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

by Cecy Robson

  He stops in front of me, peeling off his mask, his sweat-soaked hair glued to his face as if camera-ready for some kind of athletic photo shoot. “Look who’s here,” he tells me. “My favorite weird sister.”

  “And look at you!” I say. “My favorite—never mind. I hate all of you.”

  He looks past me, ignoring the slight. “That him?”

  I glance over my shoulder to where Gemini stands beside Johnny. To his credit, he tried to help Johnny appear respected by opening his door. I’m not sure it helped given Johnny’s slacked jaw appearance and how he seems ready to move back into the “cave.”

  I turn to Hank, nodding. “Yes. That is the mighty Fate.”

  “Mighty?” he asks. He smirks when I nod. “More like puny. You serious about what he is? He looks like some Justin Bieber impersonator minus the height and pubes. Shit, Taran, he could pass for twelve.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” I remind him, waving an arm at what’s left of his costume. “And royalty knows no age limit. Don’t forget, King Tut became Pharaoh at nine.”

  He huffs. “And died at nineteen.”

  Bren leans against the SUV with his arms crossed. He dances his eyebrows at the she-vamp who greeted me. “Cast your eyes elsewhere, mongrel,” she snaps at him.

  Bren chuckles and opens his arms. “Baby, you know you can’t wait to have some of this.”

  She hisses, more because he’s right based on the once-over she gives him. I’m ready to hiss, too. It’s like he’s trying to prove there’s nothing between him and Emme.

  Hank motions to Johnny. “The tough-guy Fate going to wait by your boyfriend all day?”

  And because he doesn’t look like enough of a pussy, Johnny takes a step closer to Gemini. Gemini stiffens. It’s taking everything he has not to roll his eyes.

  I clear my throat. “You may call him Johnny if you win his favor, otherwise you’re only permitted to address him as the Fate.”

  Hank barks out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?” He turns to the other vamps. “Did you hear that shit?” he asks.

  Hank stops laughing and leaps away when I light up in a funnel of blue and white flames. “The fuck, Taran?” he says.

  The vampires bare their fangs, inching back with their nails elongating. They may be immune to sunshine, but unless they’re a master, they’re not immune to fire.

  “Do you dare question the Fate’s power?” I demand.

  Hank blinks back at me. “Are you seriously challenging me?”

  “You’re damn right I am,” I reply, adding another notch to my already scorching flame.

  Sometimes, a gal has to be the one with the balls in the room, especially when Fate’s have all but shriveled up.

  “Listen, and listen well,” I command. “The Fate is under my protection and that of the Squaw Valley Den Pack. As the most revered and powerful witch among all covens, he is not to be harmed, and as a guest of your master, he is to be welcomed as family and friend without prejudice.” Heat flares as streams of blue and white swirl around me. “You will show him the reverence he deserves or you will suffer our collective wrath. Permit him through, bow as he passes, and for hell’s sake get him something to eat.”

  With a snap of my fingers, I switch off my fire. Gemini and Bren flank my sides, their arms loose and ready to act. I turn to address Johnny.

  “Are you ready, your highness?” I ask.

  At first I’m sure he’s ready to scramble back inside the SUV and beg us to save him. But then he shuts the door, mimicking my strong posture and lifting a chin stiff with determination. “I am.”

  He has to stop himself from saying thank you. It’s a good start. What he does next, is even better.

  The tattoos along his arms come to life with each step he takes. The vines and leaves of his jungle sleeve snake and move in a makeshift breeze. A leopard stalks through the bright green vegetation, yawning to expose his fangs, the glint in his eyes sparkling as he looks in my direction.

  At the same time, lava boils between the cracks in the earth of his Mordor-themed sleeve, spouting smoke as he reaches the first vamp. But when he passes Hank, it’s all I can do not to fist-bump him.

  The leopard extends out of Johnny’s arm and takes a swipe at Hank. Hank jumps out of the way, narrowly avoiding getting clawed in the face.

  “That was a warning,” Johnny tells him. “Please, for your sake, don’t upset my guards.”

