Mayfair Manor

[XCandy and LunacyX]

"Rain? On me?" Antha laughed outright, taking Cian's hands and bringing his arms around her waist, her own sliding over his shoulders. "On lesser witches, perhaps, but never on me if I do not wish it." Her lips pressed to his then, for a few moments, before she smiled and whispered, "Everyone in the family will know soon, I am sure. Courtland is bound to have seen what I foresaw, and the gossipy little b***h is probably on the phone as we speak, telling everyone."
He was, in fact. As Antha spoke the words, he was on the phone with Armand, who was nearly as much of a gossip as his younger cousin, telling him all about Antha's unborn daughter. Her son too, but mostly the girl, the heir, with the massive Mayfair emerald strung around her tiny little neck. It would be less than an hour before the entire family knew. Jack, draped about Courtland's shoulders and back, half asleep and covered only by the sheets pooled in his lap, was giggling beneath his breath.
By that time, Antha had gone to shower---though not before the morning sickness struck again---and Jacob had knocked and entered tentatively, a stack of clothes draped over his arms that he hung in the closet beside Antha's clothes. He explained briefly to Cian that mademoiselle Mayfair had commissioned them for him until he could pick some out himself, laying out several suitable teatime outfits as he did so. "And..." The boy sighed, glancing furtively at the closed bathroom door before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little box that he set in Cian's hand, "Mr. York---Michael, that is---asked me to give this to you. It was mademoiselle Antha's grandmother's, her grandfather had it made when they were married." He cracked the box open just long enough to let the ring---a massive diamond framed with delicate loops and layers of gold worked into an intricate pattern around it, glimmering here and there with tiny emeralds---catch the light and then snapped it back shut. "Miss Mary Beth was already married when miss Eden died, so monsieur Julien took it for safe keeping. But since he refused to let her have it for her marriage to Leon, and he is never likely to be married..." His words trailed off as he patted the box and closed Cian's fingers over it. And then, quickly changing the subject as Antha emerged from the bathroom, "Tea will be ready in five minutes, monsieur Calais."
"Merci, Jacob," Antha said sweetly, flashing him a smile as he bowed out the door, and then turning to Cian and laying a quick kiss on his uninjured cheek, "Hurry up and get dressed, we don't want the tea to get cold." She herself was clad in a little white sundress trimmed in lace with little buttons all down her back and a blue silk bow tied in the front, her scarlet curls all pulled over to one side with little silver clips and spilling over her shoulder. "I spoke with uncle Barclay a few moments ago, he said he'll have St. Louis Cathedral rented out for the entire day. It's tradition, I'm afraid, all Mayfairs are married in St. Louis Cathedral, even if I detest the fanfare of it all. When I'm the center of it, anyways. I'm quite happy to be confined to the society page of the newspapers." And then, with another brief kiss, she was gone out the door, down the stairs and into the garden where Malakai and Courtland were just setting Louis' old Victrola on the patio and placing the record on it. "How did everything go?" she said quietly, her gaze focused on Courtland and his casually formal clothes, the oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons undone, the designer jeans and highly polished shoes.
He grinned, taking her by the arm and leading her to the table set up nearby, under the blank gaze of the statue of Suzanne Mayfair. "Excellent. It was unanimously agreed upon that the best thing for our city is for Rynn Calais to disappear, along with whoever is pulling his puppet strings."
"Très bon," Antha purred, gracefully taking the seat he pulled out for her.
As Jacob brought out the tea set, followed by the pastries and sandwiches and all the other trappings of a formal teaparty, they were joined by Malakai in his more pristine version of Courtland's outfit and Dolly Jean in floral print tea dress and pink-ribboned sun hat over her silver hair. They waited politely for Cian to join them before the tea was served properly and they all went idly for their food of choice as they chatted, mostly of the main event of the day.
"Is uncle Michael going to give you away then?" Courtland was asking, his food-filled mouth covered with the back of his hand.
"Who else?' Antha replied, giving a vague shrug of her shoulders and sipping at her tea, "And Dolly Jean will be my maid of honor." The girl beamed, sitting quietly in her seat with the smile splitting her face nearly ear to ear, her eyes dreamy. "Aunt Suzette is handling the rest of the arrangements, apparently."
"Of course she is," Courtland murmured, grinning, "She was your grandmother's maid of honor. And they're still talking about that wedding. Well, her mostly."
"Cian, have you decided on a best man yet?" This from Malakai, gazing curiously at the boy.
"Better hurry," Courtland cut in, grinning all the wider, "Or Julien's going to claim it for himself."
"Julien doesn't know yet," Antha commented airily, which quirked the eyebrows of all those present, "I was very clear about that, I don't want him to know until the last minute. You know he'll use it as an excuse to network, inviting all of his damned business contacts and the reporters and before I know it, I'll have an absolute circus on my hands."
"It's true," Courtland sighed sympathetically, and then lighting back up and turning back to Cian, "So? Who's it going to be? Not Malakai, he's too wimpy to chain you to the altar if you get cold feet." He grinned at his cousin's disapproving frown then as the girls tried their bests not to laugh.
"Would that really be the worst thing?" Antha was the only one amongst the Mayfairs not to look to the fruit trees as the slow, lazy drawl emitted from behind them, as the leaves shook and a new figure slunk into their little clearing.
"Claire," Antha greeted him politely as he dragged a chair to the table across from her and dropped into it, a perfect languid figure. "I do hope you're not planning on bringing your fireworks to my wedding, ducky."
The boy gave a dangerous cheshire grin, his naturally wild eyes all for Antha. "Would you punish me, Evie?"
"I will remind you that I have a fiance present, Claire," came Antha's cool response, though she couldn't help the small tug at the corners of her mouth.
Claire Leonelli, whose eyes swept around him as if he really hadn't noticed the others, merely smirked. "We'll see, Antha. It's a loooong walk down the aisle, and who knows what might happen on the way?"
 

[Okimiyage]

Cian seemed to fixate upon the ring; after Jack had left, he stood with it in his hands for several minutes, watching the light reflect off facets of the emerald as he turned the box to and fro to catch the sun. A family heirloom was the suitable offering in these situations, of course; he was grateful to the Mayfairs for supplying their own, as most of the Calais family jewels were in caskets by now. They would have all been Rynn's by right, anyways.
His gaze lifted. He wanted to avoid that topic, even if only in his own mind. Especially in his own mind. Cian let his head turn, instead, to the coordinates Jack had so precisely laid out upon the coverlet. By the time Antha emerged--and with her a time limit--Cian was already dressed and straightening the cravat of a casual blue damask ensemble. The shirt Jack had chosen was a crisp white, of a watered silk so fine that Cian hardly felt the fabric's weight. The silver buttons at his collar were obscured behind a length of deep navy fabric, a hue so rich it was nearly black, wrapped and knotted and tucked into his vest. The vest itself was of a complementary hue to the sash on Antha's tea-dress, and where the light hit it, embroidered arabesques gleamed. Although the pants looked solid black at first, upon closer inspection, thin navy pinstripes were revealed to decorate the cloth. He grinned at her when he saw that they'd chosen the same color, and shook his head. "We match. You're lucky to be the head of the family, or else we'd both be accused of sickening cuteness."
Following in Antha's wake, Cian arrived on the scene of the garden just as Jacob began setting silverware. He collected his cucumber sandwich and set to observing the conversation amongst the Mayfairs, as curious as any interloping groom on his wedding day. When the question of best man arose, Cian blinked and shook his head. "I'm afraid I'd always thought I'd have brothers around to fill out the tuxedos at my wedding. I don't have any prior back-ups in mind, if that's what you're asking." His eyes flicked to meet his fiancée's, and Cian nodded in her direction. "Although if we're trying to keep Julien from knowing about this until the day of, inviting him to be our best man is probably not the greatest scheme. Honestly, I'd take a volunteer and be honored by it."  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

