by Josh Lanyon
The holding spell was broken, and John’s groomsmen and cop buddies rushed Ciara, who was crawling toward the dropped pistol.
Several hours and many, many questions later, the ceremony was eventually completed, and John and I were married in the eyes of the Goddess.
Ciara was arrested. Not just for attempted homicide, but for Seamus’s murder. What John had not bothered—well, in fairness, he hadn’t had time—to tell me the night before was that when Seamus’s computer had been searched by SFPD’s computer forensics team, emails had been found between him and a woman who signed herself only as V.
Sergeants Kolchak and Iff theorized that Seamus and V. had been having an illicit relationship, Ciara had discovered it, and in a jealous rage murdered Seamus and then tried to frame me for the crime.
I’m not a detective, but I thought this was a pretty lame theory. But then there was a huge amount of pressure on Iff and Kolchak to solve this case—even though they didn’t have all the facts. Nor were they about to get them from me. I was grateful to no longer be under suspicion. Grateful to be alive, because Ciara might not have killed Seamus, but she had certainly intended to kill me.
It had turned out to be harder than she expected, and those two seconds of wavering reluctance had given John the time he needed to throw off the holding spell. The fascinating thing was no mortal, not a single one, including John, realized anything but shock and horror had held them in place.
Which was fortunate, to say the least.
What most fascinated and, if I’m honest, concerned me was John’s ability to resist the power of Ciara’s spell. Was that because she had delivered it in Gaelic? He had also resisted English and Latin.
Anyway, as I said, the ceremony was at last completed, and John and I received the congratulations and well wishes of the attendees—not to mention a few other comments.
Ralph Grindlewood paused to shake hands on his way out.
“That was a close call. The Goddess smiled upon you today, my friend.”
“Thanks for coming,” I said. “And sorry about the floor show.” I studied his companion. As usual, she was about twenty years younger than Ralph—probably my age. She had blue-black hair and eyes so pale, they looked like sea glass. She was beautiful, but it was an unsettling kind of beauty. She studied me back with equal curiosity.
Ralph chuckled, and said, “I don’t believe you two have met yet, have you? Cosmo, this is Valenti Garibaldi. Valenti, this is Cosmo Saville—or will you be taking John’s name now?”
I admit I didn’t hear the first part of his comment. I was still processing the fact that this was the Valenti. The supposed Witch Queen. It had to be. No way could there be two of them running around San Francisco. I couldn’t tell if Ms. Garibaldi really was a witch or not—which made me suspect that she was.
Then Ralph’s remark registered. I said, “No, I’ll keep my last name.”
“Ah. Of course, you’ll want to protect the line of succession in case of progeny.”
I was a little shocked he said that right out loud in front of John. Not about the possible progeny, but about the line of succession. Fortunately, John was busy talking to my father, who appeared to be giving him an eye-glazing amount of advice on only the Lord and Lady knew what. Home security systems?
I said to Valenti, “I think you know my sister-in-law, Jinx Galbraith.”
She smiled. “Yes, Joan and I were just speaking. In fact, we were speaking of you.” She winked. “She thinks you and I should get to know each other. I think she’s right.”
Ralph said, “I spotted young Ambrose earlier. I take it you’ve decided to keep him on despite everything?”
“Despite everything,” I agreed.
“I hope you don’t live to regret it.” Ralph smiled at John, who had finally freed himself from my father’s clutches and turned back to us. “Thank you for allowing us to share in this joyful occasion. We wish you both the best of luck.”
When they were well out of earshot, John said, “Have I met him before?”
“I don’t think so. Have you?”
“Not sure. Something about him pings my radar. You said he’s a close friend?”
“I thought we were friends. Maybe he’s more of a customer than a friend.”
“I don’t like his eyes.”
I’d always thought Ralph’s eyes were rather warm and kindly. It didn’t sound like a John sort of comment, but he seemed perfectly serious.
My heart began to thump in the wake of alarmed realization. I know. You’re wondering what took me so long. But like I said, nobody ever expects the Spanish Inquisition.
John was still following his own line of thought. “I heard wishing the married couple luck on their wedding day was bad etiquette.”
“It is. Hey, can you excuse me for one second?”
John’s brows rose. “Sure. Everything okay?”
“Yes. I just want to verify something. I’ll be right back.”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I sprinted up the flagstone path, passing other guests on their leisurely way up the hillside, absently noting friendly, teasing comments—Too late now, Cosmo! or He’s right behind you, Cosmo! I reached the top, raced across our backyard, banged out through the side gate, and came to a stop on the sidewalk just in time to see Ralph’s black Mercedes disappearing over the crest of the driveway.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Even if you’re right,” Andi said, “you can’t do anything about it now. You’re supposed to be having your champagne breakfast. Guests are going to notice the other groom is missing. John is liable to be in here looking for you any second.”
After the receiving line and the photos at the white garden were finished, John and I had followed everyone over to my great-aunt Coralie’s (frankly, spooky) Nob Hill mansion, where I’d asked John to hold the fort while I commandeered Andi away from Trace’s clutches.
