“That was entirely unnecessary, young lady,” Wilbur snarled, rolling to his knees and cracking his neck as the bones healed. Mama cried out and wobbled against the table legs. Wilbur pushed to his feet and sneered at me. “You have no respect for your elders.”

“I guess the respectful thing would be just standing there and letting you stake me in my own kitchen.” I tossed the offending wooden dagger into the garbage. “And by the way, one word, two syllables: Altoid.”

“Why, you little—” Wilbur growled. “I won’t stand here and be insulted like this. Ruthie, I’ll call you soon.”

“No, Wilbur, don’t go!” Grandma Ruthie cried as Wilbur stomped out the back door. She turned on me, lip on full tremble. “Jane, I want you to go apologize to Wilbur right now.”

“What? No!”

Grandma stomped her little foot and pointed me toward the door. “That man is going to be your grandpa, Jane. You need to make nice.”

I stared at Grandma. “Are you kidding me? I tell you that he might be the Half-Moon Hollow equivalent to Bluebeard, he attacks me with a stake, and you still want to marry him?”

Grandma pressed her lips together. “You know, Jane, if you weren’t so picky, it might be you standing at the altar.”

“Now, let’s not say something we regret later,” said Mama, who was slowly recovering from Wilbur’s abrupt departure. Jenny, while conscious, still looked a little green around the gills.

With a sniff in my direction, Grandma Ruthie grabbed her raincoat. “I will not set foot in this house again until you apologize to Wilbur and to me, Jane Enid Jameson.”

As the door slammed behind her, I yelled, “Can I get that in writing?”

Jenny stood on wobbly legs and hobbled to the table, where she carefully slipped her tote bag onto her shoulder. “This is too much for me. I’ll call you later, Mama.”

“Wait, Jenny. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I hate this. I hate feeling this way, not being able to talk to you about anything. Look, there’s been enough emotional … stuff for one evening. Why don’t you just sit down and, you know, return to a normal color, and we’ll—” I stopped as I jostled the bag on Jenny’s arm and heard a clanking noise. “What the? What do you have in here, Jen?” I laughed as Jenny’s eyes grew wide. She clutched at the bag, setting off a series of jangling and clanking.

“What the hell do you have in here, Jenny?” I demanded, pulling at the bag.

“None of your business!” Jenny yelled. “It’s for a class I’m taking.”

I jerked the bag away from her and looked inside to find a set of porcelain baby cups engraved with our great-grandmother’s initials, a heavy silver pie plate, a brush-and-comb set carved from ivory, and several pieces of lace tatted sometime in the late 1900s. These items had been kept carefully displayed in rooms all over the house. The brush-and-comb set was taken from my own dresser. I stared up at my sister, my chest tight and cold at the shock of her betrayal. “You’re stealing from me? You went into my room and stole from me? Do you have any idea—I mean, I expect Grandma Ruthie to steal from me, but you? I never thought you’d actually sink that low.”

“I-it’s not stealing,” Jenny stammered. “I’m just taking a few things that have sentimental value for me. Some of them should be mine, anyway. Grandma Ruthie says—”

“Grandma Ruthie doesn’t live here. She doesn’t have any say over what leaves this house and what doesn’t. We just talked about this, Jenny!”

“I deserve part of my family heritage!” Jenny yelled. “You couldn’t possibly appreciate all that you have. And you don’t have children to pass it on to.”

“Oh, for goodness sake. You’re right, I can’t pass it along to my children. But guess what? I’m never going to die, which means I will always be around to take care of those precious antiques you’re so enamored of. It also means your kids will never inherit them. And if anything ever happens to me, I’m leaving everything to Zeb!”

“You wouldn’t!” Jenny gasped.

“Oh, yes, I would.” I laughed. “And Zeb never uses coasters.”

Jenny screeched, “Mama!”

“Now, girls—”

“Stop calling us girls, Mama. We’re grown women, and we have real, court-documented problems,” I said. “Will you just suck it up and pick a side, already? Tell Jenny that it’s wrong to steal from me.”

