Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            A short distance away, two children are bawling. They are toddlers, one with dark skin and lilac eyes, the other pale and blue-eyed. A Vampyre and a Were. Between them lies a dark blue superhero action figure, broken in two at the waist. And next to them, clutching their respective sons, are a Vampyre father and a Were mother. Who, for reasons I cannot divine, thought that bringing children here would be a good idea, and now are showing their fangs at each other. Growling. Drawing the attention of the other guests, who start to gather around them protectively. Or maybe aggressively.

            The music stops when the noise in the room rises to a panicked pitch. A small crowd surrounds the kids, and the Human guards join it, drawing their weapons and bringing firearms into the mess. My heart thumps dully in my chest as the tension grows fat and sticky, the start of another massacre that will go down in the history books—

            “Here.”

            Lowe Moreland kneels between the children, and the room drops to a deafening silence. The Vampyre’s father, whom I now recognize as Councilman Sexton, pushes his son behind his legs, upper lip peeled back to reveal his long canines.

            “It’s all good,” Moreland says. Calm. Reassuring. Not to the father, but to the child. As he holds out the intact action figure—not broken, after all.

            The boy hesitates. Then his hand darts out from between his father’s knees to collect his toy, mouth widening into a toothy smile.

            Several of the guests exhale in relief. Not me, though. Not yet.

            “Anything you’d like to say?” Moreland asks, this time to the Were child. The boy blinks several times before looking at the ground with a pout.

            “Sorry,” he mumbles, the r’s rounded into w’s. He looks on the verge of crying, but then dissolves into laughter when Moreland ruffles his hair and picks him up, effortlessly wedging him under his arm like a football. He turns around, giving his back to the group of Vampyres assembled around the Sextons, and returns the little Were to his table.

            Just like that, the tension relaxes. Vampyres and Weres return to their seats with a few lingering looks of distrust. The music resumes. My husband makes his way back to the bottom of the stairs, without lifting his eyes or noticing me, and I finally let out the breath I was holding.

            “Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Tell the others, too,” he quietly orders the ginger and the older Were, who nod and leave to mix with the guests. Moreland sighs, and I wait for a handful of seconds, hoping he’ll join them and clear my way.

            Two handfuls.

            What feels a lot like a minute.

            A minute and more handfuls—

            “I know you’re there,” he says, not looking at anyone in particular. I have no idea who he’s addressing until he adds, “Come down, Miss Lark.”

            Oh.

            Well.

            This is nicely mortifying.

            There are about ten steps separating us, and I could crawl my way down in shame. But our species have been mortal enemies since electricity wasn’t a thing, which might put us beyond embarrassment. What’s some eavesdropping among foes?

            “In your own time,” he adds wryly.

            Given the . . . incident a couple of hours ago, I’m hesitant to go stand next to him. But perhaps I shouldn’t have worried: when I reach his side, his nostrils twitch and a muscle jumps in his jaw, but that’s about it. Moreland doesn’t look my way, nor does he seem too tempted to mangle me.

            Progress.

            Still, I have no idea what to say. So far we’ve only exchanged recited promises that neither of us means to keep, and some commentary on my body odor. “You can call me Misery.”

            He’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah. I probably should.”

            We fall into silence. In the far corner of the courtyard, what seems to be another small ruckus involving a Were and Vampyre nearly pops up, but it’s swiftly curbed by a Were woman I vaguely remember standing by the altar.

            “Do we have another interspecies brawl?” I ask.

            Moreland shakes his head. “Just some idiot who drank too much.”