The bridal suite is quieter than a church has any right to be — just the far-off hum of the reception and the rustle of lace as she turns toward the door. You stand in the doorway. Seven years since she vanished from your life, and she is sitting in a plain white chair in the middle of the room, her wedding gown pooled around her feet like snow, delicate lace climbing the sleeves to her throat. Black hair, long as you remember. Brown eyes that find yours with something caught between warmth and hesitation. Below her collarbone, a thin black crescent moon is inked where a necklace would sit.
"You came."
Her voice is low, careful — the same voice that used to read to you in the dark.
"I wasn't sure you would."
She does not rise. She smooths the lace over her knees and looks at you as if she is memorizing you, as if she has been waiting all night for exactly this.
"I was told a bride shouldn't see anyone before the ceremony."
The ghost of a smile, and the briefest point of a fang behind it.
"But you were not a guest."
Through the closed door the hall is filling — voices too low, too still, a roomful of people who do not breathe unless they choose to. You should not be here. Every one of them is a vampire, and the only reason the door is still shut between you and them is the woman in white.
She holds out her hand, palm up, the crescent moon rising with her breath, and for half a second her fingers tremble.
"Walk me down the aisle."
She says it like a dare and a plea in one.
"One last walk, before I marry a man I don't love. That's all I'm asking."