"I do hope you're not threatening me, mon cheri," Antha purred dangerously, glancing across the table at Claire, and there was an old familiarity in the dark, challenging gazes the two exchanged, an intimacy that even Courtland, lunatic as he was, had trouble understanding.
"Just an observation," was the boy's responding purr, his chin resting upon his laced fingers, laughing incongruously, and there was something glimmering in his eyes that wasn't quite right. Courtland, on his knees in the grass, his hands around Jack's throat---the latter had popped up when the title of best man had been put up for grabs, and the ensuing argument between the two had escalated to an overturned chair, a rip in the knee of Jack's jeans, a tussle ultimately ignored by the other Mayfairs---paused to look up at the boy, his tangled hair a frothy golden mess in his eyes. "Oh lord, did someone check you for explosives when you came in?"
"I did," Jack said, his words mangled through Courtland's fingers, pulling Claire's grenade from his pocket and grinning, "Sure you don't want to let me be best man?" And all at once it resumed, the kicking and squirming and punching and yelping, only now with a grenade laying in the grass beside them.
"Ah, but pardon my manners," Antha said suddenly, turning to Cian and gesturing briefly to Claire, "Cian, this is Claire Leonelli, head of Leonelli Enterprises."
"Formerly in the running for Antha's hand," Courtland cackled, a split second before Jack floored him.
"Claire," Antha continued seamlessly, "This is Cian Calais."
"Her fiance," Jack added tauntingly, and this time the boys snickered together for a moment. They had never liked the thought of Claire joining the family, if only because his madness and antics would overshadow their own.
Whatever would have been said then, Claire's lilting response or Antha's polite words to shut him up, was halted by Courtland's decrees of triumph, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a little bag of pills that he pressed into Jack's hand. "Fair trade," he announced, taking his seat back at the table and taking up his tea, "Anyways, I'm going to be Cian's brother-in-law, so it makes more sense."
"Legally speaking..." Malakai murmured thoughtfully, before Courtland cut him off.
"Shut up."
"Sissy's coming," Dolly Jean piped up suddenly, beaming as her eyes scanned the trees around them, and all at once Antha paled, her slight body tensing.
Vera Mayfair, eldest of Stefan's grandchildren, was a tall, slender woman, her platinum blond hair pulled stylishly back from her face, dressed in professional apparel of only the latest fashions. Sauntering through the garden, she looked rather like Mary Beth, Antha's mother, the idol of her childhood. Mary Beth, the high society socialite in all the most expensive designer labels, had been a goddess to Vera when she was a child, the reason she had chosen a career in fashion, and quite naturally the moment Antha saw her, she ran.
Courtland and Claire were laughing, watching Antha vanish into the house as if she were a normal person that had just caught sight of some vicious, bloodied thing and Vera, in stilettos that added four inches to her height, trying to run after her, yelling threats.
"This is too good to miss," Courtland moaned in delight, hopping up and grabbing Cian's hand, dragging the boy after him into the house to watch Antha and Vera fighting over the bedroom door, Antha trying to shut the older girl out while she tried to force her way in. Eventually, either because he knew if Antha chose to use her powers then Vera, who had only the very slightest of magical ability, would get hurt or just because he thought it would be more amusing, Courtland helped to push the door open, seizing Antha with his arms around her, locking hers down, as Vera gave a sigh of relief and took a moment to collect herself again, smoothing her hair and clothes back into place.
"All you have to do is try them on," she said sternly, motioning Jacob forward with the rack of garment bags she had brought, "If you don't like them---"
"You'll still force me to wear them. Things haven't changed that much since I was ten," Antha whined, exacting a well-aimed kick to Courtland's leg that released her and running to Cian, hiding behind his back.
"You're Cian?" Vera said suddenly, giving a quick, appraising sweep of her eyes over him, "Good, good. Be a lamb and help us restrain your fiancee. She needs a wedding dress."
"Don't tell him to do things like that!" Antha protested, glancing briefly around his shoulder to pout angrily at her.
"Grab her," Vera said sharply, and Courtland was quick to run after the screaming girl as she dashed up the stairs. "You are going to be quite the handsome groom," Vera offered offhand as the floorboards above creaked under quick steps and boxes crashed down to them, a symphony of thumps and clangs and muffled words. Her eyes took him in one more time then, and clearly she liked what she saw. "Yes, I think so. You'll have to let me dress you, too." And she snapped her tape measure, smiling, a second before Courtland trudged down the stairs with Antha over his shoulder. For whatever reason she was still, seething quietly, and was locked away with Vera and her designer wedding dresses with only mild resistance.
Courtland stood guard outside, giving a quiet sigh of relief and turning his head to crack his neck. "I'm offended you didn't ask me to be your best man," he said flatly to Cian, pouting, "It would have saved me the bruises. And here I thought we were friends." He paused, listened as muffled voices drifted faintly through the door.
"You've put on weight since last month."
"I'm pregnant with twins. Or didn't you get the memo in Paris?"
"I don't even want to know why you're already beginning to show."
"Why indeed," Courtland murmured, a mischievous grin on his lips, and then calling a little more loudly through the door, "This wouldn't have anything to do with you going into Marguerite's laboratory earlier, would it Evie?"
He was answered by the sharp hiss of, "Shut up." And then, abruptly, "I am not wearing this. Hey, I said no! Jacob, who signs your paychecks you traitor?!"  

[Okimiyage]

Cian had hardly time to sip his tea--carefully, cradling the fragile bone china cup between fingers that suddenly seemed monstrously huge by comparison--before the matter was decided. He would have had to have been blind not to notice the transaction which sealed the deal. Like a child's offering--here, something of value, no take-backs.

He opened his mouth to thank Courtland, the sole sound mind amongst them, but was distracted by Dolly Jean's pert announcement, and the almost unnoticeable reaction it prompted from Antha. Cian watched the line of her slim shoulders harden, and the way the movements of her eyes became quick. If he had not spent so much time with her in the past few days, it would have passed without recognition. The grateful glance he had intended for Courtland changed, and creased his brow briefly before he erased the expression from his face. He turned, following the gaze of the whole picnicking party as they turned like one entity to greet their newcomer. Cian had to admit, at first his heart seized. The characteristic Mayfair pallor combined with this style maven's so-blonde-it's-white immaculate coif made her into a spectre of royalty. The gliding model stride and four-inch heels didn't undermine the illusion, either.

All was explained shortly, however, as Antha took off like a cat facing veterinarian affairs, with the spectre in obscenity-laced pursuit. Cian couldn't help but grin at the rare sight of his fiancee unsettled by anyone. Clearly the woman was a force to be reckoned with.
It was with this reasoning that he put his best foot forward when facing her. Spine like a ramrod and smile like a gentleman. "It's a pleasure, Miss...?"

He didn't have time to receive her title, though, before Courtland had Antha in a fireman's carry and the queenly spectre was whisking her prize behind doors. Resistance is futile? he suggested to Antha silently, not even bothering to mask his grin from point of exile in the hallway. You'll only have to put up with it all for a few hours, love.

Only a few hours, but she would be immortalized by today. Today's were the photos he'd show to her children, telling them, Your mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.--seeing her in the color of their eyes, the smiles that lit their faces.

