threshold.
It’s clear the Crusaders had optimistically set everything up in advance, and there’s an air of anxious urgency. Now that they’d committed to the experiment, they’re anxious to see if it will bear results. All the furniture has been removed from the room, but for a white-draped alter that is shaped suspiciously like a debate-team podium. On it rests a pair of holy blades.
As if I wasn’t dreading what was going to happen enough.
Marked on the floor surrounding the altar is a large chalk circle surrounded by ornate, twisting symbols I can’t begin to decipher. The delicate lines twist and swirl, spiraling outward in a design that looks like it should be done in henna. The posters on the wall and equipment lining the shelves declare the room’s more standard use as a science lab, which makes perfect sense. This ceremony is more science experiment than wedding.
All Crusaders not currently on assignment—mostly from the medical wing, judging by the number of bandaged limbs and crutches—cram into the small room and are pressed against the walls to allow enough space for the ceremony. Their uneven gaits, wrapped wounds, and the generable disreputableness that characterize the Crusaders’ style make them look more like a mummy invasion than a wedding party. The mood, also, is not the celebratory joviality typical of weddings, but rather one of the bated-breath optimism, the hope-for-the-best-prepare-for-the-worst bracing of family members waiting for news in an ER.
Armand already stands beside the altar with Crusader Puchard. Graff, as lead perpetrator of this farce, stands just outside the circle and the Sarge joins him. They both watch Armand, their distrustful gaze suggesting they expect him to make a run for it now that his chains have been removed. They have no need to worry. The satisfied gleam in his eye says he’s not going anywhere.
His mouth lifts in a triumphant smile when he sees me. “Ah, there’s my blushing bride,” he murmurs as Jo and I join them.
I ignore him. “Remind me again, Jo, what happens if I kill him?”
“Agony for all eternity,” she says, sounding as dismayed as I feel.
“Ah. Right. Well, maybe we should make him wear that on a T-shirt or something.”
“Ouch.” He rubs his chest as if I’d stabbed him there. I wish. “Come on, Meda. Let’s let bygones be bygones. Bury the hatchet so to speak.”
I just give him a look. It’s pretty apparent where I want to bury the hatchet. I might be marrying him, but I have no intention of being caught in his snare. Not again.
I know I have a weakness for Armand. It does no one any good to deny it. It’s there, some fault line in my character, which could crack me wide open if I’m not careful.
Hey, even diamonds have flaws.
My only option is to avoid him as much as possible. We’ll be wed and bound by Crusader magic, so I can’t avoid him entirely, but Jo said it takes weeks of separation before your power starts to drain away, then months before the flow of power out is replaced by a flow of pain in . It sucks, but if I only need to be near Armand for a few days every few months, I’ll have time to guard myself, to shore up my inherent weakness where he’s concerned. Plus the Crusaders can bind and gag him when I’m in his presence.
They owe me that.
He thinks he’s won, but he has forgotten that I never lose.
“I don’t know what you’re so mad about,” he says, disgustingly cheerful. “Or need I remind you that you’re the one who left me to die.”
“You’re the one who shouldn’t forget it,” I say sweetly.
Puchard interrupts our exchange. “Beauregard.” He nods pointedly outside the circle. She gives me one more apologetic look before stepping carefully over the chalk art, joining the mummified wedding guests. The tension in the room heightens.
“Hold hands,” Puchard orders. I hesitate; taking his hand feels somehow irrevocable. I feel flushed, my heart suddenly racing.
It’s clear the Crusaders had optimistically set everything up in advance, and there’s an air of anxious urgency. Now that they’d committed to the experiment, they’re anxious to see if it will bear results. All the furniture has been removed from the room, but for a white-draped alter that is shaped suspiciously like a debate-team podium. On it rests a pair of holy blades.
As if I wasn’t dreading what was going to happen enough.
Marked on the floor surrounding the altar is a large chalk circle surrounded by ornate, twisting symbols I can’t begin to decipher. The delicate lines twist and swirl, spiraling outward in a design that looks like it should be done in henna. The posters on the wall and equipment lining the shelves declare the room’s more standard use as a science lab, which makes perfect sense. This ceremony is more science experiment than wedding.
All Crusaders not currently on assignment—mostly from the medical wing, judging by the number of bandaged limbs and crutches—cram into the small room and are pressed against the walls to allow enough space for the ceremony. Their uneven gaits, wrapped wounds, and the generable disreputableness that characterize the Crusaders’ style make them look more like a mummy invasion than a wedding party. The mood, also, is not the celebratory joviality typical of weddings, but rather one of the bated-breath optimism, the hope-for-the-best-prepare-for-the-worst bracing of family members waiting for news in an ER.
Armand already stands beside the altar with Crusader Puchard. Graff, as lead perpetrator of this farce, stands just outside the circle and the Sarge joins him. They both watch Armand, their distrustful gaze suggesting they expect him to make a run for it now that his chains have been removed. They have no need to worry. The satisfied gleam in his eye says he’s not going anywhere.
His mouth lifts in a triumphant smile when he sees me. “Ah, there’s my blushing bride,” he murmurs as Jo and I join them.
I ignore him. “Remind me again, Jo, what happens if I kill him?”
“Agony for all eternity,” she says, sounding as dismayed as I feel.
“Ah. Right. Well, maybe we should make him wear that on a T-shirt or something.”
“Ouch.” He rubs his chest as if I’d stabbed him there. I wish. “Come on, Meda. Let’s let bygones be bygones. Bury the hatchet so to speak.”
I just give him a look. It’s pretty apparent where I want to bury the hatchet. I might be marrying him, but I have no intention of being caught in his snare. Not again.
I know I have a weakness for Armand. It does no one any good to deny it. It’s there, some fault line in my character, which could crack me wide open if I’m not careful.
Hey, even diamonds have flaws.
My only option is to avoid him as much as possible. We’ll be wed and bound by Crusader magic, so I can’t avoid him entirely, but Jo said it takes weeks of separation before your power starts to drain away, then months before the flow of power out is replaced by a flow of pain in . It sucks, but if I only need to be near Armand for a few days every few months, I’ll have time to guard myself, to shore up my inherent weakness where he’s concerned. Plus the Crusaders can bind and gag him when I’m in his presence.
They owe me that.
He thinks he’s won, but he has forgotten that I never lose.
“I don’t know what you’re so mad about,” he says, disgustingly cheerful. “Or need I remind you that you’re the one who left me to die.”
“You’re the one who shouldn’t forget it,” I say sweetly.
Puchard interrupts our exchange. “Beauregard.” He nods pointedly outside the circle. She gives me one more apologetic look before stepping carefully over the chalk art, joining the mummified wedding guests. The tension in the room heightens.
“Hold hands,” Puchard orders. I hesitate; taking his hand feels somehow irrevocable. I feel flushed, my heart suddenly racing.
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