As Todd drives the car to the funeral parlor, there's that distinctive crunchy sound of tires rolling on half-packed snow that echoes. There's no music playing in the car to cover the outside noise, so it resounds crystal clear in my ears. It doesn't help that I'm leaning my head against the cold window.
Buildings and streets covered in white pass by, then Todd veers the wheel, and the car enters a parking lot. He soon finds a place to park.
But I don't get out of the car just yet. No, I stare at the crowd gathered in front of the funeral parlor from the safety of the backseat, narrowing my eyes at a few familiar faces.
There are quite a lot of people.
Even a little too many.
Yes, Melissa was well-loved among our peers, thanks to her bright personality, but that's not enough to attract such a large crowd.
Hunters die all the time.
If people were to move their asses whenever an acquaintance passed away... Let's just say that there would be a lot of burials to attend every year.
And when I say a lot, it's a lot.
To put it bluntly, unless people are very close to the deceased hunter, they usually don't bother to show up to the poor lad's funeral. At best, they'll send a representative who has time to kill.
—That is, if there's no political aspect to the funeral ceremony.
Knowing Miria, she's using Melissa's death to push her agenda forward. She has no regard for the living, much less the dead, and if she can use Melissa's death to gather sympathy, she certainly will. Her clan has suffered the loss of a promising hunter; there's no denying that bit.
I wonder how long it's going to take before she starts blasting some radical views about otherworldly beings, and how dangerous these beings are. Too bloodthirsty to be left alive, or at least, unsupervised.
That wrench never misses the opportunity to try to deepen the rift between hunter and supernatural clans. I doubt today will be any different.
How utterly foolish.
It's not like humans are saints either, and the proportion of humans killing other humans is far, far higher than that of otherworldly beings killing humans. But that, she won't bring it up. Of course, she won't. Facts and statistics don't support her black or white discourse, after all.
The funny thing is, this hypocrite doesn't want to burn the bridge completely, going as far as marrying me off to the demon clan to form a shaky alliance that I'm not even sure will hold, not with her stupid behavior.
If it's not obvious enough, people usually aren't fond of those who badmouth them. Just saying.
"Are you alright?"
Jordan's worried voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
No, I wasn't, and his arched bow tells me he knows I'm lying. Well, who cares.
Like it or not, I'm going to double down.
"I'm just trying to imagine what kind of face my family is going to pull when they see you." That's not a total lie. "Wanna bet at least one of my half-siblings is going to get hysterical, spouting some nonsense about demons eating corpses and whatnot?"
"As far as I know," Jordan offers me a playful smile, "humans eat corpses too. But you guys call it meat."
…You know what? I'm not entering that debate about semantics.
"Whatever, time to go."
I take a deep breath and open the door, the cold air of winter hitting my face. It burns, but it's not the end of the world.
Jordan follows along, while Todd stays in the car, opening a book to pass the time. As a snow demon, he doesn't need the car to be warm. He's lightly dressed too.
Another cold breeze blows in my face, whipping my cheeks, and I purse my lips.
I'm not jealous of Todd.
No, not at all.
Anyway, as we make our way to the funeral parlor, people start to notice us. It's kind of hard not to, with that giant by my side.
That said, I gotta admit the various, but very shocked looks on their faces are simply chef's kiss.
They help lift my mood a little.
The Roosemond clan head's eyes are about to pop out of their sockets, and the priest, who had the privilege of overseeing my marriage, is frozen in place, his mouth agape. A lot of these pompous morons look like dying fish flapping on the beach, and, huh, wait, I've got other things to worry about right now.
What the heck? The parking lot is as slippery as a skating rink; why hasn't the parlor staff spread some salt on it already? Are they trying to get a few more customers…? But, pals, I kinda don't want to fracture my skull just yet, so better be careful—
The thought barely has the time to cross my mind when my feet decide it's a good idea to go sideways.
I fucking hate winter…!
"Shit—!" I'm just about to fall on my butt when Jordan catches me in the nick of time, smoothly wrapping an arm around my waist.
"Be careful."
That's all Jordan says while helping me get back onto my feet. His voice isn't mocking, simply caring.
"…Yeah, thanks."
Can I bury myself six feet under? Just wondering, 'cause that was embarrassing as hell, and when Jordan offers me his arm to hold onto, my mouth twitches.
Dear husband, I can walk on my own just fine, thank you, but…
A glance over my shoulder, and I change my mind. The disbelief on those guys' faces is mwah, so I decide to play along. Also, Jordan is not showing it per se, but he's definitely gloating at these dimwits as much as I am.
Yeah, demons can be kind to their partner.
How shocking, I know!
If anything, Jordan has been kinder to me than any of them, so… You know?
Well, whatever. I lock my arm around his, just to rub it in their faces a bit more, and Jordan slows down his pace to match mine. Dude, your legs are too long. He must have been a giraffe in another life.
…I wonder if the kids will end up as tall as him. Eve isn't as tall as Jordan, but she's not short either. Is that a species trait or something?
Anyway, that's a useless thought. It's not like I'll live long enough to see the kids grow up—
"What the hell are you doing here!"
A low snarl draws my attention to my right, and only then do I realize we've entered the parlor.
Maybe I should rein in the daydreaming. It's starting to get out of hand lately.
So, back to reality.
I eye my half-brother, who's standing across the lobby. He's holding onto a glass of champagne, his cheeks already flushed. Dude, it's not a party; it's a funeral. Although he's visibly not the only one who hasn't gotten the memo—the friends surrounding him look tipsy, too.
"Hello, Danick. It's good to see you, too." I smile sweetly, and his shoulders jolt.
Oh, you're not used to me speaking up, are you?
Poor guy.
Small advice though, you'd better get used to it fast, or I fear you'll die of an aneurysm.
I mean, the idiot has inherited his mother's anger issues, and riling him up is… Well, it's quite an easy task.
In my case, just breathing is enough to get on his nerves.
And now that I can let my mouth run free, I'm curious how long it'd take for the guy to blow up. He's already fuming with a simple greeting, so one more sentence should do the trick.
Jordan nudges me, and I lift my eyes to meet his pained gaze.
Yes, if possible, I'd have liked to avoid drama at my friend's funeral and keep it peaceful, but I know that's impossible with my family.
So, don't worry, Jordan, it's fine. I'm not angry or even disappointed, just discontented, like always.
Also, I know Melissa hated Danick's guts, abhorred the guy, even, but couldn't speak her mind, or she would have had to face over-the-top retaliations that might have cost her her life.
Danick is made of the same cloth as Miria, from head to toes. He's like a mini her, but with a beard.
Oh man, Jordan, stop it with the worried gaze, will you?
Truly, I'm fine. Just… Let me vent my friend's pent-up frustration for her, now that she can't do it herself.
It'll make a good parting gift.