Ashes of the Phoenix

by Jess Haines

  Her crest flared up. “Gee, thanks. Can we talk inside? I’m pretty sure every familiar in St. Johns County is looking for me right now.”

  With a start, he pulled back, holding the lanai door open for her. “Of course, of course. Sorry about that, come on in. I’ll be right behind you. Give me a sec to wipe your trail. I’m a little rusty, it might take me a minute.”

  She nodded like she knew what that was supposed to mean and dashed past him into the house. The big screen was on in the living room, the football game on mute, a steaming plate of rice, veggies, and a half-eaten salmon steak set on the coffee table. The food normally would have had her salivating, but even Rob’s homemade ginger sauce couldn’t stir her appetite.

  With a shiver, she hopped up on the arm of the couch and waited. It didn’t take long for Robert to return. He stood in the doorway of the living room, hesitating there. “What’s the etiquette here? Do I offer you a drink? A mealie? A charcoal briquette?”

  She snorted. “Save the mealies for Bowser.” Robert had named his bearded dragon after Mario’s nemesis. “It’s great and all that you have a sense of humor about this, but it’s been a really weird, horrible day. I’m a freaking bird. It feels like everyone in town wants to pluck my feathers or chop me up for spell parts. Oh, and let’s not forget that James and his friend, Moira, are missing.”

  Though his bronze skin had gone very pale under its natural tan, he set a sage and lavender scented smudge stick in a ceramic tray down next to her and took a seat on the couch, dinner ignored as he listened without interruption while she explained what had happened, and what had brought her to him. Oddly, breathing in the smoke drifting up from the smudge stick made most of the tenderness in her joints and burning pain in her muscles ease—along with curbing her hunger pangs.

  By the time she was done, every one of his defined muscles looked tense enough to snap. He slowly unfurled from the couch, cracking his knuckles.

  “I may not be as good at this as James, but nobody messes with my little brother.”

  Lyra nodded, holding out a wing. “I know, but we need a plan. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be like this, and you’re a killer in the kitchen, but...”

  He gave her a rueful, self-depreciating smile. “...but I’m a horrible mage? Just because I’m not very practiced or as good as James doesn’t mean I’m not a force to be reckoned with, Lyra. My gifts aren’t like his. I don’t want to hurt anybody, but I will if I have to.”

  She should have known better than to poke at the ego of a sorcerer. There was a reason they were greatly feared in the community of magi. While she had not given it much thought before—what they did was their business, their money spent the same as everyone else’s—she was aware that a sorcerer’s magic was distinctly different in two ways from that of regular magi. Their magic was drawn from the life force or energies of living things. Magi drew from the energy of the earth, and the kinetic movement of the sun, moon, and stars; with that power, they could alter reality.

  With the power of a life in their grasp, sorcerers could alter your mind.

  Lyra rarely saw that side of James. He was a crafty bastard, but he was usually straightforward with his spells. He liked the challenge of casting and breaking runes and wards (his version of Sudoku, he once told her), but excelled at telekinesis and a limited measure of extrasensory perception when he was concentrating. Excellent skills in a thief; not so great for their relationship.

  Robert, on the other hand, had the raw power and ability to both conjure and disintegrate things, living, dead, or inanimate.

  He’d mentioned it to her offhandedly once. She hadn’t thought about it in a while. It was a hell of a power, one she hadn’t wanted to think about, because it was scary as all get-out to consider how that power could be used. The word necromancy had been one of the first that sprang to mind, but she’d never dared utter it out loud in the presence of either brother—or anyone else, for that matter. That was the kind of rumor that could end up in a witch hunt to end all witch hunts. She’d heard some creepy stories about what happened to the one that was making trouble and raising zombies in Los Angeles a while back.

  Robert, with his sun-bronzed skin, good looks, collection of lizards and snakes, and holistic health food-slash-smoothie business, was not the sort one would imagine doing something so vulgar as bringing back the King of Pop to take his corpse for a joy-ride around town. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be treated as if he had if word got out what he could do.

