666 Park Avenue (23 page)

Chapter Forty-two

T
he morning of the wedding dawned overcast and humid,
but the scene inside of Jane’s suite was so hectic that the weather was at the absolute bottom of her list of worries. Lynne was on the warpath because something was wrong with the flowers (“I quite clearly stated, ‘Nothing whatsoever involving hibiscus,’ so I simply do
not
understand why you’re standing there like the village idiot holding that awful bouquet full of them when you
could
be taking this opportunity to redo the centerpieces”), the brass octet were stuck in heavy traffic on the George Washington Bridge, and the couturier just would not stop fussing.

Jane could only assume that no one had yet wondered where the Dorans’ personal driver was. All of this frivolity on the heels of a violent death felt obscene and ghoulish to her, but no one else seemed bothered in the slightest that Yuri had never shown up for work. While two women and a very skinny man clumped around Jane, curling bits of her hair, pinning others, and spraying makeup onto her face before carefully sponging most of it off again, it was all Jane could do to not explode out of her seat and flee from the chaos. Why had she ever agreed to any of this? Twisting her silver ring around her finger, she reminded herself that it would all be over in a matter of hours. Those hours couldn’t pass soon enough.

“Well, I have no idea why anyone would have told you that, but now
I’m
telling you to turn yourself back around and get those over to the Met where they belong,” Cora McCarroll screeched, sounding nearly unpleasant enough to be mistaken for her twin. “Alicia’s there with the seating chart.” There was a brief pause before she added, “Is there any reason you’re still blocking our doorway?” and then a door slammed shut and Jane could only conclude that the place-card debacle was on its way to being resolved.

The couturier stabbed Jane in the ribs with a pin and she jumped, causing one of her hairstylists to burn her own wrist with a curling iron. “Sorry,” Jane mumbled, but noticed the couturier didn’t seem the least bit contrite, even though it was all his fault. Instead, he was muttering something about Mrs. Doran having promised that Jane would cut out carbs entirely between the last fitting and now, and who could blame him for believing it, when any sane person would
want
to look good in a one-of-a-kind haute couture masterpiece like this one?

“I’m sorry, but all of the press invitations went out last—” Sofia’s voice wafted down the hall with barely enough force to make it to Jane’s ears, but she sounded desperate. “I understand that,” she went on miserably, “but I have the list right here, and it says . . . No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you: Mr. Lavandeira simply isn’t on the list . . . I know . . . I know . . . I’m sure that if it were an oversight someone would have caught . . . No, I know . . .” She drifted out of range, and Jane sighed. She felt horrible that otherwise normal people had to be sucked into the massive tornado that was The Wedding.

And speaking of tornadoes . . .
she thought confusedly as the four people working on her swirled into some new and mysterious configuration. They formed a human shield in front of her, her stylist actually brandishing her curling iron.
What now?

“No! You’re not allowed to see her yet!” the makeup artist squealed. “It’s bad luck.”

“Well, now.” A molten-gold voice rumbled through the air between them. “We certainly don’t need any of that.”

“Malcolm,” Jane exclaimed, the breath rushing out of her in relief. Her entourage was crowded around her, blocking her view, but he was there. He had come back, and they would get away from all of this insanity, and everything would be all right again.

“I want to talk to him,” she announced in a loud, firm tone. “Figure something out.” She realized that she sounded alarmingly like Lynne or Cora, but she didn’t care: they got results and she wanted some now.

It worked. Seconds later, she was shielded by a carved-rosewood screen, and the room was empty except for her and Malcolm. She could feel the heat of his body radiating through the wood, and she seriously considered shoving the stupid thing out of the way, but he was right: today, of all days, they needed luck on their side. “I missed you,” she said instead, and tried to put all of her longing into the words.

“I missed you, too,” his hoarse whisper came back. “I’ve been worried sick about what was happening to you. Are you okay?”

“I’m—” Jane hesitated. She’d been about to say “fine,” but Yuri’s final snarl, Charles’s constant lurking, and Lynne’s terrifying scheming all flashed in her mind at once. “Well, I’m still in one piece. But so much has happened . . .” She trailed off helplessly, unwilling to risk sharing the details, with so many of his mind-reading relatives around.

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s just a few more hours. Can you make it?”

