[Abigail Sinclair's POV]
They've put my husband in a goddamn cookie jar.
That's all I can think as I stare at the ceramic urn cradled in Erin's trembling hands. It's white with these stupid little gold accents around the edges. Vincent would have hated it.
Not that it matters what he wanted. Because that's not him in there. It can't be.
The funeral director, Ms. Palmer according to her brass name tag, stands across from us with her hands folded at her waist, the perfect picture of professional sympathy. Her gray pantsuit is immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight, and her voice has that practiced gentle tone that makes me want to punch something.
"Ladies, I cannot express how deeply sorry we are for this tragic mix-up," she says, her eyes moving between the four of us. "I assure you, this has never happened before in our facility."
Keira makes this horrible keening sound next to me, her knees buckling slightly. I catch her elbow automatically, steadying her without taking my eyes off Ms. Palmer.
"Vincent was mistakenly identified as another deceased individual," Ms. Palmer continues, "and the cremation process was initiated before we realized the error. I know there's nothing I can say to make this right, but…"
"You BURNED him?" Alana's voice cracks like a whip. She's the oldest of us, the first wife, and usually the most composed. Not today. Her eyes are bloodshot, mascara streaking down her cheeks in black rivers. "We never even got to say goodbye!"
I should be crying too. Should be falling apart like the others. Instead, all I feel is this ice-cold fury sitting in my stomach like a rock.
Yesterday morning, Vincent kissed me goodbye before heading out on his stupid walk he insisted to be alone for. By afternoon, we got the call that he fell off a sidewalk and hit his head so hard he died on the spot.
And now this? His body "accidentally" cremated before we could even identify him?
No. This reeks of a cover-up.
Ms. Palmer is still talking, something about compensation and grief counseling, but her words wash over me like white noise. My fingers twitch toward the concealed knife strapped to my thigh, hidden beneath my clothes. Old habits.
But I can't act on my instincts. Not here. Not with the others watching.
"…understand this is overwhelming," Ms. Palmer is saying. "Perhaps you'd like a moment alone with the remains?"
Erin nods frantically, clutching the urn closer to her chest. Her sobs are quiet now, just these little hiccupping breaths that make her whole body shake.
The funeral director nods sympathetically and backs toward the door. "I'll give you ladies some privacy. There's water and tissues on the side table. Take all the time you need."
The door clicks shut behind her, and Keira immediately collapses into one of the plush chairs lining the wall. Her face is buried in her hands, shoulders heaving.
"I can't believe this," she whispers between sobs. "Just yesterday he was... he was..."
"I know, honey," Alana moves to her side, wrapping an arm around Keira's shoulders.
I remain standing, my body rigid as I stare at that idiotic urn. Vincent was special. More special than any of them know. His blood had a composition unseen before, something the Hunters Guild discovered during routine surveillance of hospital blood work.
That's why they assigned me to him four years ago. "Become his wife," they said. "Keep him safe from the bloodsuckers." A protection detail disguised as marriage.
What they didn't plan for was me actually falling for him. For his crooked smile and terrible jokes. For the way he'd dance in the kitchen while making pancakes on Sunday mornings. For how he never complained when I'd slip out in the middle of the night to "work" investigating the very creatures that would drain him dry if they knew what ran through his veins.
"Abby?" Erin's voice pulls me back to the present. She's holding the urn out to me, her eyes pleading. "Do you want to... to hold him?"
I take the urn mechanically, surprised by its weight. It's warm from Erin's hands, and something about that warmth makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
"I still can't process this," Alana says, her voice rough from crying. "One minute he's alive, the next he's just... gone. And now we can't even see him one last time."
"It's so wrong," Keira adds, wiping her nose with a tissue. "They should have double-checked. Triple-checked! How do you mix up bodies like that?"
You don't. Not accidentally.
Alana slowly reaches for the urn in my hands, her fingers twitch as they brush against mine. "May I?" she whispers.
I relinquish my grip, watching as she cradles it against her chest like a newborn. With shaking hands, she unscrews the cap, her tears flowing faster now as she peers inside.
"He was our husband," Alana says, her voice breaking on each word. "He died as he lived, beautifully ignorant of the dangers in this world."
Something in her phrasing makes my jaw clench. If only they knew how much danger actually lurked in the shadows.
"I hate," Erin chokes out, "how unsurprising it is that a fucking sidewalk killed him." She wipes furiously at her eyes. "Of all things."
They're not wrong. In hindsight, it's absolutely insane how he convinced us to let him walk around alone. But God, he begged us for years for just a little independence. That puppy-dog look in his eyes when he'd plead for "just a quick morning stroll by myself." How could we say no forever?
I'm so lost in thought that at first, I don't register what I'm seeing. Alana has dipped her fingers into the urn, bringing gray ash to her lips.
"Alana..." I start, alarm rising in my throat.
She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. "It's what he would have wanted," she whispers. "For us to be close. One last time."
My stomach turns as she takes another scoop of ash, placing it reverently on her tongue.
Erin reaches over, her hand trembling as she follows Alana's lead, dipping her fingers into the urn and bringing them to her mouth. Keira joins them a moment later, her sobs quieting as she tastes what they believe to be Vincent's remains.
"Please, Abby," Erin says, holding the urn out to me. Their eyes all fix on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. "Join us."
If I believed it was Vincent in that urn, I would in a heartbeat. I'd do anything to keep a part of him with me. But there's no way... right? This whole thing stinks of a setup. It's all too perfect… He's still alive. Probably as some idiot vampire's blood bag.
"I just can't right now," I say, stepping back, forcing my voice to crack appropriately. "I'll... I'll do it on my own later." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
Alana nods in understanding, though disappointment flickers across her face. They continue their morbid communion while I watch, feeling increasingly like an outsider in my own grief.
"I need some air," I mutter, backing toward the door. The sight of them communing with those ashes is making my stomach churn.
None of them look up as I slip out. They're too lost in their ritual, too convinced they're keeping a piece of him inside them. Under different circumstances, I might find their devotion touching. Now it just feels like they're being played for fools. We all are.
The hallway is mercifully empty. I lean against the wall, letting the cool surface press against my forehead as I take several deep breaths. My training kicks in, compartmentalizing the emotions threatening to overflow.
I'll have to contact the Guild tonight. If Vincent's still alive they'll know where to start looking.