Chapter 16 Werewolves Can Be Classy, Too #4
With a quick flash of gratitude to Hanry’s foresight in hiring the little critters, I head to the penthouse suite.
When I waltz into the open-plan living area, Sidney is seated at a marble high-top counter on a silk-cushioned stool, getting her blush touched up by a makeup artist, or MUA.
Having avoided the traffic by gift of helicopter, she looks like the picture-perfect New England bride.
She’s wearing the first of her two reception dresses.
It’s more than incredible: the corseted white dress is high-necked, long-sleeved, and sheathed in a layer of romantic 3D floral motifs and botanical lace.
Full coverage was a wise move, though Sidney doesn’t seem the least bit furry.
That said, the hair on her head is particularly luscious and thick.
It’s being re-pinned up in a classy bun-thing, revealing diamond earrings that probably cost as much as her helicopter.
“Congratulations!” I say over the pop music pulsing from the room’s hidden speakers.
“Thank you!” Sidney’s earrings shimmer as she shakes her head delightedly. “This is the best day of my life.”
“Yay!” cheer her bridesmaids, showering the room with equally unrestrained enthusiasm.
Surveying the suite for signs of sabotage, witches, or plastic bags, I catch a blond bridesmaid in the process of lifting her friend’s dress. She sniffs her friend’s butt, then gives a thumbs-up.
“Looks like you’re all having fun,” I say.
“We are! Samantha, please—have a macaroon!”
I consider the elegant but vaguely disturbing dessert and raw meat charcuterie spread artfully laid out on the counter.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I say. I’ve got a niggling worry starting that in spite of all I’ve done downstairs, these werewolves may—by nature of their canine behavior—fail to blend in with the rest of the guests as well as I’d initially hoped.
“You’re all still wearing your little wristbands, right?” I ask. “The ones with the magic runes or whatever on them, to keep yourselves from… becoming too noticeably wolfish?”
“Of course we are!” laughs a bridesmaid. “But ours are jeweled bracelets. Only the best!”
“Is everything okay, Samantha?” Sidney asks. “Wait. Please don’t tell me if anything isn’t working out, okay? Oh, and can you check on Brett? I miss him already!”
“Awww,” chime more of the bridesmaids. “She’s so loyal!”
“Aww,” I echo, and plaster on a smile. “I’ll go visit him now. You just enjoy your day. I’ll take care of everything. By the way, you look gorgeous.”
“Okay! Thank you, yay! And let me know how he likes the drinks I sent!”
Theoretically, Sidney could text her new husband to ask. But I’m being paid handsomely for this, so I muster up the strength to match her enthusiasm and give a peppy “Sure!”
As I exit the room, I nearly trip over a person.
“Merry Christ—I mean—ahh,” the person says. “Sorry about that.”
Expression dazed, Levi the photographer rightens himself.
He lifts his camera and struggles to focus his lens.
I step aside, meaning to let him into the suite.
But he hasn’t recovered his footing. He stumbles into a glass bar cart, splashing his face with vodka, making the bridesmaids bark with laughter.
Meanwhile, my heart thuds hard in my chest. Because even the most awkward person should still be able to enter a room successfully.
Something’s off with Levi.
Could the saboteur be behind this? Is this their new strategy—not sabotaging things but people? An ominous wash of dread scuttles down my back.
I call the concierge to bring coffee to the room, stat. Then I call Mandy, summoning her upstairs. She must’ve been on her way over already, because no sooner have I arrived at the elevators than I run straight into her. She clutches onto my arms, gasping for air.
“Sabby, were we supposed to leave gifts in the guests’ rooms?” she asks.
That throws me momentarily off-track.
“Who asked you that?”
“The staff! They told me that—that Sidney’s mom said—”
I shush her. “It’s fine. Sidney, Brett, and I signed a contract.
And our paper trail doesn’t mention anything about random gifties.
We can worry about that later. Don’t tell Sidney.
Now, let’s leave that for the moment, Mandy.
I need to know—did you see any suspicious signs of sabotage downstairs?
A white thing lurking near Levi, maybe?”
The pixie withdraws, biting her lip uncertainly.
“Uh, I don’t think so? Though I might’ve been distracted by his face.”
I sigh.
“I know, I know,” says Mandy. “You’re off the market and only have eyes for Hanry. But Levi really is cute!”
At this she giggles shamelessly, and my worries about sabotage give way to exasperation. I don’t know what pixie powers Mandy has, exactly—if it’s pheromones she uses to make humans smitten or something else—but either way, I suspect she’s been up to no good.
