by Angie Fox
The couches were full of various aunts and uncles, although I did notice the younger cousins gave up their seats for some of the biker witches.
Diana and Dyonne were two of the last to arrive. They gave me questioning looks—probably wondering why I looked ready to strangle someone—as Ophelia drew me in front of the big, bay window.
Ophelia was flustered, excited as two of the aunts made their way through the crowd with a bundle tied in black silk.
She brought her hands together as if in prayer, then touched them to her lips. “My little bride,” she said bringing her hands down, clasping them against her breast. “We are so happy, so honored to welcome you into our family and our clan. We are Artamae, the hunters.”
Yes, from Rhodes. Dimitri had shown me pictures of the ancient gates to one of the cities the clan founded. The carvings of the sacred deer were still visible on the walls. In old times, the people could see griffins and would make offerings of the best kills from their hunt. When I’d squicked out a bit, Dimitri reminded me that I liked deer sausage. He’d had a point, I supposed.
“You are our family now,” Ophelia said.
I took a deep, calming breath. “I’m glad,” I said. I really was, even as Dimitri lowered the phone and turned to give me a glance that said all was definitely not well.
“And so,” Ophelia said, her eyes growing misty again, “we have made your wedding gown!”
I gripped my drink glass. Not another one.
“It is our tradition,” she said. “Each woman in the clan gives something to the dress. Some choose the silk. Only the best. Some work tirelessly on the stitching. Hand done. Every bit. Some work hard to inspect each and every bead for the bodice…”
Hillary stood, stone-faced, at the back.
She deserved it.
“We keep adding and adding and working until,” she unveiled the dress. “You have this!”
Creely spit her drink.
I would have, too, except I was frozen in place.
It was made of silk, all right—yards and yards of silk, like a Southern Belle intent on drowning herself. And there were beads…everywhere. On the bodice, down the front, streaking over the sleeves, wound around the high, choking neckline like snakes. And these weren’t pretty, dainty glass beads or pearls. They were shaped like sunbursts and seashells and I even spotted a few sand dollars among the complete and utter chaos.
“Damn.” Creely said.
“Wow,” I said, trying to recover, but the light was catching the sequins on the poof-ball sleeves, and frankly, the whole thing was such a train wreck, I couldn’t stop looking.
But it was made with love, given with no strings attached.
The Greeks weren’t trying to change me, or hurt me. Ophelia and her clan only wanted to make me happy.
In fact, it was perfect. If I couldn’t have my dress, this was the next best thing simply because it was the exact opposite of everything my mom was trying to force on me. If Dimitri pulled off a miracle and got my dress back, I’d find a way to bow out of this graciously. But if not, revenge was best served with a million seed pearls.
“As you may have heard from all the yelling,” I said, “I have a dress picked out. Still, there’s been an accident.” I started to warm to the idea, and to my mom’s shock in the back. “If my dress doesn’t arrive,” which it would, it had to, “I would be touched and honored to wear this dress.”
The Greeks cheered.
My mom dropped her cocktail.
Ophelia held up the dress while I took another look at what I’d agreed to wear. Danged if it didn’t make me smile. I couldn’t help it. I had to admire it. “The bow on the butt is huge.”
“That is mine!” An elderly aunt called out from the back. Her relatives on either side patted her on the arms, congratulating her. “I hand sewed each sparkle.”
“That must have taken forever.” There were sequins all over it. And there were matching bows on the sleeves. “And butterflies on top of the bows.”
My mother looked like she was going to hurl.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t get over it. I could wear it twelve times and still see something new every time.
“The butterflies are mine,” said a somewhat shy, younger women, seated on a couch near the front. She wrung her hands together, tucked her already-tucked hair behind her ears. “I wanted even more, but they said it could get busy.”
“If you want to add more, feel free,” I told her, fingering the large silk insects on each shoulder of the dress. “The more the better.”
She blushed.
Bring ‘em on.