“Hold the fort?” John had repeated. “Do you consider yourself under siege? Or am I projecting?”
“Er, no. I just need to have a word with my Best Woman.”
“I can give you five minutes,” John said, and looked pointedly at his watch.
Which is how I came to be standing in my great-aunt Coralie’s conservatory while I brought Andi up to date on my suspicions regarding Ralph Grindlewood and Valenti Garibaldi. Since I was still feeling my way through my theory, Andi was not terribly impressed.
I said, “I have to do something. Ciara didn’t kill Seamus!”
“Cos, you don’t know that. She sure as heck tried to kill you. Even if you’re right, you don’t have any proof. Not that you can share with John or any other mortal. Grindlewood drives a black Mercedes. That’s it. And so do a million other people. That’s not going to be enough to convince anyone, especially the police. And to be honest, if SFPD is busy prosecuting Ciara, they’re not looking at you anymore.”
I glared at her. “Nice!”
“You know what I mean. The best thing is to take your suspicions to the Duchess. Have her bring it up with the Society. According to you, they know all about these spammers.”
“Not spammers. Andi, you’re not listening. It’s an acronym. SPMMR. Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm.”
“Right. My point is, if Grindlewood has become involved with that, and if this self-titled Witch Queen is working with him, the Society is a lot better equipped to take them on than you are.”
“They’re trying to recruit Jinx.”
She was silent. “Okay, yes, that’s worrying. And it’s worrying your smarmy cousin Waite spent so much time talking to Ralph while we were waiting for the ceremony to resume.”
“Did he?” I felt the hair at the back of my neck prickle. If my cousin Waite could have one wish granted in all the world, it would be to take my place in the line of ascension to the trône de sorcière.
“Yes.”
“What does that tell you?” I demanded.
“Listen to me.” Andi put her hands on my shoulders. �
��You know what I think? I think you feel guilty about Rex. I don’t know why you would, but I think you’re taking what happened to them personally. I think you’re trying to connect what happened to Rex with this greater plot so that it makes sense, but senseless acts of violence happen all the time. These two cases may be completely unrelated. Rex was—is—a professional investigator. That’s a dangerous business.”
“There is a connection. I know there is.”
“But you don’t. We don’t know all the facts regarding Rex’s accident, and we don’t know all the evidence against Ciara.”
Now there she was right.
Andi gazed up at me earnestly. “Cos, yesterday the Primus was still missing, you were suspected of murder, and John was—according to you—having cold feet.”
I winced.
“Isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“As of right now, the Primus has been returned to the Society, you’re not suspected of murder anymore, and you’re married to John. Take some advice from your oldest and closest friend. Leave the conspiracy theories till after your honeymoon. Have these next two weeks with John. You both need this time together. You need to get to know each other. For real.”
She was right, and I knew she was right.
I nodded reluctantly.
“The other thing is.” She stopped abruptly.
“What?” I asked warily.
She said reluctantly, “Well, you’ve been out of practice for two years. You’re not at the top of your game. You admitted yourself it was mostly luck that you made it out of Seamus’s shop alive.”
I made an impatient sound.
She didn’t drop it, though, insisting, “You can’t have it both ways, Cos. You can’t live a mortal life and think you can tackle a consortium of witches, some of whom could be at the peak of their powers. You’re not ready for that. Not mentally and not magically. You’ll get yourself killed.”
The aggravating thing was, she was right. Again.
Seeing that she had made her point, Andi kissed my cheek and let me go. “You’ll thank me later.”
I sighed. “John’s thanking you right now.”
One person who did not show up at either wedding ceremony, or at any of the celebrations that followed, was Oliver Sandhurst. I asked around, but no one had seen or heard from Oliver in days. I suspected I could pinpoint the exact day.
Another mystery for my ever-growing list of things to tackle after my honeymoon.
But at least there was going to be a honeymoon. I’m happy to report the rest of our wedding day went off without a hitch. Or rather, the hitch went off without any further problems.
In fact, the worst thing that happened was I had too much champagne at breakfast and John had too much champagne at the second reception. We both had too much champagne at Chambers. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The second service—the Episcopalian service—was actually, to my great relief, quite lovely, and nothing that could possibly offend even my most conservative relatives.
John and I wrote our own vows, and John’s, unsurprisingly, brought tears to my eyes.
Something in the steady, solemn way he quoted them—and maybe that was it, the idea of him memorizing those vows over the past few days, given everything that had been going on.
“I, John, take you, Cosmo, to be my husband, my partner, and my one true love. Respecting what I know of you, and trusting what I do not yet know. I promise to love, honor, and cherish you for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, from this day forward, for as long as we both shall live.”
His fingers were warm and sure as he slipped the platinum Celtic eternity knot wedding band on my left hand.
My own vows—the second version, assembled after I knew about the love spell—were sadly unimaginative, and I deeply regretted trashing the original ones, but more than once over the past three days I had been sure this moment would never happen.
