“Go ahead and laugh,” I told him. “It’s not you who is going to have to explain to a pack of werewolves why my mother is going to set loose butterflies—” I set him off in whoops again. It was too much to hope that it was one or two. No, my mother never did anything by halves. I pictured a thousand butterflies and, dear Lord help me, two hundred gold helium balloons.

I leaned forward and banged my head on the steering wheel. “I’m eloping. I told Adam we should, but he didn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings. Doves, pigeons, butterflies—we are going to end up with a plane with a banner and fireworks ...”

“A marching band,” said Stefan. “And bagpipes with handsome Scottish pipers wearing nothing but their kilts. Belly dancers—there are a number of local belly-dancing troupes. Tattooed bikers. I bet I could help her find a dancing bear ...” I paid for my food while he was still coming up with new and wonderful additions to my wedding-

day angst.

“Thanks,” I told him, taking a big swig of orange juice, and drove back out into traffic. I hate orange juice. “You are such a big help. My new life’s ambition is to see to it that you and my mother are never alone in a room together until after Adam and I are married.”

LAUGHTER AND BLOOD HAD REVIVED STEFAN

SO much that beyond an observation by Kyle that

“Someone needs to remember that the runway model look doesn’t even look good on runway models,” Kyle and Warren didn’t seem to notice anything wrong with Stefan. They also, tactfully, didn’t comment on the orange juice I normally wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole.

We grabbed three huge bowls of microwave popcorn and headed up to the theater room. Kyle is a very successful lawyer; his house is big enough to have a theater room. Adam’s house has a theater room, too—but then, it is unofficial home to the whole pack. At any given time we have a couple of extra people sleeping over.

Kyle’s house just has Kyle and Warren. Warren would be happy living in a tent out on the range.

Kyle prefers Persian carpets, marble countertops, and leather chairs. It says something—I’m not sure what—that they are living in Kyle’s idea of home rather than Warren’s.

Warren’s pick for our feature film turned out to be Shadow of the Vampire, a fictional movie about the making of Nosferatu. Someone had done a lot of research into the legends about the old film and played with them.

At one point, watching Stefan’s intent face, I said, in a stage whisper, “You know, you are a vampire. You aren’t supposed to be scared of them.”

“Anyone,” said Stefan with conviction, “who ever met Max Schreck would be scared of vampires for the rest of their lives. And they’ve got him dead to rights.”