At this point, Hillary had recovered enough to start making her way to the front. “As gorgeous as this is,” she said, sidestepping Greeks, “I really must insist Lizzie wear my old gown, for sentimental reasons.”
“You’re over-ruled,” I told her. “Now,” I addressed the room, “who wants to see me try on my dress?”
The Greeks were ecstatic. Mom looked ready to faint. And I was trying to figure out where to go to change.
“Try it on over your clothes,” Ophelia insisted. “As much as you can.”
“I’d love to,” I said, as she began unhooking the dozens and dozens of extremely large buttons that ran down the back.
“Each of these is handmade,” she said. “Some are more fine than others, depending on the skill of the button maker.”
Ophelia and Grandma held the dress open to me. I stepped in as the young woman from the front rushed up to help me into my sleeves. They had a loop that went over my middle finger, effectively covering half my hand and making it look like I was wearing part of a glove that attached to my sleeve. It was a design at least twenty years past its prime. Perfect.
“You will love this,” Ophelia said, starting with the strangling buttons at the neck. “Dimitri will love this.”
I think Dimitri would love it if we could skip to the actual wedding. Come to think of it, that would be my choice, too.
They turned me toward the window in order to work the large buttons in the back.
The dress wrapped around me too tightly. I tried to move and adjust a bit.
“Vivi, Antonia!” Ophelia called.
Two more sets of hands joined in the prodding and tugging. Oof. There was so much fabric.
It was hard to stand still. The inside lining was prickly. The seams stabbed under my arms. The lace dug into the base of my throat. It tightened as they slipped the buttons closed. This was worse than wrestling an imp. I should know. And at least with minions of the underworld, I could stab them and put us both out of our misery.
I swallowed, tried to speak but nothing came out. They’d probably crushed my windpipe.
Dots formed in my line of vision as Grandma gave me a vicious tug from behind. “Suck it in,” she ordered.
I whooshed out a breath, brought both hands to my stomach and tried to cast a smile over my shoulder at the array of in-laws on the couches.
This is so much fun.
For other people.
I turned back and came face-to-face with the ghost. I jolted, which caused the hands at the back of my gown to pull back harder.
It was her. The woman from the garden.
She stood on the other side of the window, wearing an old-fashioned, high-necked white gown. She brought her hands to her throat.
“What?” I croaked. I was drowning, suffocating.
She watched me silently.
I looked down at my own hands, ready to draw them to my own throat, when a trickle of blood leaked from my right sleeve.
I stared at it, horrified, unable to speak or even scream as the trail of blood thickened. It dripped from my fingers.
Holy Hades.
Look at me! See me!
Searing pain raced up my arms and down my back, breaking through the paralyzing cloud that had formed around me. Still, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t beg, plead, tear this dress away and run.
I craned my neck around. The people on the couches
talked and smiled, nodded to each other and to me. They didn’t see. They didn’t know.
The woman at the window pressed her hands against the glass.
I gasped against the heat burning through my veins. It was getting hotter, turning molten.
More blood spotted my sleeves as the front of the dress caved in on itself, soaking itself in red as my life seeped into the beaded fabric.
Chapter Twelve
At last someone screamed
Then another.
And another.
I couldn’t think past the blood and the pain. I was seized by the primal need to move, run. Escape.
But I was paralyzed. Trapped in my swiftly weakening body. I could do nothing except stand like a statue, bleeding out on the floor.
The terror stole my breath and my mind. My veins were ready to burst with fire.
Get the dress off. Get the dress off.
Ophelia cried out, twisting her fingers around the collar around my neck, strangling me, making it worse. She shrieked and retreated.
Diana whimpered as she yanked at my buttons. “They won’t come off!” She turned me around, sheer panic seizing every movement. Her own hands were bloody as she yanked at my sleeves.
“Incoming!” Ant Eater hollered, as she hurled a spell jar at my feet. It broke open with a hiss, sending plumes of green smoke and ash up into the air. I breathed better for a startling moment, before the horror crashed down again.
