Of Flame and Fury: A Weird Girls Novel (Weird Girls Flame Book 3)

by Cecy Robson

  The smooth fabric of her lavender gown hugs her small curves, and her wavy blond hair is tied in a tight French twist, revealing her fair and angelic features even as she pegs Bren with one hell of a frown.

  Emme crosses her arms and holds her ground, keeping still despite her tendency to shuffle her feet when she’s nervous or on edge. My sweet sister possesses the ability to heal and is a powerful telekinetic. She seems readying to use the latter on Bren and send him through the wall.

  “You want to talk about this, now?” he asks, growling hard enough to shake his chest.

  His growls take me aback. He’s always used care with Emme. “When else are we going to talk about it?” she asks. “You’re avoiding me, and it’s not right.”

  Bren swipes his large hand down his face, scratching his beard like he does when he’s frustrated. His growls cease, and guilt etches across the mask of anger he’s trying to hold. “Em, it’s not like that,” he says. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

  “Then, what are you doing?” I ask.

  For someone with the best nose in the pack, he didn’t notice my presence. He growls, caught off guard, relaxing only when he sees it’s just me. I pegged them for mates a while back. The way they were acting, and that kiss they’d once confessed to, had me convinced. Now, I’m not sure.

  “I didn’t sense you coming, T,” Bren offers. “Whatever spell these witches cast is doing a number on me.”

  “Sure, it is,” I say. Something is doing a number on Bren. I think it’s whatever he feels or doesn’t feel for Emme.

  I look to Emme. She bows her head, trying to hide her deepening blush. I ram my hands on my hips. “I’m tired of finding the two of you this way, barely friends, barely something more. What is up with you two?” Neither answers, which annoys me more.

  “For crying out loud,” I grumble. “Are you sleeping together?”

  Again, silence.

  If I were a cat, my back would arch, and every tiny strand of fur would stand on its end. “Are you having sex?”

  Bren’s demeanor shifts from frustrated to furiously defensive. “It’s not like that, T.”

  “You keep saying that,” I remind him. “Then what is it exactly?” All right. None of this is good. Mates are drawn to each other with a connection that can’t be flicked on and off on a whim. This…I don’t know what this shit is.

  “Just tell me what’s going on, already,” I urge. “Whatever you’re experiencing is taking a toll on both of you.”

  “You’re seeing more than there is,” Emme replies quietly. “And now isn’t the time to convince you or him.” She makes it a point not to look at Bren. “Celia is here. We need to take care of her.”

  “Celia is here?” Bren asks slowly. He watches Emme walk away, appearing confused and unsure how he arrived here.

  Like me, he seemed to forget all about Celia. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. I feel the need to do the same. It dawns on me I left the party specifically to meet Celia and make sure she was okay. As alarming as it was to find Emme and Bren alone, their presence shouldn’t have distracted me so profoundly.

  “Like I said, T,” Bren begins. “The witch mojo is really sinking its teeth into us.”

  He means the disorientation spell, but there seems more to it than mere magic. There’s a familiarity threaded into it, not witch, exactly, but something or someone else I know.

  I rub my eyes, feeling tired and too distracted to care how much it smears my makeup. “You may be right,” I say. I walk to him, stopping in front of him and jabbing my finger into his chest. “That doesn’t mean I’ll forget what I saw here.”

  I shoot him one last glare before I hurry after Emme. Bren follows, his large feet stomping behind me. He’s worked up, and so is Emme. I hate it and hate the wedge it’s driving between us even more.

  Emme used to tell us everything. In her own quiet and shy way, of course, but she never hid things from us. Now, she’s so tight-lipped, I couldn’t pry her mouth open with a crowbar. I may end up talking to Bren alone. Maybe he’ll be the one to crack.

  “Emme,” I call out. I frown when the hall darkens, and she appears to flutter farther and faster away from us. “Emme, don’t go without us.”

  She takes off, running.

  “Em,” Bren hollers. “God damn it, wait!”

  Emme rounds a corner and disappears into yet another hall. I pick up my pace, passing a small meeting room. Emme is moving fast, too fast. What’s happening to her?

