enough: Oliver. He was wearing some extremely old- fashioned

tuxedo thing with a gold sash over it, and he looked feral and

handsome and slightly bored, but when he left her at the altar next to Michael, he kissed her hand, and that looked honestly nice. He

took his place to the side, next to Amelie. Out of deference to the brides, she’d forgone the white suit she normally wore and instead

had chosen a tailored teal blue that still looked like it cost more than the jewels heavy around Claire’s neck.

The church was packed with people. Regular humans and

vampires. And one hundred percent Morganville.

She hardly felt the steps down the aisle, though she did feel the

weight of all the eyes on her as she walked. It was over in what

seemed far too little time, and then her dad handed her off to

Shane, and her heart almost stopped as his eyes met hers.

She hadn’t seen Shane all morning, and sometime since she’d

seen him last, he’d gotten his hair cut— not short, but shorter. It suited him, brought out the strong lines of his face and made him

look fierce and amazing. He’d never, ever looked so good, she

thought; he probably hated the tuxedo, but he utterly rocked it,

even down to the ruby pin in the lapel.

Then he winked at her, and she knew that he was still Shane,

and the tension in her eased. She had to fight the sudden, dizzying urge to giggle.

The service passed in a blur of words she wasn’t sure she got

out right, and then the cool touch of the ring sliding onto her finger, and then the warm pressure of Shane’s lips on hers, and the

sudden dizzy rush as he bent her backward, because, of course, and the laughter from the audience.

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She didn’t completely get her breath or her sanity back until

they were in the reception hall, and Myrnin, resplendent in an ut-

terly (for a change) appropriate suit and tie, pressed a cup of punch into her hands and said, “Nonalcoholic. Also not containing actual blood. You seem to need it.”

“Oh,” she said, and looked down blankly at the red liquid. She

sipped; he was right. It was just fruit juice with a sizzle kick of ginger ale. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” he said, and leaned against the wall be-

side her. “So. Happy?” He crossed his arms, staring out at the people milling about the buffet and taking seats at round tables. “Truly?”

She thought about it for a few seconds, and then said, very qui-

etly, “Yes.” She resisted the urge to apologize for it, and he nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Clearly, that’s good.” He was watching some-

one, she realized, and after searching for a second Claire spotted

Lady Gray— Jesse— talking with Amelie; two queens, chatting