Dimitri tore past them all. His shirt was off and his pants were half done, as if he’d been preparing to shift. Instead, he reached for me with hands that had turned to claws. His eyes were orange, savage as he ripped the sleeves from my arms with his bare hands. He bit the lace at my neck with his teeth, ravaged it away and yanked the rest of the dress free.
I stumbled back against the window. My sundress was drenched in blood.
He chased me, grabbed me and pulled me against him. He kept me from falling as he hissed in agony from the mere act of touching me. “Hit her again!” he ordered.
Hillary screamed. The griffins roared.
Biker witches pelted the floor around us with jars. Several smashed through the window. They came from everywhere at once, a blinding, gut-wrenching jolt of magic.
My stomach heaved. My skin burned. I wanted to curl up and die on the spot. If it weren’t for Dimitri holding me up, I think I would have.
I slid down a few inches.
He propped me up.
“I’ve got you,” he repeated against my ear like a mantra. Like he needed to believe it. I did, too.
My breath came in hard bursts. The sulfur in the air stung my throat and my eyes. Dimitri’s skin was scorched where he’d touched me.
Grandma stared at us, her hair wild, her eyes wide, muttering, “shit, shit, shit.”
The burn had turned into a blistering, throbbing ache. It pounded with my heartbeat. I was afraid to look down. I didn’t want to see the damage. Not yet.
This attack was so much worse than anything before because I hadn’t even seen it coming. Most of the time, I could prepare myself for injuries, expect them. But now I’d been ravaged by my own wedding dress.
Creely gulped, fought to keep her eyes level with mine. “Frieda went to get Battina’s supplies.”
The healing witch. We’d lost her in battle. What I wouldn’t give to see her now.
Ophelia let out a screech. I followed her gaze to the floor and saw the wreck of a dress twitch. Dimitri had tossed it onto the floor near a couch. Now, a lump, like a trapped animal, formed under the yards of tulle and ribbons. It started to move.
My first instinct was to reach for a switch star, but my arm wouldn’t budge.
Creely hit it with a spell jar and it stopped. For now.
Of course, the lump was still there.
“Don’t anybody go near it,” Dimitri ordered, in the understatement of the year.
Frieda rushed through the throng of startled onlookers. She carried a colorful carpetbag. Battina’s supplies.
The blond biker witch made a wide arc around the dress and opened the bag on the floor in front of us. She rifled through the contents for a moment before drawing out an old Dawn dishwashing detergent bottle, now filled with a goopy green and brownish colored liquid.
“Hold your breath,” she said, standing. She leaned away as she squeezed it over my arms, my chest, my neck, and Dimitri’s chest.
It cooled my skin instantly. I still throbbed, but I could think. And yes, it was gross—with bits of sticks and bark—and it smelled like a month-old latrine, but I didn’t care. Frieda snapped on a pair of Battina’s gloves and began gently smoothing the goop over our skin. I watched as it soothed the redness from Dimitri’s chest. And at last, I was brave enough to look down at my own arms.
The skin was ragged, torn and blistered. My fingernails were gone.
I looked away, tears burning the corners of my eyes. I was alive. That’s what counted.
“You’ll be fine,” Frieda said, going back and drawing out another bottle.
What else was she going to say? Sorry, but there’s no way you can fully recover from this.
“How many do you have?” Dimitri asked, his voice tight.
Frieda glanced at him, and I could tell she was tempted to cage her answer. “This is the last one,” she finally admitted.
“Use it all on Lizzie,” he said.
I swallowed hard, tried to speak. I understood that I’d freaked out a little. Truly, this wasn’t going to be pretty for any of us. “Don’t,” I croaked, my throat raw. “I’m not an invalid,” I managed to complete the sentence on a whisper, but I’d made my point. I didn’t need them treating me with kid gloves. I was stronger than that.
I had to be.