  My steps falter when the light sconces dim further. I turn around, the rooms we passed are gone. There are no doors or windows, only a long corridor with dark paneling remains.

  Everything feels off, and I can no longer hear the gentle strut of Emme’s feet.

  “Bren?” I say.

  “She’s gone,” he says.

  “I know, but—”

  “She’s been gone a while,” he interrupts. He takes a long whiff. “That wasn’t her.”

  “Excuse me?” I look back to where I thought I last saw her. “Then, who was that?”

  “Not Emme,” he says, the muscles along his jaw tensing. He clasps my left arm. “Come on. We have to find her.”

  I double back and into a wall.

  “What the fuck?” Bren snaps.

  The hall narrows, and darkness swallows what used to be the way out.

  Bren’s head jerks up. “Did you hear that?”

  “I don’t hear anything,” I respond.

  It’s the truth. There is no sound. Just me and Bren and our increasing breaths.

  “What do you hear?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  He closes his eyes, listening hard, the rise and fall of his chest growing more pronounced.

  A light whisper of wind rustles from the darkness, intensifying into a pained moan as it reaches us.

  “Aw, hell,” Bren says. “Stay with me, okay?”

  “Ah, sure,” I say, trying to remain calm and more than failing. I can’t see well in here, and I’m not certain Bren can either. I turn around when I feel something stir behind us. “Do you think the spells are just surging now that Celia has arrived? They’re meant to keep her safe. Maybe they’re reacting to her presence.”

  I whip around. The wall is gone.

  And so is Bren.

  Chapter Three

  I inch backward, my motions dimming the lights further until they vanish completely. My right arm shoots up, lighting like a torch and sparing me from the blackness encasing me.

  The sound of splintering wood has me lowering my arm. I jump when thin rivers of blood trickle toward my feet.

  Blood is never a good sign. It leads from bad to deadly every damn time. Most would run at the sight. Me being me, and knowing there’s no other recourse, I follow the tiny rivers.

  I move carefully, not wanting the thickening fluid to touch me. Dark magic is particularly nasty and usually requires a sacrifice. This blood signifies more than death; it’s a trigger to whatever will fire next.

  My light strobes in and out, in tune with my accelerating heart rate, and against the tiny rivers that expand into a widening pool. The horrible silence resumes, adding an extra dose of eerie.

  Don’t be afraid, I tell myself. It’s quiet. That’s all.

  I don’t manage to convince myself. Not when the moaning resumes with the next step I take. It starts out low, almost imperceptible, swelling in volume until it’s loud enough to muffle my rattling teeth.

  The temperature drops absurdly low. The chill of death is here, expanding quickly, mingling with spirits and dark magic, and determined to drag me to hell.

  Son of a bitch.

  I reach another wall, another dead end. I release a breath, cursing when more moans join the first, these much higher pitched and much, much closer.

  Frozen fingers drag down my spine. I turn around, ready to blast whatever is touching me only to stop dead. The streaks of blood are moving, swirling in freakish directions to form letters and words.

&
nbsp; N-Y-T-E-S…

  My light shakes from my violent trembles.

  A-R-E…

  The letters darken to black, smearing the wooden floors.

  C-O-M-I-N-G

  I jolt when something crashes on the level above. I don’t wait for more of this twisted spelling bee. I take off in a sprint, shaking my right hand. “Get us to Celia,” I tell Sparky. “Get us there now.”

  I just miss crashing into a wall that materializes in front of me. I shake my arm harder. I don’t typically order Sparky around. It’s not something I can do. As connected as we are, she’s practically a separate entity with her own set of rules I’ve yet to figure out.

  “Come on, girl,” I insist. “Celia needs us.”

  More by instinct than anything Sparky does, I spin, startling when a new set of words form along the wall.

  NYTES

  HAVE

  COME

  Sparky radiates to life, the brilliant light she emits drying and cracking the blood. With a jerk, she leads me left. I follow, running as fast as I can.

  The dimness fades slowly, as do the moans. Sweat beads my brow.

