Fire & Flood (Mythverse #1)

Book 4 Chapter 5

5

My heart thumps in my chest as my mentor flies away leaving me on some island way out in the middle of nowhere. Sure this place looks like paradise, which is not something that anyone has ever said of Wisconsin, but right now I’d gladly trade it for the comforts of home.

I pretended for Edie that I was full of sass and confidence. The truth, though, is a little more complicated. And that truth is that I’m not at all sure I’ve got what it takes to win.

I take a deep breath and make myself repeat my new focus phrase.

I am beauty, I am grace. I will punch you in the face.

This has become my focus mantra since the end of the world. My old mantra was, Miss Teen Wisconsin or Bust, but sometimes ya gotta adjust your goals.

I’ve done a lot of that lately.

Six months ago I was just little old Brandee Jean Mason, resident Beauty Queen. Headed for big things and the bright lights…or at least, the state fair circuit. I’ve toughened up a lot since then. Learned how to survive in a hard world, using the talents I’d developed on the pageant circuit.

Like for instance, I dug an old baseball bat out of the back of my closet, leftover from a “Damn Yankees” dance routine I did years ago. It was spangled and painted bright red. Weaponry is the to-die-for accessory this season, and I do like to stay on trend.

When two guys came at me in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot a few weeks back, I kick ball-changed one of them and used my bat to knock the other one into a dumpster.

Afterward, I went home and shook so hard that my teeth chattered. But when I was done with being scared of what could’ve happened at the Piggly Wiggly, I started thinking about how easily I’d kicked their butts.

And it felt good.

Mama always said that confidence is half the battle and the other half is having a tight a*s. But I think there’s a third half that she missed. It’s having the ability to be scared out of your mind, and still smile, pick up your bat, and take a swing.

I unzip my bag and then find the padded dust bag hidden at its center. I yank a brush through my hair and tuck it behind my ears before carefully removing my best crown and placing it on my head.

Instantly, my shoulders go back and my chin rises high.

I have no idea what I’m walking into, but they better be ready.

’Cause Brandee Jean has arrived.

You’d think a room full of drop-dead-gorgeous, all out tens would make a girl feel insecure. Not me. I was raised on the pageant circuit, eating Vaseline and putting hairspray on my a*s since I was like, five.

But when you add in that some of the girls in the room have bows strung over one shoulder, it does make things a little more tense.

And I don’t mean ribbons and bows. I mean like, bow and arrow.

And all the gals touting them look pissed.

“Brandee Jean?” A woman with serious resting b***h face approaches me the second I walk in. The clipboard clutched to her chest nicely complements the wicked-looking crossbow strapped across her back.

Crap. I can’t compete with a clipboard and a crossbow.

Mama always says one clipboard is worth five crowns in confidence.

Still, I’ve got at least three inches on this girl, so that’s something—and she’s wearing heels.

“I’m Brandee, yeah,” I say. “You looking for me?”

“Yes.” She extends her hand for a shake. “I’m Taylor, Athena’s assistant. sss Academy Graduate. Mistress of Film Studies and CEO of Craft Shaft.”

“Craft Shaft!” I exclaim. “I love that place!”

Seriously. Craft Shaft is the destination for sequins and body glitter. The fact that every storefront also looks like the Washington Monument makes them really easy to pick out from the interstate—smart marketing on their part. Craft stores are usually so old lady, but the Shaft makes even cross-stitching seem cool. I practically consider it a home away from home since they’re all over. I’ve had so many busted out seams on road trips that Mama’s membership card achieved platinum status before I was in fourth grade.

But why is the CEO of Craft Shaft on a magical Turkish island? She must get that question a lot, because she’s already answering it.

“Athena is the goddess of many things,” Taylor says. “She delegates some of her duties to her assistants. I drew arts and crafts.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, I’m Brandee… uh,” I stammer, searching for words. Taylor followed her name up with a slew of titles. I feel like I’ve got to throw something out there or I’m gonna lose face, real fast.

“Brandee Jean Mason,” I say. “Miss All-State Cottage Cheese Princess three years running. Five times nominee to Miss Teen Wisconsin Anti-Antibiotics Court, and future Miss America.”

Okay, the future Miss America thing is a bit of a stretch, since pageants don’t exactly exist in the apocalypse and I might die here anyway. but I feel the need to get a little creative as Taylor’s smile turns upside down, and she glances at her clipboard.

“Um…” She keeps her eyes on her clipboard, fanning sheets as her confusion grows. “Brandee, I…” She finally looks up, exasperated. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”

“Excuse me?” I say, raising an eyebrow so high that it touches the rim of my crown. “I am definitely supposed to be here.”

Taylor follows the path of my derisive eyebrow, her own raising in response. “I’m sorry are those…” She reaches up and runs a finger over my crown. “Are those rhinestones?”

“All one thousand two hundred and fifty-three of them,” I tell her archly. “The Miss Quad County Interstate Princess Board didn’t skimp last year.”

“The Miss…” Taylor tries to repeat what I said, but seems unable to keep up. It’s probably the number of rhinestones that’s so shocking.

“Brandee,” she says, turning her clipboard around so that I can read the paper. “I think there’s been a mistake. You have to understand. The other contestants competing here at sss Academy are actual royalty.”

“Am I not on the list?” I ask, and glance at her clipboard.

There’s a list of names—my competition, I assume. The next column has their mentor listed, followed by their titles. Like, real ones. I spot a duke and a princess, plus a czarina.

Taylor whisks the chart away before I can read more, but what I saw was enough to leave me feeling like the country mouse who just got hit by the big city bus.

“You are…technically, I guess,” Taylor says, resting a hand on my arm. “I just don’t think you belong up there.”

I follow her gaze to the stage, where eight other teens are sitting. They’re all disgustingly beautiful, with the kind of posture you only acquire from premium genetics. Around me and Taylor, the audience of angry girls is still milling around, adjusting their bows and quivers of arrows as they find their seats.

“If you’d like, I can arrange for transportation back to…” She glances at her clipboard again. “Back to Wisconsin.”

She says Wisconsin like it’s got the taste of a day-old tampon. Screw this girl. There was another section of that sheet I saw before she snatched it away from me. Our special powers were marked there. Maybe I need to remind the CEO of the Craft Shaft that Brandee Jean Mason does, in fact, belong up on that stage.

Mama always said, “There are times when actions speak louder than words.”

So I reach out and get a good grip on Taylor’s hips. She looks confused, so I smile, and then throw her straight up into the sky.