Page 36 of Of Flame and Fate
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.
Reallylovespolka-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 anyweres,” I say.