Blood Song

was paying through the nose to rent the whole place for the night, so it was real y nobody’s business.

I slid back into my chair after a few dodges around the newest pinata to fal . “Did I miss anything?”

Emma and Bruno shook their heads, each lost in their own thoughts as another round of firecracker

mouth candy exploded in unison. This batch appeared to be glowing in the dark, because green and

pink sparkles began to fil the air as people walked around the room. I would rather not know what

ingredient would cause glowing sparkles, and I certainly didn’t want to put it in my mouth.

A little chirping sound caught my ear from my wristwatch. It was 1:00 A.M.—last cal . La Cocina had

always shut down in plenty of time for the 2:00 liquor cutoff. They do a first-last cal and a last-last cal ,

so that al cups were off the tables by 1:30. It was time for the toast.

I stood up and shouted over the laughing, yel ing crowd, “Hey! Hey, everybody. Listen up!”

Nobody responded.

After two more attempts with my stil -hoarse throat, Bruno stood up. He put his two baby fingers

between his lips and let out a blast of noise that stopped al sound in the place and caused the front

doors to open—revealing officers with guns drawn. Bruno ignored them and shouted, “Celia wants to

talk. It’s time for the toast.”

Everybody nodded and gathered round our table. I thought about going up onstage and getting the

microphone, but with everyone quiet, it should be fine.

“First, thank you al for—” I coughed, cleared my throat, and took another sip of margarita. “Thank

you al for coming. As you know, this is a triple wake. Some of you are here to offer fond farewel s to

Vicki Cooper, some for Bob Johnson, and some for Karl Gibson. They were al great people, and I was

proud to know them.”

There were a few “Hear, hear!” comments from the back of the crowd.

“We’re honored to have Vicki attend her own wake.” Confetti and cool air began to swirl around my

head and I smiled. “Few people ever get the chance to hear how people feel about them after they’re

dead. So, I’m going to open the floor to let you al tel her directly how you felt, how she made a

difference in your life, and why you’l miss her.”

A woman’s voice I didn’t recognize came from the farthest row of people. “You could always drink me

under the table, Vic! Only person to ever have done it! You rocked!”

General laughter erupted and then Larry Davers, an old friend from our freshman year, spoke up, his

voice serious and cracking with emotion. “You saved my life, Vicki, and I never thanked you. You

insisted I not ditch chemistry to go skiing because you saw that something bad was going to happen. I

was pissed that you kept fol owing me, pul ing my arm. I final y got mad when you threatened to turn me

in and went to class with you. And then the avalanche hit, on the very slope I was going to use, and

kil ed those rangers. I would have been out there, too. I would have died if you hadn’t made me listen.

Thank you … on behalf of myself, my wife, and the children I never would have had.” Confetti rained

down on him and he laughed through his tears as he pul ed a dark-haired woman close and kissed her.

More people started to talk, one on top of the other—tel ing stories of Vicki saving them, or setting

them up with the person they’d wind up marrying, or just hanging out and having fun. There was a little

piece of me that was surprised by how many people she’d affected. There’s always a part of you that

thinks you know your best friend better than anyone … and yet there were dozens of people here

whom I’d never known she knew.

A woman named Laura was just explaining how Vicki had saved her when the music started to play

again. We looked up to see if it was Vicki doing it, but instead, we saw a drop-dead gorgeous woman in

a slinky black dress pick up the microphone. She began to sing, and every person in the place turned

as one. It was the theme song from The Phantom of the Opera and she was not only singing on-key

but also quite possibly singing it better than the Broadway version.

As everyone stared at her, completely entranced, the only thing I could think was how indescribably

rude it was to interrupt the eulogies. Even Vicki was annoyed and began to pick up larger objects, not

just confetti but candles from the tables and sharp cutlery. But although the ghostly wind tried to heave

them at the singer, Vicki never connected. It was as though the singer was immune to the missiles.

When she finished her song minutes later, the place erupted into applause, with the exception of me,

Bruno, Alex, and a few others, who glared at the intruder with righteous indignation. She had to be an

intruder, because I hadn’t remembered seeing her as I passed around the room earlier. And I would

have noticed her.

She slunk down from the stage, the spotlight turning her luxurious red mane of hair into something

fluid and shimmery as she walked. The crowd parted as she passed and she did it with the air of a

goddess—as though she ful y expected people to part for her.

Of course, maybe she was royalty and I just didn’t know it. The king and his retinue had returned

home to Rusland to get ready for Prince Rezza’s wedding. I’d been told to expect an invitation, but the

court refused to let me out of the country. I have it on good authority that the king has been putting

discreet pressure on our government to make sure I don’t wind up jailed or permanently

institutionalized. I appreciate that even more than the sizable deposit that was wired into my bank

account. Rezza’s been rethinking his al egiance to a group who’d hire a demon and kidnap his brother,

which is probably for the best. He might not be as big on the American ideal as his father, but at least

Rezza won’t be a sworn enemy if he winds up on the throne.

This woman had that same air—more like Rezza than his father. Rezza’s father felt more like a

commoner than a king, but Rezza had that otherness that made you want to bow or grovel.

“You must be the abomination.” The woman held out her hand when she reached me.

I didn’t take the offered limp fingers. “And you must be rude.” She reared back in surprise, like I’d

intended. “I’m sorry,” I said with narrowed eyes and just a hint of fang showing (I’m learning how to do

that better), “but didn’t you hear that people were trying to talk over here—trying to honor the people

we came here to celebrate? Just who do you think you are?”

Now the eyes grew stormy. They looked a little like mine, gray with swirls of blue and green. I felt

pressure against my head, as if someone were squeezing it with both hands. She glared harder and

the pressure grew. Bruno realized what was happening but wasn’t sure what to do about it. It didn’t

seem to be any sort of spel , although she did have that evil witch look about her. Sort of Jessica

Rabbit meets Snow White’s stepmother.

“ I think I am Princess Adriana Kalino, heir apparent of the Pacific sirens. And I think you have just