by Cecy Robson
“My hearing can’t take it,” I add, and it’s no way as sensitive as Shayna’s. Our wolves probably couldn’t get within a mile of this place without their eardrums rupturing.
Destiny, doesn’t have that problem. I groan when I turn and find her dancing in place, offbeat to Write My Name in Blood’s rendition of Enter Sandman. The best way I can describe this band is loud. Seriously, that’s all I have. According to Bren, Metallica inspired them and Skid Row gave them a voice. Metallica, could have inspired them I suppose, they inspired a great number of metal bands. But any voice Skid Row gave them was quickly butchered and sent screaming.
The screaming continues as the lead singer reaches a crescendo. “Motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrr.”
Everyone around us loses it. Me and Emme mostly cover our ears. Destiny, she’s part of the “give me more” crowd, the teal feathers she wrapped around the tight-as-sin bun on top of her head bouncing as she head bangs, or jogs in place. I’m not quite sure what she’s doing. It could go either way.
“Woo-hoo!” Shayna yells, her fist in the air. “Go, Destiny!”
That’s Shayna, always encouraging no matter what’s happening, or how bad things look. “She’s going to lose all her feathers before we make it to our seats,” Emme says.
“Is that such a bad thing?” I ask, taking in the teal plumage already covering her zebra striped boots with green pompoms, and no, the poms don’t match the feathers.
We talked her out of wearing a hat and that’s about it. Polka dot black and white booty shorts hug her petite hips. And because that’s not sexy enough, a tiny lime green bustier is currently cutting off the circulation in her tiny rack.
“It’s going to be a warm night in Santa Barbara,” I told her. In other words, “For the love of Christ, please wear something else.”
“I know,” she gleefully responded. “That’s why I’m wearing shorts.”
She had me there.
The screams on stage end, but not the ones behind us. I jerk around. The security guard and the men who were standing behind me, yank at their clothes. The motions shouldn’t be strong enough to tear their clothing free from their bodies, but that’s what’s happening, leaving the three of them in their tighty whities.
“What the hell?” one of the other guard yells, ordering the rest to stop the line.
“Ants,” the guard who checked me hollers. “They’re all over me.”
I gasp. Armies of ants crawl down their bodies, leaving welts deep into their skin. They swat at their skin, but the ants are immune, marching down their legs and spreading out along the walkway, forcing those trying to enter the venue to give them ample space.
My attention trails to Destiny, who, bless her heart, continues to bounce away despite the break in the music and the looks tossed her way. “Did you do that?”
“No one messes with my bodyguard,” she says. She points to the left of the circular concourse. “I smell funnel cake. To the food stands, peeps!”
We drift behind her, following closely. I can’t help my smile. In many ways, Destiny still scares me. However, this past week I’ve seen a different side to her.
For one, she eats most foods with chopsticks.
“It keeps your fingers limber,” she claimed.
Really loves polka-dots.
“They’re like the sun. All big, round, and out there—only black.”
And she can’t get enough of feathers.
“Everyone needs fun and color in their lives,” she insisted.
In the two days since we arrived, we hit every trendy thrift shops in Santa Barbara, only for Destiny to wear the outrageous clothes she purchased to the fanciest restaurants in town.
Girlfriend will never win the fashionista of the year award. But she’s a decent person, kind and thoughtful, who looks out for those few she calls her friends. Genuine would be another way to describe her, and perhaps lonely, too. Although she dresses as if she could care less what others think of her, I see how much it hurts her to be different, and I’m not speaking of her bizarre taste in clothing.
Maybe that’s why she fiercely protected Uri. He was nice to her and a few months ago hosted her at his castle in Europe. And perhaps that’s why she’s so nice to us, we’re among the few she considers friends.
“Are you all right, Taran?” Emme asks.
“Yeah, just thinking about Destiny,” I reply.
Shayna takes the lead, her long ponytail swinging as she weaves through the crowd. “Come on, dudes,” she yells, careful to make sure we don’t lag behind.
I like her being the first line of defense, and in this scenario, I prefer to guard the rear. Weapons are Shayna’s thing and she uses them well. Nothing with ammo, but plenty of sharp and pointy to make up for it. She can take a piece of wood and transform it into a deadly blade so long as she’s holding metal on her body. Tonight, she chose the platinum belly ring Koda gave her, the short red crop top she’s wearing and her low riding denim shorts, giving everyone a view of the bling and her thin ballerina build.
The box of toothpicks shoved into her back pocket gave the guard a laugh. I don’t think he’d laugh if he knew what she could do with them and am thrilled to pieces she didn’t stab him through the eye with one.
But the toothpicks are just a start. The long necklace that drapes between her breasts is her greatest asset, and what she’ll convert into a sword if she needs to.
Not that I think she’ll need to.
My gaze scans my surroundings. I don’t expect anything to happen, but long ago I learned something always does. I stiffen when I realize something is different, my body whipping around when it occurs to me what it is.
“What’s wrong?” Emme asks. She sweeps along as I resume my pace, her hands loose over the sundress she’s wearing in case she needs to act.
“It’s probably nothing,” I mutter.
