"It fit you perfectly." Jeannie still couldn't get over it. We had just gotten back to the mansion. "Didn't you say you're getting married in a few days? You really lucked out. Whoever heard of an off-the-rack wedding dress that didn't need alterations?"

"Proof that it's The Gown For Me. Thanks again. If you hadn't found it, I never would have thought to ask for such a thing."

"No need to thank me, my motives were purely selfish. That's three hours of my life I didn't have to waste in that taffeta hellhole. Lara, go find your bag and get ready for bed." She turned to me. "We grabbed one of the bedrooms on the third floor, is that all right?"

"Sure. There's plenty of room up there." I glanced at my watch. Nine o'clock. I was giving serious thought to flipping through the Book of the Dead. But I was also afraid. The last time I'd tried such a stunt, I'd turned into a truly awful bitch for the better part of the evening. Hurt my friends. Hurt Sinclair. It had taken me a long, long time to forgive myself.

And there was Jeannie and Lara to think about. Michael hadn't left them in my care so I could attack them after reading the wrong chapter in the vampire bible.

Worse: the Book didn't have an index, or even a table of contents. There was no way to look anything up. I'd have to flip through it-skim as much as possible-and hope I stumbled across something helpful.

On the upside? The Book was never wrong. It had successfully predicted me, Sinclair, my powers, and come to think of it-

"My baby," I said out loud, ignoring Jeannie's curious look. How did it go? "And the Queene shalt noe a living childe, and he shalt be hers by a living man." Yeah. That was more or less it. When Sinclair had told me at the time, it had depressed the hell out of him. He assumed it meant I'd get knocked up by someone else. But I "knew" a living child who was mine by another man. . . my father.

So the Book of the Dead had been right about a baby. It also foretold that Sinclair and I were supposed to be the king and queen for a thousand years. Did that mean I could quit worrying? That everything would work itself out?

(Beth)

"What?"

"Betsy?"

"What?"

"Your purse is ringing."

I glanced at the table where we habitually tossed our purses, wallets, and keys. Jeannie was right. My purse was ringing. I opened it and grabbed my cell.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me. Whoa, you actually answered your cell!"

"Hi, Jess, and yes I did. What's up?"

"I was wondering how the dress shopping went."

"Awesomely."

"I'm pretty sure that's not a word."

"Who cares? I found it."

"Great! It's still cream, right? You stayed away from the pure whites?"

"Yeah, and-"

"Great. Come on over to the hospital, will you? I've got something for you."

"You mean right now?"

"No, I mean next month. Yeah, now."

I glanced at my guests, who I assumed were more interested in going to bed than running around the oncology ward at this hour. I covered the bottom half of the phone. "Do you guys mind if I run out for a bit?"

"No," Jeannie yawned. Lara was already sleepwalking toward the stairs, a toothbrush clenched in one fist.

"Okay, Jess," I said. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"If this is an ambush so Nick can shoot me in the head," I announced, walking into her room, "I'm going to be very upset."

"He went home to crash in a proper bed for a couple of hours. I practically had to call Security to get him out of here."

"Well. He's worried about you, the fascist."

"He'll get over this latest, uh, wrinkle." Jessica didn't look-or sound-at all sure of herself. In fact, she looked generally ghastly. The new round of chemo was not being kind. And as I'd said, Jessica couldn't afford to lose any weight. But she was smiling and had an expression on her face I knew well: Jessica had a secret.

"You mean the whole mind-rape thing? He hates me. And Sinclair."

Jess didn't bother denying it; we'd been friends for too long to take refuge in false comfort. "But he loves me. We'll figure something out. First things first. I've got your wedding present."

She opened the drawer to her right and took out a shoe box wrapped in heavy white paper and topped with a pale blue bow.

I smiled in anticipation. Jessica was rich and had great taste. Even better, she knew what I liked. I plucked off the bow and stuck it to her forehead, ripped off the gorgeous paper, and flipped the lid off the box.

And stared. Inside the box were a pair of Filippa Scott Rosie bridal shoes in the exact shade of my dress (the cream-colored part, that was). I knew she hadn't bought them for less than four hundred bucks. I also knew they were handmade with duchesse satin, with a padded foot bed that meant even with three-inch heels, they'd be comfortable. And the slim bow across the front was just the right touch.

"Oh my God," I said.

"I know," Jessica said smugly, reclining in her hospital bed like a goddess being fed grapes.

"They're perfect."

"I know."

I burst into tears.

"Whoa. Hey!" Jess shot upright, then gagged, and for a minute I thought she'd barf on me while I wept into the shoe box. We both struggled to control ourselves, but only Jessica won the battle. "This really wasn't the reaction I was going for."

I cried harder.

"Betsy, what's wrong? Is it Nick? We'll figure something out. We're going to have to. But I don't think he'd really try to hurt you."

"It's Nick," I sobbed, hiding my face with the box. "It's everything."

"What everything?" So I told her.