Dimitri pushed out a breath. “I hate to ruin your noble moment,” he said, with that old, familiar warmth I’d come to count on, “but I can heal better than you.”
Nodding, I managed a throaty, “Good point.”
I let Frieda bathe me with the entire contents of the last bottle. Lord, it felt good. I closed my eyes as the cool gel-like liquid soothed my skin. Amazingly enough, I was actually happy when the harsh throbbing gave way to an angry itch.
Maybe that meant I was healing.
“Bad news. You need a manicure,” Frieda said.
I opened my eyes to a super close-up view of the witch. She gave a small smile as she touched her hands under my palms and brought them up for me to see.
My nails were back. Ragged, but whole. My skin was actually in one piece.
Thank God.
Battina, too. Bless her dear departed soul.
I flexed my fingers. They were stiff but whole. And, dang, I was going to need a shower. “Frieda,” I said, as she finished packing up Battina’s supplies, “do you think you can grab my switch star belt? It’s in my room.” I’d nail the dress as soon as Creely and Grandma were finished with it.
The two witches knelt next to the dress with what looked like a test tube kit. Biker witches stood over them, spell jars as the ready, as Creely and Grandma drew fibers with tweezers and dropped them into various tubes full of blue, red and purple liquid.
Frieda stood behind them, her hands on her hips. “You think you might want to keep your switch star belt with you next time? Oh, demon slayer?”
“Strangely, I think I’ve figured that out.” Although, truth be told, I’d been too compromised to throw a star. Still, I needed to keep my weapons with me at all times. I wasn’t safe anywhere—even behind the wards.
Diana lingered nearby, her hands covered in the same healing goo Frieda had used on me. Dyonne was busy keeping my mother upright. Hillary looked as if she’d been to hell and back.
Suddenly, one of Grandma’s test tubes spit fire and sparks.
“What is it?” Dimitri asked.
Grandma leaned back on her haunches. “Spittle of Cerberus,” she said, not happy at all.
“What is that?” Hillary protested, pushing against Dyon
ne.
“Three headed dog of the underworld,” Creely answered automatically. “Let’s test again to make sure.”
“Poison.” It settled in my stomach like a rock.
Somebody had tried to kill me.
But truly, hadn’t I known from the moment I saw blood?
Hillary freed herself and stumbled toward me. “This doesn’t make sense,” she said, her tone pleading, wobbling on her heels as she tried to find her footing. “Lizzie?” she asked, as if I could somehow put her back in her normal world where organization triumphed, society was king, wedding dresses didn’t try to kill the bride.
“Mom—” I began. Oh geez. “I don’t know where to start?”
“How about with the truth?” Grandma muttered.
“Yeah, right.” Oh, hell.
“What have you done?” Hillary asked Ophelia. Her words were sharp, her tone angry. I knew that voice. That was mom regaining control, damn the consequences.
“It is not us,” Ophelia protested as mom advanced on her. “The dress was fine! We tried it on Antonia right before we left our villa!”
“You tried to poison my baby.” Hillary said, her voice low and controlled. She looked ready to hit Ophelia.
Ophelia snarled. Two more griffins joined her.
That’s when Dimitri honest-to-God roared.
“Stop fighting,” he ordered. “We have an emergency. Someone is trying to kill Lizzie.” His eyes were orange again, or maybe they’d never changed back. He clutched me to his side, every inch of his body hard, feral. His voice was clipped, measured. “I don’t imagine the guilty party will admit to this heinous attack, but I do promise I will find you.”
He spoke to the Greeks, the witches, and my mother.
A stone cold silence fell over the room. Naturally, it was Hillary who broke it. She tugged at her pearls, her voice hard, her cheeks flushed. “Will someone please explain to me what the hell is going on?”
It was the moment I’d dreaded since I came into my powers. “Mom,” I began, my voice scratchy. She already knew, right? She had to know. She’d seen spells and partial griffin shifting and me asking Frieda for weapons.
This had to turn out okay. Maybe.
Hopefully.
