Page 10 of Of Flame and Fury
“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 goka-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 hand 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 triesreally hardnot 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.