Gerard’s grin widened. “Axlam thinks he’s going to be elf-height.”
I didn’t doubt it. The wolves tended to be correct in their predictions of children’s growth, the weather, and just about anything contextual. Arne said it was wolf magic, but Gerard and Remy said it had more to do with fine-tuned wolf senses than anything magical.
“I’m surprised they did it this weekend,” Bjorn said, “and not closer to Samhain.”
Gerard shrugged. “Arne wanted the ceremony done before the feast and the full moon.”
The full moon—and the wolf run—also fell on Samhain, and the night’s magic also affected the werewolves. Samhain both intensified and thinned moon magic, and the wolves would be best protected with extra elves.
But there was nothing unusual about additional elves going out with the pack. Magical nights happened more frequently than not, and the elves had a routine set up, though the magic of the night often spread resources thin.
Gerard looked up at the sky. “We have a storm coming in.” He sniffed. “First snow. Fifty bucks says it hits on Samhain.”
Over a week out and Gerard could smell the forecast on the wind.
Bjorn nodded. “The moon and a blizzard. Exciting.”
Gerard shrugged, then pointed toward the band shelter. “We’re up, gentlemen.”
Axlam, in a flowing red, gold, and green gown, stepped out of the shelter’s staging area. She wore a matching headscarf dotted with a crown of autumn leaves and flowers, and she shimmered in the afternoon sunshine as much from the lovely fabrics of her dress as her innate wolf.
Mate magic flared off Gerard, and for a second, I thought he was about to bound across the park and carry away his wife. But he smiled instead, and a calm settled over his shoulders.
Axlam looked back into the shelter and extended her hand. Akeyla bounced out, her also-flowing dress more fiery than Axlam’s, with her hair and ears wrapped and decorated in the same way. She took Axlam’s hand and smiled at the crowd.
Maura and Benta followed, both with their glamour-hair braided and decorated with autumn florals, both in darker reds and purples that leaned more toward the cooler days of fall.
The women flowed across the park more than walked. Everyone quieted, and the chairs filled quickly and in an orderly fashion.
“Uncle Frank!” Akeyla looked as if she wanted to jump into my arms, but restrained herself and held out her small bouquet of sunflowers and crabapples. “Ready?”
Gerard and Axlam would walk first, then Akeyla and me, Ed and Benta, and Bjorn and Maura. Arne and Dag would say their renewal, and then the festivities would begin.
“Sure am, pumpkin,” I said.
She bounced on her heels. “You’re supposed to hold my hand.” She transferred her bouquet to her free hand and grasped my fingers.
Up front, off to the side and under one of the trees, three elves strummed guitars and played flutes.
Maura patted my elbow. “Remember, sweetie,” she said to Akeyla, “when you get up front, walk to Axlam. I’ll be right behind you.”
Akeyla nodded.
“You look fantastic,” I said to Akeyla. “All of you,” I said to the women.
Benta looked away. She smoothed her lovely dress over her lovelier hips and hooked her arm through Ed’s. “It’s quite the honor for a mundane to be called to stand for our King and Queen,” she said.
Ed tossed me a she’s your girlfriend look.
I scowled at Benta.
Akeyla bounced again. “Mr. Martinez isn’t mundane. He’s our sheriff,” she said in classic Akeyla don’t be dumb fashion.
No one looked at Benta except Akeyla, who obviously expected better from her grandmother’s friend.
Ed took it in stride. Axlam and Maura looked proud. Bjorn, though, decided to be metal.
“I’m gonna need someone to look after Mr. Mole Rat next weekend, Benta. Interested?” He didn’t look at her, but bowed slightly to Maura and offered his arm.
Gerard smirked, and when the music thankfully expanded into our call to walk, he quickly took Axlam’s arm and they made their way down the aisle between the chairs.
Akeyla smiled up at me, hooked her hand in mine, and strode out into the aisle with her Uncle Frank in tow. We parted and took up our places under the trees. Poor Ed, Benta with her arm hooked gingerly around his, followed, with Bjorn and Maura walking toward the trees last.
The music stopped. The elves set down their instruments and moved as a unit, two on either side, to draw back the partition.
Arne and Dag walked out of the tent behind the trees, Arne with his hands clasped behind his back, and Dagrun with hers clasped around her own small, autumn bouquet. They both glamoured minimally, hiding only their ears and elven hair from the guests in the chairs, and shimmered with their elven glory. Both wore tasteful, expensive clothes, Arne in a dark gray suit and Dagrun in a champagne-colored gown. She handed her bouquet to Maura and turned to her husband.
Arne’s organic, deeper blue and purple magic swirled up into the air. Dag’s icier, clockwork magic followed.
They clasped hands.
Words followed. Proclamations about love and life. Poetry about community and caring and family. Hands moved. Spells worked in ways that only the magicals in the audience understood.
Joyous fireworks danced among the swirls of magical color, and moved in waves between our King and Queen.
The sparks of mate magic swirled around Gerard and Axlam most of the time, and had recently begun flickering between Jaxson and Akeyla. In Las Vegas, I’d seen it move between Remy and his red-dressed nature-spirit mate, Portia Elizabeth. I’d always thought such magicks were wolf-centered.
Two hundred years in Alfheim and this was the first time I’d ever noticed mate magic moving between two elves—and two elves whose marriage had started as nothing other than a political alliance.
And never, in my two hundred years in Alfheim, had I seen Arne look at his wife with such concentration and reverence. I’d seen him use each separately—concentrating on her words or her movements, or with a reverent look of awe when he didn’t realize he was