  Judging by the set of his jaw and the fierce, blue-green glow lighting the depths of his eyes, he wasn’t thinking about the consequences of cutting loose and using his power. All he wanted was to find his brother.

  “We’ll get him back,” Lyra said, taking to the air as Robert turned away. She landed on his shoulder, lightly nipping his ear until he turned his head and met her gaze. “Sure, you pack a punch, but think for a minute, Rob. If we’re going to beat Victor and Edward, we need a little more magical muscle with us.”

  He tapped her beak with a fingertip. “Stop biting me. Give me a minute, I’m going to try him on his cell before I call in the cavalry. I’d be an even bigger idiot than my brother if I ran straight into danger without a plan.”

  Lyra shut her beak and ducked her head, grateful that she couldn’t blush in her current body.

  Chapter 13

  Robert plucked his cell phone out of the duffel bag next to the door and, before anything else, called his brother.

  Much to Lyra’s surprise, James picked up right away.

  She could only make out Robert’s side of the conversation, which was comprised of a lot of “uh-huh”s and “huh-uh”s. Rob was writing down some notes as the muted sound of James’s voice, recognizable even though she couldn’t hear well enough to understand what he was saying, rose and fell on the other end of the line.

  Impatient, she tried to switch shoulders so she could listen in, but Robert ended up shooing her off instead. In a huff, she flapped back over to the couch and waited for him to wrap up the conversation and clue her in on what was happening.

  Rob remembered belatedly to relay some of what was being said to her. “He’s hurt, but safe. I’ve got an address, we’re going to meet him—what? Where?” He got lost in the conversation on the phone again.

  Wondering what the heck James could possibly be telling Robert that was taking so long, Lyra stalked back and forth, her feathers rising and falling with her growing agitation, leaving three-toed bird feet-shaped scorch marks on the fabric.

  When he finally hung up, he didn’t even turn to her. He started texting and talking, which was a skill Lyra envied.

  “Stop burning up my couch, it smells like singed cat hair in here,” he scolded. “The more you let the bird take over, the harder it’s going to be to turn you back. So pull yourself together. We’re going to go pick him up at the emergency room and I’m getting a couple of friends together to get that book back so we can fix this.” He waved a hand at her to encompass her current condition.

  He shot off a few texts before tucking his phone in his pocket, picked up the meal he’d barely touched, and shoved it in the fridge. Holding out an arm for Lyra to perch, he grabbed his keys and they got in his eco-friendly hybrid SUV. Lyra chose to huddle in the footwell in front of the passenger seat since she couldn’t exactly buckle up for safety.

  It took longer than she expected to arrive, and she was surprised to see they weren’t at Flagler Hospital, but somebody’s house out in the suburbs.

  The place didn’t look like much. The wraparound porch could have used a fresh coat of paint, and the windows that still had their screens might as well have not have had them for all the good they would do with fist-sized holes in the mesh. It wasn’t the sort of place that sprang to mind at the words “emergency room” but Lyra’s enhanced senses and odd vision did show that it was cloaked in a fine mist of magic. She couldn’t decipher the purpose, but the faint yellowish glow dusting every surface of the buildi
ng didn’t trigger any alarm bells.

  The foyer, which looked just as worn and tired as the outside, was quite a lot cleaner than Lyra expected. Disinfectant made her eyes burn, and there were a few people seated on the fold-out chairs and a sagging couch against one wall. The distant sounds of a crying child and a few dull moans could be heard through the thin walls. A woman in nurse’s scrubs was scribbling something on a piece of paper at the beat up metal desk in the back of the room. She looked up and gave Robert a tired smile.

  “Visiting, picking up, or checking in?”

  “Picking up. James Pierce?”

  With a nod, she gestured at Lyra. “Sorry, no familiars beyond the waiting room.”

  Robert glanced at her. “Do you mind waiting here?”

  Irritated, Lyra bobbed her head. “Yes, I mind. I’m not a familiar, I’m a friend.”