She glances around, expecting something to pounce. “Taran, what is it?”
I angle my chin to look at her. I’m taller than her by a couple of inches, but I tower over her in these heels. She’s in sandals, always choosing comfort (and clothes she can easily flee in) over style. Sadly, I can probably run faster in stilettos than she could in her flat shoes.
“There aren’t any weres,” I say.
“That’s understandable,” she remarks carefully. “The music is awful. My head is already pounding.”
“It’s not just weres,” I say. “There aren’t any beings of magic aside from us.”
She quiets, realizing where I’m headed. “There aren’t many preternaturals left following the war, only about a hundred thousand scattered across the globe. Not to mention, with the new threat, they’re being utilized in every way the Alliance can think to use them.”
She’s not dismissing what I’m saying. It’s more like she’s thinking out loud.
“I know,” I agree. “But even though most weres have migrated to Tahoe, and were accepted into the Pack, there are still lones out there, and Lesser witches who never made the coven cut. I don’t sense so much as a tarot card reader.”
“Is that a bad thing?” she asks, taking her time to further inspect our surroundings.
“It shouldn’t be,” I say, although I’m starting to think maybe it is.
“And you don’t sense any vampires?” she presses.
“No, but they stay close to their masters, and the music would be too much for a rogue.”
“That’s true,” she says, appearing nervous. “And no master I know listens to bands like these.”
She’s right about that.
We’re almost to the funnel cake line when a band of men with large chests, lots of tats, and even more piercings stalk toward us. We don’t exactly blend. Especially Emme who looks like a little dove amidst a flock of vultures.
The last concert we attended was Pink. I’d say it was a different crowd, one where I wasn’t worried about being trafficked or having my kidneys sold on the black market.
The man in fr
ont with a row of piercings along his forehead, nose, and chin, fixates on Emme. He makes a “V” with his fingers and flaps his tongue through the center. Yeah, I’d say this is a different crowd than we’re used to.
Emme gasps. “Did you see that?”
“I was trying not to,” I say, making a face.
She shakes her head. “I’m not sure this was a good idea.”
“No,” I agree, especially given the odd lack of magical creatures. “But it’s what Destiny wanted.” I bat away a small plume that breaks away from her hair and reaches my nose.
“You like her, don’t you?”
She’s only asking because in all honesty, I don’t trust many people, not after the way they’ve treated us throughout our lives. And when you don’t trust, it makes it hard to like.
“She’s not so bad,” I say. “Just a little lonely, like the rest of us.”
I almost kick myself for what I say.
Emme’s gentle stare trickles with sadness. Her irises are green and similar to Celia’s. But where Celia’s stare is intense, warning those who draw too close they’re about to lose a limb, Emme’s is soft, allowing her vulnerability to poke through.
“You still feel alone?” she asks. “Even though you and Gemini worked things out?”
I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling without further diminishing what she’s going through. I do my best. “Ever since we were little, it’s always felt like it’s us, the four of us, against the world. The wolves have made it better, expanding and fulfilling our family more than I’ve ever believed possible. But despite the security and love they offer, it still feels like the majority are against us.” I shrug. “I guess that’s why I still feel we’re on our own.”
“I know what you mean,” she says. Her focus trails ahead. “Do you think that will ever change for us?”
My first thought revolves around what Gemini said and his uncertainty regarding whether most of us will survive what’s coming. But I can’t think that way, not now, and especially not with Emme beside me. She’s hope in a sweet dress and sweeter smile. I won’t allow her to lose that light in her heart, and damn it, despite the odds, I’m not giving up on us. “I think the best we can do is what we’re doing, keep moving forward and fighting the good fight.”
There’s the smile I so adore. “You’re right,” she says. “You’re always right.”
I laugh. “You don’t mean that.”
“Okay, maybe I don’t.”
When Emme laughs, my life is a little brighter and her entire face lights up. Unfortunately, today it casts a spotlight we don’t need.
I place my arm around her when a man with a shaved head and a devil’s goatee hones in on Emme, his eyes wild. “I want to make you scream,” he tells her.
In a strange way, I think he means it as a compliment. That doesn’t mean we take it that way. “Back off,” I snap. “She’s with me.”
“She can be with us,” he says, holding out his arms. “There’s plenty here for both of you bitches.” His friends, who likely graze the covers of every sex offender alert in the press, laugh. I don’t think they mean to intimidate, they simply do, allowing their size and appearance to speak for them.
I’m not easily intimidated, and I’ve never had a problem speaking my mind. “Sons of Anarchy called, you didn’t get the part. They think you’re full of shit, and P.S. you’re an asshole.”
“Oh!”
I lead Emme forward, glaring at them when they try to follow. One of the guys smiles. He stops smiling when his arm involuntarily lifts and smacks the Sons of Anarchy reject across the face.
The audible skin to skin connection punches through the murmurs of the growing crowd.
That’s all it takes for a fight to break out. I look at Emme, my mouth falling open when the corners of her pink lips lift. “They weren’t very nice,” she says.
“No, they weren’t, and didn’t you show them?”
