She glanced down at her own, smoothing the fabric beneath the crisscross bodice. Only Phoebe could have gotten her and Rhea cleaned up this good. Well, Ione had, really. But Phoebe had chosen the fabric as part of her red rose-themed Beltane wedding—red, blush and white ribbon draped the room, woven around the support at the center of the hall like a Maypole and fanning out to form a latticed canopy.
Theia had to admit the dress looked fantastic with both her natural dark bob and Rhea’s short, bleached-blond cut sculpted into points—the dead giveaway for those who had trouble telling them apart. Rhea had curled her points at the tips for the occasion, adding a dab of cherry-red dye. She’d added some of it to the points of Theia’s bob, too. It was more difficult to see against the dark color, but Theia preferred subtlety.
With Ione officiating as high priestess in her longer, dusty-rose version of the dress, the twins’ red had made Phoebe stand out. She’d been absolutely gorgeous in a fairy-tale bone-white off-the-shoulder sweetheart gown with beaded lace and a vintage mantilla from Rafe’s own grandmother.
Theia glanced around, realizing she hadn’t seen Phoebe in a while. Or Rafe. God, you’d think they could wait a few hours for the honeymoon.
Her glance fell once more on Lucien Smok, flirting with one of the younger members of Ione’s coven. An unfamiliar irritation prickled along Theia’s skin as his hand rested on Margot’s shoulder while he leaned close, Margot laughing at something he’d said. Theia shook off the sensation. No. Absolutely not. This couldn’t be jealousy, because she had absolutely zero interest in Lucien Smok. Or the heart-stopping contrast of his pale eyes with his nearly jet-black, effortlessly messy hair.
He caught her watching him and winked.
Theia looked away deliberately, her eyes on Rhea leading Leo away from the open bar. It was always amusing to see Rhea, her form slight beside him, managing the Chieftain of the Wild Hunt. Having spent the last thousand years under the control of a Valkyrie, he seemed perfectly content to let a woman take charge despite his outward bluster.
On the opposite end of the room, where the reception hall connected to the temple nave by a breezeway, the Sedona winds had apparently kicked up, and the doors blew open with a bang. Ione moved to shut them, her long, ironed-straight hair whipping about her head in a halo of setting-sun ombré, but paused and stood deathly still, staring at something on the other side of the doorway. Theia moved around the support column that blocked her view.
With the wind had come an uninvited guest—the necromancer who’d made more than one attempt on the lives of both bride and groom in recent months. Theia’s jaw dropped open, and she sensed Rhea’s shock echoing hers from across the room. Carter Hamilton was supposed to be rotting in prison.
His overly whitened smile flashed in his overly bronzed face as he stood bracing his hands between the double doors like Maleficent making an appearance at Sleeping Beauty’s first birthday. “Am I too late to toast the happy couple?”
“How the hell are you here?” Ione’s voice seemed icy calm as she faced her psychotic ex, but Theia knew she was barely keeping it together.
Carter’s gaze acknowledged Dev as he appeared at Ione’s side. “And there he is, like a good little cur, looking for a pat on the head.”
A low rumble came out of Dev’s throat—too low to be human.
Ione took Dev’s hand. “Don’t trouble, love. He isn’t worth it.”
Their newly minted brother-in-law emerged from the stairwell to the bell tower that was doubling as a dressing room, moving toward Carter in a way that ought to unnerve the other man. Even without the Quetzalcoatl tattoo visible at his shoulders beneath the white linen wedding shirt, Rafe Diamante was imposing. And the knowledge that Rafe possessed the necromantic power Carter had killed to try to get should have had the slighter man quaking in his boots. But Carter’s smile persisted.
“You have no right to set foot on Covent property,” Rafe warned.
Carter’s gaze flicked over him. “Nor have you, my friend. I understand you’ve been formally expelled from the Covent for oath breaking.”
“I’m not your friend. No one here is your friend.”
Phoebe, descending the staircase behind Rafe, paused on the bottom step with one slipper-clad foot wavering over the floor, her face a white mask of shock. She’d been the one to put Carter in prison while she was still practicing law.
Ione’s hand tightened around Dev’s. “What do you want, Carter?”
“Just to see your faces when I tell you my good news. The conviction for the crimes you framed me for has been overturned. I’m a free man.”
Cake and champagne churned in Theia’s stomach.
Phoebe voiced her shock. “How is that possible?”
Carter’s eyes settled on her, bitter amusement dancing in them. “So you don’t deny you framed me.”
“No one framed you,” Rafe growled. “You murdered four people.”
“Well, the state doesn’t seem to agree. Nor does the Covent.”
Preceded by a flourish of his hand in the air, a champagne flute materialized in Carter’s fingers. “To the bride.” Carter raised the glass toward Phoebe. “Who looks almost as lovely in white as she does in nothing at all. And I have the pictures to prove it.”
A collective gasp rustled through the hall.
As Carter drank, Rafe charged him, the snake tattoo twisting and roiling beneath his shirt, but Carter’s physical matter seemed to dissolve into smoke at Rafe’s contact with him, leaving Rafe’s fingers to close around a nonexistent collar. The bright grin was the last thing to go, like an evil Cheshire Cat.
Ione was livid. “That was an astral projection. He’s out of prison and accessing powerful magic. What the devil is going on?” She was staring at Dev, as if he ought to know.
“I don’t know a thing about it, love, I promise. I haven’t been privy to Covent business since I resigned my commission as assayer.”
Rafe closed the adjoining doors forcefully and turned back to face the hall. “I, for one, am not going to waste a moment of my wedding day thinking about that insignificant, third-rate sorcerer. He wasn’t really here, and that’s precisely the way he should be treated.” He stepped toward Phoebe and took her hand. “Care to dance, Mrs. Carlisle-Diamante?”
Phoebe smiled gamely. “I’d love to, Mr. Diamante-Carlisle.”
The mariachi band Rafe had hired—its members all magical connections of the Diamante family—began to play, and Rafe led his wife out onto the floor.
Theia took a step toward Ione, intending to try to reassure her, but a hand on her shoulder made her turn.
“May I have this dance, Ms. Dawn?” Lucien’s smile was mischievous. How did he manage to make an offer to dance sound dirty?
Before she could decline, he’d tucked her hand into his and slipped his arm around her waist, turning her toward the dance floor.
He pulled her closer as she started to draw back. “You wouldn’t embarrass me in front of all these people by turning me down, would you?”
“I might.”
“I’ve never been turned down before. It might damage my confidence. Could set me back years emotionally.”
“Then I definitely should.”
Lucien grinned. “But you won’t.”
“Won’t I?”
“I