That was who Max was choosing to spend time with. Who she was letting hang around the younger kids.

Fang would have followed Max to the end of the world, wherever and whenever that was. If she’d dropped into the cone of an active volcano, he would have backed her up, no matter what.

But he couldn’t go along with Ari.

“Fang?” The Gasman’s voice was subdued. None of them liked being split up. If they felt as though half of them were missing, it was because they were.

Fang looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Where are we going?”

“West Coast,” Fang said. The opposite of wherever Max was going.

“What’s there?” Iggy asked.

Funny you should ask. “The biggest information-dissemination system in the world,” Fang said. “A place to get out news fast.”

The Gasman frowned. “What, like, some computer place? Some kind of tower?”

Fang shook his head. “People magazine.”

“Is this part of the ‘lie low and be inconspicuous’ plan?” Iggy asked pointedly.

“No,” Fang said, angling his wing tips just a hair to lead them into a twenty-three-degree turn. “This is part of the ‘blow the story open, post the blog, tell the world’ plan.”

“Oh.”

Yep. Always pretend there was a plan. A lesson he’d learned so very well from Max.

65

“I hate you! You’re such losers!” Iggy’s face was a picture of anger and frustration. “You’re just being jerks.”

Fang rolled his eyes. Then, remembering, he said, “I’m rolling my eyes, Iggy.”

“I’m shrugging my shoulders,” said the Gasman, taking a stupendous bite of hot dog. “I have no idea what the heck you’re talking about.”

“Describe the people on this beach,” Iggy said again. “This is Venice Beach! Part of LA. Home of Freak University! And you guys are, like, looking at maps and stuff!”

“Is there really a college named Freak University?” The Gasman looked thrilled.

“No,” Fang told him. So much for Gazzy’s dreams of higher education. Fang smoothed the map out on the slatted bench in front of them and started looking for landmarks.

Until Iggy kicked him.

“Ow! Dang it! What’s wrong with you?”

Unerringly, Iggy’s hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Fang’s shirt. He pulled Fang’s face close to his own. “Describe. The. People.”

“There’s a million people,” Fang said, irritated. “Why? Are you meeting someone in particular here? Should I be looking for a man with a rose in his teeth, holding a New York Times?”

“This is Venice Beach,” Iggy said again. “Home of roller disco. I smell coconut oil. I hear high-pitched giggles. I know we must be surrounded by beach bunnies, and you’re looking at a map!”

Oh.

“What’s a beach bunny?” the Gasman asked, his mouth full.

Fang glanced around. “Beach bunny, schmeach bunny. Who cares? As long as they’re not Flyboys.”

Iggy groaned so loudly that several people nearby turned to look. Fang kicked his shin lightly, telling him to cool it.