Bound In Fire: Phoenix Shifter Paranormal

by Erzabet Bishop

  “I don’t care if you’re fucking superman. You bleed out on somebody else’s watch.” The medic responded, eyes steely in their intensity.

  A tiny glint of light was Roark’s only warning as the paramedic jabbed him with a needle. The wash of drugs slammed through his system.

  “Shit.” Roark roared, ineffectively tearing at the straps that had now been secured around his chest and legs. “You have to save her. Get her out of there.”

  “Our people are on it.”

  The fire from the sedan had enveloped the vehicle and was now spreading to the cars from the pileup on the highway. Gasoline pooled across the road, creeping closer and closer to the truck.

  Roark fought the drugs pumping through his system, his eyes closing under the strain. They slammed open as a dual explosion rocked the gurney, sending the first responders and bystanders scurrying.

  His truck was on fire.

  Fuck.

  Fuck!

  “Izzy!” What were supposed to be words came out like a muffled groan. She was still in there. He hadn’t seen the medics get her out.

  Where were the coven members? Had they gotten out of their inferno or had they succumbed to the justice they deserved?

  He hoped they burned in everlasting hell for hurting her.

  But none of that really mattered. It was all about Izzy. And as his friend approached, Dustin met his panicked gaze with a somber one of his own.

  “I’m sorry, buddy. There was nothing they could do.”

  What?

  Oh God. Oh God. This wasn’t happening. Not now. Not ever.

  “No!” Agony ripped through him as he watched the fire claim what was left of his life. A burst of flame shot up from the exploding truck, almost blinding him. The drugs took hold, dragging him down and down until all he could see was Isobel’s shining smile and the certain promise that he would love her forever. Or, at least, however long he had left.

  ***

  Isobel woke to the sound of Roark’s panicked shouts. Bruised and battered, she lay in a crumpled heap against the shattered passenger window.

  “Roark…” She was weak and still dizzy from the impact of her head hitting the windshield.

  The taste of blood on her lips and the hazy tang of smoke nearly overwhelmed her. The treacherous fire from the Bradford Coven crept closer, trying to reclaim her for its own.

  Come back to us, little one.

  We will take you home…

  Liars.

  She never believed her parents when they told her the coven was only out for her best interest. This only solidified her point. The warning from the vampire at Forbidden Ink struck her.

  “The phoenix will come for the fire. The Goddess chose you and now it’s your turn.”

  Her turn for what? Because, right at this moment, it didn’t look like she was going to make it out of this alive.

  The spelled fire crept closer and she tried to summon a protection spell, but the strands fell apart, her energies spent.

  Trust them?

  Never.

  She struggled to her knees, the broken glass grinding into her flesh, her cries hidden by the cacophony of sound surrounding the accident. Rage that they would resort to trapping her in a cage of the very fire that her soul harnessed to live rippled through her.

  How dare they?

  A breath of the Goddess whispered through the truck and Isobel shivered, even as the heat of the surrounding blaze made it hard to breathe.

  The creature that stirred within her woke, its fierce intelligence matching her own in a quest to save themselves from those that wished them harm. Its claws raked the underside of her skin in warning. The phase of transformation was at hand. The words of the vampire rang true. She’d known something would happen. Just not when. But then she’d hoped they’d have more time.

  Time.

  So fleeting when she had finally found someone she could trust.

  The tattoo on her arm caught her eye and she thought of Roark. He’d tried to protect her. Tears of regret slid down her face. To be reborn was a wondrous thing, if that was what the Goddess had planned.

  To lose your memory of the time before was not. She’d done her research. Every coven member knew what a phoenix was. And what happened if you were chosen. You paid for one life with another. Out with the old and in with the new. A fresh slate. A girl of moldable clay to reform in their image.

  Had her parents planned this? There had been a legend in the coven about a powerful witch who could harness fire. But then again, all of them could. It hadn’t made her special.

  The only thing that stood out was her inability to let them rule her life. And her unfortunate arson record.

  God, she’d been so stupid.

  A bitter laugh escaped her lips and the phoenix’s power flexed as the fire drew nearer. She was a defiant thing, her bird. This gift from the Goddess herself.

  A small smile turned up the corners of Isobel’s mouth.

  Her passenger was now her secret.

  Isobel was about to die. But Roark would live. And if she had her way, she would find him again. With any luck the tattoo would stay put. It was all part of the plan to remind her future self. Even if she didn’t remember at first…something, somewhere had to bring them back together. Her future depended on it.

  Grim determination slid into place. She could allow the fire to take her and her phoenix or she could rise from the ashes and reclaim the life she’d chosen.

  “Help me remember.” Isobel sent a prayer to the Goddess as the fire’s unstoppable fury swept through the cab. She gasped in stark terror as the flames fought themselves to consume her but only her body was claimed by the unnatural blaze.

  Her soul, swept up by her phoenix, unfurled its wings and carried her toward rebirth and a chance to carve out her own destiny from the cold, unfeeling stars that watched silently overhead. She glanced down at the boy who was her mate and grit her teeth.

