Around noon, Marc made him knock off.
“There’s nothing worse than being in a tent during a real storm, except being caught outside during it,” said Marc. “Really lets you know how few shits Mother Nature gives about any of our survivals.”
“It’s the height of the dry season!” argued Benton, despite the ominous clouds roiling overhead. “It shouldn’t rain, much less storm.”
“And yet, there we are,” said Marc, gesturing shortly at the dark sky overhead.
Since keeping him alive was listed among Marc’s many duties, Benton tried to accept it with some grace as Marc shooed him back toward their camp.
They were nearly there when Benton stumbled over something in the underbrush. He danced a few steps – walking was the worst – before finally regaining his balance and looking down to see what he had tripped over.
Benton really hoped that it wasn’t another unusually thick patch of air.
Looking down, though, he discovered that the near death of him – or at least his dignity – had been a wad of filthy fabric. It had probably been dark blue and bright orange once, but now it was shredded and so dirty that it was nearly brown.
Next to it, Marc squatted. Narrowing his eyes, he poked at the wad of fabric with a stick.
“That,” he said grimly, “used to be my sleeping bag.”
Benton’s attention sharpened.
“Are you sure?” he asked, and Marc nodded.
It was on careful feet that they stole back to their campsite.
Their camp was wrecked.
And as they poked through it, Benton discovered two things: firstly, that who or whatever had wrecked their camp was long gone. And secondly, that all of their food and water supplies had gone with them, stolen most likely.
Under his breath, Marc cursed.
Their campsite was in even worse shape than it had first looked. The only things that they had left were the things that they had hidden from potential wildlife or taken out to the lake with them that morning, and that wasn’t much.
Benton had brought his camera gear and the little filming drone with him to the lake that morning, and by habit he had hidden his film rolls and thumb drives before they had left camp for the day, so all of that was thankfully okay.
And Marc never went anywhere on the island without the satellite phone, his gun, some shells, two pairs of clean and dry socks, a couple of bottles of water, and a couple of MREs, so they still had all of those things too.
But everything else – their survival gear, the solar panel that they used to charge things, the little drone’s docking station, and even their tent – was ruined. Some of it had been set on fire just to add insult to injury. There wasn’t much of anything left.
Taking in the total destruction of their campsite, Benton felt his heart sink into his boots.
Even without stopping to film anything, they were several days’ walk from the nearest village. They didn’t have enough food or water for a long walk, and absolutely no shelter. Marc could call for help on the satellite phone, but the storm would arrive before any help did. They were totally screwed.
“What are we going to do?” asked Benton. He didn’t really have any expectation of an answer.
His mind was full of thoughts of caves – there might be some but they were unlikely to be uninhabited, unless they were completely uninhabitable – when Marc pushed himself to his feet and said briskly, “We salvage what we can here, and then go find the science team.”
“Huh?” asked Benton, and then felt foolish. Belatedly, he said, “Oh. Yes. Them. I’d forgotten about them. I was trying to remember if we had seen any good caves around here.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” said Marc. “But those tend to fill with water or gases. And all the good ones have probably already been claimed by the local wildlife. And I don’t remember seeing any on the way here, do you?”
“No, but then we weren’t exactly looking either,” sighed Benton. “Your idea is better. Let’s do that.”
Marc grunted. Benton wasn’t sure if that was directed at him or the smoldering remnants of their tent.
Benton had seen members of the science team in passing, though he and Marc hadn’t gone out of their way to meet any of them. Both groups had kept to themselves. Now, as they trudged in the general direction of the other camp, Benton hoped against hope that Dr. Ellis Hale was a reasonable man – or at least one open to being paid in photos of firebirds. Otherwise, it was going to be a long, miserable night.
They were within sight of the other camp, which was at first glance nothing more than a cluster of sturdy tents designed to look roughly like algae encrusted boulders, when Benton felt it: a tug on his pinkie.
Shock – then excitement and trepidation – welled up within Benton.
Every phoenix was connected to their true love by a red ribbon of fate, an invisible string wound round their both their hearts and tied to both their pinkies.
Every phoenix had a fated mate, or so his parents had promised. It was the purpose of their lives to find their lost love, fall in love again, and live happily ever after… at least until the next time around, when they would get to do it all over again. Some phoenixes – mostly older ones like his parents, who had been reborn together at least a dozen times – even dreamed about their lost loves before they met them again.
The son of a pair of mated phoenixes, Benton was considered very young for a phoenix. It was his very first life. But he had grown up knowing that somewhere in the world was his one true mate, someone who would be his beloved in his every life. He just had to get out there, find her, and woo her socks off.
