It was time to go.

The drive from the guest house to the parade route was surprisingly quiet. Nobody bothered making small talk. I didn’t mind. I was enjoying staring out the window at the milling throngs of happy people waving and shouting congratulations as we drove past.

We arrived at the starting point exactly on schedule. Stepping out of the car into the bright morning sun was like stepping into a pool of thick, burning magic. It hurt. I’d known about the protective spells everywhere, but ow, ow, ow. Damn. And it was going to be like this for the long, long walk to the courthouse. I’d have to really fight not to wince the whole way—and wouldn’t that look special on the front page of every paper in the world?

The procession probably looked casual, but of course that was an elaborate illusion. Everything had been planned to the last nuance. Adriana and Dahlmar were at the head of the group, walking hand-in-hand. The queen would be directly behind them, escorted by Gunnar Thorsen. If there were any concerns about whether she was strong enough to walk a couple of miles so soon after being released from the hospital, no one I knew had dared voice them. Truthfully, she looked good, and it wasn’t the makeup, either. Being so close to the ocean and back on her home island seemed to be doing wonders for her. She was beautiful in bright turquoise, her golden hair left long and loose so that it fell past her shoulders in shining waves. We three bridesmaids were next, with our escorts. Mine was Griffiths, who looked terrific in traditional long shorts and a flowing white shirt. Igor followed—with Baker at his side, which gave her a reason to stay close to me. I noticed that she and Igor were smiling at each other in a genuinely friendly manner. Hmmm.

I settled my hat on my head, activating the little spell disk that insured it wouldn’t fly off, even in a gale-force wind. Griffiths stepped forward, extending his arm. I took it and we began the stroll to the courthouse steps.

For all the expense, trouble, and elaborate planning, the actual ceremony at the courthouse would only take about fifteen minutes. It boggled my mind. I wondered what the cost added up to per minute, and decided I really didn’t want to know.

We walked down a wide brick street that had been strewn with flower petals of various colors. It smelled fantastic, and probably felt wonderful for those going barefoot. Somewhere, someone on the Internet was probably decrying the waste, and someone else was totting up how many flowers had been denuded to make this happen. But it was beautiful, and I took deep breaths, enjoying the fragrance as I turned from side to side and waved at the crowd.

“You do not know, do you?” Griffiths spoke softly, keeping a smile on his face as he waved cheerfully to the people on our right.

His voice hinted at something amiss. I forced myself to keep smiling, even though I felt a chill of foreboding. “What?”

“Your business associate has not called?”

“I left my phone in my room.” I’d figured it would be rude to leave it on during the morning’s events, so I decided not to even carry it.

“Ah. I see.”

My smile had probably gone brittle. Waving to the cheering crowds on the left, I whispered, “Is anyone dead?”

“No.”

“Maimed?”

“No.”

“Then just tell me.” Military jets roared overhead in formation. I looked up. The crowd looked up. Despite the ooohing and ahhing of thousands of voices, vampire hearing, activated by my rising level of tension, let me hear Griffiths clearly.

“Because of all of the various threats against Adriana and the sirens, my king has had me put intelligence feelers out throughout the world. An informant brought us word of a threat to a siren in Santa Maria de Luna. He had helped plant a bio-magical bomb in the upstairs bathroom of a Victorian office building.”

My stomach lurched. “Shit.”

“I sent my people to check it out. The device they found involves both explosives and powerful curses and was linked to your DNA by strands of your hair. It is a particularly nasty piece of equipment. The bomb squad is on their way. But, based on the photos my colleague has sent me, your police are not going to be able to disarm it. They will insist on a controlled explosion.”

My smile faltered and I gripped his arm tightly so that I wouldn’t stumble. My building. Damn it. Damn, shit, hell, crap, fuck! Swearing internally helped me fight back the tears that stung my eyes. I loved that building. I’d loved it since the day I’d seen it while looking for office space, long before Vicki had left it to me. Yes, it was just a thing, but it was my thing. It was unique. And we’d just gotten Ron moved out.

This was why Dottie had taken the cat, had had my things sent away, had looked sad. She knew but, like Vicki, couldn’t tell. Because if she had, we might all be dead; our searching for the bomb might have set it off.

I took a deep, shuddering, breath. I could handle this. Nobody I loved was dead. Nobody had been badly hurt. I’d rebuild if I could, or find another office. I could deal.

