The Flame Game (Magical Romantic Comedies #12) - R.J. Blain Page 0,50
parents were in the vehicle. “So damned dumb,” I complained. “At least no can burn roses now. Or house. Fire-proof house. So stupid.”
Both cops reached for their firearms, and I got out of their way, stepping back and flattening my ears.
Smart people would have noticed the irritated black and red unicorn snorting smoke standing beside a suspicious looking vehicle most would believe to be an unmarked cop car, given even half a second to examine it and its occupants. Rather than utilize one of their limited brain cells, my parents pulled up alongside my house. Rather than go the gasoline and a match route, they’d gotten a Molotov cocktail, which they flung in the direction of the big picture window.
Had my father had a stronger arm or better aim, I might’ve been worried, but he hit wide and low. The bottle shattered on the brick, and the sticky substance caught aflame.
My poor house.
I pivoted and trotted along, eyeballing their vehicle. My mother, who was driving the vehicle, continued down the street as though nothing happened, and after she passed Valorie’s house, she sped up.
Did the assholes really think I would just let them try to light my house on fire again without doing anything about it? I bucked, kicked my heels, whinnied, and charged down the street. Within a few strides, I hit top speed, making use of my claws to maintain traction on the slick roads. When I caught up with the vehicle, I calculated the distance to the hood of their car, jumped, and landed hard, slamming all six hundred plus pounds of my weight on the plastic and metal.
The car came to a rather abrupt halt, and I yelped, crashing to the icy asphalt. Scrambling to my hooves so they wouldn’t run me over, I blew flames at the vehicle.
Troy and Lucas joined the party, their firearms out and ready, trained on my idiot parents.
My mother seemed to believe she would be able to get her car on the move after having an angry unicorn bash the hood in. On closer investigation, not only had I bashed the entire front end of the car into the ground, I’d broken the axle, as both front tires pointed in separate directions.
Wow. I regarded the destruction with interest.
“I broke it,” I informed the cops.
Rather than pay any attention to me, the cops began barking orders, directing my asshole parents to get out of the vehicle with their hands up.
Amused neither seemed to care I’d trashed my parents’ car, I amused myself circling them, snorting smoke and fire to keep my body temperature up. Sometime after the cops had read my parents their rights, a black SUV with a rental car sticker came down the street.
I bolted for the house, dug at one of the holes left from moving my roses, and tried to hide in the frozen ground. “Not here!”
Down the street, the cops laughed at me.
I didn’t blame them.
My husband parked the rental in our driveway, and I hunkered down, attempting to escape his wrath.
“I can see you, Bailey. You don’t fit.”
Damn it. “Not my fault!”
“The unicorn-shaped dent in the hood of that car is definitely your fault, unless there is another unicorn hiding around?”
“May-be?” I turned my ears back and showed him my teeth. “They start it!”
“Now that I can believe, especially as it seems the side of the house has been lit on fire. Did they use a Molotov cocktail?”
“May-be. Okay. Yes. Do you think Mol-o-tov cock-tail tast-ee?”
“Go lick it and find out.”
I scrambled out of the hole, scrambled to the side of the house, and gave the fire on the brick a lick. Whatever they’d used tasted peppery with a solid punch of diesel and some other accelerant. “Die-sel! Tast-ee!” I enjoyed the flames tickling over my fur, and I went to work licking everything off our house.
“Just try to leave the broken glass alone. Don’t step on it or cut your tongue. I’ll give Barfield a call.”
Within twenty minutes, the cops were all back along with a single fire engine. The fire fighters stood around and did nothing while I handled the cleanup, and when I finished my treat, I burped. With a claw extended, I tapped on the broken glass. “This part no tast-ee, Queeny.”
My husband joined me on the front steps of our house, shaking his head at the damaged bricks. “A few inches to the left, and we would have had a charred interior, and even then, it wouldn’t have done much