“Of course,” she assured him softly, but a grim part of her wondered how he’d react to knowing
everything
she’d done in the month since he’d been gone. The prank on Madison, the pyrotechnics in front of Lynne, the killing . . . she shuddered and the scrambled eggs she’d eaten that morning flipped in her stomach. She closed her eyes.
“You saved my life,”
Dee’s voice rang out in her head and she forced down the wave of nausea. As horrible as it was, she had done what she had to do.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” she whispered. The screen moved a bit and she knew he was resting a hand against it. She raised her own, guessing where his might be so they would almost be touching through the thin layer of rosewood.

“I have to go,” he told her after a silent minute. “The guy from Valentino is freaking out and my dad looked like he’d cry if we didn’t have a scotch-and-cigar moment, so . . .”

“Get through the day,” she reminded him. “Everything else can wait.”

“Right,” he said, but then paused. “Oh! I almost forgot: there was this girl outside who said she knew you. She didn’t want to come in, but she gave me this.” His golden-skinned hand appeared over the screen, holding a small packet of waxed paper. “I wasn’t sure if I should check it first, but I figured you’d know if it was something . . . um, dangerous.”

Jane sliced through the tape with a Goa Sand fingernail, not caring that the fresh polish chipped in protest. She doubted she would recognize a magical booby trap any more readily than Malcolm would. But considering that all of their enemies were currently inside the house, it didn’t seem efficient to worry about an attack from some random person on the street. When the packet unfolded, she began to giggle in relief. “The girl outside—dark hair, kind of tall, with a hoarse voice?”

“Sounds about right.”

Jane broke one of the chocolate-chip cookies in half and passed it back over the screen. She wished Dee hadn’t risked coming up here, but at least she knew her friend was okay.

“This is our unofficial wedding cake. I made a friend while you were gone.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She felt a genuine smile come to her lips as they chewed silently on opposite sides of the screen.

For the first time in a month, Jane knew deep down in her bones that everything really was going to be all right.

Chapter Forty-three

T
he beginning of the wedding march boomed through
the cathedral, and Jane hummed along in her head. When the familiar
dum, dum, dum-dum
began, the ushers swung the doors open theatrically. Approximately five hundred of the Dorans’ closest friends and family (plus selected press) rose to their feet simultaneously, and Jane paused for a moment to allow them all to get a good look at her dress. It was absolutely perfect—a simple sheath with a satin ribbon right below the bustline. Considering the very many “helpful” suggestions and sarcastic asides she’d endured from Lynne about her “ridiculously casual” gown,
someone
had better appreciate the damned thing.

As she started down the aisle, she thought for one moment about the family that, in another world, would be here for her, escorting her through the church to her new husband. Gran, no doubt, would have shaken her head at the ostentatious event. Jane had no idea what her mom or dad would have done, but she liked to think that her mother would love the clean lines of her cream-colored dress and satin shoes.

She twisted her grandmother’s ring around her finger for luck, and then found Malcolm’s dark eyes at the front of the church. He was staring at her in what looked like awe. His eyes shone, swimming with what she suspected were unshed tears.
Guess he’s one of the “someones” who like it,
she smiled to herself. She knew the clinging column accented her curves while the delicate cap sleeves added an air of innocence and vulnerability. She figured both probably appealed to Malcolm in equal degrees. And then she forgot the dress, the guests, the obnoxious trailing sweet peas of her bouquet, Lynne, and everything else, because Malcolm was waiting for her at the end of the aisle, and all she wanted in the world was to get to him.

The music set her pace, but it was Malcolm’s eyes that carried her over the rose petals strewn in the aisle.
We made it,
she thought with exhilaration as he held his hand out to guide her for the last couple of steps. He had kept his promise, and she had held on long enough to see that he was on her side. She couldn’t concentrate on the sermon and didn’t try; she just rested her hand in his and breathed in his spiced-champagne scent. She knew some of this need to be with him was magic, but she didn’t care.
Magic is natural,
she reminded herself, knowing that that was what Dee would tell her.
And so is love.
There are certain things in life you simply can’t fight.

She dimly heard Malcolm repeating after the minister, and then it was her turn. “I, Jane Boyle, do promise . . .” It was easy; it was natural. Looking deep into Malcolm’s eyes, she knew that together they would be unstoppable. He had a lifetime of experience with the power she now had in spades: there was nothing they wouldn’t be able to face.
Let her come,
she thought fiercely.
Let that bitch try to track us down.
She jammed Malcolm’s platinum wedding band on his finger with such passion that he winced a bit, and she twitched her mouth apologetically.

