My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding (15 page)

"Maybe we should run," Ian said. "We're fast, right?"

"With a 
crew!
 The two of us are not a crew!"

A hail of gunfire erupted from the other ship. She ducked. Ian hit the deck.

Bullets gouged chunks from wood, and she felt flying splinters cut her arm.

She lunged up, grabbed the wheel, and steered for the wind. Ian screamed as the deck heeled sharply and bodies rolled into him. Mr. Argyle slid sideways along the rail, and out of the corner of her eye Cecilia saw Argyle's hand grab the rail. 
That's
 
it. I've gone totally around the bend.
 As she was debating it, Argyle raised his head and prodded at his chest with trembling fingers.

"Christ," he said faintly. "That was fucking unpleasant. Remind me not to kiss you again."

"Argyle!" She fairly shrieked it, and waved both arms over her head. 
"Yesssssss!

Thank you!"

He waved shakily and stood up. "Don't thank me, lass; I've only" He threw himself flat as another volley of gunfire raked the ship. "What the hell have you got us into?"

"Pirates!" she yelled.

The pile of bodies Ian had made was squirming, men cursing one another in round, ripe accents as they fought to sit up. Argyle grabbed the nearest man and shook him by the shoulder. "Get in the rigging!" Argyle shouted, and favored a few more with kicks and foghornvolume curses. "Come on, you sons of whores;

we have fighting to do!Fuck me, where's my pistols?"

Oh God, she'd locked them all away. "Take the wheel!" she shouted, and let go.

More bullets whizzed past her as she ducked down the lefthand ladder. Argyle swarmed up the right. She pounded down the corridor to her cabin, fumbling with the massive iron ring of keys from Argyle's coat pocket.

Hands slid around her waist, picked her up, and set her aside. Brown, scarred fingers plucked the ring from her grasp, expertly parsed the choices, and unlocked the door.

Captain Lockhart looked her up and down, and his sunbrowned face split into a wide, piratical grin. "That's my hat," he said, and reclaimed it. "Not to mention a few more things I want."

He put an arm around her waist and pulled her close. She gasped. "Um, Captain

... I don't think we have time for"

Lockhart's grin turned sharply seductive, and he liberated the pistols from her belt. Took his time about it, too. She remembered to breathe when her ribs started to ache.

"You'll need to reload," she said. "I shot at Ian."

"Ah. Hit him?"

"Missed."

"Pity." Lockhart unbuckled the leather belt from around her waist. "You make a fierce little wench, Cecilia, but then, I did tell you, you had potential." He buckled on the sword, added the pistols, and kissed her. Brisk and efficient and warm, so warm.

"Wait," she said, and caught his arm when he moved to duck back down the corridor. "You're alive, right?"

"Aye," he said. "Mortal. And that means I can die, lass. Good timing, eh? Bring more guns."

"Well," Argyle sighed regretfully, "we 
were
 a bit out of practice. Haven't had a decent fight in decades, really. It was over too soon."

He poured a tot of rum into a crystal glass and handed it across the table. Cecilia accepted it and knocked it back.

"All together and drown the devil!" Argyle grinned and slopped more liquor into the glasses. "We'll make a pirate of you yet, lass."

"I wish you'd warned me about the cannons," she sighed.

"Don't be daft," Mr. Jacks said, his portly face red with drink. "Only managed one decent barrage. Didn't even get in a good broadside. Only the larboard guns.

We carry fiftyfour, you know. Haven't had to use more than a dozen in years."

Cecilia shuddered, remembering that metal freighterwith no battleship armortaking the full force of the cannonballs. "They didn't have a chance," she said.

"Regrets, lass? You saw the holds of that ship," Argyle reminded her, and cut himself a slice of pineapple with his dirk. "They barely made an effort to rinse out the blood from their last massacre. Mind you, you should never let blood sit like that for long; it raises a terrible stink. Always clean up after yourself."

"I'll remember," she said faintly.

"Unsanitary bastards," he said, and bit into the pineapple. "Damn fine produce, though."

Another dirk speared the unfortunate pineapple and moved it to an empty place.

Cecilia looked over her shoulder just as Lockhart dropped into his chair beside her.

