The Devil's in the Details (3 page)

At the same time, if I refused to handle the arrangements, my mother would surely get pissed. I’d be forced Down Under, into eons of service as Hades’s chief harlot.

I
had
to do it.

And maybe, just
maybe
, if I pulled it off, my mom would be so busy calling the shots Down Under that she might miss the magazine article and the all-important fact that I’d turned my back on my birthright.

Hey, it could happen.

I held tight to the teeny tiny thread of hope and was about to pop some Life Savers into my mouth to pacify my sweet tooth when the cell phone in my pocket started vibrating.

I wasn’t going to answer it. That’s what I told myself, particularly when I saw the black raven icon on the caller ID and realized it was my cousin Portia.

Portia was the youngest of Aunt Bella’s brood, meaning her demonic specialty was being spoiled-ass rotten. She was Hell’s version of a mean girl, i.e., she loved Gucci, gossip, and getting her way.

I didn’t want to talk to her right now. But if I didn’t pick up, she was sure to fabricate a scandalous reason as to why I’d avoided her call.

“I’m really busy right now,” I said when I answered the phone. “Can I call you later?”

“No can do. I’m about to have some collagen injected into my lips and I won’t be able to move them for a few hours.”

“I’ll text,” I offered, but she wasn’t listening.

“I heard from Trisha, who heard from Sally, who heard from Lara, who heard from Beth, who heard from Aunt Levita that your mom said she paid you a visit today. Word is there are going to be wedding bells in the near future.”

Welcome to
My Big Fat Demon Wedding
.

“Not wedding bells. Maybe a heavy metal guitar riff or a gloomy organ,” I said, remembering my mom’s minimal list of must-haves. “Mom’s leaning toward dark and sinister for her theme.”

“I knew it! Auntie
is
tying the knot. Mother thought it was a trick, but then Auntie Levita said Auntie Lillith said you were planning the wedding for her. A
real
wedding. Imagine that. So when is it? When’s the big day?”

“There won’t be one if I don’t get moving with the plans.”

“But—”

“Talk later.” I hit the kill button before she could fire off another question. I’d already confirmed my mom’s announcement. I wasn’t going to leak any details. If ma wanted my aunts to know when, where, and what time, she would tell them herself or send them invites. This was her big news to spread, not mine.

I
so
didn’t want to be caught in the middle of an all-out demonic war.

I was sliding the phone into my pocket when it vibrated again. Talk about pigheaded. Portia just didn’t give up.

I was about to hit
Ignore
when I saw a giant margarita glass dancing on my display: it was my best bud, Blythe.

Blythagamamia Stephenolopolis, aka Blythe Stevens. Forget causing droughts and stirring earthquakes. Blythe was a lower-level demon responsible for tempting humans on a more day-to-day basis. Her cover? A hot-to-trot party animal who made being bad look really,
really
good. She’d been a Hooters girl for the past few years until she’d saved enough tips to open her own limo service. Now she cruised the Bayou City all night in a hot-pink stretch Hummer full of partygoers eager to drink and dance and sin the night away.

The thing was, Blythe had long since tired of the endless nightlife. Like me, she wanted more out of her existence. Unlike me, she could actually achieve her dream without finding herself doomed to Hell. There were just too many of the lower-tier demons to keep track of when the higher-ups (Mommie Dearest among them) were focused solely on the push-pull of power at the corporate level.

Blythe was now in her fourth year as an undergrad at the University of Houston, specializing in early education. She wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. While I totally supported her dream (I’d quizzed her for her last exam), I couldn’t help thinking she was about to trade one hell for another.

We’re talking a room full of screaming five-year-olds.

“What up?” she asked when I pressed the talk button.

“I’m about to start the reception.”

“I didn’t mean
what up
at this exact moment. I meant
what up
as in
what big catastrophe is about to consume your entire existence?
”

“I guess good news travels fast.”

“This is more like tabloid news, like when that woman in Kansas gave birth to the three-headed baby.”

“Except this is true.”

“Which explains why you sound so emo right now.”