“You’re the one who won’t share!” Jenny yelled, punching my arm.

“Oh, please.” I slapped her shoulder and sent her skidding into the table.

“I will treat you like grown women when you act like grown women,” Mama said, her voice edging toward hysteria. “And I will not pick a side, because you’re both being ridiculous. Now, either kiss and make up or get out of my kitchen.”

“It’s actually my kitchen,” I reminded her before turning on Jenny. “You, however, should feel free to get out. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

Mama squeezed my shoulder. “Now, Jane—”

“What?” I demanded. “She’s lucky I’m not calling the cops on her skinny ass.”

“Oh, go ahead and try it.” Jenny pulled her now-empty bag onto her shoulder. “I’m sure the cops will be sympathetic to some deadbeat bloodsucker. They’d probably hand me the keys to the house.”

“Jenny,” Mama whispered, shocked at the use of an undead slur.

“Oh, stop it, Mama. stop protecting her. Why can’t we all just say it? Jane’s a filthy, disgusting vampire. She let herself get bitten. If I’d done that, you’d never speak to me again, but because it’s Jane, it’s OK. We all just have to accept it, act like it’s normal. But it’s not normal!”

“What kind of glue have you been sniffing?” I demanded. “What do you mean, accept it? When have you ever—”

“Shut up, Jane!” Jenny barked. “I don’t ever want to speak to you again. I don’t want you near my boys. I don’t want you coming to my house. If I see you out on the street, I’m going to pretend I don’t know you.”

Even as the words stung, I set my jaw and shoved open the back door. “Well, you should have had plenty of practice at that by now.”

Jenny stomped out to her sedan and fumbled with the keys.

“Here, you forgot this!” I yelled. With red-tinged vision, I hefted the silver pie plate off the table and slung it at the rear window of her car. She shrieked as the glass exploded, shattering with a satisfying symphony of crackles. “It’s all yours!”

I slammed the kitchen door, wincing as the silver burns smoked on my hands. At my parents’ horrified expressions, I felt slightly ashamed. I made a halfhearted wave toward the door. “She started it.”

20

Like all couples, were couples will argue. Unfortunately for the males, female weres are much better at holding out for an apology, which leads to groveling.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

After so many tours of bridesmaid duty, I didn’t feel I needed to attend wedding rehearsals anymore. I was so, so wrong.

Zeb and Jolene were marrying in a clearing a respectable distance away from the house but very near the barn. With fairy lights strung in the trees and luminaries in the nearby pond, the night took on a sort of cozy Lord of the Rings quality … or maybe it was Lord of the Flies.

The bride’s side was eager to get through the rehearsal as it put them one step closer to eating. The groom’s side was sparse. Mama Ginger had apparently told most of her relatives that the wedding was canceled after Jolene was committed to a hospital for the criminally insane.

The first surprise of the evening was Dick’s arrival with Andrea on his arm. She looked cool and composed in her floaty dawn-colored sundress, not giving any hint of being held hostage or blackmailed. I could only assume that Dick had finally charmed her into submission. Of course, Dick was still Dick. He wore a vintage “fake tuxedo imprinted on a T-shirt” shirt. But he seemed ecstatically happy as he seated Andrea on the groom’s side and took his place with the gathering bridal party.

I winked at him. “It’s good to know that occasionally, love—or relentless, unremitting courtship bordering on harassment—will win out. I take it she’s coming to the wedding, too?”

“I think she’s waiting to see how it goes. She said she’d let me know after the dinner,” Dick said. Gabriel snickered, making Dick consider his words. “You know, it sounds sad when I say it out loud like that.”

“So, it’s like an audition date. It’s Shakespearean, sacrificing yourself on the altar of dignity,” I assured him.

“I’ve been with hundr—” He shot a speculative look at me. “Well, a lot of women. I like women.”

“Obviously,” Gabriel muttered.

