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  Options away from Ben. Some far away.

  He looked up then. Gave me a sad smile.

  I jerked my eyes away. Missed a step and nearly went down. I realized Whitney and her father had stopped moving. With infinite dignity, the elder DuBois placed his daughter’s hand in Kit’s.

  It’s real. My God, it’s real.

  Tears gleamed in my father’s eyes. His happiness filled me, too.

  Whitney’s head whipped around. She gave me an exasperated look. “Tory!”Suddenly, everyone was looking at me. I was supposed to be doing something.

  “Oops, sorry!” I dropped to a knee and smoothed Whitney’s train, then hustled up the altar’s three steps to my spot on the left, facing the assembly.

  Wood groaned beneath my feet, the ancient platform dipping a fraction.

  I shuffled a step to keep my balance.

  Accidentally locked eyes with Chance.

  He was sitting in the second row on the DuBois side, black hair slicked back, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. Chance’s tuxedo clearly wasn’t a rental, a classic James Bond number with a silk tie and cummerbund—he’d once said that vests were for bartenders. Ella sat beside him, looking gorgeous in a sleek lavender cocktail dress.

  Chance smirked. Nodded. Ella’s smile, at least, seemed genuine.

  So much has changed.

  Dr. Allen mounted the first step, turned to bless Kit and Whitney as they stood together at the foot of the altar. I wobbled in my heels as the platform shifted slightly.

  Chance could get under my skin without even trying. Our alliance had been pressure-forged like a diamond, but there were times when I still didn’t know what to make of him. Were we friends? Good friends? Frenemies?

  We’re no longer pack, that’s for sure.

  Did he know that my friends and I had evolved a second time?

  That some powers still flowed on Morris Island?

  I couldn’t say, but I fervently hoped not, for everyone’s sake. If experience had taught me anything, it was this: the fewer people who knew my secrets, the better.

  Chance and I had barely spoken in the months since our escape, a necessary cooling-off period for both sides. Plus, though Ben had mellowed considerably since we’d started dating, any mention of Chance resurrected his scowl. Understandable.

  My heart lurched. I felt eyes on the back of my head.

  No, more personal. Inside my head.

  I pivoted slowly to avoid notice. Spotted Ben glaring at Chance, and making very little effort to hide it. They hadn’t been in the same place since Ben and I got together, but today had been unavoidable.

  I detected a flurry of sendings from Shelton and Hi, trying to put out the fire.

  Ben ignored them at first. Then he noticed me watching.

  I don’t like how he’s looking at you.

  Ben, this is my father’s wedding. Tighten up.

  Ben flinched. Taking a deep breath, he gave me a nearly imperceptible nod, schooling his face to stillness. But I could feel his anger burning white-hot.

  We need to keep those two apart, Hi sent, feeling a need to state the obvious.

  For his part, Chance seemed indifferent to Ben’s ire. He patted Ella’s hand, whispering something in her ear that evoked a laugh. Over her shoulder, his gaze found mine again.

  Something hid there. What, exactly, I had no idea. Interest? Mockery? Challenge? Maybe all three. Then the window shuttered as Chance snapped his trademark wink.

  Which I hated.

  He wasn’t hitting on me. I didn’t think. But casual flirtation had masked deceptive agendas in the past. I’d been hoping we were beyond that. Now? I couldn’t say.

  Just how he likes it. Damn him.

  Dr. Allen mounted the last two steps, strode to the archway, and then turned to address the congregation.

  A tiny vibration tickled my heels.

  Uh, guys?

  I glanced across the platform to see Shelton, brow furrowed as he squinted down at the wooden slats beneath his feet. You hear that? Something sounds . . . off.

  What is it? I asked. Though our powers had migrated to being nearly equal in most aspects, we each still possessed an area of greater acuity. Shelton could hear like a bat. If he said something didn’t sound right, I paid attention.

  I’m not sure. Shelton said, straining to listen. But every time someone moves, there’s a . . . a scraping . . . or . . .

