Page 95 of Of Flame and Fury
Tahoe is raging. It’s not until that familiar sense of Fate scrapes a line down my spine that I recognize the root of the lake’s fury. I edge away, swiping at my face.
My calves strike the stone steps leading back to the manor, the rough surface scratching my skin. “Johnny’s still alive,” I mumble.
Shayna and Emme don’t hear me over their hysteria. It’s okay. Let them be. Let them mourn.
I have work to do.
My injuries make maneuvering the steps hard at first. As my head clears, Sparky lights up. Our magic surges, nurturing me, giving me strength, and cocooning me in fire and light.
By the second tier, I’m racing up the demolished steps. My blistering tears make it hard to see. I blink them away. My sister is gone. This isn’t the time to cry and share my sorrow with Shayna and Emme. It’s time to avenge my family.
Magical smoke drifts into the air, a mix of colors from the fallen and those continuing to fight. There’s dark pink from the head witch of Malaysia. She’s somewhere in the woods, alive but just barely.
Blood and pain stain the peach and gold magic of the old Australian witch. Still, she stands, a force to be reckoned with.
Clouds of purple flicker into the night. The Priestess of Columbia’s magic is poisonous. Like a beast, it stalks above me and expands into a cloud, searching for its enemies and suffocating those in its path.
The orange fire that greets me at the top is conjured by a skilled pyrogenic witch from Istanbul. It challenges the fire consuming my form. I easily snuff hers out and shove the lingering magic away.
“Back off,” I bite out. “You are not my enemy, but you can be.”
The heat from her magic sweeps past me and onto her prey.
My sister is dead. That beautiful young woman who wanted to be wanted for so long is gone.
A vampire leaps from the trees, a blur of speed too fast to track with human eyes. My senses fix on him before his feet touch the ground. I slash at an angle with my right hand, severing him in two. He belongs to Uri, and he wanted me dead. He either turned on his master or on us. No matter. I step over his severed and flailing form, the white-hot fire surrounding me lighting him like a torch.
The screeching Nytes, growls, and calls of battle deaden the vampire’s screams. I pass a tribe of African witches as I reach the final tier. They hold hands and chant, cursing a giant rat with multiple limbs to stone.
The rat falls over. I use him like a bomb when a pack of mutant pit bulls, led by a zombie on horseback, charge. Shrapnel detonates into the faction, punching holes into their chests and setting their skin aflame.
One of the African witches races to me, gasping at the flaming wreckage I leave behind. “Your sister,” she says, glancing around. “The Mate. Where is she?”
“She’s dead,” I say.
My words bring on a fresh start of tears. She covers her mouth, her eyes pooling. “No,” she says. “No.”
I have no words to comfort her or me. The thought of Celia’s smile and kindness coats me with another layer of sadness instead of gifting me with gentle strokes to my broken soul.
My earliest memory of Celia is of her carrying Emme in her arms. I was barely four. She was five.
Celia stroked Emme’s hair, speaking softly to her in our bedroom. I remember that tiny apartment so well. We had so little. Daddy worked as a clerk at a law firm. At night he attended school. I didn’t know what it all meant. Celia seemed to.
“Our Daddy is going to be a lawyer soon,” she’d tell Emme, rocking her when Emme began to fuss. “You’re going to have pretty dolls and a real bed.”
“What about us?” I asked. I smirked at Celia’s grin.
Shayna looked up, pausing on her intense chewing of a cardboard book.
Celia lifted her chin proudly. “We’re going to have a house with a big yard and our own beds.” She lowered herself between Shayna and me, using care as she adjusted Emme on her lap. “There won’t be rats to wake us at night or bullies to make fun of our clothes in the park. You’ll have pretty purple unicorn sheets and new toys that come in a box.”
I’m tackled by a bear, his snout too long to be real, and his body disproportioned. It’s another of Johnny’s creations. He knows I’m coming for him.
My flames intensify as I ramp up my heat. His fangs are near my throat but don’t quite touch me. My fire encases him, sweeping across his fur and roasting him down to the bone. He collapses on top of me. I keep still, permitting my heat to finish the job as my heart holds tight to that memory.
I had forgotten about the unicorn sheets I desperately wanted and about telling Celia how much those rats in our apartment scared me.
Daddy never became a lawyer. He never bought us that house with the big yard. Mama never had a chance to wrap brand new toys with ribbon or make my bed with those pretty sheets. They were taken from us too soon. Just like Celia.