Wicked Prayer (30 page)

“Wow,” the man said. “I’m gettin’ shivers up and down my spine!”

“And well you should,” Ella said, pushing to close the deal. “Because it was fate that brought you here tonight.”

The woman didn’t say a word.

The man did.

“Screw fate,” he said. “We just wanna get married.”

In the next room, behind closed chapel doors the color of dove’s wings, the nuptial clock was ticking.

The minister’s name was Brian Brunswick Cooke. He slipped a peppermint between his lips, hoping to mask the smell of Irish whiskey. Half-bagged, and this was only his fifth wedding of the day. He was way ahead of schedule.

But he looked fine. That was Cooke’s secret. White-haired and just this side of sixty, his appearance was deemed “distinguished” by almost everyone he encountered. As long as he didn’t slur his words, the shopworn homilies that were his stock and trade seemed nearly Shakespearean.

Certainly, a few cliches and a smattering of old-fashioned schmaltz was more than adequate for
this
audience. Cooke doubted that the male half of the company would hear a word he said. Talk about
n-e-r-v-o-u-s,
the boy-groom who stood before the altar had a poor complexion, and it seemed to Cooke that ominous new ridges of pimples were appearing on the lad’s face even as he sweated out the big moment.

The groom stared up the aisle as the music began. “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” Sweet Jesus, if Cooke had a free-pull slot machine token for every time he’d heard that one . . .

Or seen the wedding dress the bride was wearing as she came down the aisle carrying a bouquet of silk flowers.

Puffy hair, puffy body, puffy sleeves. Brian Brunswick Cooke sighed. Behind him, peace doves cooed in their cages. Above him, video cameras whispered, recording all for posterity. To one side, the still photographer snapped away.

Brian closed his eyes . . . searched for his
distinguished
inner
self

Tonight, the search was difficult.

Dear God, but he wanted a drink.

Johnny couldn’t believe the place. Even the lobby was outrageous. Man, it looked like a whorehouse run by some demented grandma. Gilt-edged crap everywhere, and little plaster cupids with bronze bows and arrows, and wallpaper patterned with flocked valentine hearts, and sachets.

Lots of sachets. Man, his sinuses were closing up. He didn’t
even
know how much of this shit he could take.

At least the little grandma behind the counter had stopped prattling on about fate and destiny. She slid a thick binder across the desk, opening it to reveal laminated pages with photographs. “Erik Hearse and Lilith Spain chose our Deluxe Double Happiness Package,” the grandma said. “It’s very popular . . . modestly priced, but
inclusive.
Most Vegas weddings last no more than fifteen minutes, but our package entitles you to a full hour in our chapel. It also includes a special peace dove ceremony, in which two snow-white birds are set free as the bride and groom celebrate their vows—”

“Forget the birds,” Johnny interrupted. “We don’t like
birds."

The woman’s eyebrows quivered, as if she didn’t quite understand, but Johnny didn’t have time to lay it out for her. There was too much waiting for him, dead ahead, too much that he needed to get his paws on
right fucking now.
He wanted to get that ring on Kyra’s finger, and he wanted his slice of that Crow power pie, and most of all he wanted to get to the heart of the matter.

His wedding night. Yeah. Kyra Damon, with his ring on her finger. Forget Erik Hearse and Lilith Spain. That was nothing but a prelim. This was the main event.

Kyra would be a tigress tamed, and Johnny would be the only man who’d even done that to her.

The only man who ever
could.

“Look,” Johnny said. “We’re in a hurry. We want to get married right
now.’’

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. There’s a couple in the chapel at the moment. They booked the Deluxe Double Happiness Package, and their ceremony has only just begun. The chapel won’t be free for at least another forty-five minutes—”

“We can’t wait that long,” Johnny said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing I can do about it. . . .”

Johnny reached under his coat, filled his hand, and shoved the .357 in the woman’s face. “I think there’s a whole lot you can do, granny.”

The woman closed her eyes, stood there shaking while Kyra locked the front door, hung a
CLOSED
sign in the window, and pulled the red velvet drapes tight.

Okay,
Johnny thought.
Things are kicking into gear now. Forget the Little Chapel of the Stars. Welcome to the Church of Johnny.

Plaster cupids stared down at him, aiming their bows in his direction. Frozen, astonished little plaster faces. The flocked valentine wallpaper seemed to glow—

Soft music spilled from behind the chapel doors.

“The Wind Beneath My Wings.”

In the time it took to say “I do,” Johnny’s anger went on the boil.

He listened to the lyrics. He couldn’t help himself

Lyrics about wings . . . and birds . . .

No way was he listening to
that
shit tonight.

Not here.

Because this was the Church of Johnny.

And, as far as Church was concerned, the deity had definitely arrived.

Dwayne looked so handsome in his burgundy tuxedo. Krystal thought so, anyway. She walked down the aisle, the music swelling
inside her. Dwayne couldn’t even look at her, he was so nervous. Or maybe she was just too beautiful . . .

Krystal felt that beautiful. The minister smiled at her. He looked so nice, so—what was the word?—
distinguished.

Krystal took another step . . . and then another, in perfect time with the music. This was the moment.
Her
moment. She’d waited for it for such a long time—

A loud
pop
sounded behind her.

That wasn’t right—it was way too early for champagne.

Another pop. Jesus, they were only supposed to get one bottle . . .
complimentary French champagne.
The second bottle was
fifty bucks
 
extra! No way Krystal was paying for that!

