Spare Princess

The Devil Is Back

Geneva

Funerals suck. I mean how worse can it get than a gathering where by default you are supposed to look and feel like all your happiness has died with the person who’s being buried? And if you don’t everyone deems you heartless or a b*itch with too big of an ego. That’s why I never attend. Except for today.

It’s my grandmother’s funeral today and everyone who’s everyone in town has gathered to pay their last respects to the old matron of the Valentine family, the most powerful and rich family in the entire Redwind Valley. It’s a long procession, lead by an actual priest and by her four grandsons and their spouses. Their male spouses. My 'sort of' brother Victor and and our cousins. They carry her closed casket with solemn expressions on their faces, looking impeccable in their expensive black suits - the perfect heirs to a perfect legacy. They were never perfect in our grandmother's opinion though. She hated their guts just for being who they are. Then again, I think she hated all of us equally, so maybe it was not just her general homophobia but her general dislike with everyone.

I'm not sure why Victor decided to bury her with honour and make a show out of the entire ordeal. Their hatred was mutual, yet here he is, arranging burial services and paying astronomical amounts of money for wreaths. I bet the wake after will be spectacular, probably like a mini ball or something. Politics I guess. Victor is the king of all supernatural creatures in the Redwind Valley - shifters, witches, changelings, demons and everything in between - but he’s also Redwind’s mayor now, which means he's added humans to the mix, so I guess he’s taking full advantage of the situation to form new connections, to solidify old ones. Gain more money and power. Good for him. He deserves the world.

There are a few people I don’t see as I follow the procession from a safe distance. Not a werewolf in sight. Victor’s other sister, the one he’s related to by blood, is also nowhere to be seen. I bet she put up a fight about the funeral. I bet she nagged him to let Genevieve rot in the gutter instead of making a spectacle out of her death. After all, Genevieve betrayed her for me, for the changeling, of course Veronica Valentine-Moretti will never forgive her, even in death.

That’s why I decided to come today- because I knew Veronica wouldn’t be attending. Otherwise right now I’d be frantically pacing my one-bed apartment in the city, my head filled with regrets and rage and what-ifs.

I am here, yes, but I don’t plan on letting people know that. I just want to send Genevieve off and then I will be gone. I mean, there is no love lost between me and my grandmother but she did die alone and without anyone who cares about her, and if someone knows how s*hitty it is to die alone and abandoned, it’s me. Trust me, I’ve been there, done that. It just never sticks with me, unfortunately.

A thousand alarm bells ring in my ears as I realise where my thoughts are headed and I have to force myself to focus on something other than my own countless deaths before I fall into the gutter of self-pity.

My eyes land on a man nearby who's leaning against one of the black SUV-s parked on the street and it doesn't seem like he's part of the procession. He's staring somewhere in the distance in front of him, unseeing, unbothered, like he's completely lost in his thoughts. The cherry top of his cigarette glistens in the cold November morning like a beacon, like an exposed heart pumping with fire and blood and life, and it's like i can't look away, I am trapped by its spell. Everything else around me suddenly seems so meek, so… flat. Not this strange man and his cigarette and his greying hair, and his strong hands with long fingers wrapped in black leather gloves. Despite the smoking and the nonchalant pose, and the strong build of his body, the guy looks proper and polished in a way I want to ruin just because I can and because that’s what I always do anyway. He’s too perfect, too… not like me. And I hate him for it.

Scolding myself for letting my thoughts roam again, I try to concentrate on the procession, on the polished closed coffin covered with satin and lilies and the six men, carrying it down the cemetery alleys. Perfect on the outside, but when you look closely, you can’t miss the cracks.

Genevieve’d probably turn in her grave if she knew how queer each of these men who carry her coffin are. Sometimes I love it how cruel Victor can be without even realizing it. Genevieve ruined his life because he dared to love a man and now here he is, carrying her to the grave alongside his fiancé, Ian St. Claire. Second in line to carry the coffin are the Lycan pack’s beta, Adrien, with his mate Seth, and last are the cousins, Greyson and Markus, who are kind of in love with each other even if they'd die before admitting there is something going on between them. What a shame for Genevieve that all her grandsons turned out to be gay when it was the one thing she hated more than mediocrity.