His own smile was fading. He had to push to keep it in place.
Distancing himself from his thoughts with idle chatter, Cian directed his attention to Courtland. It was desperation that made him honest, trying to keep his thoughts of the future at bay. "I figured I was sparing you. It's hard for me to imagine why anyone would want the job, you know? I always figured I'd be the last one up there. None of my brothers had an aversion to commitment like I did. Playing best man for all three of them--if I thought I could get out of it, I probably would have tried. But you can't renounce your family. No matter what, kin is still kin." He leaned back against the wall and let his head fall back, closing his eyes. "Thank you for that. I'm kind of missing mine now."  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Courtland, listening with his ear eagerly to the door, didn't notice the footsteps on the stairs or the dark head that appeared bobbing up them. Michael, standing 6' 3" in immaculately tailored dark suit, a white silk tie knotted perfectly at his throat, took a moment to look between Courtland, Cian, and the closed door, his eyes sharp and a cigarette hanging from his lips. "Vera is here, then?" Courtland, his attention drawn warily from the door, gave a very small nod, his gaze cast elsewhere. Michael, who knew what the peculiar look upon the boy's face was for, could only give a little laugh. "Your aunt Suzette is here," he said in a most welcome change of topic, giving a nod of his head in the direction of the front door, "She wants to speak with the best man and maid of honor. I assumed that would be---"
"ME~!" Courtland shouted, racing all at once for the stairs and vanishing rapidly down them, a thud sounding at the bottom before the scraping and shuffling of feet and he called, "I'm alright!" and the door to the dining room slammed open and shut.
Michael, putting his cigarette to and then from his lips, gave an affectionate little smile, the smallest chuckle. "Head of the family will never be good enough for him, when he is named to it. He will have to be Emperor Mayfair to ever be satisfied." He glanced briefly to Cian, his smile growing a little more casual, natural. "But you didn't know Courtland was slated to be head of the family after Julien, did you?"
Within the nearby bedroom, something shattered loudly, deliberately, the muffled voices turning heated. Michael ignored them, continuing a little more seriously to Cian in a voice too low for Antha to hear, "Jacob got the ring to you, then? I was afraid he would have trouble getting it past Julien, but his anger seems to have blinded him to the world around him. But this is the way it should be. Antha's grandmother, angelic Eden, when she took it from her finger on her deathbed she said it was for her granddaughter, in the hopes that she would have as much love and happiness as she did in all the years of her own marriage. I took it from Julien when he began trying to force her into all of his planned loveless marriages, it didn't seem right. But that will be our little secret, now that it's safely in your hands."
He was interrupted rudely by the beating of feet on the stairs, Courtland bounding up them and to the bedroom door, his fist pounding on it as he called, "Aunt Suzette says the ceremony starts in two hours."
The panic that ensued was audible, the shuffle and clatter and rapid footsteps. Only Antha sat still, watching Vera and Jacob flit here and there, doing this and that. "Fine," she sighed in defeat as Vera demanded she choose a dress, the top four held aloft in her and Jacob's hands, and at last pointed a finger at the one she detested least, "That one, I suppose."
"Finally," Vera groaned, tossing the other dresses, which she had until then handled with such painstaking care, aside as if they didn't matter, "We have something to work with now."
"We should be getting to the church soon, if that's the case," Michael sighed out in the hallway, checking his watch, "Both of you, go get cleaned up and dressed. You have one hour."
"We're on it," Courtland promised, taking Cian by the arm and down the stairs to close him in Michael's bathroom, hanging his suit up outside and going to get himself ready.
Two hours later, he was dragging Cian to the altar, positioning him just right in the center to stand beside himself. "I hope you're not getting nervous," he whispered, grinning as he flashed a pair of handcuffs hidden in his pocket, "Because no offense, I like you and all, but since you got my cousin pregnant, I'm handcuffing you to the altar the first time you twitch. I always liked the idea of a shotgun wedding..."
The cathedral had been decked out in Antha's chosen flower, red roses, and pristine white gauze, and was now overflowing with people dressed in their very best. It was Mayfairs mostly, crammed into the long rows, sprinkled with various others such as Claire Leonelli and, surprisingly, David Talbot and Aaron Lightner. The press were all outside, straining against the guards, desperate for pictures. Antha, hidden off to the side by the front doors, watched the flashes through the stained glass with apprehension.
"It will be fine," Michael assured her gently, laying a kiss on her smooth forehead, "You're doing the right thing. And you're such a lovely bride." Antha merely wrung her hands, pacing back and forth in her gilded heels, her white skirts swishing back and forth around her. Truly she was, her crimson curls styled fashionably beneath her shimmering veil, the Mayfair emerald resting against the tight bodice of her dress, layers of satin beneath intricate lace, the skirts crinoline. A-line---she had ardently refused a ballgown dress, it was just too ridiculous.
"There are too many people in there," she was muttering darkly, her chest heaving with her panicked breath, "I don't like it. It's an absolute circus!"
"You love being the center of attention," Michael countered sweetly, careful not to incite her sixth fit of the hour, "You're going to be fine, Evie. You are the most beautiful bride in the world, and we're going to take pictures and Cian will show them to your children so they will know just how dazzling you are." He smiled briefly, secretively, and whispered in her ear, "He can handle this, Evie. He can play the part of Mayfair, raise your children, I have complete confidence in him. If he has to face that, you can at least walk down the aisle and make this all nice and legal to save him from Julien." As he spoke, the music began in the next room and Michael could see the color drain from her face, the terror in her eyes as he fixed her veil over her face and shoulders. "Ready?" Antha took his arm as if it were a lifeline, her fingers white as chalk digging into his flesh. Malakai, standing beside Dolly Jean, ready to lead her to the altar, flashed him a curious gaze. "We're ready," he said finally, patting Antha's hand. All she could do was stare on and pray that Cian had shown up.

((You wanna' narrate this?))  

[Okimiyage]

Cian was feeling intensely jealous of the bride right now. At least she had somewhere to hide before the ceremony. The groom, on the other hand, got to sweat where everyone could see. He didn't know how long he'd been up here, propped up like a cake topper, thank god he at least had Courtland to stand next to and feign respectability with.

Cian fiddled with his crystalline cufflinks. He'd been doing so ever since he'd climbed into the dratted suit, victim of nervous fingers without a cigarette to roll between them. 'Dratted' was really an unkind word for it--the suit was actually beautifully tailored, not that he had expected to find anything less. The jacket had elegant lines, just the slightest suggestion of a tailcoat in its cut, and the vest and cravat had been chosen to match Antha's roses. Cian had no idea how the Mayfairs had pulled an entire wedding off in a matter of hours when they usually took weeks to plan; he suspected magic of the Southern clannish kind had involvement. How else could they explain the clouds of white gauze which wreathed the cathedral's interior, or the garlands of roses that halo'd every archway and filled the air with their crushing scent? They'd barely had two hour's warning. But nothing seemed to have been overlooked; the photographer was in place, the organ accompaniment had been covered by one of the cousins, and the reception--if the way the aunts were going at it was anything to judge by--was not so much a meal as it was intended to be a feast. Cian supposed their enthusiasm was understandable; this was the wedding of their sovereign, the ceremony that made the Mayfair 'brat princess' into their queen.

[dun dun da daaaa]

The collective breath of the congregation was drawn as the first trumpeting notes of that familiar hymn were expelled upon the gathering, and the doors of the chapel swung back. Cian decided at this moment that he was actually quite thankful that he was at the altar already; all eyes were finally off of him, and he wouldn't have traded it for the world. "My heart feels like it's about to burst through my chest in time to the music," he murmured, just loud enough for Courtland to hear. He'd never realized that the processional march was so long.

In the archway, Dolly Jean's hands knotted with Malakai's. Heads held high, as regal as the ghosts of royalty, they cleared the way for Antha, leaving the runner behind them littered with rose petals from Dolly Jean's hands. Scattering largesse came so easily to her; Dolly Jean was left with such a smile afterwards. She bounded gaily up the altar steps and took her place to the left, while Malakai joined the men upon the right. Cian's nerves allowed for a twitch of a grin at his arrival, grateful for whatever backup they could muster. But very quickly, he was distracted by the next in the procession; the most important part of it, actually. Every neck in the church craned in unison, a murmur of hushed admiration rising up from the pews.

Cian hardly noticed the escort at Antha's side. He had eyes alone for the one woman who mattered now in the whole church, the whole world. She was a vision; all pale lace and paler skin, the glimmer of austrian crystals in her veil, twinkling and catching light and turning her red hair to bits of flame beneath it. He could see her hands white-knuckled on the stem of her bouquet; oddly enough, it was this that made his heart unclench, the tension in his shoulders draining out through his fingertips. He wasn't the only one nervous.

He could see Antha's eyes, as she drew closer on Michael's arm. The fine gauze mesh did nothing to dilute their color, vivid as the emerald that hung about her throat, and he felt himself be pinned by her gaze, like a butterfly stuck to its card. An awful weight lighted away from him, when he saw her face, and the change was visible in his own. He wanted to breathe her name--no, more than that, he wanted to rob Michael of her hand, to leap down from the plinth of the stoic groom and swoop her up in his arms and take his bride to the darkest and witchiest part of the woods, where he could convince her that no promise need be before God or witness for it to be true.

That was a nice fantasy. The reality of it was that if he attempted any such act of defiance, he'd be drawn and quartered by the family before the two of them made it out the door. They'd come too far to get away with eloping now.
The bride and her escort stopped at the foot of the altar, and parted; Michael had been left a space in the front row, where one of the younger cousins had teasingly placed a packet of tissues for his convenience. Cian had to resist simply jumping down the steps to be next to her; instead, as she ascended, he took a half-step down and put his hand out to her. It couldn't be easy to go up stairs without seeing either the steps or your feet, but women managed to make it look effortless as cats.

