The Dream Crafter(8)

Fallon was halfway out of her chair when Laire’s voice rose. “Oh no. You are not going to ruin tonight for me. I have a special appointment with Mr. Grok that I’ve been looking forward to for four months, and you swore I’d make it there.”

“Mr. Grok?” Inara’s voice held awe, and she scuttled past Fallon to sidle next to Laire. “How did you get an appointment?”

Laire growled, the sound surprisingly deep for someone whose extraordinary amount of makeup doubled her overall weight. “He found out about my family connections.”

“Impressive. It took Rhaum years to suss that out.”

“Rhaum’s a rank amateur. Everyone knows the best and juiciest gossip is always told to the hairdresser.

Fallon now stood, tall for a woman, but what had Amana shivering, rubbing the back of her neck to smooth the raised hairs on her nape, was the pure power and menace the woman projected. The werewolves? Schoolboy hijinks in comparison. Fallon said, “Inara, the anti-shift spell still up and running?”

Ignoring Laire’s groan, Inara smiled. “Of course. You know Rhaum wouldn’t let that spell lapse. Unless those furballs are somehow special–” All three women took a long look at the pack of young men and in seconds shook their heads over that possibility, “–then it’s strictly dealing with them in human form.”

“My appointment,” Laire warned.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get there.” Fallon started her way down the steps. Laire stayed put, and looked put out, crossing her arms and mumbling words of doom.

From their seats, they had a perfect view as the redhead put herself in front of the brunette girl, who turned and scurried away, relief etched into her face. Fallon was tall but the werewolves were all her height or taller, and they were certainly wider. They gave lecherous looks and wide grins at the redhead in their midst.

As if sensing things were about to happen, the crowd quieted, people moving away from the bad vibes which were building around the werewolves. Fallon gave a fake pleasant smile at the surrounding males. “Wolfboys, think you can keep both volume and property destruction to a small roar, and please don’t bother the serving staff?”

The leader of the group gave an open up-and-down leer. “The only way I’d call you a bouncer is because of your chest. Do you want to play with the bad wolf, eh, Red?” His companions added their own loud howls of laughter to bolster the leader’s courage.

The smile stayed in place as Fallon leaned a little closer. “I don’t think you have anything interesting enough to play with, and quit fucking up everyone else’s night.”

The laughter turned to growls, and anything sexual was replaced by pure aggression. “Little girls who get mouthy get put in their place real quick.”

Fallon put her hands in the pockets of her pants.

Laire jumped up and pointed at Fallon while yelling, “No you don’t! Mr. Grok! Four months! Get your ass back here now!”

“She put her hands in her pockets. I better call Rhaum,” said Inara, and from somewhere in the impossibly tight clothes she was wearing, Inara produced a phone and began talking on it.

These women were offering her dreams by destroying her peace, and she was sure she was going to grow to hate them, but Amana didn’t want to see Fallon hurt because she was trying to save the waitress. “They’re gearing up to attack. Can you use your magic to help out? Because if Fallon doesn’t get back here, there’s going to be a fight.”

The look Laire gave her was duh personified. “Why do you think her ass is down there? She’s nuts enough to enjoy that type of thing, not giving a thought to friend’s appointments.” The last couple words were said in a louder tone, but the narrowed eyes and small huffs of breath told the story that Laire was resigned to being late or missing her appointment and was now active in thinking of retributory acts.

“She doesn’t have a weapon, and her hands are in her pockets.”

Laire shrugged it off, crossing her arms in front of her chest as she watched. “Granted, if they could shift she might need to grab something pointy, but they’re only in human form. And she always pulls that crap with the pockets.”

“Why?”

Laire’s voice lost any humor or outrage. It was stark, full of bitter remembrance. “Because if someone takes a swing at a woman who is not in any position to defend herself, they deserve whatever happens to them.”

The leader of the group threw a punch.

He was laughing as his arm glided through the air, expecting to knock out the woman in front of him without putting any effort into it. In short order he was brought down by a heelstrike against his ankle, a boot to the side of his knee, a knee to the underside of his jaw, and a stomp on his face, which left him with a bloody mess of a nose, and to the windpipe, which left him gasping for breath and turning an ugly purplish shade.