It’s a cold day in the middle of November, the sky grey-gold above our heads. The air feels crisp but dry and the harsh wind is blowing mercilessly, making me shiver in my thin black coat. There are no tears in my eyes for the woman who spent her life making sure to control ours, but I am not capable of crying anyway. A part of me feels regretful she is gone but another, bigger part, feels relief. She was indeed a mean old b*itch.

Yet, I march. I follow the procession with a solemn expression, a heavy lump in my chest which makes it a bit hard to breathe, eighteen red carnations in my hand - one for each year we spent together. She taught me this - to always carry carnations at a funeral. She taught me many other useless things like this one. Like how to hold a champagne glass during the autumn shifter ball, or how to keep my head always high no matter what happens. That last thing is probably the only reason I have not crumbled throughout the years, so maybe Genevieve's lessons were not so useless after all.

The procession moves past the large church that’s mainly used by the humans who live in Redwind. There won’t be a memorial service, so we head towards the chosen grave. The boys carefully lay the coffin on the ground next to the dug-up grave, and move away, their heads bowed in respect. There is a priest, which is hilarious because shifters don’t care about human religions and Genevieve would’ve hated it, but Victor is the mayor of the whole town, humans included, so... appearances. Plus, I am sure he’s getting some sick pleasure out of all this. One last act of rebellion before he’s done with the old crone.

I stop behind a monument a few feet away from the procession and wait patiently for the circus to be over. I’ve hidden my hands in my pockets, holding the carnations tucked beneath my elbow, and just count the minutes away as I struggle not to look back at the stranger I passed by earlier. Nine till the priest finishes his preaching. I wonder if he’s done with his cigarette. Five more for Victor’s heart-felt, fake-as-s*hit speech. I wonder if he’s still there. Twenty-seven more until everyone has thrown their bouquets and a handful of dirt over the coffin that's being finally laid in the ground. I wonder if he would care about me. I doubt it. No one cares.

Finally, people start to walk away. Even as I am hiding in the back, I can feel a few gazes at me but I ignore them. My cousins mainly. Adrien’s weird, color-changing eyes are focused on mine with suspicion as his mate drags him away, whispering something in his ear. Markus and Greyson argue about something, both of them giving me side glances as they pass by me without even nodding in my direction. It’s Victor and his fiancé who head right towards me though and I curse under my breath.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” My ‘not-exactly-brother’ tells me, his voice a bit strained as his deep blue eyes, same as mine, search my face for something. I guess he’s looking for signs if I am sane right now or if I’d flip and murder everyone on the spot in a fit of supernatural rage.

“Yeah, me neither,” I shrug, suddenly feeling stupid. I am not sure if I should go and toss my carnations in the grave before it’s filled up by the gravediggers, or just walk away and throw them in the nearest garbage can.

“It’s good. She’d be happy…” Victor trails off and the look he gives me tells me everything he can’t say out loud. Genevieve would have hated seeing me here. Almost as much as she’d hate it if Veronica had come.

I want to laugh it off, to agree with him, but something locks in my throat and all I can do is look away.

“Are you staying?” Ian asks me, his green eyes sparkling with mischief in the November fog.

“Yeah, maybe for the night,” is my vague reply as my gaze wanders around the perimeter, by default searching for threats that aren’t really there. Part of me is looking for the man with the cigarette but he's gone now. Part of me feels sad because of it.

“Then you are coming for dinner,” my brother insists, bringing my attention back to him, and then before I know it, he pulls me into a hug, squishing me with his powerful arms, his gloved hands moving up and down my back. “Don’t be a stranger, Geneva,” he whispers in my ear.

And there, in the tremble of his body, in the way he’s clinging to me, even for a second before he manages to collect himself again and let me go, I recognise my brother, the broken boy from old days. He’s affected by this, I realize - by our grandmother’s death. He hates her just as much as the rest of us do, but she’s also the closest thing both of us had to a mother.

“Of course, I will come to dinner,” I reply, hating myself for accepting because, no, I don’t want to stay. I want to be left alone so I can say what I have to say to my dead grandmother and be gone forever. “But only if Ian is cooking,” I wink at my future brother-in-law, the words burning in my throat behind the fake smile I flash at them both.