He whispered, You look beautiful.

Behind him, the priest cleared his throat and opened his book. The familiar lines droned out, we are gathered here today to join together in holy herp a derp hurr durr…

A sense of perhaps unwarranted relief washing over him now, Cian waited, drowning out the religious jargon in his mind, for the groom's cue. When the time came, he felt the faintest of tugs on his right sleeve; Courtland slid the ring box into his grasp with more finesse than most street magicians would ever muster, no matter how many hours they practices their sleight of hand. With perfect timing, too, for with the next line, the priest turned to him expectantly.

"Cian Calais!" (His mind was briefly a perfect blank, his throat seizing like a man wearing a noose)

"Will you choose to marry Antha Mayfair? To speak the words that will join you with her as your wife for the rest of the days of your life?"

"I do." (Almost surprised by how confident his own voice sounded.)

"Antha Mayfair!"
"Will you choose to marry Cian Calais? To speak the words that will join you with him as your husband for the rest of the days of your life?"

Cian's fingers curled around the hinges of the ring box, surprised to notice that his heart was racing again. Like an animal panicking to find itself trapped by a ribcage.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

While perhaps the breath that Antha had held for several moments now, unnoticed, was unheard by the crowd around her, the tension that seeped away from her chalk white flesh (at least in part) was quite noticeable when she set eyes upon Cian, when it was proved that the mad fool had actually shown up for all of this. And she would only release her death grip upon Michael's arm for Cian, only trade one for the other. If Michael, victim of a well and truly failed marriage, was handing her over to Cian, it was alright, wasn't it?
A small glance was spared for the priest that presided over the whole affair. He was a Mayfair---a shame to his clan, one was to be assured, with his upstanding morals, his smug righteousness, his belief in a deity higher than Antha herself. He had only found himself still grudgingly accepted by his family when Antha had attempted to seduce him, years ago, and he had resisted with reminders to her of his vows and thereby claimed one of the greatest rarities: her respect. Funny that now he should be binding her in something so respectable as marriage, on this day that no one ever thought they would see.
Her eyes were again all for Cian after the split second of observation, her scarlet-painted lips parting in the smallest of nervous smiles that, obscured beneath her veil, was truly all for Cian. I had better, came her soft as air whispered response, After all Vera put me through.
The tension remained, the bleached pallor of her skin, mostly imperceptible to the audience, through the droning words, the whole formal schpeel, up until Cian uttered those two words---and another unnoticed breath was released then to hear it---and her eyes fell on the ring she hadn't seen since she was ten, the beautiful ring taken from the finger of the saintly grandmother she had never known weeks before her birth and put away for her, to be given or withheld at Julien's discretion. Though, she doubted he had anything to do with how it had ended up in Cian's possession.
Glancing at it, slipped now onto her finger, her eyes went to meet Cian's again and all the tension, the frayed nerves, vanished all at once. "I do," she answered quite certainly, voice unwavering, and over Cian's shoulder she saw Courtland silently snickering despite the mistiness of his eyes (the latter of which he would later fiercely deny) as she took the other ring from Dolly Jean and bestowed it upon Cian. What God has joined, men must not divide. And her eyes almost flickered to Julien with that part of the speech, smugly, even if like the rest of them, he didn't put any stock into religion. The veil drawn from over her pretty face---and she was terribly glad for that, the thing was frustrating beyond words---she flashed a small smile of the classically Antha variety, tinged with a little relief, as those final words were spoken that pronounced them husband and wife and called for that much anticipated kiss.
The flashes went off from every angle as Antha's lips met Cian's, her arms sliding around his neck, and the sudden applause was deafening, dotted with the clicks and whirs of cameras. It was all very unconventional, frowned upon by their ornamental faith, but Antha supposed she couldn't blame them. They had waited too long for this moment, and with nearly no hope whatsoever, but here she was, married and pregnant. Who ever would have thought it?
She was eternally grateful once the gauntlet of rice and photographers was over and done with outside and she was closed up in the towncar with Cian, barred from the outside world by unnaturally dark tinted windows and a partition rolled up behind the driver, untangling the veil from her curls. "I can't believe we both showed up," she admitted first, a little guilty grin touching her lips before they pressed to Cian's, "Or that no one protested. I thought for sure Julien would make a scene, or else your brother would burst through the door roaring curses." Glancing out the window as they pulled away, she had a moment to spy Courtland clinging to Jack for support, bawling. He really was such a sentimental sap at heart. "They really do like you, you know," she said a little more softly, turned in her seat to watch the waving figures vanish, "The family. You may yet be another little Mayfair golden boy, as Nicolae was five years ago and Courtland is now."
Some twenty minnutes later she was pulling him through the front gate of Mayfair Manor, which was packed every inch with bodies that strained to make a path for them, hands clapping their shoulders, lips kissing their cheeks, mouths congratulating them, toasting them. Even Julien mustered a little smile, a kiss on her pale cheek, whispering that at least she was married, and she was giving them an heir and a future head of the family. Even more shocking, he deigned to pull his arm around Cian in a brief embrace, whispering into his ear, "You did right. It's...more than I can say, when I was in such a situation." Darling little Belle, dressed in yards of pink lace, little white satin ribbons in her golden curls, tugged at Antha's dress with her tiny hand and sighed how she couldn't wait to be a beautiful bride like her aunt Antha. Jack and Courtland each took one of her cheeks at the same time, their kisses lingering, and with matching grins asked in little whispers how the ride from the church had been. Michael wrapped her in his arms, kissing her curls, the tears quivering against his eyes, and assured her again that she was the most beautiful bride before he took Cian in his embrace, welcomed him truly and officially into the family. Jacob, who had been given the night off in order to be a true guest, was beaming, blabbering to 'Mister Calais' how pleased he was with all of this, he loved the Mayfairs with every bone in his body, would serve them until the day he died, and he was glad to think of Cian as one of them. Dolly Jean giggled, standing beside Vera as the older woman fussed over Antha's dress. "This makes us cousins for real, right?" she whispered to Cian, her eyes twinkling with excitement, before her sister led her away by the hand. Malakai, his tears held back only by a great dent of effort, hugged his little sister tight and then brought an arm around Cian and wished them all the happiness in the world.
"I never thought I'd see the day." This from David Talbot, the immaculately dressed gentleman, the scholar, with Aaron Lightner silent at his shoulder. "Antha Evelyn Mayfair...married. You were never the commitment type. And pregnant, no less."
"You shouldn't grieve, ducky. You had your chance," Antha teased lightly, her eyes flickering to sullen Aaron before she turned to Cian, "Cian, darling, this is David Talbot, head of the Talamasca, and Aaron Lightner. Aaron oversees the Talamasca's investigations on our family."
"A pleasure," David said cordially, offering the groom his hand, "I met your brother some time ago when he came to us for...help. I must admit, I am surprised a family such as yours escaped our attention for so long."
"It doesn't matter," Aaron said shortly, taking the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and putting one to his lips, "They are far from hidden now. This one's a Mayfair, and the other is terrorizing the city. Straight into the spotlights."
"You're one to talk," Antha purred, before he could say anything to upset Cian, "Lingering outside my window, at the gate, wherever, watching. Think, Aaron, you witnessed the conception of my children." She had watched him from the window then, vanishing into the trees as she spoke idly to Cian, and saw now the image of them in his mind, on the carpet through the glass panes, the firelight on their skin and her arms around Cian, his lips on her neck. The mention of it was enough to make Aaron's cheeks flush, either with embarrassment or anger, and storm off as Antha laughed and David politely excused himself. "Get used to him, Cian. He's always watching. But enough about him." She took his hand, that familiar grin spreading to her lips, endlessly suggestive, tugging on his sleeve. "This dress is about to drive me mad," she whispered, leaning close so that her lips brushed his ear, "Take me upstairs and help me get it off?"  