And, Jesus, she and Dwayne weren’t even married yet! They hadn’t even had the unity candle ceremony, or the peace dove ceremony! By the time they finished with that stuff, the champagne would be
way
flat!

No way Krystal was drinking flat champagne on her wedding day . . . complimentary or not! The stupid cow at the front desk was screwing up royally! And after Krystal had just put down nearly a thousand bucks on her father’s fucking MasterCard!

Krystal was
pissed.
She whirled, reversed course, started up the aisle.

“Wait!” Dwayne cried. “Krystal! You can’t leave me like this!”

Krystal ignored Dwayne. The dummy. She’d be back. But right now, she had to set things straight. She wasn’t going to have some fucked-up wedding with
way flat
champagne.

Just as she was about to reach for the gleaming brass doorknob, the big white doors banged open.

A king-sized goth berserker stood in the doorway.

“Is this the best man?” the photographer asked, clicking away.

“No way!” Dwayne said. “I don’t even know this guy!”

The giant held a smoking pistol in one hand. In the other he held Ella Valentine—or Ella Valentine’s tightly permed hair, anyway.

Ella screaming beneath it; “He’s going to kill us all!”

Krystal dropped her silk bouquet.

“Fuck
me,”
she said.

Brian Brunswick Cooke dropped his Bible.

He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t budge.

And the man with the gun was going crazy. He clubbed Ella Valentine unconscious, and then he came through the door—kicking the still photographer in the head when the poor man dared to snap a photo . . . shoving the chubby blond bride out of the way . . . pistol-whipping the pimple-faced groom when the lad tried to come to his intended’s rescue.

The intruder shot the stereo, and the music died. And then he strode up the aisle, raising his pistol as he came, and—

Brian closed his eyes.

Two shots rang out. Blood splattered Brian’s left hand. He opened his eyes. Snow was falling in the chapel. . . white and delicate—

No. Not snow.
Feathers.

“No fuckin’
birds
at this wedding!” the gunman roared, and Brian turned toward the little table beside the altar. The peace doves’ cage was a broken mess, washed with gore. The intruder had shot the poor little birds. They were just innocent creatures . . . innocent, like Brian himself. . . and they didn’t deserve to die—

“Preacherman!” the stranger called.

Oh, God,
Brian thought
.
Please save me.

“Preacherman! We want to get married!”

Oh, God,
Brian begged
.
I need a drink.

The man jammed his gun in Brian’s face. “You think you can do what I ask?”

The minister nodded quickly, desperately eager to please. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t say a word. He couldn’t think of a single
one.
Even the shopworn homilies had vanished from his memory, and he couldn’t quite catch his
breath.
He tried to suck wind, but his chest was a hard, unyielding knot, and—

“Whew!” the big man said, taking a step backward. “Take it easy on the whiskey. Preach . . .
and
the peppermints. Your breath could choke a leprechaun!”

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Brian stuttered, before he realized the words were even on his lips.

“You believe in Satan, Preacher?”

“Y-yes ... of course I do.”

“You worship him?”

Brian stiffened as if he’d been slapped. He stared into the gunman’s wild eyes, searching for an answer. Only two came to mind. One was right and one was wrong, and if Brian gave the wrong one, God only knew what the man would do to him—

No, there was a third answer.
A perfect
answer.

“I’m
nonsectarian!”
 
Brian exclaimed.

The big man laughed, slapped Brian on the shoulder.

“Good answer. Preach. But I ain’t gonna get hitched by any fence-sitter.”

“Wait,” Brian said. “I can do whatever you like ... I can read whatever you want me to read. We have a wide selection of services available ... a Wiccan service, a Druid prayer . . . and I’m sure one of them . . . oh, God . . . I’m sure one of them would be appropriate—”

“Sounds like you need a drink, Preacherman.”

“Oh, yes,” Brian said, reaching for his whiskey.

The big man slapped the flask out of the minister’s hand. “I didn’t say you could
have
a drink. I just said you
need
one.”

“I ... I don’t understand—”

“You don’t have to understand. Preach. All you have to do is stand there, and hold open a book for us, and keep your trap shut. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Yes. I can hold a book. And I can keep my trap shut. I can definitely do that—”

“Liar.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian said, suddenly realizing his mistake. “I really
can
keep my trap shut. Just give me another chance.”

The big man shook his head. “There ain’t no second chances in the Church of Johnny.”

Brian didn’t know what the big man meant by the last comment, but he didn’t have time to think about it. Before he realized
hat was happening, the gunman slapped a couple strips of duct tape over Brian’s mouth . . . and then he shoved a weathered tome into Brian’s trembling hands, a tome that was warm to the touch, as if it had a pulse of its own . . . and the minister longed to drop the book but he couldn’t—he held tight to it while the stranger fastened a studded leather collar around Brian’s skinny neck.

Finally, the stranger took a withered shrunken head from his pocket and threaded its hair through a chromed loop on very same collar. Brian stood there—stock still, stiff—fingers locked around the unholy book, still unable to move an inch.

“All right,” the big man called. “We’re ready in here.”

A woman came through the chapel doors. Brian Brunswick Cooke had never seen her like . . . not in
this
place. The bride was stunning, a black vision, and she moved like something wild, a creature who could never be tamed by the rough hand of man or God— “Settle down, Christian,” came a voice floating up from under Brian’s chin. “Your heart keeps pounding like that, and you’re liable to catapult me straight through one of those stained glass windows.”