by T. P. Keating

Dear Kimberly,

MONDAY

Have you attended a werewolf wedding recently? No, me neither, and times have changed, I can tell you. For a start, the person conducting the ceremony no longer gets chopped into little bits at the end, and eaten by the bride and groom, while the wedding doesn't even have to take place on a night of the full moon. Can you imagine? Standards aren't what they used to be, that's for sure. But it isn't all bad news.

Because the bride and groom are still locked in separate cages the night before the wedding, and the cages are still placed side by side in the honeymoon suite, ready for the transformation back to human form, when each holds the key to the other's lock. Fortunately, romance isn't completely dead. But, I hear you ask, what about mixed marriages? Between a female werewolf and a Scotsman, for instance? In such cases, the old rules remain intact, I'm pleased to say.

The human half signs the legally binding agreement, to absolve their werewolf intended of all responsibility for wounds and bruises and whatever, inflicted during the marriage. Malcolm signed that document a month ago, and our wedding will be on Thursday. Don't forget, I'll collect you from JFK tomorrow evening.

The cubs will make the sweetest bridesmaids, don't you think? It was a great idea of yours, to “allow” Jojo to wear his gaming headset and headphones, so he'll never know what's actually going on. Well-done, virtual reality! Joanne, Jodene and Jolene have kept the secret so well that Jojo's already tried on his bridesmaid's outfit, without realizing it. The theme will be tartan and fur.

In case you're wondering, Malcolm won me over when we visited his castle in Scotland. Wow, how 6 months can fly by. Though when you first introduced us, in your Regent Street office, we were both aware of a special moment. Now, I can hardly imagine myself as Lady Fairfax, let along being jointly responsible for the Fairfax organic biscuit range. Maybe I'll get to go foxhunting with Madonna, like you did? (That was what you mentioned, wasn't it? Or did you say you'd been morris dancing with Madonna?).

However, before you arrive, I simply must tell you what happened this morning. My ex, Colby, turned up on my doorstep, with his eyebrows weirdly singed. Yep, the same Colby who'd cheated on me with that trailer trash Opal. Turns out she'd dropped him for some big shot Hollywood producer, and he wanted a place to stay. Tough. “No dice,” I shouted, threatening to call the cops. That got rid of his sorry ass. Or so I thought.

An hour later, I answered the doorbell again, to find him clutching an enormous bouquet of red roses. He instantly yakked on and on about how I'd been his one true love. “Then why did you run away with Opal?” I asked.

“Okay, I get it, we're finished. But listen, Jo-Beth, Opal threatened to expose the cubs as werewolves.”

That got my attention. “What does she know, exactly?”

“Not on the stoop.” He glanced from side to side. Rather theatrical, but I took his point and ushered him inside. Big mistake. In the kitchen, I put the bouquet on a counter and fixed us coffee.

Colby continued to look agitated, but pressed on. “One night, our car broke down near Bakersfield, and a passing ranch hand directed us to Main Street, where we rented a room at the saloon. Pretty soon, Opal was knocking back cheap liquor, which loosened her tongue. She boasted that she'd learned about the cubs while practicing the violin - as you've heard, she has perfect pitch. That evening, a nearby atonal howling ruined her concentration. She traced the noise across the block to our apartment, and close observation over subsequent lunar cycles confirmed her suspicion.”

“And you decided to help by absconding with her?” He nodded, eagerly. What a piece of work that Colby is. “Does she intend to act on her knowledge?”

“Does it matter? It's only on TV shows that the supernatural makes people hysterical. In real life, they'll dismiss you as a nut, more or less harmless.”

“Hmmm. Fair point.” I grew annoyed. “Then why did you make a big deal about it a few minutes ago?”

“Give me one more chance, babe.”

I slung him out. The cheek of the man.

Would you believe it, not half an hour after that, the doorbell went again. Opal didn't wait for my reaction, she just barged in and flopped down on my sofa.

“Jo-Beth, I'm here on a matter of life and death.”

I grew cold. “The cubs?”

“What? No. Why is it always the cubs with you people? Colby got drunk in Bakersfield and rambled on, calling them werewolves. Was I ever glad to kiss goodbye to that weirdo. No offence.”

“Er...”

“Werewolves? As if. The point is, I think Colby is a killer.”

“Why?”

“I've seen what I've seen, heard what I've heard. When he got drunk, he named a victim - you.”

“Seriously?”

“He's aiming to be made custodian of the cubs' trust fund. Do they have one?”

“From their maternal grandparents.”

“From what I can gather, he's a homemade explosives man. Learnt it all on the Internet. Whatever you do, don't accept any gifts from him.”

“Oh my.”

“Oh my what?”

“Flowers. In the kitchen.” We raced to the kitchen. On the counter, a thin plume of black smoke was rising from the roses. Just then the front door opened and the cubs rushed in. While I agitated myself, Opal calmly took off her jacket and threw it over the flowers. I expected it to catch fire. But Opal picked it up seconds later, to reveal that it wasn't even singed, while the flowers lay in a charred heap.

“It's a flame-resistant material I invented,” she explained. “Well, must go. I've sold my story to a Hollywood producer, and I need to generate more material for the screenwriters.”

What a weird morning! Weirder than a female werewolf marrying a Scotsman, or vice versa? We can discuss that when you get here. Meanwhile, if only Colby could officiate at the wedding.

Yours truly,

Jo-Beth

XXX

Copyright T. P. Keating 2008