“I swear, I’m going to get you,”—he kicked and pummeled the door—“once I bust this open!” He had to get in and didn’t care how. He staggered off, in frantic search of something sharp. The floor whirled. The music rattled his head. He stopped, clutched his ears, and roared.
There! Beside the useless fireplace, was his promising weapon.
He dashed away, rammed into giggling groupies who streaked after Block, and swore. “Outta my way!” A slithery grin then split his face. Two pokers . . . even better. They were heavy and cold and deadly.
Moggie hefted them. How he loved their feel. Invincible. Euphoric. Powerful. A quivering rush flooded his muscles. He hurried to Mirah’s door and wedged a bar into the jamb. And pried. The gold molding ripped with a splintered crack. His laughter boomed—a horrible and wild sound. He strained until the fury gave way with a loud groan.
“Hey!” someone bellowed. He stiffened, sparks of outrage tore up his spine. Who dared stop him now? His jaw locked and he pivoted. It was Lyssa—her face scarlet as she charged. His fists quaked. She better stay out of his way. She flew into a dark corner, the girls in Block’s arms skewered by her fiery stare.
The door creaked open, calling him. The handle sagged like a worthless eyeball from its hole.
Heat coiled up his throat and exploded with a shout, his foot through the door. It bounced off the wall, stopped with his bar, and shattered in half. He twirled the pokers like handguns in the Old West. High on the murky loft perched Mirah. His temples throbbed. He stomped forward, blinded by ripples of anger.
“What the . . . ? I said get out!”
“No, Mirah—you get out. I’m tired of you. You’re outta the band; I don’t want you no more!”