  A couple of the other people in the waiting room glanced up, their interest clearly piqued. The nurse blinked her tired eyes, adjusting her glasses and leaning in to take a closer look. The tingle of magic brushed over Lyra’s feathers. A few additional rapid blinks later, and the nurse pulled back, rubbing her chin.

  “It’s not sanitary to have you back there in your current condition, I’m afraid. Are you able to assume a humanoid form? No? Sorry, then. It’s for our patients’ safety. Please wait here.”

  Lyra stayed where she was, crest drooping as she watched Robert follow the nurse into the back. When it became clear they would not be returning right away, she dared a peek at the people waiting nearby.

  A tired-looking woman on the couch held a young boy against her, tucked under her arm. The kid was flushed and sweaty, watching Lyra with fever-bright eyes. There was an older man who kept rubbing his left knee. Another guy about her own age was watching her from a chair in the corner, holding a tissue to his bloody nose. There were an impressive number of scratch marks on his arms and visible through his shredded shirt. He looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a ticked off tiger.

  There were no suitable perches, so Lyra click-clacked across the old wooden floor, waiting as far across the room from the others as she could while keeping them and the doorway Robert had disappeared through in her line of sight.

  The kid squirmed out from under his mother’s arm and made his way over to sit, cross-legged, in front of her. He tilted his head this way and that. She jerked back when he reached out to her.

  “Mommy, can I pet the bird?”

  The kid’s voice was a whispered rasp. His mother hardly stirred, deep-sunken eyes closed. She murmured something barely heard in response.

  Lyra hopped back and flicked a wing at the kid. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  The boy’s fever-flushed face crumpled and moisture threatened to spill at the corners of his eyes. With a deep, long-suffering sigh, Lyra leaned forward, crest flat as it could go.

  With a pleased, watery smile, he reached out, stroking her feathers. Though she’d never admit it out loud, it actually felt pretty good when his tiny fingers scratched along her cheek.

  It was odd, but the heat in her veins resonated with the heat radiating from the boy. Like it was reaching out to her somehow. There was no real conscious thought behind it, but she accepted the heat as readily as she accepted the kid’s touch.

  When he was done petting her, she looked up at the kid again. Though the dark circles remained under his eyes, their unhealthy glitter was gone and he was no longer so red-faced. The sweat from his fever was still there, but by the looks of him, a cool washcloth would remove any remnants, and they wouldn’t return.

  The kid gave her a sunny smile and a pat on her back, then scooted back to the couch where he curled up under his mother’s arm again and closed his eyes.

  The guy with the claw marks all over his body spoke up, his voice a smoker’s raspy drawl. “That was a neat trick. Think it’ll work on these?” He held up his arm, as if she couldn’t see the gouges in his flesh from where she sat.

  Lyra would have grimaced if she could. “Got me. I’m willing to try if you are.”

  The old man shook his head. “Won’t work.”

  They both looked at him. He shrugged his bony shoulders, hooking a gnarled thumb at the boy. “Fever isn’t the same. Heard of phoenix feathers burning out infections, but they’re not much good for cuts or broken bones. Wait for the nurse.”

  Lyra peered at the old man. “You wouldn’t know anything about how to turn me back into a person, would you?”

  “I don’t know much about shapeshifting. Never heard of a Were who could turn into a phoenix. Met a Were-crow once. Charming fellow. Didn’t say much about his condition.”

  The room lapsed into silence. Lyra had no idea what to say to that. She had never heard of Were-crows; in fact, she had no idea that there were any sorts of Were-anything other than wolves. Nor was she certain if she was Were or a full-blooded phoenix or what.

  Whatever she might be now, without the book, it didn’t look like anyone was going to be able to help her or give her any answers.

  Chapter 14

  Another nurse came in a few minutes later and, after shooting a sympathetic look at the mother and sleeping child, took the man with the scratches in the back.

  Not long after that, James came out, leaning heavily on Robert for support. His shirt was gone, his irises were pinned out from painkillers, and his shoulders and upper arms were swathed in bandages. A few scattered bruises were visible on his face and stomach too, but the thing that really scared Lyra was the way his veins were traced as thin, black lines under his skin. His tan couldn’t hide the blood loss, either; he’d gone very pale, making whatever was coursing through what was left of his blood easily visible.

