My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding by Sherrilyn Kenyon; P. N. Elrod; Charlaine Harris; L. A. Banks

Author:Sherrilyn Kenyon; P. N. Elrod; Charlaine Harris; L. A. Banks
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: American Light Romantic Fiction, Occult, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, Romance - Paranormal, Horror tales, Horror, Weddings, Fiction - Fantasy, General, Romance - Short Stories, Fantasy, American, Fiction, Short Stories, Occult & Supernatural, Fantasy - Short Stories
ISBN: 9780312343606
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2006-10-03T04:00:00+00:00

"Certainly, yes," I replied. "But would it not be more appropriate for Hilliard to escort your daughter's betrothed?"

Nora gave a small, plaintive cry. "He won't do it. He said that an AustinCowles doesn't let a bunch of blabbermouth rumormongers make him do anything; it would be surrendering. I tried telling him that this isn't some stupid battle, but he wouldn't listen. Darling, you're my only hope."

My tender feelings for Nora restrained me from pointing out that the social niceties are a battle. It was easier to give her what she wanted. I met Miles Martial at the train depot on a Saturday afternoon in late May. It was a traumatic encounter. Some people are blessedif that is the proper wordwith the ability to invade the space they occupy. I am not speaking of those theatrical individuals who flaunt, posture, and play to the cheap seats with every move they make. Anyone can draw attention to himself by making a scene.

Miles Martial belonged to a different breed, monumental without being melodramatic. He was a tall, brawny, wellbuilt specimen of manhood, but as the polite lie goes, size is not everything. He was also handsome enough to dazzle. The sight of him, bronzed and blond, with steel blue eyes, perfect teeth, and a profile purloined from Michelangelo's David, filled my heart with a nauseating swirl of personal inadequacy and overpowering envy. In that moment I knew that no ordinary human being could ever see Miles Martial so much as behold him. There is a difference, as vast as it is subtle.

I also knew, in quick succession, that

1. I wanted to punch him in the face, for no other reason than because it was

there.

2. Every man at The Club would share my feelings.

3. Were we fools enough to turn impulse into action, he would sidestep our blows easily and then, with insouciant grace, show us the way it should be done, i.e., accurately and painfully.

4. Every woman at The Club would behold Miles Martial and immediately desire the slaughter of dear, sweet, accursedly lucky little Wylda. 5. This was going to kill poor old Middleton.

Miles leaped into my car the instant that I pulled up at the depot, a grin in my direction his only greeting.

"Mr. Martial?" I said, just in case I might have picked up the wrong person by mistake. (Ah, fleeting hope, swiftly dashed!)

"Bingo," he said, pointing his index finger at me pistolstyle and vocalizing a passable gunshot sound effect as he brought the thumb hammer down. He even went so far as to blow invisible smoke from his fingertip afterward. My attempts to make light conversation during the drive to The Club met with mixed results. When 1 asked him whether the trip from New York City had been pleasant, he replied, "New York? Is that where I came from? Oh, right, right. Hey, buddy, you've gotta excuse me, I'm a little snafued these days. Lots of travel under the old belt. I just flew in from the Middle East yesterday and boy, are my arms tired.

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