The Artist Gets A Trim

My amazement doesn't last long because the ‘hero' of the Battle of Blood and Steel picks himself up and shakes off the punch like it's a love tap. He wipes the blood from under his nose, eyeing my mate. As he circles her like a lion waiting to pounce on its prey, she mirrors his movement.

The beast inside of her recognizes the dance.

I can't see perfectly at that distance, but I sense she's at the swirling eyes stage of her transformation. Tension is high, and she's working to keep her back from being exposed. She shifts to face away from the porch. My girl knows help will come from that direction, so she's not worried. Her claws are out, features feline, and her growl is loud enough to hear on the porch.

This fight is going to be a doozy and I don't want a thing to do with it.

Regardless, here we are. I must keep the others calm and not let them overre?—

In the blink of an eye, three people appear behind Taurus. I recognize Damien from a past encounter, but I can only assume that one of the weapon wielding brunettes is Talia. Their appearance causes Victor to rush Caesar in a play to get off the porch. He must know these people well enough to ignore my command to stay put. C trips over the potted plant that I told Hex was a hazard. Vic gets loose, vaulting over the rail to land a few feet from my girl.

Shit.

Once Victor goes, the rest of the family leaps to the grass and fans out around him in a semi-circle. They're all itching to fight, which isn't helpful at all. Sandrine drops to a fighting stance, brandishing a wicked-looking knife I didn't know she carried. She tosses a baseball bat that has materialized out of nowhere to Caesar, who spins it over his hand like a bloody color guard bint. Siren pulls a long dagger out of her updo, and Hex is sporting three pairs of spiked brass knuckles. I look to the porch and Philomena is sitting with her martini, but there's a fancy ass looking hand cannon on the table next to her.

Since when do we carry that much hardware inside of our fucking house?

Vic had to know something before I did, that fucking asshole. He's foregoing weaponry, because he's a weapon by himself. I've got nothing—not that I want it—because I fucking hate this shit. Everyone else is waiting and watching, taking their cues from the true leader of the pack. Our pissed off kitty doesn't even flinch at the movement, unconcerned about the battlefield growing around her and the bird.

Sighing in annoyance, I take a step down the porch stairs, stopping when something zings past, missing my ear by a hair. I turn to see what the fuck it is and note that by a hair was more than a turn of phrase.

There's a huge hank of my long locks pinned to the post by an enormous blade.

"Not another step, long hair." The leather-clad woman issues her command in a voice that'd freeze the balls off a walrus. A twin blade to the one in the post is spinning in her palm, and she's clenching an even larger one in her right hand.

I growl in anger and pull the thing out of the wood. She seems to have no more inclination to fight than me, but I let my fangs drop as I watch my hair flutter to the ground. That's one of my lines—don't fuck with my hair. "I don't know you, but I guess you belong to him." My eyes cut to the blond taking turns wailing or being wailed on by my mate. "You need to lay off the flying weaponry unless you want this shit to escalate."

Victor is pacing a few feet from the pile of limbs, grunts, and growls as he watches the red and platinum go by. The others are standing behind him—ready and waiting for the signal that it's okay to rush the denim woman and Damien. Vic's muttering to himself as if considering, and I roll my eyes.

Have I mentioned how much I hate friction? At least, the kind that isn't naked and sweaty?

"I'm going to fucking rip you to shreds, you overstuffed, arrogant asshole."

My mate's screech echoes in the night as a snarl followed by a rip distracts me. I hear an angry rejoinder as they roll toothier feet again. "Not worrisome, considering I'm going to knock you on your shrill, shrewish ass again first."

It's nice to know that they're paying attention to anything but their tussle.

The rest of us have lined up like we're re-enacting the Civil fucking War, but they only see each other. I pinch the bridge of my nose and look at the glowering woman strapped head to toe with blades. She's still poised to attack. My gaze cuts back to the writhing mess of leather and loud crunching noises, hoping they don't light the match to this tinderbox.

"You won't get the chance when I rip your arms off and beat the ever-loving shit out of you with them. Of course, that will take a while since you're so full of it!"

"Don't you ever shut the fuck up?! Christ, woman," he roars, ducking a right cross to come up weaving.

The crowd behind the fighters doesn't seem to advance, so I lean against the post, waiting for the winds to change. I don't think my presence will be necessary on the lawn. The enraged clone's mate is spinning the blades in her hands, metal flashing in the moonlight as she watches them and us through narrowed eyes.

For the moment, it appears to be another standoff, each side poised for battle as we watch the Generals duke it out.