12. Dash #2
The cooling unit hums. Crushed berries bleed purple across the floor. My chest holds something I don't have a mercenary term for.
I don't need one.
The banquet hall clock chimes.
Magnolia's head snaps toward the sound. The color drains from her face so fast she goes from flushed pink to paper white in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
"What time is it?"
I count the chimes. One. Two. Three.
"Three o'clock."
"Three o'clock."
"That is what I said."
"The ceremony starts at three-twenty."
I process this. "We are standing in a freezer covered in cake."
"We are standing in a freezer covered in cake."
"Stop repeating everything I say."
"Stop saying things worth repeating!" She grabs fistfuls of her flour-caked dress and stares down at herself with the thousand-yard expression of someone who has just watched a siege tower breach the wall.
"I can't go to my sister's wedding looking like I lost a fight with a pastry bag.
My mother will actually kill me. She will put her hands around my throat and squeeze. "
"I won't allow that."
"It's a figure of speech, Dash."
"Noted. Move."
I yank the cooler door handle. The heavy door swings wide and we burst into the wrecked kitchen, boots crunching over broken glass and fire-sprite scorch marks.
The surviving kitchen staff look up from their cleanup efforts, take one long look at the two of us, flour-bombed and wild-eyed, and immediately look back down.
Smart.
We hit the service corridor at a dead sprint.
Magnolia's short legs pump three strides for every one of mine, her ruined dress hiked up past her knees, one shoe already lost somewhere between the cooler and the pastry station.
I scoop her off the ground without breaking pace and tuck her against my chest like a flour sack.
"Put me down!"
"You're too slow."
"I'm not slow, you're freakishly tall!"
"These are not mutually exclusive."
I bank the corner hard. A housekeeping cart materializes directly in my path.
No time to stop. I plant one hand on the cart's handle and vault over it, Magnolia clutched to my chest, cleaning supplies scattering in our wake.
A spray bottle of enchanted glass cleaner detonates against the wall and leaves a shimmering rainbow stain across the plaster.
"Sorry!" Magnolia screams over my shoulder at the horrified housekeeper.
The main hallway stretches ahead, lined with polished mahogany doors and oil portraits of past club members, all of whom stare down at us with expressions of profound elven judgment. I dodge a bell cart. Sidestep a couple of elderly centaurs. Nearly clip a crystal chandelier with my forehead.
Our room is at the far end. I don't slow down. I lower my shoulder and hit the door at full speed, and the lock surrenders with a pathetic crack. The door bangs open against the wall hard enough to dent the plaster.
I set Magnolia on her feet. She is already stripping, her ruined dress hitting the floor in a flour cloud before her bare feet touch the carpet. She dives for the garment bag hanging on the bathroom door and rips the zipper down.
A deep green vintage dress spills out. Silk. She yanks it over her head, hauls it down past her hips, and jams her feet into heels she pulls from under the bed.
I strip the destroyed shirt. Grab my spare from the side pocket of my equipment bag. White. Crisp. Still sealed in the tailor's enchanted wrapping. I tear it open, shrug into it, and my fingers fly through the buttons with the speed of a man who has reloaded a crossbow under enemy fire.
Fresh vest. Cufflinks, the ones the tailor threw in after I paid for the crushed clothing rack. Jacket. I drag a hand through my hair and call it done.
Magnolia stands in front of the cracked vanity mirror, scrubbing her face with a wet cloth and pinning her hair up with what appears to be a cake decorating skewer. She catches my eye in the reflection.
"How do I look?"
Like the end of a war. Like the first morning after a siege breaks.
"Adequate."
"Charming." She grabs my hand. "Run."
We run.
Back down the hallway. Through the grand atrium.
Past the snobby receptionist, who opens her mouth to say something and closes it when she sees the look on my face.
Out the French doors. Across the terrace.
Down the stone steps to the south lawn, where two hundred chairs flank a flower-draped aisle and a string quartet plays something delicate and elven.
We slide into the back row just as the bridal procession begins. Magnolia smooths her dress. I button my jacket. Her mother, seated three rows ahead, turns and delivers a glare that could strip paint off a warship.
Magnolia smiles sweetly. I nod once.
The bride appears at the end of the aisle. White dress. Crystal crown. Trembling bouquet. The guests rise. The officiant, a silver-haired elf who sounded like aged brandy, raises his hands over the altar where the magical binding runes glow soft gold in the grass.
My eyes sweep the perimeter. Old habit. Exits, threats, sight lines.
Movement.
Behind the altar. Low. Crouched behind the dense bank of hydrangeas.
Mark.
He holds something in his right hand. Small.
Bright. A dagger, its blade pulsing with a sick green light that has no business being anywhere near a binding circle.
He inches forward on his knees, the glowing blade angled toward the base rune, the anchor that holds the entire matrimonial spell together.
My hand closes around the armrest of my chair. The wood cracks.
Magnolia's fingers grip my thigh. Her whisper cuts through the music.
"Is that a disruption blade?"
"Yes."
"He's going to shatter the binding."
"Not while I'm breathing."