1
Wedding Day
This story takes place after The Same Flesh.
Jem sat in the lobby, waiting.
It was a mansion. Or had been a mansion.
Now it was something else—a restaurant-slash-wedding venue-slash-whatever.
Lots of dark wood. The lamps all turned low, so Tean would have to bend over the menu, and Jem would turn on the flashlight on his phone and pretend he needed it too.
It was exactly the kind of place where you’d expect a ghost to jump out at you.
Although maybe that was just because it reminded Jem so much of a certain track on Mario Kart.
And Tean still wasn’t there.
Not that it was his fault. He’d gotten caught up at work, and now he was fighting rush hour traffic, which meant he would be late—not a very Tean behavior.
And he didn’t get paid overtime, which was such a scam, especially because Tean worked harder than pretty much anyone Jem knew.
Not that Tean even worried about that kind of thing.
Tean loved what he did. And he cared about doing things right.
Even if it was hard. Even if it wasn’t paid. Even if it wasn’t work.
Like, for example, the wedding.
Ever since they’d decided to have a wedding and not get married at the courthouse without telling anyone—Tean’s original plan—Tean had gotten a little too involved.
Not in a bad way. Not that Jem wished he were less involved.
Except, you know, sometimes. Because for some reason, Tean had gotten it in his head that Jem wanted everything to be fancy.
Which, for Tean, meant expensive. And since their monthly income was uneven, to put it generously, and since they hadn’t been saving for a wedding, and since Tean was convinced Jem needed at least two balloon arches or the wedding would be a disaster—well, Tean had been putting a lot of stuff on their credit cards.
And this was the same guy who had, without even blinking, told Jem he didn’t need new underwear, not even to replace the ones with holes in them, and he’d just wait until Costco had a sale on something.
On something.
Not even on the cute stuff!
It was Jem’s fault. Tean was too kind to say it, but Jem knew it was his fault.
If he had a normal job—if he’d stayed at the call center—he wouldn’t be in this situation.
He’d have a regular paycheck. They’d have money in the bank.
But instead, he made his money the old-fashioned way—helping a lady rescue a bunch of baby snakes that her boss was holding hostage, or tracking down an heirloom merkin, or kicking squatters out of a West Valley townhouse.
Fun stuff. Interesting stuff. But the townhouse guy hadn’t paid up, and it had been three weeks since Great Grandma’s merkin.
Voices echoed down the hall, and a moment later, one of the venue’s staff appeared, followed by a young couple.
Jem pegged them at a glance as not Mormon; she wore too many crystals and had a tattoo of the phases of the moon, and the guy had on a necklace with a Wiccan symbol Jem had seen in the porn version of The Blair Witch Project.
“—still not sure the energy is right,” the crystally woman was saying.
“I’m sure it’ll feel different after the decorations are up,” said the staff member—a dark-haired young woman who, when Jem had gotten there an hour before, had told him deliveries were supposed to go around back. “We’re so excited to be part of your special day.”
The couple said goodbye, and the young woman held the door for them, and when she turned back to the lobby, she gave Jem a squint that said she thought he’d be gone by now. Without saying anything to him, she swept into a room marked OFFICE and shut the door.
It wasn’t even a decision, really. It was a riff. A game. Like the smartest part of him woke up and knew, without even thinking about it, what to do.
He scrambled over to the reception desk, snagged a clipboard with a bunch of papers, and grabbed a pen.
A moment later, he was out the door and hustling after the couple. They were halfway across the parking lot, talking to each other, heading for a Range Rover the size of a small house. The valley was turning purple and smelled like spring grass and warm blacktop.
“Hey, hi, sorry!” Jem called after them.
The couple stopped. She was maybe forty, expensive highlights, good makeup. He was maybe thirty, and something about him absolutely screamed camboy to Jem.
“Sorry about that,” Jem said with a big smile when he reached them. “I can’t believe Alyssa didn’t introduce us.”
The woman paused before saying, “Marissa?”
“Did she switch her nametag again?” Jem rolled his eyes. “Danny Olsen. I’m liaison with support services. We’ve just got a few more items to cover before we finalize everything for the blessed day. Alyssa must have forgot.”
“I thought we’d already finalized everything,” the man said.
“What support services?” the woman asked.
It was the way she asked. The way she didn’t even look at the man. The way he shut his mouth.
Jem talked to her. “Well, if you’ve got a few minutes, we could step into my office—”
“We’re already late,” the woman said. “Can we do this over the phone?”
“I can be fast.” He flashed her another big smile. “Just wanted to make sure everything is marked correctly on my end. Caterers?”
“We’re using your people.”
“Florist.”
“We’ve got one. Hazel, what’s the name?”
The man—apparently Hazel—blinked and took out his phone.
“No worries,” Jem said, “I’ll just mark that you’ve already got one. Officiant?”
“High Priestess Judith Saens. I thought we already went through all of this.”
“Belt and suspenders, you know?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Let’s see, DJ—”
“Yes.”
“Car service or limousine?”
“No, we’re not using one.”
“If you change your mind, let me know; I’ve got someone great I can recommend. And then I just wanted to follow-up—someone marked that you don’t have your own exorcist yet.”
The woman touched one of her crystals. Hazel stopped scrolling on his phone.
“What exorcist?” the woman finally said.
Rueful. Embarrassed. A grin that slipped at the end, like he knew this was silly.
“Well, this is a service that’s become very popular recently.
Lots of brides and grooms enjoy the comfort of knowing that their ceremony will be free of any spirits, malignant powers, that kind of thing.
I have to admit, a lot of people do it just so they can put ‘Ghost-free wedding’ on the invitation, and that’s really not a good reason. I’ll just mark ‘Not interested’—”
“No,” the woman said sharply. “No, that’s—well, that’s not something we’d considered. What do you think, Hazel?”
Hazel got as far as “Um.”
“I suppose High Priestess Judith could do it,” the woman said.
“If that’s what you want,” Jem said. “Typically, though, we recommend using a separate individual so that the officiant’s energy isn’t clouded.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And you have someone?”
“We have a provider contracted to the venue, yes.”
Another heartbeat. Then, “Fine. Yes, go ahead. Is there some sort of certificate? A guarantee?”
“Of course,” Jem said. “The only tricky part is our provider only takes payment in gold, silver, or—as a last resort—cash. I know that’s inconvenient, but she is booking up—”
“It’s fine,” the woman said. “Hazel, pay him. How much?”
Sometimes, even Jem couldn’t believe what worked. “There’s a five hundred dollar economy cleanse, but if you want the full package—”
“Yes, that’s what we want.”
“—it’s a thousand.”
She made a sound like she couldn’t believe that was all, waved a hand at Hazel, and waited while he counted out ten hundreds, and then said, “I’m glad you caught us. Alyssa didn’t say anything about a ghost-free option.”
“Well, she might be a little too pro-ghost, if you know what I mean,” Jem said. “Just sign here.”
He gave them a random sheet of paper to sign.
That’s when he heard someone clear his throat.
Jem turned.
Tean stood there, arms folded, watching.