Griffiths waited until I had myself fully under control. “There is more.”

Wave, smile, turn. Wave, smile, turn. My movements were a little mechanical, but the audience probably wouldn’t notice. “Of course there is.” I didn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

He gave the tiniest nod of acknowledgment. “My people have traced the magical signature and have found out who created this bomb and hired the man to plant it.”

“The terrorists?”

“No. A woman. A human. Her name is—”

I didn’t even have to guess. I finished the sentence for him. “Angelina Bonetti.”

His eyes widened, his eyebrows rising. “You are not surprised.”

Oh, I was surprised. I’d known Angelina was jealous. But a bomb? Really? How over the top was that? Still, in a weird way, it made sense. If she was going to kill me, now was the perfect time, and with all of the Guardian of the Faith crap going on, a bombing of my office would likely be written off as an act of terrorism. The terrorists might even lie and take credit for it, which would make the police less likely to look for any other culprits.

Beautiful and smart, she was quite the adversary. If it hadn’t been for the informant, she would probably not only have succeeded in killing me, she’d most likely have gotten away with it.

The knowledge was both shocking and frightening. But it also made me mad. She’d tried to kill me. She actually tried to fucking kill me. So much for not being much of a threat to her.

“I’m smiling, Griffiths, but heaven knows what people are reading in my mind.”

He squeezed my arm reassuringly. “That is why I am walking with you. I’m blocking your mind from outside reading or attack. Your thoughts are your own until this is over.”

It was a relief to hear. “Thank you.” Now I could be angry and hurt and terrified and still pretend for the public and the cameras that everything was fine. Everyone would think I was happy while in fact, I felt a level of rage that, if not held in check, was likely to bring out my inner monster. I managed to control it. But it wasn’t easy.

As a consequence, the ceremony was something of a haze to me. I was there. I did my part, but I don’t remember anything specific. Adriana and Dahlmar made their public declarations of love and fidelity, then kissed on the steps of the courthouse amid deafening cheers. We all made happy-happy in our lavalavas, and congratulated the beaming couple by tossing a few thousand flowers’ worth of fragrant petals into the air to fall in a cloud around them. Flashbulbs went off so fast that the air turned white.

Fortunately, there were no other threats. I’m a professional, but I have my limits. Knowing that someone hated me enough to plant a bomb likely to kill not only me, but pretty much anyone within a full square block, was mind-boggling. Shock and anger washed over me in alternating waves as I struggled to wrap my head around the idea.

How the hell had Angelina Bonetti gotten a sample of my hair? After the events of the past couple of years I have become almost fanatically paranoid about preventing that sort of thing, for exactly this reason.

I could only think of one logical possibility. Well, actually two.

John Creede had lost his siren charm, which was made from my hair, in our battle with Glinda. Someone might have found it and made it available on the black market. The other choices were that it had been destroyed … or that it had been taken to Hell. I didn’t want to think too much about the latter option. It was just too frightening.

It was much more likely that Angelina had gotten my hair from the charm I made for Bruno. Maybe that was how she knew he didn’t have it—because she did.

What worried me more was that Angelina wasn’t a witch, and Griffiths had said bio-magical. That little fact was just sinking into my head. Yeah, Mrs. DeLuca, Grand Hag of the East Coast, hates me, but I didn’t think she’d actually help someone murder me. I mean, there’s hate and there’s hate. Besides which, Isabella DeLuca is smart and subtle. A bomb didn’t seem like her kind of thing, particularly one that could be traced back so easily. She’s more the death curse or poison sort of person.

Griffiths gave me his cell phone and helped me slip into the courthouse after the ceremony and before the wedding photos. Rather than use the women’s room and risk getting interrupted, I ducked into the “family” restroom, which was a single seater and had a changing table attached to the wall.

My first call was to Alex. If the locals weren’t in charge, she’d know who was.

Alex picked up on the first ring. “Detective Alexander speaking.”

“It’s me.”

“Christ on a crutch! Where the hell have you been? Don’t you ever pick up your voice mails?” She was almost snarling.

“Where have I been? Are you freaking serious? It’s Adriana’s wedding day.”

“But you weren’t supposed to be going to the ceremony on Serenity. We’ve been looking everywhere for you! There was word someone had predicted your kidnapping so we’ve been treating you as a missing person. Bruno is gone. Dawna hasn’t heard from you for a couple of days. We can’t reach John Creede.”