He leaned forward, wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her as close as he could, and kissed her forcefully on the lips. Bells began to toll joyfully above them, and they turned to walk hand-in-hand down the aisle through the parted sea of smiling faces.

“We made it,” she whispered triumphantly to him.

“I love you,” he replied, his eyes shining.

Near the exit, Jane found herself searching for one face in particular, even though she knew that she wouldn’t see it. Even if Harris had had some burning desire to see her off, he wouldn’t have put them all in danger by crashing a wedding full of killer mind-readers. He had had the good sense to stay away, and Jane reminded herself that that was a good thing.
Good-bye,
she thought at the memory of his face,
now you and Maeve will both be safe.

Or would they? The thought ricocheted around her mind as they approached the outer doors of the cathedral. What would Lynne do when she and Malcolm didn’t return from their supposed honeymoon? Jane had assumed that Lynne’s focus would be on finding her, but would the thwarted witch really leave the Montagues in peace if she thought they might know where she was?

Jane and Malcolm stepped out into the feeble sunlight. Malcolm smiled at her, but she was too wrapped up in her fears to smile back.
I can’t go without knowing that they’re safe, but it’s not like I can ask him in the middle of our stupid receiving line.

It occurred to her as the breeze ruffled the waves of his hair that she wouldn’t really have to ask. She hadn’t been able to read Malcolm’s mind before he had left, but she had come really far since then thanks to Dee . . . and Harris. She fought down a twinge of discomfort at the idea; it felt intrusive. But she needed this information—now. And besides, he had given her permission, sort of, the night that he had left New York.
I’ll tell him later,
she decided.
He will have to understand how important this is.
She took a deep breath and concentrated. She found the thread of his thoughts easily.
I really am getting good.

Malcolm flinched when she touched his mind, and she realized belatedly that he had had enough experience with witches to know when magic was directed his way. She stared meaningfully into his eyes and squeezed his hand, trying to convey silently that it was all right; it was just her. She didn’t understand why his eyes widened in fear, or why he suddenly took a step away from her—did he not understand?

All around them, people cheered, clapped, and cried. She was vaguely aware that someone had stepped on the short train of her dress, but Jane kept her focus on Malcolm, and on his thoughts. And then, the world narrowed around her, and she was seeing what he was seeing, and she understood why he had shrunk away from her. But it was too late to pull back now.

Malcolm crept through the dark farmhouse, careful not to make any noise with his body or his mind. There was no movement, and no probing thoughts brushed his own, but he knew he had to stay vigilant: danger could come from anywhere. Weak yellow light spilled from the living room—was she still awake at this hour? He waited a few breaths in total silence before peering around the corner, keeping his head low to the ground. She was facing him, and for a moment he thought he’d been caught, but his breath steadied when he realized her eyes were closed, and a book lay open on the table beside her.

He hesitated: it would be too risky to creep slowly across the room. She could wake up while he was stuck halfway. He would be completely helpless, and, old or no, she was lethal. But youth and speed were on his side, and he sprang from his crouch and crossed the room in three large bounds. Her eyes flew open when he jammed the syringe into her thigh and depressed the plunger, but it was too late by then: the poison was already speeding her heart past the point where she would be able to fight him.

It was over in seconds. When he felt the shuddering of her body begin to slow, he pulled a small silver knife from his pocket and held it in front of her mouth, waiting for her final breath. It came and went, though, and he felt no change in the athame; no electric hum to tell him he had succeeded.

How was this possible? He had magic in his blood. He should have been able to receive her magic. Unless . . . she had already taken her last breath as a witch, and given it away. But the only person she might have given it to was the girl, and
she
hadn’t been here in years. He straightened with a shrug: it would have been a useful bonus, but his main task had been accomplished.

Celine Boyle was dead, and so was the protection spell she had set around her only heir.

Now, finally, he could get to Jane.

Suddenly, Jane was catapulted out of the old, familiar farmhouse and was back in her body, back in New York, with the full knowledge of what had happened. The sun felt too bright, her shoes pinched her toes, and her dress chafed her entire body. The din of the voices around her sounded louder than a concert at full blast. It was all just too much. Jane put her hands to her face, and then felt herself retching on the cathedral’s steps. Screams of alarm fluttered into her mind as though through mounds of cotton. But all she could see was Malcolm killing her grandmother over and over again, on an endless loop. And then everything went blissfully, mercifully dark.