Inferno
By Divamercury
Standard disclaimer again. Enjoy Chapter 3!
Chapter 3
"Sara! You made it! I was afraid you wouldn't," Ciara said, running up to me. She clearly was relieved that I'd been able to make it.
"Well, it was kind of hard to find the place without knowing where it was, but here I am." The bright salmon-colored walls were blinding me. I squinted so I could actually see.
"Well, wonderful! Come on, you have to meet my bridesmaids," she said, dragging me over to where two girls stood. One was tall with blonde hair and blue eyes and seemed to be the quintessence of arrogance. The other was short with brown hair and brown eyes and seemed to be a relatively nice person, although both seemed pretty vapid. Ciara must have considered us her best friends, but I wasn't itching to get to know the other girls, even though I probably wouldn't have wanted to anyway. Most other women made me nervous because I didn't–and never would–interact with them. To tell the truth, I believe that I had the same effect on all women; I made them nervous by my penchants as well by my unorthodoxy in humor and behavior, not to mention occupation. I saw my being there at all as a personal favor to Ciara, and that was it.
"Girls, this is Sara Pezzini, the one I was telling you about," Ciara said. "Sara, this is Hillary Stratton and this is Louisa Alcott. We were friends in high school."
Please, please tell me that her middle name isn't May,' I thought desperately, and I picked up on how they were looking at me: analyzing my appearance, which must not have been much since I had just gotten off my motorcycle, the proof of which was under my arm. They looked at me like I was some inferior lifeform. Hillary (the short one) and Louisa (the tall one) were both wearing knee-length dresses (even in December!) and I was wearing leather pants. My hands, I noticed, were larger than theirs were, so naturally what dirty trick did I decide to pull?
Handshake.
"You have no idea how nice it is to meet you both," I said with sweetness of such a high caloric content that it gave me a toothache. I took each one's hand in turn and relished the wince after I grasped it in a firm policeman's handshake. They, being ladies of "good breeding," couldn't withstand that kind of pressure but allowed me to finish anyway.
Ciara, trying to stifle her laughter at her friends' reactions, went off to try on her dress. After she had gone, Louisa spoke.
"What do you do for a living, Sara?" she asked.
"I'm a homicide detective for the NYPD," I told her.
She cringed. "I am an interior designer and Hillary is a chef," Louisa said.
I found that I liked Louisa steadily less every minute.
Just then Mrs. Maury rushed up to me, armed with a tape measure in her left hand, and started taking my measurements.
Great timing,' I thought, grimacing.
"Well, I guess it takes a special type of person to be a cop, huh?" Hillary the Meek asked curiously, proving herself to be very different from the rude Louisa.
"I guess so. You have to deal with crackpots shooting at you at any given time and you have to hold on to your lunch when you investigate gruesome murder scenes, as I do. I guess you'd say you have to have a strong constitution to do what I do," I said as I tried to dodge the tape measure from going around my neck and failed. Hillary looked at me admiringly. Louisa scowled.
"Ah, here's our lovely bride now," Mrs. Maury, quiet until then, said, and she released me from the measuring session. The three of us (Louisa, Hillary, and I) whirled around and looked toward the dressing room. A girl in white walked out and approached the mirror. I could barely recognize Ciara; she hardly resembled the vampiress wannabe I had once known. She walked until she was standing in front of the mirror of the dress shop. She looked much more natural without the heavy makeup she had been used to wearing when I had first met her. The pristinely white gown was very fitted and the skirt wasn't full, accenting her figure well, and showing her fair skin by the way it plunged in back. Her veil was of a medium length, not long enough to be dragging the floor but not so short that it was barely visible. It was a modern ensemble for a modern wedding.
"Luke is one lucky guy, Ciara," I told her, admiring her reflection as much as she was. "I am so happy for you."
This wasn't an empty remark. I truly was thrilled for Ciara. She deserved all the happiness she could lay her hands on, because her life had been very difficult. Just recently she had informed me that she had been orphaned when she was very young and had lived in an orphanage until she reached job age, and then bounced from place to place until she landed at the Angry Flame.
I have never been a big fan of weddings, personally. Why? The whole Always a bridesmaid, never a bride' thing? Well, not exactly. I don't like the overflow of emotions, and I'm more like the occasionally-a-bridesmaid-out-of-the-bride's-pity-for-me, never a bride' type anyway. This would be the second time I'd done it, the first being for a friend of a friend once because she was short a maid thanks to a particularly virulent strain of flu. The dressGod, horrendous' doesn't even begin to describe it. Chartreuse: the scariest color on the planet. I had vowed never to wear it again. Thankfully Ciara had chosen a very neutral pale-peach color that looked quite natural and the style looked somewhat normal so we looked great.
"Well, ladies, here are the bridesmaid's dresses. Try them on and see how they fit," the matronly shopkeeper announced after emerging from the back room, handing out the gowns. Mine differed slightly style-wise from Louisa and Hillary's identical garments because I was the maid of honor. I accepted it stoically and went into a small dressing stall to try it on. Since Mrs. Maury had taken my measurements only fifteen minutes ago, I harbored doubts as to whether I could fit into the dress, which suddenly seemed impossibly small.
Well, here goes, Sara.'
I emerged a few minutes later and made my way to the main room of the shop and stood in front of the mirror. The girls gasped, both staring at me with expressions of pure envy splashed across their countenances, and Louisa's was mixed with venom. I looked at myself in the mirror and analyzed what I saw.
I was encased in a dress of pale-peach satin that fitted my figure almost like a second skin but not unbearably so. It had long sleeves, one of which I pulled carefully down over the Witchblade, and a deep, somewhat triangular neck that cut a straight line across my bust. I gave silent thanks to the dress gods for not letting my Witchblade scar show; it was positioned directly under the left side of my collarbone and mercifully was covered, sparing me odd looks and a somewhat embarrassing explanation. The large collar with wide lapels also assisted in masking my scar. There were slits in the sides of the gown that allowed me to actually walk and it had a design of eyelets embroidered on it in thread that was of an identical hue to the fabric.
Not bad,' I thought. This could actually be doable.'
