Of Flame and Fate: A Weird Girls Novel (Weird Girls Flame Book 2)

by Cecy Robson

  “No one. Everyone else is too far out.” Shayna scrunches her face, her small pixie features pained. “Something’s way wrong in Rockville, dudes. Let’s find Des and get out.”

  Shayna drops her hands away from her ears. I’m not sure how she’s not losing her mind. The noise is killing my hearing, and mine isn’t as keen as hers. She removes the long silver chain around her neck and clutches it against her side. Very carefully and covertly, she manipulates the metal and changes it into a sword.

  “The magic is getting stronger,” Emme says, her attention darting around. Like me, she’s expecting whatever this thing is to suddenly appear.

  “It’s not getting stronger,” I say. I keep my gaze away from the mesmerized crowd and in the direction of the stage. “We’re just getting closer to it.”

  We reach the steps leading into the sunken dome. I barely keep from falling when the crowd lunges forward.

  Bodies big and small shove me through the narrow opening, and down the first step. No one is checking tickets, the ushers appearing as taken by the music and the presence as the rest of the throng.

  I’m squeezed between two large men, cursing when I realize I lost Shayna and Emme. My first thought is to move to the side and into a row, but everyone keeps bustling forward, piling into the front section and anxious to get close to the stage.

  The guitarist playing stands near the corner, his fingers flying over the strings. He feels the music, and so do the rows of people raising and lowering their arms, bowing before him.

  My guess is he’s the one with mojo, the music he’s playing a hypnotic melody, snagging those who hear him and refusing to let them go.

  I play with the idea of zapping him. Not enough to kill him, just enough to stun him until we get a fix on what’s going on. The crowd is oblivious and might not notice. But he’s too far away and I can’t be certain how those around me will react. It could snap them out of their fog, or harm them in some way and turn them violent.

  The latter keeps me from acting, that, and because I can’t be sure he’s the man behind the magic.

  Again, I stagger forward, the fans too eager to care who they trample.

  The next person who pushes against me is more aggressive. This time, I don’t keep my feet. I fall into the woman in front of me, rushing to stand when the lights go out and the music abruptly cuts off.

  Darkness stretches across the arena, and good God, do I feel alone. I can’t see anything. All I feel is the mound of bodies closing in, keeping me immobile and making it hard to breathe.

  Panic sets in the longer I’m blinded. I tug the cuff of my glove, hoping Sparky will light up and give me a fighting chance. Except no one is fighting, or yelling, or moving.

  No. It’s time for Johnny Fate to start the show.

  The stage explodes with pyrotechnics, reenergizing the crowd as the larger than life Johnny Fate takes center stage. “Santa Barbara,” he yells. “Do you crave Champagne and Guts?”

  Everyone shrieks at the top of their lungs, banging their heads as the bass guitarists and lead drummer rev up the music, morphing it from a staccato of loud obnoxious noise to a mash-up of classic metal mania and garage band awesomeness.

  Johnny Fate’s image takes up every super-screen. Some images show just his face, others his full frame. I’ve never seen him, and didn’t bother to look up anything about him. Maybe I should have. Maybe, it would have prepared me for what I see.

  His bleached blond hair is cut short all around except on top where a mop of long strands drape to one side, resting against his sweaty cheeks. To my right, I see all of him, his entire upper body a working canvas of tattoos. The only visible part unmarked with ink is his face, the exception being the three blacked-in tears cascading from his right eye.

  His arms stretch out, parting the sides of his fringed leather vest and exposing a tattoo of a green serpent devouring a bleeding heart. Across his flat stomach is a mural of his bandmates, their black and white faces inked into a large and eerie image of a full moon.

  The tats are powerful, dark, and violent. They don’t quite fit someone who is on the small side, and whose bandmates tower over him like overinflated gym rats.

  Black leather pants hug what looks like muscle developed just enough to add definition to Johnny’s slender legs. He’s cute, and I can see why some young, impressionable women would fall for him, but not older women, or even men—especially in this crowd. If the majority were on parole or on probation, it wouldn’t shock me. Their response to him does.