[Okimiyage]

At the altar, Cian barely heard the thunderous applause that erupted about them; nor did he see the camera flashes to commemorate their union in film, with his eyes shut. He was only focusing on one thing, one thing in the world. A curious kind of calm had awoken in him, as he stood there at the altar, a sense of immeasurable peace. He could not describe its origins, nor when it had settled upon him, like a cloak that made one stand slightly straighter. But when Antha lifted away her veil, he no longer cared about the stiff pews of wedding attendees, the grandiose venue, the pomp and circumstance and all the damn trimming--that all seemed inconsequential. Suddenly, only one person existed in the world.
When he opened his eyes, he was half-blinded by lightbulbs going off.
Blinking hard, his vision suddenly filled with dots, Cian remembered why weddings had once seemed a terrible prospect. And then he realized that some of the dots weren't flash imprints on his retinas, but bits of rice. Antha's own grip in his own was viselike. Glancing sidelong at her, Cian gave a slight nod. The meaning was clear. They bolted simultaneously.

As they fled the scene, Cian could not quite shake the feeling that he was moving in slow motion. Everything seemed altogether too vivid, too bright; Antha's red ringlets, catching light as she moved ahead of him--the delighted faces, row after row of clapping hands, manicured and polished--outside, more photographers, the ones from city newspapers--the eyes that matched his own, lowering a camera, quietly lifting the corners of his mouth in an expression so cold and dead it could never be mistaken for a smile--

In the car, when Antha mentioned his brother, Cian said nothing. That was never Rynn's preferred style of announcing himself, although who could say now what Rynn's preferred style of anything was? Cian had barely recognized him for the boy he'd been. A taut jaw, cheekbones sharp enough to shred skin, held under skin pale as bone. His gaze had been red-rimmed, the sockets of his eyes bruised and dark. A cut on his temple, the hair pulled away from it dusted with white--so great was the discrepancy in his memory that Cian was half-inclined to doubt his instincts, to dismiss the sighting as an uncanny resemblance. Instead of thinking about it, he wrapped his arms about his bride and pulled her in close, swathing them both in wedding veil and tulle.
Twenty distracting minutes later, they arrived at the reception, and Cian had cleared all thoughts of his brother from his head. The foyer of the Mayfair manor was packed to the threshold; it was a miracle that the bride and groom managed to be ushered into the fold. There was a roar of delight at their entry, tears and smiles, smiles, smiles every which way he turned. So many eyes on them both, and arms around him, and hands picking rice out of his collar. And before he knew it, he was turned to face two older gentlemen, the scions of the Talamasca. They seemed vaguely familiar, in the way of old newspaper clippings of important men, and they introduced themselves with such gravitas that Cian thought Antha could not but resist sending them away at once. At her request, he smiled, and tipped his mouth to her ear. Whisper all you like, love, but there's no way to be subtle, disappearing this soon after the wedding. Suddenly, Cian's hands were at her waist, and sweeping Antha off her feet--there was laughter, and a chorus of ohhs from the sidelines, and a little circle of precious space was cleared away for Antha's dress, and the circle moved with them as the ranks of Mayfairs parted.
He made it up the stairs and beyond sight of the well-wishers before he spun her about and pressed his mouth to hers. When at last they parted, he kept his lips close to hers, and a husky growl of frustration was muted in his throat. There were entirely too many layers in-between the two of them. It seemed an eternity before he reached the room he sought. When he at last carried Antha across the threshold, it was the span of seconds before he had her back against the wall and was letting her legs slip from his grasp. His hand trailed from the back of her neck, curls slipping from between his fingers, to between her shoulderblades and spine and finally the small of her back, where it seemed hundreds of buttons closed up the channel of her body.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

The Mayfairs had expected no less of Antha, or Cian given his reputation. In fact, they were surprised they had managed to keep themselves off of one another all day, all the way up until Cian stole away with her into the empty upper halls and they heard the door shut and they went about their merry business. They could do as they damn well pleased now, without objection, because the only two things that the family really needed from them had been given.
"We should have eloped," Antha murmured breathlessly into Cian's ear once they were alone, her fingers sliding loose the knot of cloth at his neck with an expert grace, "Avoided the ridiculous fanfare of it all. But no matter, I suppose---it's done with now." Yes, the whole scene in the church was over, the reception was winding down, and the deeply despised dress would be gone in moments and Antha could forget the horror of it.
Rynn, unfortunately, would be less easily forgotten. She hadn't even dared to hope that he wouldn't show up, that he could resist witnessing Cian's legal entry into the Mayfair family, and she had felt him there before she had ever glimpsed him from the corner of her eye. That moment, though fleeting, had seemed an eternity to the girl before her fingers had closed a little more firmly around Cian's and she had ushered him away all the quicker. That beautiful boy with his deceptively lovely countenance had changed, mirroring on the outside the monster that dwelt within.
But perhaps that wasn't entirely his fault.
With some effort, Antha did manage to push the thought of Rynn from her mind. Long enough anyways to take the first glorious breath after the buttons of her dress had all been undone, allowing her lungs to function as they were meant to, and long enough to deny Cian the small amount of space between their lips as she divested him of his own wedding attire, casting it aside with the shimmering, gauzy white circle of her dress on the floor and dragging him down into the sheets with her, the lace curtains making delicate patterns of moonlight on their skin.

It was just short of dawn when Antha awoke, tangled in her sheets, Cian warm and unmoving beside her. She wasn't sure what had jarred her awake, exactly---no, words, it had been words. Someone had been talking, garbled words in an unfamiliar voice, and they had brought her cruelly into consciousness again like ice water on her face.
But no one was awake in Mayfair Manor. The guests had departed and the residents were tucked into bed, sleeping soundly, even little Amadeo just outside of the bedroom door. No one in the gardens, no one under the glow of the lamps on the street, no uncle Michael smoking a cigarette in the kitchen or Julien pacing his study, not even a ghost drifting aimlessly through the room. Antha was quite alone and the house was disturbingly quiet. She arose with utmost care, making no noise or sudden movements to wake Cian, and slipped from the bed and into the first dress she plucked from the closet before escaping noiselessly into the hallway, up the stairs to the attic and then---
Antha collapsed halfway to the door in the back of the attic, her knees hitting the threadbare oriental carpet as her hands went to the sides of her head, clutching in her hair, biting her lip painfully on the sound that tried to emerge unbidden from her throat. Her head was splitting, her vision flashing with those white-hot stabs of pain, her heart beating frantically, blood rushing, and and all around her, everything changed. It was more or less the same really, still bore the same appearance of boxes and antiques, the same silvery moonlight streaming through the round window facing the front of the house, the same red and black and gold pattern with the same worn spots beneath her legs as her body failed to support her and she fell against it. It was the quality of the air that had morphed, the feel of it against her skin, in her lungs, as if the gravity of the world had just shifted, changed course and become thick, weighted, and her slight form was not capable of withstanding it.
Abomination.
There, that was it! That word again, the one that had woken her, that deep voice that had reached out from the great dark gulf of her sleep, contained within her own pained mind, and she was aware suddenly of where that gravity had shifted to, of a focal point hopelessly far in the distance that burst like a star into being. And she saw for a moment in that fleeting shift, that place in her head that was real, that the voice came from, and yet was not anywhere around Antha, the quick flash of crimson, the flutter of ebony lashes over those gaunt, blood red eyes before she was back, steady again in her own skin, regaining her breath and reeling from the sudden lack of pain shooting through her.
This was not harmless, she thought, sitting for a while there on the floor, this was not coincidental. She had known those eyes for almost as long as she had known she was going to die, pictured them when she had awoken screaming in the darkness and clung to Vikteren, they had burned their exact hue into her memory, and now...now she had seen them open.
Nicolae was there for several moments before she noticed him, standing at the top of the stairs with his eyes wide, panicked, his lips slack as if he didn't quite have control of himself. "You felt it too?" she whispered, the smallest little waves of sound, unable to meet his uncomprehending gaze, "That...shift."
"All of my vampires did," came the equally low, equally terrified whisper, "And Khayman and all of his vampires, and Atticus up in his tower and Singe in the castle below, but not the witches of the Talamasca. Not any witch, but you."
"My blood," she whispered hollowly, looking in a daze down at her hand, the flexing of her fingers in those last few ethereal moonbeams before dawn, "That shift, that power surge, it pulled on vampire blood."
"But what was it?" he said desperately, taking a small step towards her and then back, as if he were too afraid to be near to anything right then, "Was it another vampire? But...how? And why?"
"I can only think of one logical way a vampire could affect the blood of every other vampire. But please...please, big brother, tell me I'm wrong. If you can think of anything else at all---"
Nicolae had gone deathly still, the dim light left in his eyes vanishing. "The first vampire?"
The two were silent a minute longer, lost in their own heads, the gears of their minds grinding, trying to think of something else, anything else. "Vikteren," Antha said suddenly, quietly, rising with some difficulty to her feet to head for her original destination, grasping the corners of boxes for support along the way, "I need to see him. I have to talk to him. I---"
"He's coming for you, isn't he Evie? Whoever, whatever he is, whatever reasons he has, he's coming for you."
The girl stopped, glancing uneasily at her brother over her shoulder as her fingers touched gently, protectively at her stomach, her ring glimmering with the movement. "We knew it was coming," she whispered, "We always knew it was going to be something terrible and gruesome. Everything we've always known...it fits, Nicolae."
"I'll see what Khayman knows," Nicolae interrupted blankly, "And Atticus. Maybe they have some other idea, know something we don't."
Antha stepped through the door just as Nicolae vanished altogether with the last rays of moonlight, leaning against the door as she turned the lock and stepped into the airship hallway, shutting the door again with her back pressed against it, her eyes sharp, panicked, her breath a little too heavy, calling Vikteren's name. There was more than one thing wrong with the world at the moment, more than one danger, more than Rynn and the mysterious power shift, the awakening, and there was too much to protect.
You're going to be like me, she whispered in her own mind, closing her eyes, and something moved very slightly within her, listening. Your sister, she's going to be an innocent---as innocent as one can be in this family anyways---but you, my little darling, my son...you're going to be like me. I feel it in my blood. You're going to protect her and your family, you're going to control them, and you're going to claim the Mayfair throne as your own. But you have my blood in you, you know my mistakes. I never learned from them, so you must be the one to take the lessons. Again that small stirring, that terribly tiny movement that if she spread her fingers across her stomach she could just barely feel, bringing a little smile unbidden to her lips before she called Vikteren's name again.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

