“No one goes in!” a bouncer said, looming large in front of me. “Everyone’s clearing out!”

“We’ve got VIP passes,” I told him. Fang and I spread our wings. “up and away!” We catapulted into the air and flew right over him as he looked up at us in a daze.

After that, LA’s young and restless got out of our way.

Inside, it was dark enough to hide most face-lifts, but it took only a moment to locate the flock — they were standing by the one light source in the place. I also spotted Jeb’s sandy hair. At the same time, I took in the fact that three people dressed in black were converging on the flock, and they didn’t look like hospitality associates.

I nodded at Fang, and he broke away, circling behind them as I pulled back into the shadows. Nudge sniffled and caught sight of me. I was shocked to see that her eyes were almost swollen shut. I glimpsed the others’ faces and noticed weird spots and swelling. WTH?

I put a finger to my lips, then circled it in the air. Nudge nodded almost imperceptibly, reaching behind her to tap Iggy’s hand twice. He tapped Gazzy’s hand twice, and Gazzy stopped blinking back tears and went quietly on alert.

So pretty much everyone was already primed by the time the biggest guy reached Jeb, pulled a gun out of his coat, and jabbed it into Jeb’s side.

“Nobody move!” the guy barked. “You’re all going to come with us! Somebody wants to see you.”

“I don’t think anyone wants to see us looking like this,” said Dylan.

The woman closest to him whirled, also pulling out a gun. In less time than it takes to tell, Dylan chopped the gun out of her hand, then grabbed her, locking her arms behind her back. So smoothly, so professionally, it was almost as though he had known she was coming.

Immediately, I swept my foot under the third one’s shoes, knocking him off balance, then clapped my hands hard over his ears. He shrieked in pain as his eardrums popped, and he fell. I planted my foot firmly on his neck, ready to stomp if he moved a muscle.

Meanwhile …

Almost as if in slow motion …

The gun skidded across the floor. And guess which of us had her bird kid claws all over that grisly weapon in the blink of an eye?

You got it. The scary seven-year-old with a leadership complex.

Having been subjected to the threat of guns way too many times in our short lives, the flock were not fans of them. Didn’t touch them, didn’t believe in them, didn’t want anything to do with them. And, fortunately, didn’t have a shred of experience using them.