Page 36 of Asher

Asher

Garrettand I meet in the hallway, and a single glance at his calm, smiling face is all I need to regain my confidence. Maybe Iamtoo emotionally invested in this marriage, but I’m just going to go with it. I can deal with the fallout later.

I open my mouth to tell Garrett how handsome he looks but find myself wrapped up in a hug from a stranger. “Cousin!”

What the fuck?

The big hellhound squeezes, making it hard to breathe, but then someone pries him off me. “For fuck’s sake, Alistair,” Gideon snaps, “you’re supposed to welcome him to the familyafterthe wedding.”

“Pfffft,” the giant hellhound who must be Garrett’s cousin Alistair says. “There’ll be a crowd then. Besides, I never do what I’m supposed to.”

I straighten my suit as half the people in the hall with us agree with that statement, then I turn back to Garrett. “You look… Is there glitter on your suit?” Did he tell me he planned to do that? He was very firm on the idea of wearing a plain black suit, because, as he said, they’re practical, look good in photos, and can be worn again later. I don’t remember anything being said about decorating it with multicolored glitter.

He smiles. “Yes. Isn’t it pretty? Alistair’s responsible for it… though not directly.”

I have so many questions, but now probably isn’t the time—and honestly, I’m not convinced I really want to know the answers. “Are you ready to get married?”

“Of course.”

The last of my nerves vanish.

“Yeah! It’s go time!” Alistair fist-pumps the air, then ushers my cousins, Sam, and whoever the other two people are toward the stairs. “Let’s get to our seats so these guys can make a big entrance. I bags the front row!”

“It’s probably taken,” the woman explains with what sounds like forced patience, but Alistair’s not listening. He’s slung an arm around Gideon’s neck—an arm he’s likely to lose any second now—and is loudly saying, “In just a little while, we’re going to be cousins!”

“I don’t think it works that way,” Micah ventures, probably to prevent a homicide at my wedding. “Cousin of your cousin-by-marriage doesn’t make him your cousin.”

I tune them out as they reach the stairs and start down, focusing my attention on Garrett instead. “This is going to be a great day.”

Garrett takes my hand. “You bet it is.”

We walk down the stairs and across the grand main hall to the ballroom. The ceremony is being held here, and then while canapés are served in the main hall and formal parlor, the caterers will set up tables for the meal later.

Two of the staff are waiting for us at the very fancy double doors. Garrett gives them a nod, and the doors are pushed open in perfect unison. Did they practice that? It seems like the kind of thing hellhounds would insist on practicing.

There’s no time to devote further thought to it, because the music has begun to play inside—Garrett’s mother wanted a string quartet, but he talked her down to a single pianist—and our guests are all standing.

The walk down the aisle is… interesting. I keep glancing from one side to the other—on the left, my family and friends, dressed semi-formally, standing quietly, faces somber by hellhound standards but clearly showing how happy for me they are.

On the right… I don’t even know how to explain it. For starters, I guess hellhounds consider a dress code to be a loose guideline? Or maybe semi-formal means something different to them. I suppose those ripped jeans I sawwerebedazzled from hip to hem. And the woman who’s wearing what looks like a twenty-year-old cotton beach dresshaspaired it with a one-shoulder feathered cape. Every face sports a wide grin; I get six winks; and people keep calling out congratulations.

I knew hellhounds were quirky, but nobody prepared me for this. Sam was definitely right: we’re doing our children—and our adults—a disservice by keeping them so isolated. It would be impossible to believe this if I wasn’t witnessing it firsthand.

We reach the front of the room, where the celebrant, Melanie, is waiting. I notice that Alistair managed to get his front-row seat. I don’t recognize the man sitting with him—he has long, silvery hair, and his features are… fuck me, is he an elf? Or a dragon? I can’t tell the difference between them, but is there a being from another dimension at my wedding? Garrett never told me he knew one!

Melanie clears her throat, and I tear my attention away from the stranger. Garrett needs to be my focus right now. And it’s not hard… he’s so handsome in his sparkly suit, and he’s going to be my husband.

Melanie begins to speak. We agreed on a simple ceremony, with only a few formal words, short vows, and the declaration of marriage. Community weddings have less hoopla than most human ones anyway, since we don’t have religion to make things complicated.

Wrapping up her short speech about the beauty of linking two lives and forming a happy partnership (we specifically told her to keep it low-key and not sappy), Melanie says, “And now I invite you all to witness the vows Asher and Garrett will make to each other.”

Garrett and I turn to face each other, but before Melanie can say anything more, there’s a ruckus in the front row. Alistair and his silver-haired friend have leaped to their feet, and as we all watch, Alistair shifts into his canid form and begins growling ferociously at the guests. His friend lifts his hands, and magic stirs to life. I’m not sure what kind of spell he’s using, but the air in the room is suddenly hard to breathe, static electricity crackling everywhere.

“What the fuck?” Garrett breathes.

“Alistair!” a chorus of voices yell. Three people stand from the first few rows of chairs. One is Sam, one is the man who was with us in the upstairs hallway, and the last is David Carew, who works with Gideon and is the right hand of the lucifer. They converge on the two troublemakers with thundercloud expressions.

“What the actual fuck, Alistair?” Sam demands, then turns to Melanie. “Pardon my language.”

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