“I, Cosmo, take thee, John, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish all the days of our lives and beyond. Until the last star burns out in the heavens, I hereby plight thee my troth.”
John’s mouth twitched a little at the “hereby plight thee,” but he looked touched, and when my fingers shook sliding the antique gold band with its large oval cabochon turquoise on his finger, he leaned forward and nuzzled me, which got a round of applause from the one hundred guests watching us.
The reception was rustic and charming. A string quartet made ancient melodies sound fresh and Top Twenty songs sound ageless. Lanterns and white linen in the dusk, flowers and herbs in small jars, and pale-colored almond candies tied with silver and blue ribbons. The menu was designed to show Nola who was boss: foie gras and scallops for the starter, veal, quail, and salmon for the main course, and naturally, an abundance of cheese, pastries, fruit, and wine. So much wine, you might say it flowed like…wine.
Andi’s cake was four ivory tiers, complete with ornate tufting and perfectly painted gray and blue sugar flowers, finished off with a silver satin ribbon and an edible monogram with the entwined letters S&G.
Before the caterers had finished serving the cake, the fireworks had begun—literally fireworks: whistling explosions of pastel flowers and diamond star showers.
I think it must be true that, even if no one tries to kill you on your wedding day, it’s hard to remember everything. Certain images lingered: Andi dancing with Trace all night; my father hitting on Bree; sharing my first dance with John; V. nearly getting in a brawl with Tighe, one of John’s groomsmen; Nola tipsy on champagne; Jinx watching Trace with Andi; my mother’s unblinking stare in the lantern as she watched my father.
There was more dancing and drinking at Chambers, but when John looked at me quizzically and said, “Ready to call it a night?” I replied, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Our guests were throwing each other in the rooftop pool when we left.
When John unlocked the front door to the house on Greenwich, I said, “It’s my turn to carry you over the threshold.”
He laughed, grabbed me, we tussled, amused and breathless for a few seconds, and then he hoisted me over his shoulder and carried me inside.
“That ought to give the neighbors something to talk about,” I commented as he dropped me into a leather club chair by the door.
“I’m sure they’ve been talking since the first squad car pulled up.”
“True.”
He sat down on the footstool, facing me. We grinned at each other.
“Now what?” he said, and I laughed.
You know when you’ve longed for something with all your heart, and unexpectedly, against the odds, your wish is granted? It’s exciting, but it’s humbling too. And a little frightening.
Was I ready for this?
“We could open a few presents?” I suggested.
“Seriously?”
I shrugged.
He tilted his head, said teasingly, “Are you feeling shy, Cos?”
My smiled twisted. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You don’t look like a guy who ever had a shy bone in his body.”
“I’m not! Usually.”
We opened about half the presents. When I opened Jinx’s gift, an antique blue-and-white china plate by Vieillard, John frowned and said, “Why the hell is she giving us a plate with a nun?”
I refrained from pointing out the nun was actually a witch.
“So what is your astrology sign?” he asked, when we finally headed up to bed.
“Gemini.”
“Is that the sign of the cricket?”
“Ha. That’s Jiminy. This is Gemini. The twins.”
“And is that a good match for Aries?”
“It has its challenges. The biggest one is lack of trust.”
He snorted.
“No, but it’s true. I’m not making it up. Sexually, we’re very
compatible. We both like to experiment, be creative.”
“Now you have my interest.”
But really, no danger of that. I had always had John’s interest. Even, apparently, when he didn’t like me.
Now he stood naked and powerful in the moonlight, and I smiled up at him, reached out, and he lowered himself beside me.
For a long time we simply kissed and caressed each other, and some of my nervousness faded. I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t expected him to be so gentle, so careful, but he was.
“My very own husband.” He linked his fingers with mine, staring at our hands. He shook his head a little, as though in disbelief.
I said, “To have and to hold from this day forward.”
“Yes.” He pushed our entwined hands above my head, seemingly intent on having and holding every inch of me then and there, continuing to pet and kiss every part of my body. When something tickled and I squirmed, he shushed me, whispering, “I’m learning how you work.”
“Is it a crash course?”
“Oh no. This will require a lifetime of study…”
His tongue flicked my nipple in pleasurable chafing, a fingertip lightly scratching my inner elbow; he touched his tongue to the tip of mine, rubbed noses. I smiled and sighed and relaxed, kissing him back when he’d let me, stroking his lean, hard flanks and sides.
I liked the taste of his tongue, the beat of his heart beneath damp skin, the moonburn of his beard against my bare skin. “Please…” I whispered. I didn’t finish it. Even I wasn’t sure what I was really asking. I was out of my depth, but even that was weirdly enjoyable, letting John lead, letting John guide me. My consort.
At last he helped me over onto my knees. I ignored the tightening in my belly—partly anxiety, but mostly desire—and spread my legs. I wanted this union very much, but I was also conscious that—for me at least—there would be no going back now. But then there was already no going back. I belonged to John body and soul. This was simply us making it official.
He opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out a disappointingly prosaic-looking white-and-orange bottle with a black plastic pump. He tested the pump with a businesslike squirt.