  I zero in on his arm sleeve tats. One looks straight out of Tolkien’s Mordor, desolate darkness without hope. His opposite arm is all jungle, hidden predators lurking in the shadows and behind wide jumbling leaves. I zero in on what might be a rhino, a wolf or two, and a couple of boars.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I find myself saying. The music is good, bordering on great. Except it’s not the rage-filled kind I expect this group of people to fall for. There’s a heart rendering melody to it, I feel each tug and pull, like I would my own sadness.

  “That’s him?” Shayna says.

  I didn’t see her muscle her way through, she’s just there, Emme clutched close to her side. Good, I’m glad she has her. Regardless of her power, Emme’s small stature makes her vulnerable in this mad horde.

  “T, he is so not what I expected,” Shayna yells over the music.

  Like me, Shayna probably can’t get past how young he seems. He can’t be older than me, but he’s trying to be, embracing a persona that appears forced.

  Strip away the overload of ink running along his neck, arms, and torso, and he resembles a softer, slighter version of Justin Bieber, rather than the heavy metal rocker the audience can’t get enough of.

  The opening melody seems to take forever. Like the Meatloaf songs of years ago, each note is designed to tell a story long before the lyrics unfold. But when Johnny’s hands wrap around the mic and he leans in close, and his first words spill across the arena, the energy erupts, detonating in an atom bomb of power.

  Unlike the lead singers who took the stage before him, Johnny doesn’t screech. He sings, beautifully, his emotion and agony stopping everyone in place.

  “Your love was meant to heal me.

  Your words were meant to cure.

  Your arms were destined to embrace me.

  You were supposed to leave me pure.

  Instead you looked away and sighed.

  Leaving me to weep. Leaving me to die.”

  Every word is like a dagger, stabbing me through the heart, his voice as commanding as Chad Kroeger and his words as poignant as Eminem’s, telling a story of a life filled with torment and sorrow.

  A few people beside us fall to their knees, clutching their chests and openly weeping.

  This is only the first song and their response to his music is not what I expected. No, Johnny, isn’t what I expected.

  Something in me clicks in a way I don’t want it to, sending the urgency I’m feeling out of control. “We have to get to Destiny.” I rush forward, pushing people out of my way as I make my way closer to the stage. “We have to get her out of here now!”

  “T. T, what’s wrong?”

  I can’t explain to Shayna what I don’t understand myself. Johnny is different, even more so than Destiny. It’s a bad thing, I think. No, not think, know.

  It’s as if a grenade has rolled to a stop at my feet with its pin missing. I don’t wait for it to explode. I move fast, desperate to spare us from the blast.

  I think Emme and Shayna follow. At least I hope they do. I don’t stop to look, dodging around the bodies too large to push through.

  The music blares, each beat matching the painful thuds of my heart, and each syllable flowing through Johnny’s lips, pulling out memories better left forgotten.

  I reach the arena floor when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I only answer it because I think it’s Shayna or Emme.

  Gemini’s face flash across the screen. “Wh
at’s happening?” he growls. “I can feel your torment.”

  “I don’t know,” I say through my teeth. I’m not a hysterical woman. It’s not a luxury I can afford if I want to stay alive. I’m hysterical now, the raw feelings poking through making it hard to stay calm.

  “I need you here, okay?” My already fast breaths quicken. “Please come, love. I need you.”

  “Taran, Jesus.”

  Like me, he probably can’t believe I’m this much of a mess, begging him for help. I should get a hold of myself. He’s not here and all I’m doing is further stressing him and his beasts.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks, trying to make sense of why I’m so upset. “Did someone hurt you or the others?”

  “No. We’re not hurt—something isn’t right,” I say. “There’s magic, lots of it. I don’t know what kind it is. But it’s affecting us and everyone around here.”

  It’s as much as I manage. “We’re in route,” he tells me. “Stay alive, you hear me?”