"It's done," he said. "We're on course for Boston Harbor. Though what you mean to do when we get there"

"Go ashore," she said. "Use my ATM card. Buy some cute shoes. Get married."

Argyle froze in midmotion. So, across the table from him, did Ian, who choked on a mouthful of rum. Mr. Simonds cheerfully slapped him on the back, hard enough to leave handsized bruises, while her former fiance coughed. "Easy, lad;

she don't mean you," he said. "Ain't you relieved?"

Lockhart rocked his chair back on two legs and balanced. "Got a plan, do you, Miss Welles?"

"A pretty good one, as a matter of fact. And Ian, you're going to love thisit's even profitable."

He stopped coughing. "Yeah?"

"See, when we sail this ship into Boston Harbor and these men walk off this ship, it's going to raise some questions, right? Serious questions."

"Absolutely," he said. "Like, who are they and where did they come from."

"Two hundred men out of the past," Cecilia said. "Everybody will want to know their story."

"Yes," Ian said slowly, and then leaned forward to stare at her. "Yes! 
Everybody!

My God, think of the possibilities: book deals, movie deals, pricey talk show appearances, merchandising" The light went out in his face, and he slumped back into his chair. "Damn. No way is anybody going to buy this stupid curse story, though. We're all going to end up in the loony bin."

The pirates growled. 
Growled.
 "They'll take me to one of those hellpits when they pry my pistol out of my cold, dead hand," Argyle said. "I've seen what happens in madhouses."

"Well, it's better 
now,"
 Cecilia said quickly. "Not that I've got personal knowledge of, you know, the mental health industry, but"

"I'm not getting shut in any Bedlam!" Jacks said, and drank more 
rum.
 There was a chorus of "Ayes!" and glasses lifted around the table.

Lockhart sighed and sent her a private look. "Sorry, lass. No church weddings in your future, it seems."

"Well . . . not if we tell the whole truth ... but . . ."

"But?"

She took a deep breath. "Nobody believes in curses anymore. Ian's right about that. But there's something they do believe inor want to, anyway. They may think we're crazy, but they won't be measuring us for straitjackets, just laughing."

Argyle leaned elbows on the linen tablecloth, eyes bright. "Tell us, lass."

"There's only three things you need to remember. One: The last thing you remember, you were sailing out from Bermuda."

"Simple enough."

"Two, and this is important, there was a bright white light"

"Oh! I get it!" Ian yelled. "Bermuda Triangle! Right! And what the hell, throw in some little gray alien guys, too. Give it some local color. Oh, I'm going to get 
so
 rich with this story" Another growl from the pirates. He gulped. "I mean, straight fifteen percent. Standard commission."

"Ten," Lockhart growled.

"Ten's good. Ten's fabulous." Ian gulped rum. The pirate sitting next to him filled his glass to the brim.

"Three," Lockhart said.

" 
Three percent?
 Mercenary bastard," Ian muttered.

Lockhart quelled him with a look, then turned a seditious smile toward Cecilia.

"You said three things, love. One, Bermuda. Two, bright white light. Three . . . ?"

"Three . . ." She reached out, grabbed the arm of his chair, and thumped all four feet back to the deck. He slid forward, off balance, and she kissed him, to the appreciative table slaps of the other men.

"Now, you see, I 
like
 three," he said, pulling back just enough to get the words out. "I think I like three a great deal. Though I could do with more research."

"Well then, four things," she amended, and settled her arms around his neck.

"We get married before you go on 
Oprah,
 because after that, you won't be able to fight the girls off with a cutlass."

There was a short, considering silence around the table.

"Oprah,"
 Argyle said, and toasted her. "I like the sound of that."

RACHEL CAINE is the author of the
 
Weather Warden
 
series, the latest of which is
 
Firestorm
 
(book 5). She also writes romance for the Silhouette Bombshell line (most recently
 
Devil's Bargain
 
and
 
Devil's Due),
 
as well as short fiction and nonfiction when time and sanity permit. She prefers her personal details to remain alluringly mysterious, but her Web site is www.rachelcaine.com

and we have it on good authority that she can be bribed with chocolate.