  “Gemini!” I scream. “Celia is in trouble.”

  My mate bond with Gemini frequently helps me out of the messes I face-plant into. Except, never has Gemini felt so blatantly absent. I try again, calling to the one wolf who couldn’t live without my sister.

  “Aric. Aric. Celia needs you.”

  Nothing. Nothing but the dwindling moans.

  “Emme…Bren!”

  God damn it. No one can hear me. I need someone to hear me.

  Sparky cuts us right, then left, then left again. The sizzling sound of grilling meat breaks through the quiet ahead. A poof of fire follows several rounds of loud clapping. “Bravo, Chef. Bravo.”

  I’m almost to the kitchen and out of this maze. I pick up my already ridiculous pace, yelling as loud as I can. “The mate of Aric Connor is in danger!”

  The clang of piling dishes and orders to move faster infuse with the overpowering aroma of freshly diced herbs.

  I round another bend, and another, the long hallways shortening and the voices of the guests growing clearer.

  I holler, my throat burning. “Protect Celia. Protect the Mate!”

  Light, brilliant and blinding, bursts alive. I skid past the kitchen and almost fall. I’m back in the main part of the manor and no longer alone. I grip the molding along the entryway, taking in painful gasps of air through my paper-dry throat.

  Several Lesser servers pass me, enthusiastically communicating in French as they heft trays of food onto their shoulders. I reach for one and almost fall, my feet cemented to the floor. I try to slip out of my shoes, but everything below my ankles feels encased in stone.

  A heavy-set server grumbles by me, admonishing the others for carrying less than her share.

  “Wait,” I say. “Don’t leave.” I clasp my knee and pull, trying to break away from whatever has me. No one stops or even looks in my direction.

  “What are you doing?” I demand. “Celia Connor needs help.”

  My right hand smacks another Lesser witch on the arm. She glares over her shoulder, although Sparky barely appears to graze her. The anger she presents with dwindles into confusion. She doesn’t see me either.

  “Shit,” I yell.

  Another Lesser bounds forward, bumping me hard and into the next waiter who follows. His tray rattles and tips to the side, but only slightly. I’m here, yet not here. My efforts and presence a ghost of what I really am.

  A voice whispers close to my ear. “Nyte,” he says, laughing.

  “Bullshit,” I whisper back.

  My focus travels to the floor, where the source of the magic appears linked. I crouch low and stretch out the fingers of my right hand along the slick wood. I sigh with relief when I realize the magic can’t adhere to Sparky’s flesh.

  “Okay, bitch,” I mutter. “Want to play? Sparky, let’s show this freak how we play.”

  I inhale slow and deep, tapping into my magic and willing it to meld with the ancient were magic that created my arm. I push it out leisurely, not wanting to release too much too soon. Sparky brims with light, anxious to burn, and more than willing to fight. Except I don’t need to set the whole place on fire, I just need enough to crack the spell holding me.

  I repeat the motion, exhaling as if time is on my side and not as precious as it is. Gradually, my power slides down the length of my arm, pouring from my fingertips and encircling the area around my feet.

  “Release me,” I order.

  The floor creaks but doesn’t give. My feet remain glued.

  I bare my teeth, forcing through more power. Blue and white mist corkscrews out through my fingers and ribbons along the floor, the ends petting the heels of a Lesser witch. She jumps as if shocked and barely hangs on to her tray.

  As she regains her balance, she circles the area, sensing magic, and more than once passing me.

  “Nara,” she says. “Something is happening.”

  “Yes,” a woman with scraggly hair and a voice to match admonishes. “It’s called a party. Get the food out there before Chef has your head.”

  I ignore them, knowing I can’t count on them or anyone else. It’s up to me, and I want out.

  “Release me,” I command, pressing more magic through. The floorboards creak at my fingertips, splintering the wood down the length, and popping them free of the floor.

  “Release me, Nyte,” I say, exerting more of my power. I clench my jaw, struggling to keep control over my arm. She wants everything to go ka-boom. But I need to save, not kill. Not yet.