  Ben looked down at his feet. The platform is wobbling. I felt it when Tory stepped up, but it got worse when the priest stepped up.

  Dr. Allen’s voice rang out, beginning the service.

  Hi nodded toward Kit and Whitney at the foot of the altar. What happens when they join us up here?

  Shelton discretely tapped a heel against the polished oak flooring. It’s a grinding noise, like sandpaper. Wood on wood, maybe. I . . . uh . . . guys, I think it’s getting worse.

  Dr. Allen intoned a blessing. The audience repeated his words.

  Kit and Whitney mounted the first step.

  Suddenly, I heard it, too—a faint tearing, grating sound from under our feet. I thought the noise emanated from the center of the platform, beneath the carved archway. Right where the happy couple was supposed to stand and make their vows.

  Kit and Whitney ascended the second step.

  The scraping intensified. I felt a sickening vibration in my toes.

  The bridesmaid on my left quirked her head. Glanced down at her feet.

  The floor’s trembling over here, Hi sent from the opposite side of the archway.

  Kit and Whitney reached the top of the platform.

  I watched in horror as the entire structure bowed beneath their added weight.

  A sharp crack. Then another.

  The reports released me like a starter’s pistol.

  “Wait!” I shouted, waving my hands as I bounced forward. Startled, Whitney stumbled backward, only her grip on Kit’s arm saving her from face-planting in the grass. Her momentum dragged them both down the steps and off the platform.

  Steadying themselves, they stared back up at me in shock.

  I’d come to a stop in the center of the platform, directly before a wild-eyed Dr. Allen.

  Beneath me, wood groaned audibly.

  The floor dipped, suddenly bouncy and insubstantial.

  “Everyone off the altar!” Matching action to words, I hot-stepped for the safety of solid ground, worried with every footfall that the whole thing would implode and take me down with it. Hi, Shelton, and Ben bailed immediately as well.

  The rest of the wedding party stood frozen like statues. Even Dr. Allen.

  “I’d hop to it,” Hi advised, pointing to several drooping planks in the center of the altar. “Unless you want to be on that thing when it collapses.”

  His words did the trick. With a curse, Eric DuBois leapt from the platform. Then herd instinct took over: the others raced down like lemmings, groomsmen shouting incoherently, bridesmaids struggling for balance as they navigated the narrow steps in their heels.

  As he crossed the center of the altar, a section of flooring separated beneath Dr. Allen’s feet. He tripped and fell forward, and only Ben’s quick reflexes saved the day. He caught the elderly priest’s arm and helped him safely down to the grass.

  We formed a ragged, panting line at the foot of the altar.

  Shouts erupted in the gallery. Whitney’s head whipped side to side in a panic.

  “What’s going on?” Kit hissed, staring at the unstable platform.

  Ben shed his jacket, jogged around the altar, and knelt in the grass. Hinges squeaked as he opened some sort of hatch on its backside. Before anyone could question what he was doing, Ben wiggled through the opening and disappeared.

  “Wha . . . wha . . .” Whitney seemed unable to form a coherent thou
ght.

  No one else tried.

  Seconds ticked past, and the crowd grew restless. Mrs. Taylor began grumbling loudly to another member of the Magnolia League, and Whitney’s face crumpled.

  Then Ben’s voice carried from beneath the woodwork. “Found the problem! Somebody get my dad!”

  “What’s the deal?” Hi yelled, as Tom Blue circled the altar and, with a sigh, got down on his knees and shimmied under the structure.

  “The pins fell out!” Ben shouted, a note of incredulity in his voice. “The central joins aren’t locked into place. We’re lucky this thing didn’t fall apart, but it’s an easy fix. Shove them back in and we’re good. Give us five minutes.”

  “Uh, thanks, Ben!” Kit called, then he turned to address his guests. “Slight mechanical issue, folks. Won’t take a second to fix. Don’t worry, we’re still getting married!”

