Not that Qhuinn would ever have said so to Fritz. Especially considering that the butler and his staff had worked around the clock. The thing was, though, when Qhuinn had dropped to one knee and asked his true love to properly mate him, he’d intended to have the ceremony then and there.
Like, bring on the daggers, get the salt, let’s do this thing.
Cooler heads had prevailed, however—and like he could deny Bitty’s party-planning committee a chance to put on its first event?
At least it was all finally going down. Tonight. Right now.
As Qhuinn came to the top of the grand staircase and looked down at the foyer below, everything had been transformed: Black candles flickered from a hundred different stanchions, and a ceremonial table had been set up, also draped with black, and the entire household, along with Blay’s parents, were assembled on the mosaic floor, everyone in formal garb.
It was go time. For real.
Wrath was standing behind the table, George on one side, Tohr on the other. And behind them, the Brotherhood was lined up, all of them bare-chested and wearing the same loose black pants that Qhuinn had on.
“You ready?”
At the sound of Qhuinn’s favorite voice in all the world, he turned. His mate was stepping out of their bedroom and he took a moment to enjoy the sight of that bare chest and that handsome face and that red hair. On a whim, Qhuinn had gotten ready in the second-floor sitting room, just for this moment—and he was so glad that he had.
“You look amazing,” he said as Blay came up to him.
“I’m just in the same thing you are.”
“Come here, kiss me.” Qhuinn tugged his male forward until their lips met. “I’m more than ready for this. You?”
“I can’t believe this is happening. And yes, I’m soooo ready.”
Mating ceremonies for members of the glymera were highly prescribed affairs—no surprise there. Add in the fact that one of the couple was a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood? That elevated everything to a celestial realm in terms of propriety—and there was a list of things that traditionally “had” to happen.
Not the least of which was a mandatory mourning period to honor Luchas’s death.
Yet he and Blay had decided to do all of this their way, and Wrath had given them his blessing. And as for the mourning period? Qhuinn felt as though this was all partially for Luchas. He had what his brother did not: This moment now, with his true love.
“Let’s do this,” Qhuinn said.
They each took the other’s hand and then they walked down to the assembly together. When they got to the bottom, they took the twins from Layla and Xcor, who were both glowing with happiness for them, and then they with their young went up to Wrath and the ceremonial accoutrement of two black daggers, an enormous bowl of salt, and a pitcher of water.
Wrath beamed. “I know I speak for all of us when I say this is a blessed occasion. We’re happy to do it your way, and I understand there is one tradition that you all feel very strongly about.”
On that note, Lassiter stepped out from the crowd. For once, he wasn’t in some costume, just a black silk shirt and black slacks, his blond-and-black hair braided into a rope that hung over his shoulder, his gold removed, everything toned down.
Wrath leaned to Tohr and hissed, “Is he in the Elvis suit again?”
“No. He looks normal.”
“Great,” the King muttered. “They get ‘normal,’ but I get the Elvis suit…”
Lassiter came forward and stood between Blay and Qhuinn, taking their hands. Then the angel closed his eyes—and that illumination rained down on them all, the warmth and grace levitating both them and the young off the depiction of that apple tree in full bloom.
As everyone in the foyer gasped, they were resettled back upon the earth.
“This is a very good mating, indeed,” Lassiter pronounced. “Very good.”
The Brotherhood let out a mighty yell of agreement. And then the ancient ceremony commenced, sacred words spoken in the Old Language by the great Blind King—none of which registered for Qhuinn at all. He was just standing in front of Blay, looking into those blue eyes as they held their young—in front of everyone they cared about.
Which he supposed, at the end of the night, was all that really mattered. The tradition was great and everything, but what really mattered was the communal acknowledgment of his commitment to his beloved, and his beloved’s commitment to him.
The rest was just vocabulary—and a little fun and games with some daggers and salt.
Well, and also, thanks to Bitty and the fallen angel, what looked like some really good frickin’ cake.