Page 142 of Devoured

What if I can’t do this?

“Don’t move,” she commands. “We need that paint to dry. It will look ridiculous if it smears.”

That is one order I can obey. I stand frozen in the center of the room while she puts away the paintbrush and ink.

“It’s an old werewolf tradition,” Portia explains, as if she can’t stand the silence. “I’m sure Cora will loathe it, but it’s considered good luck to wear the oaths of our ancestors when we become one with our mate. They’re the vows of the original Mating Rites. Of course, you and I”—she gestures between us with a diamond-encrusted hairpin—“know this isn’t a real rite, but they don’t. And I think it’ll be fun to piss them off one last time.”

“R-right.”

She grins, gathering a hairbrush, a handful of hairpins, and a bottle of mortal hair spray, and returns to brush through my curls. The gesture reminds me so much of Oona that I have to stifle a cry. “Just breathe. That’s all you can do.”

“What if this goes wrong, Portia? What if it ends like winter solstice, and that’s it?”

Her hands pause in my hair, resting on that stupid tiara as she sighs. “If this is the end, at least we won’t be alone.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and her face softens. Her golden gaze waters. “Has anyone ever told you what werewolves believe happens once we die?”

“No,” I breathe, unsure if I want to hear the answer.

Her gaze descends the length of my gown. “We are taught about your mortal hell, about your mortal heaven too, but our religion isn’t quite so structured. Our gods weren’t concerned with death, you see, because they were so focused on life. They controlled Earth, not what came after it. So there is no place to burn or despair or wither for eternity. We believe that when we die we return to our Earth. We become wind and grass and sunshine and birdsong. We become the splendor of this world, and we rest. So if this is the end, at least we won’t be alone, and—we will see each other again. I will see you in every morning dewdrop and hear you in the roar of every flame, and you will see me in every flower and hear me in the buzzing of every bumblebee.” A tear slides down her cheek as she laughs. A sound so warm, so infectious, I can’t help grinning too. “You don’t need to fear the end when it is simply a more beautiful beginning. Grief is for the living, but peace is for the dead.” She takes my hand and squeezes. She doesn’t let go. “You look like an angel, Vanessa.”

I tear my gaze from hers before I cry and ruin my makeup.

She’s right; I look like an angel. Ethereal and gilded as if sunlight is woven into my very veins. My purple eyes shimmer a bright lilac, and the strands of my hair have faded to lavender. Evie painted my nails last night—in secret, of course—just so they would match my curls. With Portia’s ink on my arms and Evie’s on my nails, it feels as if I carry them with me. As if I’m not alone. I let their strength seep into my bones.

“I would like that,” I manage quietly, turning to face Portia. “I’ll find you there, in that beautiful beginning. Just not today.”

“Just not today,” she agrees.

I turn back to the mirror, and my grin fades. Resolution blazes brighter in my gaze. “And I hope it’s different for Cora. I hope wherever she goes, she suffers for eternity. I hope she burns.”

“Hear! Hear!” Evie says. “I’ll drink to that.”

The door opens and closes in a blur as she slides inside. A bottle of champagne dangles from her left hand as her right clutches another crumpled piece of parchment. “Kaax found me. He brought all his favorite soldiers too.” She scowls. “He wrote me erotic poetry.” Leaning down, she catches the edge of the parchment on a candle and watches as the flame chars it to ash. “How many ways can one man describe the missionary position?” Her gaze shifts to mine. “That wasn’t rhetorical. The answer is twelve.”

I snort, even as Portia wrenches Evie upright. “You can’t be seen with us. Cora gave me special permission to dress Vanessa—”

Evie rolls her eyes before taking a rather large swig of champagne. “The ceremony is about to start. Cora is already on the field.” Bubbles spill down her black lipstick and onto her white bodice. She doesn’t seem to care about the stains, and I don’t blame her. While my gown delicately hugs my body, hers ruffles around her. Layer upon layer of silk hides nearly every inch of her skin, save for the sliver between her long gloves and her massive sleeves.

Kaax’s mother’s gown is exactly as hideous as she described. She looks like a three-tiered cake half melted in the sun.

Still, I try to compliment her. “Evie, you look—”

“Like I should be in a bakery display case? Yeah, I know.” She flicks a finger at the sleeve. Then stares at the offensive thing, tilts her head, and tears it off. The silk rips loudly before fluttering to the floor—and igniting on another candle. Evie stomps out the flame before pouring champagne on the wilted fabric. “Whoops.” She tears the other sleeve next and throws it behind her.

Portia giggles. “Not much better.”

“Hence the champagne,” Evie mutters, taking another drink. “Although faerie wine was better. There’s no way I can drink enough of this stuff to forget the next two hours.” She glances at me again. “How are you holding up?”

I jerk a hand toward the tiara cutting into my scalp. “How do you think?”

Her frown deepens. “Sin is going to shit himself when he sees you. You’re like—”

“An angel,” Portia says for her. “She looks like she’s from a different planet entirely.”

“That’s an alien,” I say. “And it is decidedly not a compliment.”

“What the hell is an alien?”

Evie almost cracks a smile. “Regardless, we have to hope they die—or we die. Otherwise, he’s not going to be able to keep his hands off you. Stars, Vanessa. Who knew you could clean up so well?”