“I’m not depressed. I’m scared.” There. I’d said it. The desperation that I’d been fighting crept back into my voice. “She showed
up here, Blythe. Right
here
. What if she’d caught me all misty-eyed, watching the bride walk down the aisle? She would have yanked me back to Hell faster than you can pop the cork on a champagne bottle.”

“But she didn’t see you, which means your secret is still safe.”

“For now. But with me as her wedding planner, we’ll be together nonstop. Plus she wants all this dark and creepy stuff, and I don’t know if I can pull it off.”

“Sure you can. You’re a demon. You majored in dark and creepy.”

“Yes, but this is a
wedding
.”

“Satan’s wedding. Just keep that in mind, do a creepy spectacular job, and you’ll be fine. She’ll say
I do
and then she’ll be so focused on her new power trip that she’ll forget all about you. The article will come out, your business will quadruple, and everyone will live creepily ever after.”

“And what if she doesn’t forget about me? I have a bad feeling about this. A really bad feeling.” I spent the next thirty seconds angsting to Blythe until my phone beeped again with an urgent text message. I said good-bye and stared at the display. My cousin Monique.

Monique was Aunt Levita’s oldest and the Martha Stewart of the Damon clan. She planned and primped and pulled off most of the family get-togethers, which explained why I ignored the
CALL ME
!
blazing on my screen.

The big plus of being a wedding planner—besides the endless supply of wedding cake—was that I spent my weekends working, hence I had an excuse to miss most family functions.

Namely my cousin Hester’s baby shower scheduled for next Saturday.

“Hip-hip-hooray!”

The cheer came from the ceremony room full of guests rather than yours truly, and I knew it was time to get back to work. I slid
my phone into my pocket a second before the double doors swung wide and the guests spilled out to head upstairs.

The second-floor cocktail area filled up in the blink of an eye, and just like that I found myself neck-deep in wedding chaos. A few of the kitchen helpers had called in sick, so I dived in and started reloading hors d’oeuvre trays.

Okay, maybe I didn’t need to worry about my mother after all. At the rate things were going, I’d be dead from exhaustion before the night ended. Who cared about tomorrow?

“What’s wrong with you?” Andrew, the other half of the dynamic dude duo, asked when he tracked me down in the back kitchen a half hour later, a concerned look on his face.

For the record, Andrew hated all things Brad, except the actor’s last ensemble at the Oscars. His fantasy man? Sean Connery à la James Bond.

“You look totally freaked,” he told me.

Damned would be more like it. “Sue and Eli got the flu,” I said as I finished reloading a platter of Swedish meatballs and handed it off to one of the servers. “I’m swamped.”

“I’m not talking about that. Too much work makes you wired and cranky, not depressed. You look like someone just canceled
Cupcake Wars
.”

I shrugged. “New client.”

“And the problem is?” He seemed to think. “Holy crap. She’s a bridezilla. That’s it, isn’t it?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “Please tell me she isn’t another Delaney Farris.”

Delaney was our current bridezilla and the reason I’d popped two Valium last week despite my strict Just Say No policy.

“She’s not a bridezilla.”

“Thank God.”

“She’s a momzilla.” My gaze collided with his. “My mother is the one getting married.”

While Andrew wasn’t privy to the whole Satan thing, he knew that my mother and I didn’t have the closest relationship. He also knew that she was controlling and unsupportive and impossible to please. And that she drove me nuts whenever we spent more than five minutes together.

“I helped my mom plan her last wedding,” he offered, “and that turned out just fine. Of course, it was number four in less than eight years and we already had the routine down, but still. I made it. Even if I did want to slit my wrists by the time the reception rolled around.” When I blinked against the sudden burning in my eyes, he rushed on, “But that’s to be expected. That’s what moms do. They drive us crazy. And insult any and every boyfriend we bring home. And try to make us wear peach when, clearly, peach is
so
over.”

“She made you wear peach?”

He nodded. “With a lime-green cummerbund.”

And I thought my mom was the Devil.

Andrew left to check on the entrées, and the next fifteen minutes passed in a frantic blur of mini quiches and spicy chicken wings. I was just handing off yet another overloaded tray when Burke’s frantic voice echoed over the headset.

“Nine-one-one!” he shrieked. “We’ve got a disaster in the reception ballroom.”

