said.
Brian Brunswick Cooke dropped his Bible.
He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t budge.
And the man with the gun was going crazy. He clubbed Ella Valentine unconscious, and then he came through the door—kicking the still photographer in the head when the poor man dared to snap a photo . . . shoving the chubby blond bride out of the way . . . pistol-whipping the pimple-faced groom when the lad tried to come to his intended’s rescue.
The intruder shot the stereo, and the music died. And then he strode up the aisle, raising his pistol as he came, and—
Brian closed his eyes.
Two shots rang out. Blood splattered Brian’s left hand. He opened his eyes. Snow was falling in the chapel. . . white and delicate—
No. Not snow. Feathers.
“No fuckin’ birds at this wedding!” the gunman roared, and Brian turned toward the little table beside the altar. The peace doves’ cage was a broken mess, washed with gore. The intruder had shot the poor little birds. They were just innocent creatures . . . innocent, like Brian himself. . . and they didn’t deserve to die—
“Preacherman!” the stranger called.
Oh, God, Brian thought. Please save me.
“Preacherman! We want to get married!”
Oh, God, Brian begged. I need a drink.
The man jammed his gun in Brian’s face. “You think you can do what I ask?”
The minister nodded quickly, desperately eager to please. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t say a word. He couldn’t think of a single one. Even the shopworn homilies had vanished from his memory, and he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He tried to suck wind, but his chest was a hard, unyielding knot, and—
Wicked Prayer Page 20
