I thought of Kisten, a spike of fear coming from nowhere. “I’m sure.” Hiking up my shoulder bag, I tucked the focus under an arm and headed for the altar. Jenks took to the rafters, and whispers started in my wake. The eyes of Cincy’s finest were on me, and as my boots smeared the flower petals, I prayed that I wouldn’t slip on them and fall on my ass.

The holy guy gave up trying to remember his place and fumbled in his Bible for his crib sheet, jowls shaking while he tried to act normal. That he was ignoring me spoke volumes. Quen inclined his head at me, and when the holy guy’s voice faltered to a stop, Trent turned.

Okay. I’ll admit it. He was absolutely stunning in his white tux, his almost translucent fair hair perfect, the tips shifting in the slight draft. Elegant and polished, he made anger look damn good. From his black-orchid boutonniere to his embroidered socks, he was the apex of elite power and grace. And he was really, really ticked, by the choleric look in his green eyes.

Ellasbeth spun with him, her elaborate dress with the arranged train rustling all over Creation. If Trent was stunning, she was stunning taken to the nth power, her icy beauty done up with perfect makeup and an exquisite gown. Her defined cheekbones were faintly blushing, and I marveled that the makeup artist had managed to hide her tan and give her a porcelain beauty. Her hair still looked like a cheap imitation of Trent’s, though, especially in the candlelight.

The maid of honor was in that ugly green dress, and I gave her an apologetic wince. Figures Ellasbeth would have picked that one. “Sorry I’m late,” I said cheerfully, my voice loud in the expectant silence. “I was held up on the bus. Traffic, you know.” Setting the focus in its disguise of a wedding gift on the steps, I shuffled off my shoulder bag and settled in behind the maid of honor, clasping my hands demurely before me. Yeah. Right.

“Rachel,” Trent started, his hand slipping from Ellasbeth’s.

“No, no. Go on,” I said, making shooing motions, though my insides were wound tighter than a pixy on Brimstone. “I’m all set.”

Ellasbeth’s painted lips were pressed tight. A veil would have been nice, I thought, then mused disparagingly upon my own makeup, slapped on almost at the last minute. Green eyes vehement, she took Trent’s arm and turned her back on me, shoulders trembling. The holy guy cleared his throat and started in where he had left off, talking about devotion, understanding, and forgiveness. I tuned him out. I had to get my pulse down; I might be here a while.