  Bren makes this odd choking sound, trying to keep from laughing. I’m worried he’ll give Johnny away, but that’s not how Hank takes it.

  Like the other vamps, Hank’s focus is on Johnny’s ever moving tattoos, enthralled by the way the leopard shrinks in size and withdraws into Johnny’s skin.

  “The Fate is welcomed to the entire east wing,” he mutters, watching the leopard stalk through his jungle home.

  “No,” I say.

  “No?” Hank jerks his head up. “Why not?”

  “The Fate prefers privacy at all costs,” I tell him. “He respectfully requests use of the guesthouse during his stay.”

  “It’s smaller,” Hank tells me, speaking slowly as if I’m not aware.

  “I know, and I’m telling you, it’s what the Fate prefers,” I repeat. The less the vamps have access to him, the longer Johnny will be able to pull off this façade.

  Hank looks at Johnny, his features quizzical and questioning.

  “I like my privacy,” Johnny concurs.” He lifts his arms slightly. “We all do.”

  Hank’s stare returns briefly to Johnny’s tats. With a jerk of his chin, he motions to the vampire opposite him.

  “It will be just a moment,” Hank tells Johnny. “My apologies, young Fate.”

  Again, Johnny has to stop himself from saying thank you. But he does nod regally, just as he damn well should.

  “This way,” Hank says, leading him forward.

  I keep my arms behind my back, hoping Johnny will follow Hank and not remain glued to my side. He does, hesitating only briefly.

  Gemini turns to me, lifting my chin and planting one hell of a sexy kiss on my lips. It’s his way of reminding the vamps who linger that I’m his and also under were protection.

  It’s also his way of telling me my aggression made him hot.

  “Tonight?” he asks.

  “Tonight,” I promise.

  Bren knocks me affectionately on the shoulder and hops down the steps. “Way to show them who’s boss, Taran.”

  I wait for Gemini to return to his vehicle and drive away before following the remaining vampires inside.

  So far, so good. The thing is, nothing is ever at it seems in the House of Aleksandr.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ever wake up, feeling like there’s someone watching you sleep?

  Ever have that someone watching you sleep dressed like a naughty Catholic schoolgirl? Welcome to my world.

  Agnes Concepcíon looms over me, eyeing me with interest. And when I mean interest, I mean she’s focused on my jugular and licking her lips. I jump and scramble to the opposite side of the sage couch. “What the hell, Agnes?”

  She hops off the armrest where she was crouched, her movements smooth and feline. “The master has returned and would like you and the Fate to join him for dinner.” She adjusts her tiny librarian glasses. “But first he requests a private audience with you.”

  “With me?” I rub my eyes and look in the direction of the bedroom.

  “Yes, with you,” Agnes says, already annoyed.

  Except for the flames dancing in the fireplace, the rest of the living room is dark which does nothing to squelch Agnes’s spooky vibe. She’s smiling, and still very fascinated with my neck.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Almost nine.”

  “Nine?” I hadn’t planned to fall asleep, let alone sleep the day away. But following a breakfast fit for a Fate and his nanny, Johnny passed out in the bedroom, and I suppose I passed out on the couch. I reach for the phone on the coffee
table, cursing when I realize I missed several texts from Gemini.

  Agnes huffs. “Are you coming?”

  “I have to text Gemini first,” I reply, tapping my screen.

  “It is an insult to keep the master waiting.” She hisses when my fingertips continue to fly across the screen. “Do you want me to drag you there?”

  I glance up. “Do you want me to set you on fire, or for my boyfriend to show up here with his pack and drop kick your front gate open?” I return to my message. “Don’t get your thong in a bunch. I’ll be with you in a second.”

  She turns away in a huff. “Just so you know, Celia is my favorite.”

  “I’m sure she’ll sleep better at night knowing that, Agnes,” I mumble. I know she hears me, even as she slams the door shut behind her.

  You were sleeping? Gemini replies in a text.

  Yes, sorry, I respond.

  It’s only because I didn’t sense you were upset that I’m not already there, he texts back.

  I don’t have to be there to know he’s growling. You were going to bust down the gates, weren’t you?