((This is what happens when you don't post in forever. -.- ))  

[Okimiyage]

Cian recognized insanity when he saw it, even in the dead. Perhaps especially so, for he had certainly witnessed more than his fair share of three-quarters-crazed ancestry whilst participating in the Calais tradition's labyrinthine rites. The immediate statement of the obvious that would have been performed by most men in his situation ('you're mad') was immediately dismissed. Of course she was; they all were. It was practically a family trait, like red hair or a knack for thaumaturgy. Bad blood and so forth, didn't they say? But he did not speak of this. Instead, the newly-wed folded his arms across his chest, and waited for the ghosts to stop bickering at one another. He tried not to think about his state of pantslessness, it just made things worse.
When it seemed they had finished:
"And good morning to you both, too." He waited a half-beat, hoping they might reveal their purpose in appearing to him and save him the trouble of an interrogation. When this strategy proved to no avail, Cian sighed, uncrossed his arms, leveled his gaze and raised one eyebrow. "Why have you come here? If your purpose is to incite my anxiety by alleging to Antha's past, I might remind you that my youngest sister was murdered at her sibling's hands. The Calais are certainly no stranger to blood magics; the ritual meant to revive our lineage by Antha's death was the product of centuries of family research. There are few horrors that you might've committed that would make me shy away now; I know damn well what I have signed up for in this." Cian's voice was steady, the inflection on his every syllable precise. "If your purpose is to simply malign the character of my brother, I know very well--most likely better than any Mayfair can claim--what he is capable of. We are each other's only living kin now, and there is a powerful magnetism in that; for nearly two decades, we clung to each other like drowning rats in that damn hollow mansion." He lowered his gaze, but he did not appear to be seeing anything of the luxurious carpeting that his eyes were directed upon. "He is still my brother, no matter; I know what he is, and I forgive him of it." Cian inhaled, lifted his head, and saw outwardly again. He did not speak the melodramatic promise which had crossed his mind, which he knew to be true. If Antha attempted to kill Rynn in front of him, he would defend his brother to the death. If Rynn attempted to kill Antha in front of him, he would defend his wife and children to the death. The least suicidal course of action was to lock himself in a closet and wait until this all blew over. But of course, Cian couldn't stand by idly while the two closest people he had remaining to 'family' went at each other's throats. "The one purpose you might which I would welcome is that of informing me where my wife has run off to. It's not often a husband wakes up the morning after his wedding to an empty bed."  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