  I nod, although he can’t see me, my nervousness propelling me forward and to the first row of seats. My foot hits something hard. I’m not sure what it is, my gaze unnaturally fixed on Johnny as he sings, every deep emotion I’ve ever felt dripping like honey with each of his lyrics.

  The stage, the people, everything falls away, leaving me in a world filled with blinding white light.

  Quiet greets me, loud in a way and eerily still, erasing the panic engulfing me seconds ago.

  At first, I think I’m dead, and somehow made my way into heaven. But then hell arrives, knocking me hard in the head and reminding me of my sins.

  Skulls litter the desolate and burning ground, their charred remains smeared with blue and white ash. Some are human. One is of a beast. There’s no life around me, nothing but smoke and what remains of my fire.

  It’s then I know that I’m in neither heaven nor hell. I’m in the future, my vision forming from stress or panic, or simply the need to fuck with me.

  I fall to my knees from the gruesome sight, lifting the skull of the beast at my feet. It’s feline, a tiger. Just like my sister.

  A sob cuts through my throat as I clutch it to me, its weight unbearably heavy and too much to hold.

  I startle awake from my position on the concert floor, Destiny’s bleeding body tight in my arms.

  Chapter Ten

  “Omigod.”

  My words jumble, my mind trying to take in everything at once. Destiny is convulsing in my arms, blood pooling from her mouth and seeping from her eyes.

  Before all this shit, I was a nurse, and thank God. My ingrained training pushes past my shock and forces me to act.

  I flip Destiny onto her side, keeping her from choking. “I’ve got you,” I tell her. “You hear me? I have you, just stay with me.”

  Truth is, I don’t have anything. There’s a forest of people circled around us. No one sees me, and for certain no one sees Destiny or the blood pooling around her.

  “I need help,” I yell. “I need a medic here now.”

  The audience members continue to sway, failing to respond to anything but Johnny. I reach out, grasping the man closest to the stage by the leg. A familiar buzz builds from my core, sending a current of lightning shooting across my arm and into the man.

  It’s stronger than I intend, making him jump. He slumps forward, gripping the stage to keep from pitching forward. He looks at me, his dazed expression dissolving as his stare falls on Destiny.

  “Get help,” I yell, when he doesn’t move. “This woman is injured.”

  He backs away. “Holy shit,” he says, scanning the area for someone to call.

  His mouth opens wide, his stomach tightening as if ready to holler, only for him to become alarmingly still. As I watch, his fear and shock dissolve into confusion. “Get help,” I say again. “Are you listening, she needs a doctor!”

  His attention flickers to me and then back to the stage where it stays.

  “God damn it.” I say, almost leaping out of my skin when I see Shayna.

  She shoves her way through the crowd, pulling Emme behind her. They fall to their knees on either side of me.

  Emme’s force shoves those drawing closer away from us, expanding the small space around Destiny. “What happened to her?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, trying to push through the images of the skulls flooding my mind. I swipe at my eyes, anxious to forget what I saw. “We have to get her out of here.”

  “She’s seizing,” Emme says as if I don’t already know. “We can’t move her like this.” Her small hands slip over Destiny’s paling skin, her soft yellow light encasing Destiny all at once.

  Emme shakes her head. “I can’t stop it,” she admits, her voice panicked. “None of her systems are working correctly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Shayna asks, shoving a woman away who almost steps on Emme.

  Emme keeps her eyes closed, the yellow light surrounding her intensifying. “Her heart, her brain function, everything is off.”

  “Then heal her wounds and let’s get her out of here,” I urge.

  Emme shakes her head and opens her eyes, her expression grave. “There’s nothing to heal,” she tells us. “There aren’t any wounds. It’s her body, it’s just shutting down.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  No sooner do I get the word out than my attention trails to the stage.

  Johnny’s voice fades, ceasing to sing in the middle of his next verse. The stacked bodies part, everyone appearing confused as to why their legend would simply stop and deprive them of his glory.