“I like them. I like the way they dress, the way they smell, the sound of their voices, their laughter. But if a woman doesn’t like me, I’m fine with that. Plenty of fish in the sea,” he said. “I don’t know why this one woman’s not liking me has made me crazy.”

“I think it’s nice,” I said. “I just wish I was gorgeous with a rare blood type. Then I could make men my bitch puppets.”

“I’m no one’s bitch puppet,” he growled.

“Yes, you are.” Gabriel laughed.

He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I am.”

“I’m glad Andrea’s giving you a chance. I think you’re just different enough to work. Do I have to give you the ‘Hurt my friend, and you will wake up with my foot lodged in your nether regions’ speech?” I asked.

“No,” he promised. “But I think you need to retitle some of your speeches. They’re starting to sound sort of repetitive.”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

“No, thanks, I’m seeing someone,” he snarked.

A slightly frantic Jolene appeared and arranged us into our marching order. Zeb was calm, even happy, making Jolene laugh as he helped her work out where we would stand and how we would hold our arms. (Seriously, bouquet grip was a five-minute debate.) I hoped that his strange behavior over the last few months had been just cold feet and that now that the wedding was here, he would be the old lovable Zeb again.

Just as Uncle Creed, the oldest male in Jolene’s pack, who’d been ordained through a mail-order company, was about to run through the ceremony, a rust and blue minivan rolled up to the main house in a cloud of dust.

An “uh-oh” line formed between Jolene’s brows. “Um, I don’t know who that is.”

“That’s Eula with the cake!” Mama Ginger trilled.

Between her family’s open hostility toward Zeb and Mama Ginger’s finding fault with everything from the nautical decorations to the fact that the outdoor wedding site had a dirt floor, Jolene’s last nerve was frayed. I squeezed her shoulder, told her I would take the delivery, and negotiated the yard as best I could in three-inch heels. Smoke rolled out in a choking cloud as Eula opened the back of the van.

“Where do you want this?” she asked, without bothering to remove the Marlboro Light dangling from her lip.

“Oh … no.” Jolene’s cake was an exercise in “yikes.” The icing gleamed greasily, actually oozing essence of Crisco through the cardboard fruit crate Eula was using to cart it around. Jolene had planned to have twisted fondant ropes around the bottom of each tier, which looked like a toddler’s Play-Doh craft. Instead of the subtle hints of navy and ice blue, everything was an electric Cookie Monster shade that must have required most of the bottle of food coloring.

The tiers were assembled at a forty-degree angle. And the whole thing reeked of cigarette smoke. Jolene crossed the yard and was at my side in a blink. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re going to want to—” I waved toward the van. Jolene’s jaw dropped as she took in the sight of the cake. “Yeah.”

I made a quick exit, because my support as best maid only went so far.

“What’s going on?” Zeb asked as he watched Jolene try to absorb the sight of her wedding cake. Mimi followed Jolene’s high-pitched cries to the van, where she had a similar reaction to the cake.

“She may be a few minutes,” I told Zeb.

Zeb watched as Jolene, Mimi, and Eula had a very loud “discussion.” “Should I go …”

“Jane, honey, why don’t you just stand in for her?” Mama Ginger suggested, to Zeb’s horror.

“Mama, I don’t think that’s—”

“You can’t do that!” Uncle Creed cried.

“We can’t have the rehearsal without the bride,” I insisted.

“No, don’t be silly,” Mama Ginger warbled, pushing me into the spot next to Zeb. “There, that looks so much better anyway! Just like I always said, you and Jane are like two peas in a pod.”

Zeb’s brow furrowed. He was wearing his “trying to remember something” expression, or possibly his “I smell something funny” expression. Either way, the way he was looking at me was disquieting. His eyes were unfocused as he stared at me, dazed. “I can’t marry Jolene.”

Mama Ginger gave a victorious squeal as I spluttered, “S-say what now?”

Zeb clasped my hands in his, despite my repeated attempts to yank them loose. “I can’t marry Jolene. I can’t live a lie, Jane. I can’t be with anybody but you.”