  No.

  Liar.

  He replies with a sneer emoji followed by a bat and little trickles of blood. Second in Command or not, my mate is damn cute, even when he’s threatening to tear a vampire apart.

  I’ll make it up to you later, I write. Off to meet Lady Aleksandr.

  Be careful, he answers.

  I freshen up in the bathroom and knock on Johnny’s door. I’m not sure what kind of hours a rock star keeps, but he stirs when I open the door. “Hey, you all right?”

  He nods and rubs his eyes. “Yeah, a little disoriented, but okay.”

  I lean against the doorway. “Misha invited us for dinner, but he wants to meet with me privately first. Why don’t you get a shower and clean up? The vamps will come for you when it’s time.”

  He seems like he’s having a hard time moving. I’m not certain why until he meets me with those same sad eyes. “They’re still dead, aren’t they? Drake and everyone, that wasn’t a dream, was it?”

  I glance down at the floor, wishing I could tell him otherwise. “No, Johnny, it wasn’t a dream.”

  He nods in that heavy way he does when the world seems like too much. I start toward him, but then he swings his legs over the bed and marches into the bathroom.

  I walk to the door and press my hand against the frame. I want to say more, and somehow bring him comfort. Yet when the shower goes on, I determine he’s already heard enough.

  I leave him to his thoughts, and likely his sorrow, and step out of the guesthouse. The grounds are massive, surrounded by gardens most would kill for, not realizing how much blood was spilled to maintain them. I don’t mean the gardeners’, although knowing the naughty Catholics, I’m sure they’ve had a taste. I mean everyone the vamps have mowed down over centuries to gain power and expand their wealth.

  A few years ago, when I was awesomely naïve, I used to think vampires were the Mafioso of the mystical world, in retrospect, there’s so much to these immortals, including what they’ve endured for eternal beauty and what they’re capable of doing to maintain their positions among the elite. These creatures aren’t dumb, they’re alarmingly cunning and cutthroat.

  We rightfully feared them, except when Celia inadvertently returned Misha’s soul, one vampire in a sea spilling with blood emerged, baring the longest and most lethal fangs of all, and ultimately giving her his heart.

  Vampires don’t have souls, at least, they’re not supposed to. Balancing life and death as he does, Misha will one day be unstoppable. So I don’t necessarily flounce into the massive 33,000 square foot, three story structure known as The House of Aleksandr. I strut with caution.

  “Hello?” I announce. “Anyone home?”

  “Merde.”

  I try not to roll my eyes, a hard feat in the presence of these vampires.

  Chef rushes around the French-inspired kitchen slaving away. I’d always envisioned chefs as full-figured people, dressed in white uniforms, black pants, and funny hats. That’s before I met Chef. He has the shirt, the pants, and hell, the funny hat, too. But Chef looks more Gucci model than gold-medalist cook.

  The black pants hug an ass so tight you could throw marbles against it and they would crack. Oh, and that white shirt is close to splitting from his overly muscular chest. Wisps of curly black hair escape the funny hat, and if he’d eat half the magnificent meals he prepared we’d need the jaws of life to extract him.

  To his benefit, Chef prefers to dine on people. Not that he particularly likes anyone. He rarely speaks, unless you count all the swearing he does in French.

  “Merde,” he shouts again.

  I take a seat at the counter. “Hey, Chef,” I say. “Thank you for breakfast—”

  He stops in the middle of banging his pots and pans to point a knife at me. “I only prepare such things for you,” he says in a thick and overly dramatic French accent. “Tonight you will dine on lamb stuffed with lentils.”

  “Okay, if you insist. Where’s Misha?”

  “In zee solarium.”

  He whips around, just to swear at the lamb stretched across the counter. He probably needs a nap, or perhaps a virgin to munch on.

  I walk through the house and into the grand foyer, my steps the only sound. I’m wondering where the hell everyone is when the familiar feel of vampire magic has me glancing up.

  What looks like Misha’s entire keep waits along the open hall on the second floor. I rest my hand on the railing. “What are you guys doing up there?”