  Chuckles from the gallery. Rueful shrugs. Kit hurried to a member of the wait staff, and, moments later, trays of champagne flutes began circulating the thirsty crowd. The delay became a cocktail break. Everyone relaxed.

  Shelton and Hi sidled over to my side, consternation plain on their faces.

  “The pins dropped out?” Hi scoffed. “Who put this together, Stevie Wonder?”

  A cold feeling swept over me. “Weird, right? And right after the flower thing inside . . .”

  “What do you mean?” Shelton froze in the process of cleaning his glasses. “You think somebody did that stuff on purpose?”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer. Ben popped up behind the altar, followed more slowly by his father. The pair wiped grass from their pant legs as they swung back around the platform, wearing matching grins.

  “Done!” Ben said proudly. “Easy, honestly. Two pins just needed to be reinserted.”

  “Everyone take your seats!” Kit waved the wedding party back to their places. I stepped up slowly, testing my weight. But the Blues were right—the footing was firm and true.

  Thank goodness we’d noticed in time. Another disaster averted.

  The cold feeling returned.

  I don’t believe in coincidence.

  In the center of the altar, Whitney smoothed her dress, breathing deeply as she attempted to regain her composure. Kit squeezed her hand, planted a kiss on her cheek.

  Everyone was back in position. The next few minutes passed in a blur. The priest spoke. Whitney spoke. Kit spoke. Rings appeared, vows were made, for some reason they poured pastel sands into a vase together.

  I now pronounce you husband and wife.

  My father and Whitney kissed to thunderous applause.

  It was done.

  Sweet sassy molassey.

  Hugs. Backslaps. The happy couple floated down the aisle.

  I have a stepmother. This is not a drill.

  I began mentally listing Whitney’s good points, starting with how much Kit loved her, and how devoted she was to him. I almost forgot to take Eric’s arm as we followed them down the wedding gauntlet.

  This wouldn’t be so bad.

  Right?

  Right?

  Ahead of me, Whitney let out a squeal of delight, hugging my father close. “We did it!”

  A sigh escaped.

  I smiled. This time it wasn’t too forced.

  No, it wouldn’t be so bad.

  Things change, and this wasn’t even a bad one.

  My father’s face. Tears of pure joy, manfully contained.

  As they passed into the building, their interlocked hands flew up in celebration.

  Not so bad at all.

  Welcome to the family, Whit.

  Dinner was about to be served.

  The ballroom was decked out in linen and silk, with a square of sparkling hardwood at its heart. Gleaming silver utensils flanked fine china and crystal water goblets. Elegant hand-printed menus adorned each place setting. A string quartet was playing in one corner.

  I snagged my personalized card as I entered, though I knew which table was mine. Whitney had dubbed the seating arrangement “the hardest thing” she’d ever had to do. Apparently half her family couldn’t stand the other half, and there were literally dozens of VIPs requiring pride of place.

  The tables were round, arranged in staggered rows. Mine was up front, of course, with Aunt Tempe, Harry, and some of Whitney’s family I didn’t know. My new stepmother had ignored my not-so-subtle hints that I’d have preferred a secluded table in back with my friends. Oh well. At least Ben was sitting with me. I’d insisted on that much.

  A sweetheart table for the bride and groom sat on a dais at the very front. Whitney took her seat, beaming, though her smile faltered a bit when she noticed the replacement centerpieces. She said something to Kit, who whispered a lengthy response, eyeing his new bride nervously as he held her hand. Whatever he said seemed to mollify her. It didn’t hurt that the new flowers looked fantastic.

  Whitney glanced my way. Gave me a grateful nod. I waved back. It was nothing.

  Her smile returned as she looked down on the mass of people like a queen on her throne. No one could mistake whose day it was.

  “Your dad looks comfortable,” Ben said sarcastically. Kit was squirming in his chair under all that scrutiny. “I assume he’s the one who wanted to eat dinner perched on a pedestal like a canary, in full view of a hundred and fifty people?”

  Kit drummed his tabletop, nearly knocking over a glass in the process.