  The nurse was trailing behind the two men, looking into a file folder as she rattled off a list at their retreating backs.

  “...and avoid alcohol for at least 48 hours, and casting for at least a week. Check under the bandages twice a day. The blood corruption will work itself out of your system in a week or two if the antibiotics and cleansing spells hold, but if even a hint of infection shows up around the edges of the wounds again, you’re going to have to come back here so we can call in a specialist. In the meantime, stay away from demons, un-bound planar beings, and keep contact with anything that might be drawn by blood or weakness to a minimum.”

  James nodded mechanically at these admonitions, most of his attention on putting one foot in front of the other. When Robert paused to look over his shoulder and thank the nurse, James looked around, groggy and dull. His gaze soon became riveted on Lyra, who hopped over excitedly.

  “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “Tangled with a demon,” he rasped, his rueful grin twisting into a grimace of pain. “Victor’s pet doesn’t know his own strength.”

  “He’s lucky to be alive.” The nurse’s statement was flat, though judging by the thin lines by her mouth and around her eyes, she didn’t approve of someone involved in any way, shape, or form with the black arts. “Whatever you people are getting yourselves into, keep it out of our hospital. We’re not equipped for demons.”

  “Sorry, Tessa. I’ll keep a closer eye on him,” Robert said.

  They made their way to the car parked outside. James leaned against the side of the car while Robert dug out his keys.

  Head tilted back, staring at nothing in particular up in the stars, James blew out a heavy breath. “I’m sorry.”

  Robert held the passenger door open for him. “For what?”

  “For this.”

  James swung in with a roundhouse punch. Robert went down like a sack of bricks, and didn’t stir when James stepped over him to make a grab for Lyra.

  For a second, she didn’t move, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. As James bent down to reach for her, she back-winged with a startled squawk, tumbling over her own trailing tail. The sorcerer scooped her up and crushed her against his chest, bending several of her primary feathers in the process.

  She squi
rmed and flailed, trying not to dig her claws into his chest but desperate to get out of his grip.

  “I’m sorry, Lyra,” he whispered, then said a few words as he cupped his hand over her eyes and beak.

  She soon went limp in his grip, the minor sleep enchantment taking hold. James closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, silently cursing what he had to do. The geas wouldn’t let him rest until he followed through with Victor’s command.

  If he hadn’t been so susceptible to the poison-tipped claws of the demon, he would have sought Lyra out sooner, but Bazriel’s tender ministrations had left him feverish and stumbling through the marketplace like a drunk. Someone—he didn’t know who—had taken pity and dropped him off at the emergency room. It was pure luck that the medical staff had even known what caused the infection burning him alive from the inside out.

  If James hadn’t known better, he might have thought that Bazriel was undermining his master’s attempt at achieving immortality.

  The geas had been goading him to move through the pain, driving his body like a puppet to force him into taking the most expedient path to achieving the goal of delivering Lyra to Victor. He tossed her limp body in the passenger seat and picked up the keys from where they had fallen in the grass.

  As he drove back to downtown, eyes narrowed to slivers and knuckles white on the steering wheel, he thought of every possible way he might be able to wiggle out of the command. There was no getting out of delivering Lyra to Victor, but perhaps once he had done so, he could then escape with her. The wording of the geas had been very specific: “You will find the phoenix and return it to me, dead or alive, but whole.” He could do that, and then snatch her back and make a run for it. In fact, if he played his cards right and moved quick enough, maybe he could even use Victor’s preoccupation with Lyra to grab the book, too.

  He had to hope the demon would be kept on a leash long enough for him to get out of there. Bazriel was a wildcard he would be unable to defeat without an army at his back. He had no familiar of his own, and it would take a host of sorcerers of his caliber to banish the creature. Even if it didn’t want to do as it was told, if Victor gave it a direct command, it couldn’t ignore it.