  I will remember. Somehow.

  Chapter One

  Present day.

  Remington Museum.

  “Where is it?” Isobel Fieri growled. She narrowed her eyes at the inventory list on her iPad, her heart racing. As the newly appointed Archivist for the Mythsterious exhibit, she was responsible for accounting for every piece, and right now there appeared to be one missing. A priceless ceremonial bowl on loan from India to be exact. Why Denver had ordered such a bowl had flummoxed her, but if it fit with the show, then she wasn’t about to question it.

  “You okay over there, Isobel?” Greg, one of the technicians gave her a curious look. He’d just finished up Poseidon’s triton and she was pleased this portion of the exhibit was really shaping up. He’d since moved on to work in the more technical work, leaving some of the junior techs to continue with the other photo ops.

  “I’m fine. Just checking off everything.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He shrugged and got back to setting up the display case for the ornamental hair pieces. “Let me know what you need after this.”

  “Thanks, Greg. We need to get the columns in place over by the Olympus display. Do you think Joseph and Steve could get those set up for me?”

  “No problem. I’ll get them right on it.”

  “You’re the best.”

  There was a reason her mentor, Denver, relied on him, she thought with a poignant smile. Isobel scanned the list again to make sure she wasn’t misreading something.

  Nope.

  Everything else appeared to be accounted for, each exhibit piece with a paper trail as long as her arm. Except the ceremonial bowl. It was almost as if it had gotten swallowed whole when it came through Receiving.

  Taking over mid-stream for her mentor, there were a few questions and clarifications on what his intent for certain aspects of the exhibit. But as far as record keeping, she had never known the man to be anything other than meticulous in his work. He had been her guiding force since she started with the department and had helped her refine her skills in research a
nd restoration. Dedication was practically his middle name. For him to leave on vacation unannounced this close to opening day was tantamount to professional suicide.

  It was also not like him.

  Her specialty was arcane studies and coven histories but her love had always been mythology, and Denver, ever her cheerleader as she gained accreditation for her Master’s degree, had let her train under his very substantial wing.

  He’d helped her set up her first exhibit for Coven Craft and that had done well for the museum. It had proven to the director and Denver that she was fully capable enough to handle an exhibit on her own. But, this was Denver’s baby. He would never have left it. Not without talking to her first.

  Nor, if she were honest with herself, did she want his job as Curator. She much preferred her work in the catacombs of the museum, researching and providing documentation to whatever exhibit was on tap.

  Nothing made her happier.

  Her parents had initially orchestrated her job here, that was true, but her degree was entirely on her own merit, thank you very much. As was her research. But what she couldn’t stand was the director’s many excuses for popping into her office or the way he stared at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

  It wasn’t that Shipton was unattractive. He wasn’t. His russet hair was neatly combed and his beard was closely trimmed and kept up. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he perpetually looked in her direction, but what really killed it was the empty stare behind the lying smile. It was, in a word, creepy. And she usually went out of her way to not be alone with him.

  Even before she got the job here, her parents had continually thrust him on her at society functions. She never figured out exactly why until her first day. She knew he worked at one of the museums in town but past that, she’d shut down whenever he tried to engage her in conversation.

  Denver knew exactly how she felt, which added another element of concern. Anytime they worked together on a project, he ran interference. Even more so over the past couple of weeks. He’d been working longer and longer hours, the lines on his face getting deeper and craggier.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was up besides the exhibit. She’d caught him staring at her with a pained expression a number of occasions and when she asked if everything was okay, he’d simply nodded and moved on.

  Until one day something had upset him and he couldn’t brush it under the carpet.

  Isobel nibbled her lip, thinking back to last week when Director Shipton had come down into the archival rooms not too long after she’d had a disturbing conversation with Denver.

  He’d come out from the recesses of the museum archives, a frown set into his features.

  “You okay, boss?”

  “How about we go out for a beer after work? I want to run something by you.”

  “Sure. What’s up?” She’d propped herself up on her elbows, relieved to have a break from her research.

  He stiffened as if worried about being overheard. “Not here.”

  “Okay…” She replied, concerned. Something was going on with him. And whatever it was, it was big enough not to talk about where walls could have ears.

  But before she could ask him if he wanted to hit Murphy’s or The Rusty Nail, he’d vanished up the stairs like the devil was after him.

  She had been finishing up some notes to give to Denver on the show when she heard the door open and a foot on the stairs.

  “Oh good. You’re back. Here are the notes you wanted…” She stood up, arranging the papers into a pile. Making sure they were in order, she turned around to greet him. Her words died off as she found herself in the unfortunate presence of the museum director.

  “Ah, there’s our newly minted Archivist now. How are things going with the show?” Shipton’s appraising glance slithered down her form and Isobel had to resist the urge to shudder in revulsion.

  “Fine, sir.”

  “No issues I take it? We can proceed on schedule?”

  “I’m sure Denver can answer those questions better than I can. If you’ll excuse me…” She tried to get past him but he moved in front of her, effectively blocking her way.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Montgomery had some much needed vacation time to take. You are now in charge of the project. I’m relying on you to make the exhibit a success.”