For a moment---several, actually---Marquerite and Lestan Mayfair stood staring curiously at the boy, their figures statue still, as if they did not understand him or the things he said, and very nearly as if they had forgotten he was present. "Why have we come here?" Lestan repeated in that silky purr, quirking an amused eyebrow, "We live here, child. We are always here."
Marquerite, appearing like the swirl of cold breath beside him on the bed, skirts pooled around her, gave a great grin of her yellowed teeth, petting his curls with her sullied fingers. "Why should we seek to scare you off, cheri? You are here. You are legally ours. You belong to our blood, our curse, and this house nearly as much as we do, and to Antha nearly as much as her cousins do. Even if we ever sought to scare you off---"
"And why should we?" Lestan interrupted, taking the first graceful steps into the room, languidly taking in their furnishings, "The worst thing that could befall you is death, and being dead is not so bad. Not here."
"---it is a good deal too late for that, I imagine. But, oh, you asked about your wife, did you not?" She paused to laugh, her mouth covered with the back of her hand in an old mannerism that was unusual to children of the modern era. "She went to free her prisoner. You have already cost him days more of imprisonment than were intended. Terribly rude of you, you know."
"She went to the attic twenty minutes ago," Lestan responded shortly, interrupting his niece's amused pandering, "Just before the break of dawn. She fell with the vampire's awakening and stayed down for five minutes. She spoke with Nicolae for approximately two minutes and then went through the door in the back of the attic with his departure, at which point she was lost to us. Those of us amongst the disembodied that do not reside within the so-called 'airship' cannot tread upon it, nor peer into it." He paused, glancing off, and all at once Cian seemed invisible to him again. "Now look what you have done, Maggie.”
"My sincerest apologies," the woman giggled quite insincerely, and it was worth noting that the age apparent by her phantom features had begun to digress since Lestan's arrival, to turn the old hag into a prettier little creature with combed hair and properly mended clothes, fingers scrubbed clean. "But he wakes with everything, you know. Nothing like his cousins, that one...up with the sun, quietly, respectfully, and he sees all. The most boring Mayfair of them all."
With the knock on the door that sounded some split second later, the ghosts were gone as if they had never been, the room only a degree or two colder to prove they ever truly had been there. Feeling their departure, on the other side of the door Malakai gave the smallest wisp of a weary sigh and continued down the hall and downstairs.
"Don't let them bully you," came a voice from across the room, standing by the window fingering the lace curtains as the sun went streaming through the phantom form, "They like to do that with the outsiders. Tease them, scare them, toy with them, until either the victim grows too accustomed to it to pay any attention or otherwise perishes under the family curse." Turning, the familiar blue eyes in the face that was unfamiliar without it's wrinkles and veins twinkled and gave a little wink. "I've told them not to, but I'm discovering every day how boring it really is to be dead. Maybe by the time your children are grown, they'll be sighing and telling oncle Stefan not to toy with their visitors." With that, and the smallest chuckle, the phantom was gone and Cian was again alone in the bedroom, the house around him quiet but for the shuffling of Malakai, Michael, and Jacob in the kitchen, each setting about their morning rituals.
It was another hour before the other Mayfairs began to stir, dragging themselves groggily to the dining room table as Jacob went about setting it. Most of them---for Julien and Michael were the only ones present that were not Antha's cousins, the younger generation---clutched their heads or groaned or rested their foreheads against the tabletop and fell back to dozing. "You missed a hell of a party," Courtland murmured with mild coherence as Malakai brought Cian into the room, gulping down the glass of thick red brew he had requested for his head, "But I guess you had your own fun, didn't you?" And he grinned despite himself and the pounding of his head.
The table was already set and laid when Antha arrived some fifteen minutes later, uncharacteristically dressed for the day, her eyes glancing sharply around the room, inspecting her cousins in a way they did not quite understand. Whatever she took from it, clearly she was dissatisfied. "Bonjour," she greeted the family casually, going to her place at the head of the table opposite Julien, pausing first to lay a quick kiss on Michael's cheek and then to give Cian, who had been designated the seat beside her, the less familial version of his morning kiss, whispering knowingly in his ear, "De bon matin, mon cheri."
"Why are you dressed?" Courtland asked suspiciously, pausing with the forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and cutting his eyes at her, "It's not afternoon yet. There is no reason to be out of your pajamas right now. As a matter of fact, there's no reason to be dressed at all. As a matter of fact, I propose---"
"Absolutely no naked breakfasts," Julien murmured quickly, his eyes set on his morning paper, "As I keep telling you, and you keep choosing to ignore."
"I thought I would take Cian to the quarter," Antha answered offhand, taking the stack of mail Jacob handed her gracefully in her long fingers, the gems in her wedding ring glittering as they moved beneath the beams of light, "At the very least, he needs new clothes. All he has is the few things I had Jacob get him and Nicolae's discarded things." Her eyes flashed as she sorted through the stack of envelopes, scanning the return addresses and occasionally prying one open, glancing over the contents. Most of these she set aside in a separate pile, though one she did stop to pay proper attention to before handing it silently off to Courtland. Of the several cousins that glanced over his shoulder, only Jack seemed to understand the paragraph of gibberish upon the paper, his gaze flickering greedily over it before Courtland folded it neatly into a little square that he tucked into his pocket. "But then, that is entirely up to Cian. There is no lack of entertainment to be found today, certainly. David Talbot has asked us to the Talamasca motherhouse---keen to record whatever Atticus has missed in his report on the Calais family, no doubt---"
"How many Talamasca must vanish from the face of the earth before they learn not to hound our family members?" Armand sighed, lounging languidly in his chair, his arm draped across the back of it.
"---and Nicholas has sent invitations to the final night of his production of Julius Caesar tonight."
"And how much money will your vampire trapeze artist bleed from our vaults for this next production, Evie?" Julien asked sharply, his tone gone icy as he glanced from his paper to his niece, "I only ask because I thought perhaps I would be better off to simply cut out the middle man and pay him entirely in glitter."
"You are the one that insisted on overseeing all large transactions, oncle Julien," Antha replied with a matching easy coolness, her eyes flashing just as dangerously, "I hardly see the sense in putting yourself in that position if you are simply going to b***h about how I spend my money."
"That our family built over nearly a dozen generations."
"And left to me," Antha snapped just as the cousins all became quite fascinated with the plates before them.
"And that you throw away on these petty, sparkly displays of vampires flying across tents."
"I'll have anything to do with the arts," was Antha's easy reply, the plastic smile spreading viciously to her pretty lips until Julien finally tossed his paper down upon the table and excused himself from the table, followed shortly by Michael.
"So Cian," Courtland began in a cheery and much welcome change of topic, "I hear you met oncle Lestan and mad aunt Maggie this morning." It did not go entirely unnoticed that at the mention of Marquerite, Antha paled severely. "Precursors for our generation, you know. Most of the Mayfairs between us and them were offensively boring. Not one good scandal between them. Nothing that made it into the papers, anyways, and what's the point of doing something outrageous if no one's watching?"
"Oncle Lestan was the so-called prodigal son of the family," Armand explained, his gaze resting upon Cian, eyes flashing with the pleasure of family gossip, "Ran away in his teenage years and traveled the world on family funds, never failing to exceed his monthly allowance two-fold. He was twenty when he came home, and he became the greatest philanderer the city had ever known."
"But of course Marquerite---mad aunt Maggie, we call her---she was the really interesting one." The grin that crept across Courtland's face as he spoke reached from ear to ear, his eyes darkening dangerously. "It's an absolute miracle she was never locked up, Mayfair or not. She thought herself a scientist witch. She would lure people into the house or steal babies from the slaves and try to implant disembodied spirits into them. They locked her laboratory up tight when she died and no one ever spoke of it again, so imagine our surprise ten years ago when Antha and Nicolae are playing on the stairs and accidentally open it up. There were still preserved body parts in there, ones she had managed to mutate, adult bodies she had reanimated for a moment or two, mutated babies with stretched limbs---"
"If you will excuse me," Antha interrupted quite suddenly, rising quickly from her chair to all but flee up the stairs.
"Antha never did like to talk about mad aunt Maggie's laboratory," Courtland murmured as he stared after her, "She ran out screaming when they found it and was in such a panic that she fell down the stairs. It didn't hurt her too badly, just a few cuts and bruises, a sprain or two, but seeing that place made her sick for days, and she had nightmares for months."
"But one really must wonder," Armand interrupted in the same thoughtful purr, "Why the sudden renewed fear? Antha has been inspecting that laboratory and talking with Marquerite for years now, and then all of a sudden she jumps at her name."
They're getting warmer, Evie...
Upstairs, closed in her room, Antha merely pushed Courtland out of her mind, bringing her mental shields up as she crawled into the sheets that Jacob hadn't had the time to change yet, still tousled and imprinted with the scent of Cian's skin as she mentally beckoned for him. I'll make it worth your while, she promised oh so sweetly, words like silk against his mind.
 

[Okimiyage]

Cian was glad for the creak of another's weight on the floorboards outside, and the knock on the door that formally announced a visitors presence. After the ghosts had left--vanished, rather, for when he suspected the Mayfair phantoms would never abandon their haunt so easily--he had not had the will to return to bed. Instead he had forced himself to action, in order to block out the thoughts that threatened his peace of mind. The next half-hour was time kept by his preparations for the day, as he washed and dressed and sorted out Antha's and his own discarded clothes of the day before. He didn't want to think about what the ghosts had said. He didn't want to think, more-so, about what had been implied. What they might have meant by 'prisoner' and 'airship'--words as coded as child's play. He would have welcomed anything that took his mind away from these things. But when company called, Cian could not disguise his disappointment when it was not his new bride. "'Morning. Breakfast already?" he greeted Malakai. Without really expecting an answer, he went on, buttoning his shirt-cuffs as he descended the stairs. "I had visitors this morning in lieu of an alarm clock. Charming family tradition, really, ghosts. More people should keep them around. Who needs a hall filled with family portraits when you can have the spectral ancestors introduce themselves?"
The scene which met Cian, as he entered the dining room, made him stop in the door. Seeing even a single Mayfair in a state of dishevelment was a landmark moment, to ordinary citizens; an entire room full of them was enough to give their newest acquisition pause. Even looking as beat as Courtland did at the moment, he was still ruthlessly pretty. "Last night?" With a mischievous grin curling the corner of his lips, Cian shrugged. "It's not very good material for table conversation, I'm afraid. Whatever I could come up with would hardly be a match for your own speculations, certainly."
He crossed to the kitchen, snagging eggs from the fridge and two slices of whole wheat from the breadbox. His accomplishments in the kitchen were not, in general, of any note worth taking; it was more the ritual of preparation. He had been making this simple breakfast for himself since before he could remember; it was all but innate tradition, now, and no change of residence changed that.
When Antha arrived, the change in Cian was plain to see. He lit up in a way--he sat up straighter, his eyes pinned to her like a butterfly to a card. While he had been previously relaxed, content to concentrate on eggs and the low hum of conversation around him, her presence now filled him with energy. He returned her kiss, and smiled as she drew back, and held her eye for as long as she let him.
The newest member of the family was silent for most of the conversation, although the way his gaze flashed about the table showed that he was not inattentive. Antha seemed utterly unconcerned by Julien's protests; Cian was secretly gleeful. He'd heard tell of the circus's diabolically clever performances; if they lived up to their reputation, Julian's description of 'petty, sparkly displays' was an understatement of the grossest proportions. It caused an uncomfortable moment of confrontation between the two; Cian could understand the desire to divert attention from the unpleasantness, but Courtland had seemingly chosen the poorest of topics.
After Antha left, her husband was quiet, chewing his toast pensively. It was difficult to expect what he might have been thinking. His immediate response was to join Antha, but there was decorum to consider. When Courtland finished, he spoke. "You oughtn't have been surprised. Spirits have a way of showing things that the living would most like to keep comfortably hidden--the dead complain that there is so little else to entertain them." Cian returned the napkin in his lap to the side of the plate, and stood. "If you will excuse me--"
It wasn't a request; Cian left the room in long stride and took the stairs two at a time. What man would have dallied when Antha's voice called like a siren in his mind?
He recognized the small frame that bundled itself beneath the sheets, and stopped in the threshold. "Antha," he said. Antha, he whispered, and moved to join her. Sliding atop the bed, he drew back the shield of her coverlet just enough to see his bride's eyes, and leaned in close.

