the leading role. She’s been a favorite of the author (and this editor) ever since …
“I’m going because I can’t believe I’ve lived to see it,” Dahlia said. “Also, I’m a bridesmaid, which is an honor. I have an obligation.” She widened her eyes at her companion, to emphasize the point. She had big green eyes, so it was a vivid effect.
Glenda Shore choked on her sip of synthetic blood. “You’re kidding,” she said faintly. “You think this is an honor? Well, bite me. Being a bridesmaid means we have to mingle with the nasty things. Like that party tonight, at the Were bar. Taffy called me specially, but I put her off. I won’t do it! It’s bad enough, all the teasing I’ve gotten. Maisie called me ‘Fur Lover’; Thomas Pickens gives wolf howls whenever he sees me. It’s just humiliating.”
Dahlia gave her head a practiced toss to flip her long wavy black hair back over her shoulders. She glanced down to make sure her strapless burgundy cocktail dress was still in place. There was a line between being adorably provocative and simply tacky. Dahlia was an expert at treading that line.
“I’ve known Taffy for maybe a couple hundred years,” Dahlia said quietly. “I feel that I have to go through with this.” She kept her voice casual; she didn’t want to sound smugly superior. Glenda hadn’t even been alive that long—or dead, rather. Neither had the other two females Taffy had asked to act as bridesmaids.
Glenda was a very young vampire, a flat-chested flapper who’d been turned during the Al Capone era in Chicago. To Dahlia’s distaste, Glenda still liked wearing clothes reminiscent of the ones she’d worn while she was living. Tonight she was wearing a cloche hat. Conspicuous.
Oh, sure, it was legal to be a vampire now that the synthetic blood marketed by the Japanese had proven to satisfy the nutritional needs of the undead. But there was more to surviving as a vamp than slugging down TrueBlood or Red Stuff in all-night bars that catered strictly to vamps, like this one. There were pockets of humans who snatched vamps off the streets and drained their blood to sell on the black market.
There were other cults who simply wanted vamps dead because they’d decided vamps were evil blood-sucking fiends.
You had to learn discretion.
Besides various fringe groups of humans, you had to add to the list of vampire haters the Werewolves, whose ongoing feud with the undead occasionally flared into out-and-out war. Thinking of Weres brought Dahlia back to the subject at hand, her friend Taffy’s wedding.
“Taffy and I nested together for a decade in Mexico,” Dahlia said. “We were quite close. We went through the War of 1812 together; nothing cements a relationship like going through a war. And we’ve nested together at Cedric’s for the past, oh, twenty years?”
“Where could Taffy have met such a creature?” Glenda asked, fingering the long, long string of pearls that dangled to her waist. Her eyes glinted with relish. This was as much fun as discussing a previously unencountered sexual perversion.
Dahlia beckoned to the bartender. “Taffy was always … adventurous. She lived with a regular human for ten years, once.”
Glenda looked pleasurably horrified. “Do you think she’ll wear white?” Glenda asked. “And our bridesmaid dresses … I bet we’ll have pink ruffles.”
“Why would it be pink ruffles?” Dahlia’s mouth was suddenly pressed in a grim line. Dahlia took her clothes very, very seriously.
“You know what they say about bridesmaid dresses!” Glenda laughed out loud.
“I do not,” said Dahlia, her voice cold enough to goose an icicle. “I was turned before there was such a thing as a designated attendant for the bride.”
“Oh, my goodness!” The younger vampire was shocked. And then delighted at the prospect of introducing her superior friend to the certainty of an unpleasant ordeal. “Then let’s go find a church and watch a wedding. Well, maybe not a church,” she added nervously. Glenda had been a Christian in life, and churches made her mighty twitchy. “Maybe we’ll check out a country club, or find a garden wedding.”
Glenda actually had a sensible idea, Dahlia decided. It would help to know the worst. And though all the bridesmaids were due at a party in honor of the happy couple, if she and Glenda hurried, they wouldn’t be late.
“The big mansions on the lakeside,” she suggested. “It’s a June weekend. Isn’t that a prime time for weddings in America?” Dahlia had a vague recollection of seeing bridal magazines on