  They exchange glances, not that anyone bothers answering. I start to climb when their hands shoot out, waving madly and clearly telling me to stay put.

  Sweet, child-like laughter drifts from the solarium. I glimpse toward it and then back at the vampires. “Misha’s fiancée has a kid?” I ask.

  Panic spreads like fire among them and they try to shush me. Apparently, I’m not supposed to mention the kid.

  “The master’s expecting you in the solarium,” Agnes mutters through her teeth.

  “Okay,” I say, slowly, wondering what the hell has them on edge this time.

  I cross the wide foyer, feeling the vamps’ stares burning holes into my back. Again, the little girl laughs. I stop at the entrance to the solarium.

  “Hey, Misha.”

  His name doesn’t quite make it out of my throat. He turns from where he was speaking with a young woman on the couch. I glance around, expecting, I don’t know, his fiancée. The only other person present is a very stone-faced woman dressed in black, watching them from her spot in the corner.

  The girl stands when Misha does. “Good evening, Taran,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say again, my attention returning to the young woman.

  She’s wearing a blue sundress, very conservative and simple yet likely very expensive. Her skin is olive like mine and her long black hair hangs to her waist. Dark, almost black eyes blink back at me warily. She’s tall for her age, at least five feet six inches, and stunning. When she’s all grown up, she’ll be gorgeous. But she isn’t a woman yet, and she has no business standing this close to Misha.

  I frown and walk toward them, wondering why someone so young is hanging at the supernatural equivalent of the Playboy Mansion.

  “You look rested, my dear,” Misha says to me. A few strands that escape his clip fall to brush against his charcoal silk dress shirt. “And lovely as always.”

  The sweet-looking girl furrows her eyebrows. She didn’t like the “my dear” comment and she sure as hell doesn’t like him referring to me as lovely.

  I don’t like the additional step she takes toward Misha. “I’m Taran,” I tell her. “Who are you?”

  Misha smiles. “Allow me to introduce you to Breasha. She is to bear my son.”

  A breeze smacks against my face as Misha’s vampires appear at once. Vampires always come to the aid of their master, and I have theirs by the throat.

  M
isha straightens, easily breaking away from me. I grab him by the collar and force him nose to nose with me, ignoring the escalating hisses from the vampires.

  “Are you crazy?” I glance at Breasha. “She’s a child!”

  Breasha, who initially covered her face in horror brings down her hands, glaring at me with tremendous indignation. “I am fifteen,” she tells me in a thick Eastern European accent.

  Misha’s shaking body forces my attention back on him. The bastard is straight up laughing. He rights himself in one easy move, leaving me holding the collar from his silk shirt.

  “My son will not be born for another decade,” he says, like that’s supposed to excuse this.

  “Or perhaps sooner,” Breasha adds hopefully.

  I blink back at them, allowing the remains of Misha’s collar to fall to the floor. “Please tell me you’re not claiming this little girl as yours,” I demand, my temper rising.

  Misha stops laughing and steps toward me, his expression absent of humor. No way. No freaking way is he doing this. “Celia is going to lose her shit when I tell her you’re hitting the middle schools for dates.”

  “I am not hitting the middle schools—”

  “I hope she shows up here and stakes your ass, you creepy bastard.”

  “Taran, you will not tell her anything—”

  “Oh, yes, I will.” I turn away and storm toward the exit.

  Jeffrey– a newly turned vamp—steps in my path. “The master is not done speaking with you.”

  I scream, my knees buckling when his hand clamps down on my shoulder. That same hand sizzles to a crisp when I release my lightning and shoot it across the length of his arm.

  Jeffrey shrieks, as does Breasha, and the creepy woman dressed in black, when he smokes.

  He wobbles backward, collapsing and kicking his feet in agony.

  Misha, bless his heart, is kind enough to haul him up by the face. “I thought I made it clear the Wird sisters are not to be harmed,” he tells him, his voice calm and deadly.

  Breasha and her guardian’s screams are only slightly overpowered by Jeffrey’s howls. Misha’s fingers dig deep, crunching the bones and caving in Jeffrey’s face.