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Chapter 1
“I’m going to be sick! Move!” Iris shoved past me and ran to the bathroom. I could hear her retching and then, after a moment, the toilet flushed and the sound of water ran in the sink.
Grimacing, I decided she could manage on her own and busied myself by putting the finishing touches on my outfit. I wasn’t a fashion maven, and all I could think was, Please, oh please, let me be dressed up enough for tonight.
My jeans were new, for a change, with no rips, and dark black, and I was wearing a bright fuchsia tank top with a rhinestone kitty on the front. I’d traded my utilitarian brown leather belt for a white leather one with a silver buckle, and I’d grudgingly changed my shit-kicker boots for a pair of suede ankle boots with three-inch heels, which put me at an even six four.
My spiky hairdo was back to the golden shade it normally ran from the horrible calico mess that it had ended up, although I’d waffled and finally asked Iris to add in some chunky platinum highlights and a few thin black ones, and now I had tiger-striped spikes. The vining leaf tattoos on my arms had darkened some—with each passing week, they seemed to fill in a little more. Camille had helped me with my makeup, and I looked reasonably ready for clubbing, even though my typical evening was spent hanging around in front of the TV with Shade, curled up eating junk food and trading kisses. That is, when we weren’t out kicking demon ass.
I slipped into my black leather jacket and patiently sat on the edge of the bed, playing with one of my kitty toys. The squeaky mouse had become a favorite of mine and—even in human form—it made me grin. I shook it until it let out a string of loud squeaks.
Iris poked her head out of the bathroom.
“Will you stop that damn noise? You’ve been obsessed with that toy night and day for the past two weeks. If you don’t put it down, I’m going to toss it in the garbage.”
“Not my squeaky mouse!” I quickly dropped it on the floor. I loved my squeaky mouse, and nobody was going to take it away from me.
Iris had fixed her makeup, and, with a look that told me she wasn’t at all sure about our plans for the evening, she edged out of the tiled room and shouldered a smile. “Do I look okay?”
Grumpy notwithstanding, I could tell she was anxious. About six weeks’ pregnant, even though she wasn’t showing yet; her hormones were playing her fast and furious—like Jimi Hendrix played his guitar. Add to that, tomorrow she was getting married, and our Talon-haltija sprite was as jumpy as a cat in a thunderstorm.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
Iris was radiant, for all she was going through. Her ankle-length hair shone like spun gold, and her skin was smooth and flawless—pregnancy agreed with her in that regard, at least. Her eyes were luminous, round, and blue as the early morning. And she still had her figure—she was curvy and buxom and, standing at three ten, she put me to shame in the girly department. But the feminine demeanor was deceptive—Iris could pack one hell of a punch, both magically and physically.
She stared at me for a moment. As she cautiously dashed at her tears, trying to keep from messing up her mascara, she gave me a blissful smile. “You’re so sweet. Can you braid my hair for me? I sure wish I had Smoky’s ability to order it to fix itself.”
“I think a lot of people want a taste of Smoky’s talents. Among other attributes of his.” I sat her down and divided her hair into three sections. “I know I’d love to come out looking peachy clean every time we fight a battle.”
After I wove one section over the other and finished it off with an elastic-coated rubber band, Iris coiled it around her head in an intricate pattern, leaving the tail end of it hanging down to her midback like a tidy ponytail. We added a brilliant yellow bow. It reminded me a lot of Barbara Eden’s hairdo in I Dream of Jeannie.
“I wish you could, too. Then I wouldn’t have so much laundry to do.”
She laughed and smoothed her skirt—a gorgeous cobalt blue number she’d paired with a pale gray button-down shirt and a pair of pumps that matched the color of her hair bow. The Finnish house sprite looked like a pretty secretary rather than the high priestess she was. Talon-haltijas were good at blending in. Even when they could whip your butt in a battle.
“You don’t think Menolly is upset about putting off her promise ceremony to Nerissa? They had decided on February second and now…they changed their plans because of me.”
“Are you kidding? Both of them are fine about it. And it gives them more time to get ready.” I knew that Iris felt she had upstaged them, but neither my sister nor her lover were upset in the least.
“As long as you’re certain I didn’t tread on their toes.”
“I’m sure. Now, are you ready?” I stood, reaching for my purse.
She closed her eyes and pressed one hand against her stomach. “My stomach feels like it won’t ever be ready for anything again, but let’s get a move on.” As we left my room, she glanced up at me. “By this time tomorrow, I’ll be Iris O’Shea. Bruce’s wife. What the hell am I doing?”
I laughed at her panicked expression. “You’re marrying the leprechaun you love, Iris. And you’re going to have his baby, so you might as well get used to it. Life’s changing.” Cocking my head, I added, “So, you’re taking his last name?”
She nodded. “If Kuusi were my family name, I’d hyphenate. But…as much as I loved the Kuusis, they weren’t exactly family. I worked for them, I cared about them, but when it comes down to it, they were my employers. So I figure, since I’m starting over yet another time, so I might as well start with another new name. Only this time, someone I love is attached to it. You’re right. Life is changing. And I’m embracing it.”
As we headed downstairs, I realized that was so true for all of us. Life was changing all around us. Some things for the better, some things not. And there was no way to stop the ride now that we’d all gotten on board.
The guys were sitting around the living room looking guilty. Not sure what they were up to, I gave them a sideways glance as we passed into the foyer and then the kitchen, where my two sisters—Camille and Menolly—were waiting with Menolly’s lover, Nerissa. A trail of wolf whistles followed, and Iris gave me a look and shook her head.
“They’ll be out like a light by the time we get home, want to make a bet?”
“I kind of hope so.” I really didn’t want to think about what kind of trouble they could get up to without us here to supervise.
Menolly’s coppery cornrows shimmered under the lights, and she was dressed in blue—tight jeans and a denim jacket over a rust-colored turtleneck. Her boots were even made of denim, and they sported thin stiletto spikes, almost as high as Camille’s.
