Fangs for Nothing

“I think so,” Zelda said and the two women sank into conversation about decorations and dresses and wedding songs. Funny, even a Pollyanna-like Katie and a sniff-my-boots dominatrix like Zelda could find common ground discussing wedding preparations.

Cort took another sip of his bog water and perused the scene, seemingly quite content with the festivities, if the courtyard could be described as festive. The tables were decorated with bloodred roses arranged in black miniature coffins. Red candles burned everywhere, and the guests looked like a combination of undertakers, the dead, and the crazy-ass dommes who killed them with . . . with things like—Drake’s gaze dropped to Zelda’s bridal whip—things like that. Even the cupcakes were decorated with red frosting, black piping, and small silver handcuffs made out of fondant.

At least that part was apropos. Marriage did mean being shackled to someone else. Until death do you part . . . or until the divorce papers were signed.

Drake scanned the crowd once more, then leaned closer to Cort and muttered “You know you are at a pretty fucked-up shindig when the vampires are the cheeriest ones in attendance. And the least scary.”

Cort chuckled, still looking content to be there.

Drake tried to affect the same collected air, but the lace at his throat itched. And his knee breeches tugged in all the wrong places, and one of his hose was sliding down into his big buckled shoe.

“This sucks.”

“Shh,” Cort hissed, and Drake saw Saxon standing at his elbow.

“Hey, bestie,” the goofy blond greeted him. “Bestie man, that is. How are you digging the pah-tay?”

“I’m dressed as a pirate, where’s my fuckin’ rum?” Drake asked.

In typical Saxon fashion, he was unaffected by Drake’s scowl, or he thought it was a joke. “Dude, I think I have some butter rum Life Savers in my backpack.” He looked around, suddenly appearing very confused. “But dude, I don’t know where my backpack is.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Drake said.

Cort chuckled again.

“So have you tried one of the cupcakes yet? Zelda hired this new caterer who specializes in gourmet cupcakes, and they are supposed to be totally fab.”

“We’re vampires,” Drake pointed out slowly. “Cupcakes aren’t really part of our diet plan anymore.”

“Right,” Saxon nodded, his goofy expression fading to one of serious reflection. “I forgot.”

Then his silly smile returned. “But they are cool to look at, too.”

Drake fought the urge to roll his eyes, and managed to say in a somewhat pleasant voice, “You know, I think I will go check them out now.”

“You totally should,” Saxon said happily.

Drake started to wander away, when Cort snagged his ruffled wrist and stopped him.

“Come on,” Cort whispered, all his earlier humor gone, “try to have fun. This isn’t about you, it’s about Saxon and Zelda.”

Drake sighed. Cort was right, damn him. He could suck it up for one night.

He nodded to Cort and wandered toward the buffet table, which was surrounded by a motley assortment of attendees. But he was focused on locating one person, the cute woman with the serving tray. One reason, she was pretty adorable, and another, if she worked in the kitchen, maybe they had some booze in there. Hell, at this point, he’d take a few swigs of cooking sherry . . . anything to make the rest of this bizarro night tolerable.

But he’d barely reached the buffet when the woman he immediately recognized as the maid of honor approached him.

“Hey there, matey.”

Shit. He had not gotten a good vibe off this chick. She’d been staring at him through the whole ceremony like she was planning on a little maid of honor/best man hookup tonight. Or in her case, more of a tie-up than a hookup. God, he hoped she didn’t have hooks.

He grimaced, but then forced the look into a stiff smile. The willowy woman strode up to him, the twinkly lights decorating the courtyard glinting off her black PVC, fetish bodysuit. This woman, while still tall in her stilettos, wasn’t as Amazonian as Zelda, although there was something just as unnerving about her. Then again, she, too, had a whip as an accessory. Not a cat-o’-nine-tails, just a mere riding crop, but Drake knew that would really sting, especially on bare flesh.

“How are you . . . ?” he said stiffly, drawing a complete blank on her name.

“Obsidian,” she answered.

How the hell had he forgotten that?

“I’m much better now that I’ve found you.” She smiled, glossy red lips curling back over small, sharp-looking teeth.

He shifted away from her. Why was it that he really did find the dommes far more creepy than the undead? Maybe because the undead posed no threat to him . . . chicks with implements of torture . . . that was another story. Pain was so not his thing.

He hesitated, not sure what to say, which gave her the opportunity to make her move. She stepped closer and ran her crop down the length of his arm.

“Have you ever been dominated, pirate?”

Something that felt akin to panic tightened Drake’s chest, and he immediately cast a frantic look around, searching for any escape he could find. As if answering his silent entreaty, the sexy caterer rushed out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of something that looked like bleeding skewered hearts.

“Sorry,” he said with a quick raise of his hand to Obsidian to halt her line of questioning, not to mention to get the riding crop away from him. Then he reached out to the curvy caterer, catching her free arm.

“Cupcake,” he said sweetly. “You are working so hard. Surely you have time to steal a moment with your beloved seaman.”

And before he thought better of it, he kissed the shapely stranger.

* * *

THIS WEDDING WAS in the bag. Josie Lynn Thibodaux felt confident about that. Creating a successful catering company was at least 75 percent word of mouth, and she needed this bride and groom to have nothing but complimentary things to say about her food, her service, and her staff. Okay, staff was a generous word. Her staff was herself and two college kids who she could only afford to pay minimum wage at the moment.

All the more reason why she needed to hustle.

So being grabbed by one of the wedding guests and kissed was not part of the professionalism she was hoping desperately to portray. Not to mention, the surprise lip-lock caused her to lose her balance on the tray of sashimi tuna sculpted in the shape of hearts and skewered with stalks of rosemary and topped with a roasted red pepper and sundried tomato puree—one of the gothic-themed appetizers she was particularly proud of.

She registered the metal tray clattering to the ground, but she was still too shocked to pull away. The lips moving over hers seemed to hold her immobile and she was powerless to break away.

But finally good sense kicked in, and she shoved at the man holding her. She looked up into a pair of intense, dark eyes and was lost again. Wow, he was good-looking. Like ridiculously good-looking.

Once more, common sense took effect when she noticed several of the guests staring in her direction. All the dazed desire clouding her thoughts disappeared, replaced by much more distinct irritation.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

The man, who she now saw was dressed as a pirate—damn, this is an odd wedding even by New Orleans standards—smiled. A roguish smile that suited his attire.

“I’m sorry to catch you off guard, cupcake,” he cajoled. “But I couldn’t resist a quick moment with my lady.”

Then he jerked his head slightly and his dark eyes shifted in the same direction.

Josie Lynn frowned. Was there something actually wrong with this guy? Maybe he wasn’t quite right. Some of her anger subsided.

Then he did it again, a little more adamantly this time, and she realized he was silently gesturing to the tall, latex-clad woman next to him. So the kiss had been for this chick’s benefit. Although from the sour frown on the woman’s heavily made-up face, benefit might not be the right word. She looked pissed.