Shayna laughs, lifting the long needle she created with her power. As I watch, the silver metal shrinks, reducing in size and returning to its original toothpick form. She pockets it and whirls back around. As much as she was leading, she was still aware of what was happening behind her. That’s one of the many things that rock about Shayna, even when you don’t think she’s aware, she is and she’s ready for it.
“Don’t worry about us,” I tell her. “Keep an eye on Destiny.”
Destiny turns around. “Isn’t this the best day, ever?”
“You bet it is,” I say, not meaning a damn word.
We trudge through the circular concourse and reach the funnel cake line where the space is at its tightest. At least thirty people are waiting in front of us, eager to get their sugar on. Just ahead more people are swarming a pizza and hotdog stand. I’m wondering what the hell this crowd ate, smoked, or snorted to give them the munchies so early on.
I don’t wonder long.
An odd outpouring of magic sweeps through the crowd, putting my senses on alert and lifting Sparky in the air.
“What the hell?” I ask, using my other hand to pull her back down.
A woman, who bleached one half of her hair and shaved the rest, rams into me, her eyes wide and fixed in the direction of the stage. “Johnny,” she rasps.
“Johnny,” someone else mimics. “He’s here. He’s here!”
Johnny Fate’s name swirls in awed, hushed tones, the power within it appearing to tame the aggression and unite all who have gathered.
“I can see him.” The man who speaks, stumbles forward, knocking into another woman who barely notices. “I can see Johnny.”
My attention skips around, wondering how it’s possible he can see Johnny. The giant flat screens mounted around the stage aren’t visible from where we stand. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe him.
“Something’s here,” I say, rubbing my arms irritably. “It’s not bad magic, it’s strange magic. Different from anything I’ve ever felt.”
I speak quickly, not caring who hears me and wanting to make sense of it all.
“I feel it, too,” Emme says. Her expression is almost blank from shock. She looks at Shayna who nods in agreement.
We exchange glances, jumping when Destiny raises her fists and screams. The crowd joins her, losing their shit as the first chord of an electric guitar belts out, ricocheting from every speaker.
Shayna checks her phone. “It’s early,” she yells. “Too early.”
Maybe. But there’s more to this than what we’re seeing and feeling. “Call the wolves,” I tell her, my gaze skimming around the crowd.
Son of bitch. I see nothing, but feel everything.
“What do I tell them?” Shayna asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say, muttering a curse. “That something’s not right. We have to get Destiny out of here.”
“Taran,” Emme begins, her face paling. “Destiny’s gone.”
Chapter Nine
I jerk right and then left.
“Where is she?” I ask, yelling to be heard when another chord from a guitar rings out and the crowd bellows with excitement.
“She was just here,” Shayna says, her tone reflecting my shock.
The throng of people in line for food and booze push toward us, hungry for Johnny to take the stage. “Don’t fight them,” I say, when Shayna tries to move against the group rather than with it. “Get to the front of the stage. She’s probably there.”
“And if she’s not?” Shayna asks, holding tight to her phone when someone bumps into her. “Everyone is moving forward, we won’t be able to make our way back up.”
“Then we’ll have to cut through the backstage,” I reason. “Whatever it takes, either way we have to find her.”
I keep Emme close when what feels like an avalanche of bodies shove us in the direction of the sunken arena.
“What’s wrong with them?” Emme asks, her attention bouncing along the rough and tumble crowd.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
The best way I can describe Johnny’s fans are zombie-like, blindly following their hero, with no regard for anything else. They’re in a daze, like they need their next fix, and only this rock god can provide them the drug they seek.
“Johnny.” The woman to my left cries, falling into her partner who cuddles her close. “I get to see him. I get to see, Johnny.”
“I know, baby,” her partner tells her, her cheeks damp with tears.
I curl my right arm into me, not only to keep her in line, but also to bring me comfort.
During the British invasion, millions of young women became obsessed with the Beatles. I never understood it, finding all those images of women screaming at the sight of John, Paul, Ringo, and George, disturbing.
Johnny’s followers remind me of those women, except it doesn’t make sense. They aren’t young teen women swooning, dreaming and desperate for love. They’re grown men and women better suited for biker bars and brawls.
“Koda, Gemini, and Bren are on their way,” Shayna says. “Tye is bringing them in with his helicopter.”
Emme stiffens at the mention of Bren’s name. I thought they’d made up, but it’s like every time they’re together, there’s this overwhelming tension, and it’s been going on for a long time. I think I know what’s happening, in fact, I’m sure of it. But Emme and Bren aren’t who keep my interest then.
“I thought Tye was under lock and key,” I say. The North American Were Council is the governing body for all weres in the U.S. and throughout Canada. “As the son to the president, the Alliance demanded his protection.”
“Come on, T,” Shayna yells. “Tye likes to be coddled just as much as Celia.”
“Good point,” I say, wondering who Tye had to maul to get free.
“Besides, you know him and Destiny are buds,” Shayna reminds me, slapping her hands over her ears when another strum of the guitar follows another, and another, the succession of musical notes growing more frantic.
“Who else is coming?” I yell, my voice competing and failing miserably over the cacophony of sound.