“Did something happen between you two?” I ask, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
Mandy completely misses the warning in my tone. She explains cheerily: “Levi was taking photos of the dessert table and he asked me if I liked thrift store shopping. I said yes! Apparently, he collects vintage cameras and likes scrapbooking. We’re so well-matched!”
Yikes.
“Control yourself,” I say.
She throws back her head in distress. “What, whyyy? He isn’t a groomsman! Or a guest!”
“No. Stop.” I lead her to the elevators. “We’re working, Mandy, and you’re on details duty. No more making boys crazy.”
“You’re no fun.” She pouts.
“We can have fun later. For now, we need to be serious. Remember, we can’t let any of the human guests realize you’re a pixie. Or that Sidney’s a werewolf. Same with her friends.”
“I guess you’re right. It’s probably better for me not to get caught up with the PBI again,” she agrees.
“Again?” I ask. Do I really want to know? I decide I don’t.
As we turn the corner, I think I see something in the hallway flicker for just a second. But it’s just a chandelier—I hope.
I really, really hope.
In the groom’s suite, I find Brett and his groomsmen in good spirits, watching college football and taking shots with all the gusto of a synchronized swimming routine.
Mandy controls herself admirably. After one quick photo for Sidney and a reminder about the wedding timetable, I leave the boys to their masculine delights.
But by the time guests are leisurely rolling in from their midafternoon cocktails to the reception hall, I realize I might have been too sanguine.
“You sent too much booze,” Brett is complaining to Sidney as I approach them inside the floral tunnel.
“Oh, come on, Brett!” Sidney throws her whole effort into cajoling him. “It’s gotten everyone friendly! And here you thought my girls wouldn’t get along with your boys.”
“Yeah. Your friends are kinda… weird.”
“What do you mean?” Sidney asks.
And that’s my cue. Brett’s answers can wait for the next full moon, or potentially a post-honeymoon visit to the dog park. Tonight is not the night for Sidney’s big reveal. We have witnesses—and happy memories to make, sure—but mainly witnesses. Three hundred and fifty of them.
“Hey, lovebirds,” I interrupt. “Time for dinner to start. Everyone’s excited for toasts!”
At the word “toasts,” Brett’s expression returns to resting dumb face.
It’s exactly what I’d expect from someone with repeated head trauma from college football.
In his defense—from his stature, I assume he played defense—the guests don’t seem overly excited about dinner and toasts, either.
The room’s ample number of formally dressed and wealthy-beautiful attendees reluctantly take their seats when the band welcomes Brett and Sidney to the head table.
Preparing to return appetizers to the kitchen, the catering servers draw back.
The photography team’s cameras flash terroristically throughout the room.
With afterimages of the lights unjustly gripping my eyes, I notice that table 3, the groomsmen’s table, is all but empty.
Which I’d consider a minor issue, except for the waitstaff attempting to induce the lone groomsman to stop using the table as a footstool.
Belligerent, in addition to unhygienic, the groomsman furiously shakes a full-length beard and three feet of shiny black hair.
This guy didn’t have half this much follicular mass twenty minutes ago; I would’ve noticed.
Meaning, horrifically, that this frat bro is Rapunzeling right before my eyes.
“Sabotage,” I say under my breath. Which means our gnome plan didn’t work.
I check on the bridesmaids at table 2. Their scalps seem mercifully unaffected, though several of them are casually plucking flowers from the arrangements and popping them into their mouths. It’s drawing attention from the other tables.
Sidney seems blissfully oblivious.
“And I love my pack,” she weeps into her mic. “You girls are all the best. Thank you for supporting me in my choice of alpha!”
“Pi Kappa Alpha, whoo!” shouts the lone groomsman at table 3.
He stands on his chair, raising his champagne glass with all the grace of a four-legged dog balancing on two hind legs.
To be clear, he’s the last person in the room who should be having this problem.
Sweeping his record-breaking hair and beard behind his shoulder, he shouts, “Whoo!”
“Chi-O for life!” cry the bridesmaids.
They howl in unison with Sidney for a solid minute. At table 1, Sidney’s mom, the esteemed Mrs. Barroway, looks like she wishes a hole would open up and swallow her.
At least she doesn’t seem to realize that this wedding is being attended by any paranormal guests—or that it’s being plagued by unknown magical forces.
I’ve got to make sure it stays that way.