“Missing place card?”

“Missing body part.”

Panic bolted through me and my first thought was
ma!
She’d been known to rip apart a man or two in her day. A phone call from one of my aunties had probably sent her into a mad rage before she’d left the building and she’d yanked the arm off some poor, unsuspecting guest. I strained my ears for the tormented wail of a victim and heard only a synthesizer rendition of “Like a Virgin.”

Close enough.

“Which body part?” I’d seen a severed leg get reattached on an episode of
Grey’s Anatomy
last season. Have I mentioned I’m sort of a TV junkie?

“The head.”

Slightly more complicated, but still doable, according to Discovery Channel’s
Amazing ER Wonders
.

At least that’s what I was telling myself. Better than facing the cold, hard truth: my career was sinking faster than the
Titanic
.

“And if we don’t hurry up, we’re going to be missing a tail too,” Burke added.

Oh, no.
Not the tail too—wait a second. “The victim has a tail?”

“Not anymore. It’s melting right in front of me. I told the banquet manager not to put any of the hot foods near the ice sculpture and what did he do? He used the thing as the friggin’ centerpiece for the carving station. There are heat lamps
everywhere
.”

A wave of relief swept through me. “You’re talking about the ice sculpture.” Followed by a rush of
holy shit
. “You’re talking about the
ice sculpture
!
My
ice sculpture!”

As in the full-size replica of an African mountain lion commissioned in honor of the bride and groom, who were going on safari for their honeymoon.

I’d gone through Hell—no pun intended—to find an ice carver skilled enough to do the job. Forget the Yellow Pages. I’d convinced an old buddy of mine, Agarth, master swordsman and demon of dismemberment, to use his skills for good by promising to put in a supportive word for him with Blythe. Agarth had lusted after Blythe for centuries now. Of course, she couldn’t stand him, since his idea of an affectionate token had been a human head on a stick last Valentine’s Day. But hey, at least he’d gotten her
something
. I, on the other hand,
had spent the entire evening watching
American Idol
and stuffing my face with a box of Godiva that I’d bought for myself.

To Agarth’s credit, he’d outdone himself on the lion. He’d delivered the finished product that morning and I’d known instantly that my bride and groom were going to love it.

Crap!

I reached the ballroom in time to see Andrew, Burke, and a handful of waiters frantically moving the silver serving dishes away from the now headless lion. Water drip-dropped from the nub that had once been the tail. The body looked emaciated compared to the fierce beast of earlier.

“Maybe we can tell everyone it’s an abstract sculpture,” Burke offered as he reached for a serving pan full of roasted chicken breasts. “We can say each person is supposed to have their own interpretation of what type of animal it is.”

I grasped at that kernel of hope for a nanosecond before Andrew’s shriek jerked me back to reality. “Are you insane? No one would buy that. This is a disaster.” He snatched up a platter of ham and thrust it into a passing waiter’s arms.

“It was a surprise anyway,” I reminded myself.

The
surprise. I always tried to do something special for each of my brides. Sort of a thank-you for entrusting me with their special day. For the Altman wedding, I’d had a restored Dodge Charger (their first-date car) show up to take them to the airport. For the Lancaster wedding, I’d brought in a saxophone player (the groom had proposed at a jazz club) to play their first dance.

Did I mention that I’m a hopeless romantic?

I forced the tears aside. “Let’s get it out of here before cocktail hour is over and everyone moves this way.” My mind raced. “Maybe we can do some sort of fruit arrangement instead.” They
were
health nuts with a weakness for fresh-squeezed juice.

Okay, so I’m an eternal optimist too.

I hefted what was left of the head into my arms and made a beeline for the kitchen. I’d just dumped the melting ice into the massive sink and was heading back out into the foyer when I saw him.

Tall. Dark. Devilishly handsome.

He had short dark hair and vibrant green eyes. A black T-shirt hugged his broad chest, and a pair of faded jeans clung to his sinewy thighs as he walked toward me. A rip in the thigh played peekaboo with every step, giving me a glimpse of tanned, hair-dusted skin. Scuffed black boots completed the look and made me think rough, tough biker instead of wedding guest.