I seem to have woken up without a brain, its space replaced with a massive headache.
I really want to work on bowl of red, and will if brain comes back later.
For now, have this, the snippet of what I’m afraid has become Tom and Kyrie’s Wedding, Enter the Dragon.
Bowl of Red
Sarah A. Hoyt
Atop one of the highest mountains of the world, there lived a dragon. And the dragon was the most powerful beast in the world, able to listen to and control all of the magical animals everywhere.
And the dragon said to his bride, “Are you sure it will be all right? Closing the diner for a whole hour?”
Kyrie Smith, the dragon’s bride, a panther shifter and co-owner with the dragon – her very beloved and permanently worried fiancé, Tom Ormson – of the George Diner in downtown Goldport smiled while shaking her head, and pulled back a strand of curls that had worked free from Tom’s pony tail. “It will be fine, love. It’s just an hour, after lunch hour.”
Tom still looked worried. Well, Tom always looked somewhat worried, it was part of what was so endearing about him. But Kyrie had worked hard at blocking the time three to four pm, so they could get married in a modicum of privacy. Well, the right kind of privacy. Though every table was occupied these were their friends – a lot of them from the police department – and people who mattered to them, not whatever random might wander in from Fairfax avenue.
Rafiel Thrall, one of Goldport’s finest, and a lion shifter, patted Tom on the shoulder, “Come on. You’ll fine. It’s actually impossible for the diner to go under in the time it takes Anthony to pronounce you man and wife.”
Anthony, server extraordinaire – he’d taught both Kyrie and Tom a lot of the tips and tricks of table service – stood nervously between the salad station and the corner booth, wearing a dark suit. The bridal cake, four layers, created by Laura Miller, the Diner baker, who waved away any attempts at payment, was topped with a couple, created by another diner regular – by bashing gaming figures – and didn’t look particularly like Tom and Kyrie, except for haircolor, but they were both attired in aprons that said “The George.”
Kyrie thought that all in all it was a very fitting set up.
Conan Lung, former enemy, and now friend, sat at one of the small booths by the window, dressed in the western wear he’d adopted when his country and western singing career had started showing signs of life. He looked a little lost between the ten gallon hat and the cowboy boots, but no one had the courage to tell him, and at any rate, his fiancé Rya liked him that way, so who were they to say anything?
Kyrie herself had just switched her normal jeans and t-shirt and apron for a short formal dress in ivory. This had been done at the insistence of everyone else who said she should have a wedding dress. It was just that wedding dresses rarely came in maternity sizes, and she was aware of her belly bulge showing rather indecently. But Rya and Bea – the dragon shifter who was dating Rafiel – had pinned a short veil over her hair.
Rafiel pulled Tom towards the front, near Anthony, and Kyrie backed way back, to near the cash register. Tom’s dad, the only parent in attendance, came up from where he’d been waiting at the door to the annex, and gave Kyrie his arm. Because she didn’t know who her parents were – having been found, newborn, at the door to St. Anne’s Catholic Church, one Christmas eve, and having been raised in the foster system – Tom’s dad had agreed to do the honors.
She couldn’t say the man had matured much, since he was a lawyer working for the Triads in New York City, but he’d… Grown in different directions.
Tom said that his father was trying very hard to be a good father, and prospective grandfather, it was just that he had never really learned how to be an adult, or any of those things, so he mostly got very excited about the idea of being a father or grandfather, but forgot the day to day work. Still, he was the best they had, and he was wearing a very handsome tuxedo, and looked the part.
Even better, Kyrie thought, he’d stopped showering them in the weirdest baby gifts ever, from little squeaky mouse toys, to little nets, which he thought would be necessary since he was quite convinced that Kyrie and Tom’s babies would be born as “kitten-dragons.” Kyrie hoped she had finally got it through his head that the ultrasounds showed a human baby, male variety.
But she’d rather not make any bets.
With Conan playing the bridal march softly on the guitar, she walked up to the salad station.
Tom turned, and still looked slightly worried, but beamed at her.
A ray of sun came out and gleamed off the polished surface of the very expensive frier that consumed most of Tom’s worry.
It was going to be all right, Kyrie thought.
She realized her mistake immediately afterwards when something behind her exploded.