“I don’t understand what you people have against my cooking skills…”

“God, you are such a baby,” Ian rolls his eyes at Victor and drags him away from me and our grandmother’s grave, nagging at him to leave me alone. “Eight o’clock, sharp. Don’t be late,” he tells me as they walk down the alley towards their car.

And then everyone else is gone. Finally. It’s just me and the coffin.

I step above the open grave, my gaze frozen at the discarded lilies and roses inside, and everything else in me freezes too. I had prepared a speech, things I never had a chance to say out loud while Genevieve was alive. It’s gone now, I don’t remember a single word as my eyes start to sting and my throat locks. Suddenly, it’s all too much and the urge to flee is overwhelming. And that’s exactly what I do. That’s all I am good for anyway - I throw the carnations to the side and run away.

The wind is blowing in my long hair, the strands whipping at my back and I feel like a little kid again, I feel the way I felt when my father died. Like something inside me has been torn but I don’t know what it is and I don’t know why I am so broken. Like I should feel guilty for not grieving, but I don’t and that’s what brings me down - that I don’t feel anything at all. I never have.

I am so immersed in my own self-pity that I don’t notice the guy from before, the one with the cigarette and the red fire. By the time I see him it is too late to stop as I stumble into him.

Large arms wrap around me to keep me from falling and soft masculine laughter engulfs all my senses as he mumbles an excuse. It reverberates through every fibre of my being and I have no idea how to react to it.

I make a step back, my face on fire as I manage to say it’s fine, no worries. But then I lift my eyes to his and he freezes.

For a moment, we both freeze as we stare at each other.

I don’t know him, I have never met him before. He’s older than me, by a lot, and he looks like a f*ucking model from one of those fancy whiskey commercials with his golden tan and that tall and fit frame of his. The gut reeks of old money and class and confidence. You can’t find either of these at the diner where I work. His hair is dark and greying at the sides, his eyes holding the warmth of a person who’s spent most of their life laughing, but that laugh evaporates the moment he recognises me. The humour is completely gone now and he’s looking at me with hatred, ice gripping his entire being in an instant. His lips curl into a feral snarl and he shoves me away from him as if I am a disease he has to stay away from.

“You?” He growls the word with venom and all I can do is just stand there and blink in confusion.

Usually, when people see me, they are happy and mercantile because I am the perfect copy of Veronica Valentine-Moretti, the town’s princess. And even if they don’t, they are just uncomfortable, or straight out hostile with a hint of dismissal. I am not used to pure, honest hatred coming from handsome strangers I met in the middle of the cemetery.

“Yeah, me?” I ask as I lift my chin and bring back the sassy smirk on my lips, because what the hell is his problem anyway?

I am still squeezing his coat and the moment he realizises my hands are somewhat on him, he grabs my wrist and twists it without mercy, forcing me to let go. Pure disgust grips his features now and I want to shriek away from him. I will never bow down to anyone though, so he can suck it.

“Get off me!” He seethes a moment later and pushes me with immense force.

I stumble back, unable to keep my balance and my a*ss hits the frozen ground. As I fall over someone’s grave my face starts burning with humiliation which I am unable to hide.

“What the hell, man?” I shout at him as he walks away, but the moment my voice reaches him, he turns to face me again, his big frame looming over me like he’s the f*ucking messenger of death. The dark shadow that passes through his eyes is not something one can easily miss. F*uck. Just my luck I guess, crossing paths with someone as dangerous as a f*ucking shadow shifter. Way to go, Geneva, piss the creepy bastard who can literally control the dead.

“Don’t ever talk to me," he says now with a low, whisper-like voice that makes the blood freeze in my veins. "Don’t ever look at me, don’t even breathe in my direction ever again, or help me gods, it will be the death of you!”

The hatred in his eyes is now livid, visceral. It makes his pale eyes darken and the next thing I know is he spits at me, the hot saliva hitting my face with a sound so loud, it shakes through my entire body and breaks something inside me.

And then he walks away, leaving me speechless, dumbfounded, hollow.