  What was he even talking about?

  “But, sir…Denver is the Curator. I’m an Archivist. My place is behind the scenes.”

  His eyebrow arched and his lips thinned. “Did you not already complete a satisfactory exhibit as part of your degree program?”

  “Well…yes, sir.”

  “Then there should be no issue. I expect no delays. The exhibit opens up this coming weekend. I’m sure you will have adequate notes to complete the task.”

  She knew that of course, but to have the entire project thrust upon her left her head swimming.

  “But, sir…”

  “Yes?” His golden eyes landed on hers and she could swear he had smoke drifting out of his nostrils.

  “I…uh…” Whatever she was going to say faded when he stepped up to her and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

  “I just wanted to say how proud I am that you’re doing such an excellent job. We have the utmost faith that you will make certain this exhibit goes off without a hitch. Your parents are pleased. And so am I. In fact, I thought perhaps we could discuss some other future plans over dinner.”

  “Tonight?” She croaked, trying to edge away from him, but instead he’d effectively corralled her.

  “I have a table reserved at O’Rourke’s at nine thirty.” He leaned forward, his sulfurous breath hot on the side of her face. “I know we haven’t had much of an opportunity to spend time together but I think that is about to change.”

  Oh Goddess.

  Shipton ran a finger down her shoulder, edging toward her breast. He crowded her toward the table, and his hands slid down to pin her hips in place, the rock hard evidence of his arousal pressed against her stomach.

  Isobel blinked and she struggled to speak, the shock at what he was doing making her almost mute. “Sir…I.” Hadn’t he heard about the #metoo movement? Was he that eager to put his neck on the chopping block if word got out?

  Unless he just didn’t care. There was no one down here to hear her if she screamed. The boys were all upstairs working on the new exhibit and Denver was nowhere to be found.

  “You don’t have to say a thing. Any mate of mine will have every luxury a dragon can provide.” He nuzzled her neck and she broke from his hold, barely able to contain the contents of her stomach.

  Dragon?

  Mate?

  What in all the elemental fucks was going on?

  Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he abruptly let her go. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at nine. And then we’ll have our first in what will be many nights of getting to know one another better.”

  “I can’t. I already have plans.”

  But instead of responding, he checked his watch and was already striding toward the door as if she hadn’t spoken. There was no way she was going to meet him for dinner. Or anything else. Besides. She had plans with Denver.

  And in what universe was what just happened okay? She blinked back tears and took a deep breath. Denver. She had to find her friend. Then maybe she could figure out what to do. Calling her parents was out of the question.

  Isobel waited a few minutes to make sure he was gone and then scurried up to Denver’s office. Maybe she’d just missed him. Shipton couldn’t be right. He would never go on vacation without telling her first. She tried the door, but it was locked. If he was in there, he wasn’t responding.

  “Are you in there? Denver!”

  She reached for her phone and shot him a text. Hours and dozens of texts went unanswered and he hadn’t been at either the Rusty Nail or Murphy’s.

  Something was off. She could feel it. And she felt certain with every fiber of her being that
Shipton was at the center of it. Why else would he make his intentions known? Today of all days?

  He wanted her to be his mate?

  Goddess, but she wanted to be sick. She’d never given him any indication she was interested. Not at the museum and certainly not at any of the functions her parents seemed determined drag her to.

  She had to find Denver. He’d been spending time in the lower catacombs of late. It was possible he’d gotten wound up in some work and forgotten the time. Or his owl had taken him on a hunt. Shifters. They led complicated lives.

  Her fingers itched to work a scrying, but that was best done when there was no one about. Later that night, perhaps. The only reason she hadn’t already was out of respect for her co-worker’s privacy.

  She slid her cell from the clip at her side and shot him yet another text.

  Denver. Where are you?

  How many texts had she sent today? Ten? A dozen? No. More than that. Like, in the realm of ridiculous.

  “Stalkery, much?” She muttered, earning her a wary glance from one of the techs as they moved one of the stands into place.

  It didn’t set right. None of it did. She was going to figure it out but first she had to get through opening weekend. Then everything would go on autopilot. She only had two days left to pull it together. And she could, based on the detailed notes Denver had left. But after leafing through most of it, there seemed to be a missing portion. Coincidentally, the same part that discussed the ceremonial bowl.

  She had to locate that artifact. Even if she had to stay late tonight and comb through the shipping invoice files to do it. And maybe there would be something in his office to provide a clue on what was going on.

  Shipton had been hovering around the offices much too much for her to investigate up to now, but after everyone left, that would be a different story. She avoided being anywhere in the vicinity of the lobby that first night and had taken great pains that if she saw him coming, she tore off in the opposite direction.

  Wandering toward the Underworld display, she stared into the flickering flames and her arms broke out in gooseflesh. Fire always triggered a reaction. Night after night, for as long as she could remember, she’d woken up in a sweaty tangle of sheets, the answer to whatever was plaguing her just out of reach. And now she had another thing to worry over. Her boss.