Façade [Book 2] (Glamour Series)

21 | Arctic Fate

The stars flickered behind restless clouds of topless doom. Snow flittered across the twilight evening, biting into soft revealed skin and blemishing us to the bone.

Strong hands gripped my shoulders, helping me to my frost bitten feet.

Even with the balls of my feet steady in my sneakers: it was hard to keep stability through tainted fear.

Magic was useless for me, the charge I once contained within my spirit was defused with my bravado. A torrent storm flaunted gigantic boneless wings to smother my helpless lungs of un-prevailed air. Nothing was left for me, except fear dragging on my heart: filling it with tar and cement; it drops, smacking into my stomach with one sharp thump.

Holding back tears, I step aside to face our audience with Oliver. His skin was smothered in creek water, but it evaporated as soon as Oliver flexed defined muscles: creating a thick steam across our noses.

But, his expression presented an otherwise calm, collected, and ready-to-face-whatever-came-his-way mannerism.

I readied my stance as he does, with my hands in fists and my body pressed in a way that if someone decided they wanted to jump onto me: they'd be tossed off my back with one side step and blow to the stomach.

Trying to suppress the threat of danger now, shoving it's pungent odor down my drained throat, I wheeze in a short and strained breath. My ribs were tight from the fresh slap of cold air that whizzed its way up my "Saxofenders" band t-shirt and making my body shiver down to the very core. My legs, hardly protected by my thin red-crabbed pajama pants, long for a warm soothing bath. Though, I realize now, that I may never get another warm relaxing steam bath ever again.

Not with ten people surrounding us in the middle of the forest at God-knows-what hour when we are supposed to be tucked into bed for the night because of a ridiculous curfew.

Each of the shadowy figures held some sort of gleaming weapon, preying their silver reflections into our blue and green eyes.

"Show yourselves." Oliver scowls to the closest figure, directly in front of us.

None of the ghastly characters answered: as if they would rather be statues for the sleeping birds to pick at in the morning- not that I wouldn't mind such accusations to happen (as much as I despise birds).

Oliver's right ankle brushed over my left one for just a split second, barley enough for me to feel the soft unscathed material run across my bare, sensitive, skin. I don't look down, but I know what he wants me to do now. Such a small, simple, action was a thousand words.

Oliver tightens his fists, trying not to make it obvious he was beginning to struggle to see through the falling snow. Even I, too, strained to make out clear silhouettes from the foggy particles.

"Sometimes you used to greet us." A woman chimes dryly.

"But never again." Another croaks.

Something about the last line of these two strangers couplet burrowed haunted fangs deep into my breasted core.

But never again.

It was either us or them and the odds haven't been stacking up in our favor.

"That's enough!" Oliver raged, throwing two hands outward, in front of his chest, and shoving an invisible force toward the bundle of trees we can barley forge to accommodate to our sight.

The force of his magic gushed out a wind so strong even a lion wouldn't be able to stand his ground for too long. However, when the wind subsided from his fingertips and Oliver dropped his weakened arms we could see through the snowstorm that our guests were no-longer in sight.

Rather: missing-in-action.