########################################

" 'ALL SHOOK UP' "

copyright © 2006 by P. N. Elrod.

“Hey
there, little sister, pull my pants down, would ya please?"

Frankie halted

cold in her tracks at the sound of the man's velvety, uncannily familiar voice, which originated somewhere above her, frozen in a "what the . . . ?" reaction.

Normally she'd have blown off any guy daring such a line with her, but that
voice.

She'd been raised on that voice.

Frankie looked up and, oh yeah, it was
him
standing tall on the backstage platform getting ready for his opening set.

It couldn't have been, but it was;
Elvis
had just asked her to pull his pants down.

What the hell . . . ?

"The legs, darlin'." He pointed, a half smile curling the famous lips and a glint of mischief in his blue, blue eyes.

His knees were just at her eye level, and his pant hems were hung on the tops of his shiny black half boots. She stared, blinking, then gaped up at him again. He sure
looked
like the real deal, but it belatedly registered in her harried brain that this was the special wedding singer the bride had insisted on. Dang. She had good taste.

"Uh, sure," Frankie said, abruptly aware she was holding a wide platter heavy with stuffed mushrooms. She owned the catering service hired for the wedding but pitched in with the rest of the staff when the heat was on. Things were in swelter mode tonight. She'd been forced to find an alternate way around to the buffet tables because of a drinks spill. Her idea to take a backstage route hadn't been well considered; the cramped area was littered with sound equipment, cases for musical instruments, and lots and lots of tripworthy electrical cables and little to no lighting. A bad choice on her part until now. She quickly edged the tray onto the platform and, hands free, yanked at the man's cuffs. Leather pant cuffs. He was Comeback Elvis from 1968, head to toe in black leather and at his absolute sexiest.

"Just a little harder, darlin'," he said, apparently in full character. Only Elvis could get away with it. But he wasn't
really
Elvis, just a damned excellent hunky substitute, built exactly the same, with a tight butt and wide shoulders stretching the limits of the leather jacket. Nothing fake there. Wow, they still made guys like that?

She pulled and the black leather rutched up the length of one of his long legs suddenly smoothed into a lean second skin. She did the same again for the other leg. Not exactly listed on her job description, but. . . wow, no trouble, nope, none at all.

"How's that?" she asked.

He shot her the
look
the one that had once caused her then twentyyearold grandmother to scream and fall into a dead faint at one of his concerts in 1956.

Gramma had been proud of that incident, if ticked off for missing things while being revived by her friends.

Frankie suddenly understood what Gramma had felt. Knees going, heart leaping, eyes bugging out a little with the shock of impact, but Frankie held her ground and looked right back. The view was great even if it resulted in the temporary loss of her higher brain and motor functions.

And that was from just a look. Wow. Again.

Then Frankie pulled herself together. Elvis was the hottest of the hot, but hey, he was hired help, too, just in a different ranking on the wedding industry food chain.

No need to go all groupiegirl. He was the result of costume, makeup, and assumed attitude. He probably had a dorky real name.

"What's your name, honey?" he asked, as though reading her mind. His smile wattage increased. The son of a gun was obviously aware of his effect on her and enjoying the moment.

"Yummy Catering," she blurted. It was the name of her tiny company, the name she proudly announced into the receiver each time the phone rang, and for the life of her she couldn't think why she'd said that.

On the other hand, it made him blink, a little startled. Then the eyeglint thing, happened again, and he flashed very white teeth. "Well, now, your momma 'n'

poppa sure got that right. May I call you Yummy Cat for short?"

She felt a completely idiotic giggle trying to flutter out and firmly slammed it down. Frankie was a lot of things, but a brainless, giggling ditz was not one of them. "I mean, my name is Frankie Foster. I'm the caterer for this job."

"Pleased to meet you, then. Those sure smell good." He gave a nod at the mushrooms.

"Have one?"

"Not before a show, how about after? Save some for me and my crew?"

"Sure!" she chirped. Again without thinking. The food had been paid for by someone else; it belonged to them, but she'd yet to get through a wedding where they bothered about the leftovers.

And this was
Elvis
for crying out loud. Okay, TributeArtist Elvis. She heard they preferred that over "impersonator." But still. . .