  Ripples of white and blue shoot down the length of the hall, warping the wood and caving the floor encasing my feet inward.

  “Release me, now!”

  The spell forcibly pops, jetting me ahead several feet. I land on my knees and scramble into a sprint. I race ahead past several severs. Only a few seem to notice the damage I caused, yet it doesn’t last. They shake their heads, adjusting their loads and returning their attention ahead as if I didn’t just break the flooring apart.

  I push past everyone. I’m almost through the hall. The server with long dreads is the only person between me and the main foyer. I yell as hard as I can, my vocal cords almost tearing with how hard I scream.

  “Celia Connor is in danger!”

  My foot touches the gold tile, and I crash land in a suite.

  Upstairs.

  In a totally different part of the manor.

  I punch the floor with my fists. “What the hell?” I moan.

  The room spins languidly, and the walls shift up and down. I struggle to stand and can’t keep my feet. This isn’t a room. It’s more like a raft on the high seas following a particularly nasty storm.

  My hands slap against the plaster walls as I tip to the side. I try to steady while the room continues to deviate. But it’s like one of those awful rides at a cheap fair, and damn it, I want to get off.

  I look ahead, trying to focus on something and smash down the motion sickness building in my gut.

  Somehow, the center of the room remains gloriously stable. I start forward, concentrating on that little spot and not the nauseating twisting motions of the section I’m trapped in.

  Without warning, the room abruptly tilts right then left. I stumble sideways in whatever direction it shifts until I collapse back where I first began.

  Bile sours my stomach and clambers up my esophagus. I ram my eyes closed, taking a few hard gulps of air. All it does is make things worse. I open my eyes, certain I’ll be sick. It’s only then I realize I’m not alone

  Tye, the son of the current President of the North American Were Council, is spread across a large bed. He pushes up on his elbows and stares in the direction of a set of doors. When I first met Tye, he reminded me of someone who should be slapped on a billboard in Times Square with a bottle of vodka between his thighs and nothing else. Tonight is no exception.

  He runs his h
and through his long, white-blond hair. The dimple on his cheek pops out when he grins. “How’s it going, baby?” he asks.

  My stomach flips as the room aggressively distorts in and out. “Tye, help me,” I gasp. “Celia is in trouble.”

  He laughs, his cheer casting a shimmer along his light eyes. He can’t hear me, his full attention on the person behind the double doors.

  “Come on, sexy,” he says. “They’re waiting for us. You ready?”

  A light and squeaky voice replies from behind the doors. “Am I ever!”

  “Tye,” I urge.

  The doors crashes open, and out pops Destiny.

  Destiny is a freak of nature. I mean that in the nicest way possible. Every hundred years, a little girl is born from the union of two powerful witches. That little girl carries the unique ability to predict the future and manipulate magic in ways that scare the absolute shit out of me. Unique, however, isn’t a word I’d use to describe Destiny’s taste in fashion. Frightening, yes. Nightmarish? Absolutely. From zebra-prints tops with leopard leggings thrown in for pizzazz, to lime-green eyeshadow and enough highlighter to blind, Destiny pirouettes against the flashing lights of the fashion police and points a middle to the sky, flipping off Halston. She always dresses as if she’s insane. And tonight, for this special event, she’s really outdone herself.

  Destiny is in an octopus gown. I don’t mean octopus print, that would be a welcomed comparison. I mean she resembles a freaking octopus. Tentacles stretch out from the hem of the black-and-white disaster, levitating from the floor, so each of the thousands of googly eyes glued to the suction cups rattle as she twirls. Purple and lavender feathers top a bun so tight her scalp may need stitches to stop the subsequent bleed. Oh, and that face.

  Destiny is a beautiful young woman, even though she tries really hard not to be. Obviously, the feathers poking through her bun are there to accentuate the electric purple lipstick and coal rung eyes. Tye’s grin widens, giving me a glimpse of the werelion within and the beast who clearly adores this fashionista.

  Destiny stops her twirling, waving dramatically. “What do you think?”

  He adjusts the jacket of his tux as he rises and prowls toward her. “You look beautiful,” he tells her.