Love of my life, I must accuse you of toying with my affections.
I am unaccustomed to the 'honeymoon' phase of this relationship, but I was under the impression that it involved...
Cian didn't know how to put this. He paused, scrunching up his face in brief thought.
...not waking up alone the day after I get married. That was an unkind moment to sit through, especially with an audience.
He paused, tracing her brows with the very tip of his fingers, and then added:
"Your oncle told me where you were this morning. But not what that where was."  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

The moment the sheets stirred, lifting around her head, Antha's lips curved into a small, slow smile, her eyes gleaming brightly. “How did you like your first Mayfair family breakfast? It’s something of a ritual with us, some dozen or two half conscious Mayfairs seated around that great table in various stages of disarray. Family bonding, Julien calls it. All he and I ever do is bicker and my cousins and I hardly need to be any closer than we already are, it‘s just not safe---” Her eyes gave a brief devious twinkle, “---but regardless, we are great enthusiasts of family tradition. I hope we didn’t unnerve you.” By Mayfair standards, the Calais family had been terribly small and hadn’t given the impression of being especially close. (But then, perhaps it was a good thing that they did not bond the same way that Mayfair children did…) They were all a little edgy around Cian in that respect, those children to whom their common blood was absolutely everything, wondering how he was to transition from the small, isolated Calais family into such a tight knit family of such great proportions as the Mayfairs.
"I suppose I should have warned you before you married me," she murmured with a little sigh, reaching out to trace the curve of his jaw, brushing her fingertips lightly across his lips, "It's always business with me. It's inescapable, I'm afraid. There have been those that tried to keep up, but…" The smiled flashed rueful before those lips touched his, her slight figure shifting until it fit comfortably against his. "I did not mean to be gone so long," she whispered, infinitely soft, against his lips, "I went to a wild fey land where time holds no sway and emerged terribly long after I entered. I never intended to leave you to the mercy of an empty bed and my ancestral specters." And she kissed him again to apologize, picking gently at the cloth of his shirt, her nails tracing the little buttons. "Not that they won’t come again. They have this dreadful habit of lingering all over the place, and you happen to be a shiny new toy for them. A more interesting one than they’re used to, at that.” The girl could not contain the small laugh that came then, twining a lock of his hair around her pale finger before, quite suddenly, she shifted, rising up and swinging a leg across his waist, the sheets sliding down from around her shoulders. He was a terribly fitting prince for her kingdom, she thought, and it so desperately needed one since Nicolae had abandoned the post. Even if he had become something less enchantingly wild, less delightfully wicked, he was a terribly fitting match for the brat princess.
“But enough of that. There are hours between now and the business of the night and we, mon cheri, are newlyweds.” That gleam in her eyes darkened all at once, became something suggestive and devious as her fingers hooked around his belt. “And as such, there are expectations of us. All the more for our reputations, and I do hate to disappoint.”

“Cian…” It was hours later that Antha, nestled comfortably against her husband, the sheets gathered around her pale form, first broached the subject that neither of them wanted to speak of. “You do realize…even if he is your brother, and even if he has understandably taken leave of his senses, in all likelihood, Rynn will have to die.” There was something in her eyes then as she stared up at him through her lashes, something terribly earnest and straightforward. “Whoever is pulling his puppet strings, I would prefer to have his head. But Rynn is on a warpath, and he cannot be allowed to threaten this city’s delicate power structure.” She paused, and there came again that tiny stirring of power from within her. “Cian, I cannot let him threaten our children. I will kill him before I give him that opportunity.”
What followed next was not all that unusual to Antha. It was a flash, something like a daydream---
"Will I be able to wear ma mere's clothes one day?" There was a flutter, little chocolate colored curls swaying, lace clutched in tiny, pale hands.
"If father can bear it," came the responding thoughtful hum, a voice too small and fragile for the graceful, confident tone it carried. "Oncle Malakai certainly wouldn't be able to."
The Mayfair Manor attic was in disarray, boxes scattered across the floor, pieces of fabric spilling from them and trailing across the carpet. Some of them bore words marked in Julien's hand, 'Antha's dresses', 'Antha's coats', 'Nicolae's shirts'. The two small children that tiptoed around these things were quite similar in frame, slight and graceful, nymph children, certainly no older than seven or eight. The girl, dancing on tiny bare feet, gave the softest, dreamiest sigh. "I want to be lovely like her when I'm grown." She stopped before the mirror, casting aside the lace dress she had clutched to her figure---she didn't know it was the dress her mother had worn the night she had met Rynn Calais in the Talamasca motherhouse, otherwise it might have been burned---and lifting her long, glossy tresses, seeing how they looked this way and then that, making the Mayfair emerald appear all the more enormous strung about her tiny throat. She bore a resemblance to Antha, if it was not instantly striking, something about her sweet little mouth and soft cheekbones, the shape of her face. But the eyes...they were Antha's eyes through and through, the hue, shape, and nearly the size, only threaded with hints of gold.
"And you shall." The boy had something a little more stern about him, a dark and secretive aura, but all of Antha's easy grace in the small gestures of his hands, his circling footsteps, the bat of his long, dark lashes around eyes that mirrored perfectly the girl's. It made the white oxford shirt and black tie on his figure that much more ridiculous, meant for someone twice as tall as him, but he didn't appear to notice. Vanessa had dressed him in Nicolae's clothes and he would bear it with dignity.
He was less in Antha's image, though the resemblance was certainly there, but when he looked in the mirror, he saw the same thing Antha did---a disturbing resemblance to Rynn. Sebastien supposed it wasn’t too unusual, Rynn was his father’s brother after all, they shared the same genes. Yet every time he saw his own visage, the old stories came back to him, the horror of the Calais legacy, the war his uncle and mother had waged against one another. And Sebastien, being his mother’s prodigy, successor to her immense legacy, did not take insults against his mother lightly, no matter how long ago they came to pass. He idolized her too thoroughly.  

[Okimiyage]

It was hours later that Cian's fingers toyed with Antha's hair, and he drew her close to cup his side, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. "Your family was much as I expected," Cian said, with an idle shrug. "Actually, I imagined much worse. Seven-headed hydras stealing my toast, knocking over the sugar-bowl and the like. Comparatively, the proceedings were quite tame. I'm quite enchanted by the idea of acrobatic vampire circuses, as well."

And then she all but silenced him with her encroaching lips, and he took in air perhaps a little too swiftly, and revealed his vulnerability to her.
So it was with a little sigh in his voice, a little longing, that he whispered: "Liar. You were in the attic, weren't you? They told me so--the 'airship', they said." Cian sat up abruptly, and turned over her, locking her wrists to the mattress with his long, witch's fingers, and bringing his face so close as to share her breath but not quite touch lips, so close that she could not see both eyes at once. It was movement in the way of a practiced spider that had made such predatory moves so gracefully and so often before, but taken slowly, luxuriating in time, as so not to frighten his bride.
He drew her breath into his lungs, and moved to kiss her left temple very gently.

"Rynn is my brother. There are certain geases laid upon our bloodline that bind us completely to one another's defense. Our ancestors were not so--jovial--as your brethren here. We were, perhaps...a little neurotic." He sighed, and lowered his eyes. His lips traced the curve of her throat, the swell of her breast, as he arced and stretched his back in the manner of a well-bred cat, and then released her.
"But Antha, he is no threat. You're well-protected--the devotion of your guard is nigh-legendary--I can't imagine a situation where he could even come within arm's length of you." He paused, at a loss for the words to reassure her in this matter. With a sigh, Cian pushed an errant curl of hair from his field of vision. "Look, just--as long as you don't go hunting for him, I'll be happy. If he comes looking for you? I will defend you to the death, along-side the horde of vampires and Mayfairs and vampiric Mayfairs that I'm quite certain you have on speed-dial. Trust me, my little brother isn't capable of handling all of you at once."