  But it’s the look of horror on his face when he sees Destiny that keeps me from moving. He sees what’s happening, except instead of rushing to help, or calling help for her, he backs away in fear.

  Fear of Destiny.

  I rise slowly. “Get her out of here,” I say, my anger punching each syllable. “He’s the one making her bleed.”

  “T . . .” Shayna lifts her arm over her head, the sword she converted elongating in length and sharpening, and the stage lights gleaming against the length. “You can’t go after him alone.”

  Johnny fixes on Shayna’s sword, stunned by her ability.

  His shock doesn’t last. He jumps when he catches my livid expression. “Emme, do you have her?” I ask.

  She knows it’s up to her to get Destiny to safety. “Yes.”

  “Good,” I say, striking the first person blocking me with lighting.

  Johnny drops the mic, backing away and stumbling over the long cables. I storm forward, zapping anyone with lightning who doesn’t move out of my way.

  “What the fuck?” someone yells.

  “Johnny,” a woman screams. “Don’t leave us.”

  A chorus of pleas for Johnny to sing rings out, taking over the entire dome, only to turn into screaming when he reaches the rear of the stage and the curtains come crashing down.

  Shayna races ahead of me, the inner beastie Koda fed her spirit with making her fast, and that long sword of hers easily parting the crowd when they see it.

  Without breaking her stride she leaps onto the stage, her wrist twirling the blade and her steady focus ahead.

  An immense security guard runs out from behind the curtain, lifting the mic stand and gripping it fiercely in his wrist. “I’m warning you, lady. You better put that shit away.”

  Shayna’s sword cuts through the air with a swoosh, slicing the stand in half and splitting the guard’s T-shirt. He glimpses from his exposed chest back at her.

  “Dude, that’s me telling you to run,” she bites out.

  He does, but his buddy who thinks Shayna is joke pounds across the floor, racing toward her “Get off the stage now—”

  My lightning propels him to the opposite end and straight into more clamoring security guards. The lights and pyrotechnics continue to erupt, illuminating our blatant show of kickass and hopefully disguising it as part of the show.

  Shayna pivots, her sword out
and away from me as she offers me a hand. “We have to move, T,” she tells me, hauling me up.

  My attention darts briefly to Emme. She’s pushing her way along the side row, using her force to carry Destiny as she continues to seize.

  “She’s not better,” Shayna says, reaching for a handful of toothpicks and converting them into long sharp needles. “Whatever magic he’s using is no joke.”

  “I know,” I mutter, wondering exactly what he is. “Just stay close. I don’t think we can fight him one on one.”

  We stomp across the stage, ignoring the murmuring spreading along the crowd. Everyone appears confused yet the all-encompassing vibe circling the atmosphere is abandonment. They’re lost without Johnny.

  Whatever he’s doing not only effects Destiny, it infects anyone within his reach. As it is, I still sense that lingering sadness and panic he invoked.

  “What the fuck?”

  What seems like the entire security team piles onto the stage. Shayna raises her sword and lunges at them, her battle cry resonating against the speakers as she charges.

  They don’t find her intimidating. The sword is another story. She attacks them in a circle of movement, slicing lines across their bodies and grazing their skin just enough to get their attention.

  They may not fear her, but they do fear what she can do with her sword.

  I reach the curtain, my body slapping against it as I try to find the opening. About a half dozen swears fly out of my mouth as I fumble down the length, wondering how I missed the divide within the fabric.

  The mutterings across the arena grow more intense as does my urgency to find Johnny. They’re ready to riot, their need for Johnny piquing their violent natures. Magic or not, this crowd is dangerous, people are bound to get hurt, including us.

  The curtains are heavy, the multiple layers overlap making them hard to lift. I’m ready to crawl underneath them when Shayna appears.

  “Move, dude,” she tells me, swinging her sword.

  One, two. She parts the curtains with precise and elegant cuts. I whip off my gloves as we scramble through. Almost immediately, my right arm assumes that eerie glow, casting some light in the pitch-black surroundings, but not enough to prevent me from ramming into a wall.