  “I bet he had no idea.” I shot Ben an amused glance. “Like it would have mattered. This isn’t his show, and everyone here knows it.”

  “At least that dais looks sturdy,” Ben joked, fiddling with his ponytail. He didn’t wear his hair back much, but I was digging it. “We don’t need another structural emergency today.”

  “I know, right?” I leaned in close, speaking fast. “I can’t believe what almost happened out there. Don’t you think it’s weird that the platform was defective?”

  “Not defective,” Ben corrected. “It wasn’t assembled properly.”

  “Even worse!” My face scrunched in disbelief. “How could the set-up crew mess that up? The pins are literally all that holds the altar together, right?”

  Ben hesitated. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but yeah, it’s . . . bizarre. It’s not like that structure is particularly complicated, it’s just large wooden pieces connected by metal pins at the joins. I can’t see how you’d possibly miss any when constructing it, and I can’t see how they’d just fall out, either. It’s almost like . . .”

  He trailed off, but I finished the sentence. “Like someone pulled them out.”

  Ben lowered his voice. “Who’d want to sabotage a freaking altar?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe the same person who’d kill a room full of flowers.”

  Ben sat back, eyeing me. “You think someone’s trying to ruin this wedding.” He didn’t pose it as a question. Then his face clouded. “You know, only two pins were out of position. Both were in the center, right beneath where the priest was standing. That’s why the thing didn’t crater before, when the wedding party climbed up. But if Kit and Whitney had taken one more step . . .”

  “Boom,” I finished. “Game over for Whitney’s Irish fantasy service.”

  He nodded. “We got lucky.”

  I clicked my tongue. “Unless those pins were targeted. By someone who knew exactly which ones to remove.”

  Ben gave me a skeptical look. “So that the platform would only collapse when the happy couple stepped onto it? Seems pretty far-fetched. That’d take an impressive feel for physics, Tor. Weight. Tensile strength. Load-carrying capacity. All that stuff.”

  Good point. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the flower and altar glitches were connected somehow.

  Before I could respond, a bell chimed. Everyone took their seats.

  �
��Talk more later,” I whispered as Ben pulled out my chair. “I might be crazy.”

  He raised an eyebrow. We could move to this channel. And you’re never crazy.

  “It’s okay, really.” Then I sent, Too many people around for telepathy. It’d look pretty strange if we just stared at each other the whole meal.

  Now Ben’s eyebrows bounced up and down. Staring at you is fine by me.

  I snorted, startling the DuBois relations sitting close by. Plastering on a smile, I nodded to our dinner companions, then pretended to hunt for my napkin. You see?

  After drink orders were taken, Ben and I built an invisible wall around ourselves. Harry and Tempe were all the way across the table—impossible to speak with anyway—and I’d spent an entire week schmoozing various DuBois clan members. Not tonight, thanks. Our tablemates took the hint, and we were quietly left alone.

  The first course was lobster bisque. As the noise level increased, it began to feel like a private date between the two of us. “Do you speak again?” Ben asked, spooning up the last of his appetizer.

  “No, thank God.” I blew a stray hair from my mouth. “My toasting duties were completed at the rehearsal dinner. Only the best man speaks tonight.”

  Another DuBois wedding quirk, but fine by me. One heartfelt speech extolling Whitney’s virtues was all I could manage. Her tearful hug last night had left makeup stains on the shoulder of my dress.

  Salads arrived, followed by filet mignon. Ben and I grimaced as Best Man Eric stumbled through a drunken, rambling toast no one could follow. The guy barely even knew Kit. Shrimp came last, disappearing in seconds. Then coffee. The band started up, and my foot began tapping on its own. Caffeine will do that.

  Ben and I were holding hands under the table, a habit we’d recently developed that I had no intention of breaking. I was about to ask him more about Warren Wilson’s science program—we didn’t discuss his leaving much, but we’d have to face reality soon enough—when a shadow fell across the table.

  I glanced up. Ben’s grip tightened, then his hand fell away.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Chance didn’t look sorry in the slightest.