Benton hadn’t dreamed about his true love – it was their first time around, after all – but he had spent his entire adult life searching for her. As a phoenix and a photographer, Benton had traveled the world searching for memorable moments and his fated mate. He had worked his way around the world, a true nomad in search of his true love. Whoever she was – and wherever she was – he was going to find her.
He hadn’t expected to find her here though.
Keris Island was the corner of the world farthest from everyone and everything. It was a hard landscape in which he had expected to find adventure, not the love of his every life. But the closer they got to the other camp, the fiercer the tugging on his pinkie got.
They were right, thought Benton, his thoughts still turned towards his parents. She happened when I least expected it.
And to think, he had meant to entirely avoid Dr. Hale and his research assistants! And now, Benton was going to meet the love of his every life in his camp!
Whoever had destroyed their camp and stolen their stuff had really done him a huge favor. And just like that, there was no insult, and there was no injury. All Benton felt was excitement and anticipation. His soul mate was right there! She was waiting for him to come find her!
A bounce in his step, he strode swiftly forward, eager to finally meet his mate.
They were nearer the camp when a woman’s voice called out, “Hello there!” and they turned to look at the speaker.
Next to Benton, Marc drew in a deep breath, probably to call back to her, but then he suddenly faltered. Exhaling, he drew in another, sharper breath between his teeth.
Surprised, Benton looked away from the trio of people moving quickly to catch up to them. He slanted a look sideways at Marc, only to find his friend shockingly pale beneath his tan.
“Marc?” muttered Benton, worried for him. “Are you okay?”
Marc looked at Benton, his expression dazed.
“Marc?” repeated Benton. “You okay, buddy? You’re being… worrisome.”
Marc seemed to shake it off.
“I’m fine,” he said brusquely. “It’s just the heat.”
Benton eyed his assistant uncertainly. Marc was more susceptible to the heat, and sometimes that worried him. But this didn’t seem like that. It was… different.
“Are you sure?” asked Benton, and Marc
nodded.
Before Benton could pursue it any further, Marc quickly strode forward to meet the strangers. Not to be left behind, Benton hurried after Marc – and then nearly turned around again when the twitching in his pinkie abruptly stopped.
He was going in the wrong direction! Whoever these three were, none of them were his fated mate.
Benton tried to be pleasant during the introductions and look interested in the brief conversation that followed, even though he didn’t really care about any of it. His mate was mere feet away! And he was wasting time here! With them!
Frankly, the only things that he really caught were their names.
The woman with the short, dark brown hair was named Marissa. One of the guys with her was named Cameron, the other Landon. Their shift observing the firebirds was over and they were on their way back to camp.
“How fortunate!” inserted Benton. “That’s exactly where we want to go too. We need to speak with Dr. Ellis Hale as soon as possible.”
Marc shot him a dirty look. Benton ignored it. He needed to speed things up.
That, at least, had the desired effect. Everyone got moving, and in the right direction this time too. Relived, Benton grinned.
Whoever you are, I am finally on my way to you, thought Benton to the unknown woman in the research camp. Please just wait for me a little longer!
Chapter 03 – Ellis
Ellis didn’t know what was wrong with her.
It was the entirely wrong part of the year for rain, and she absolutely, positively didn’t want it to rain, and yet… she could seem to help pulling the rain clouds to herself.
It was infuriating!
Ellis had always called storms to herself with the same ease with which she breathed – it was what storm dragons did – but once the storms were there, she had always been very good at manipulating her elements. Now, she used that skill to push at the storm clouds, sending them and all of their disastrous moisture out to sea. But for every storm cloud that she sent out to sea, three more seemed to appear.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her, but it was the perfect middle to a perfectly annoying day in which nothing had gone terribly wrong, thankfully, but nothing had gone significantly right either.
First, Ellis had tapped a scorpion out of her boot that morning. It hadn’t been easy to kill. Cue ten minutes of tiny shrieks while she attempted to squash anything even remotely dark or skittering in her tent.
When she had finally emerged from her tent, now fully dressed and victorious, Ellis had endured all sorts of giggling and teasing from her unpaid assistants. She sincerely hoped that they were braver when they faced their first boot-scorpion, but experience told her that they probably wouldn’t be. And in the meantime, it was super annoying. They weren’t nearly as funny as they thought they were.
As if the scorpion in her boot hadn’t been enough, it was Donovan’s turn to cook that day.
Over the years, Ellis had discovered that there were certain dangers to accepting boarding school alumni as unpaid volunteers to help with her research. The practical upshot of all that fine boarding school education, at least as far as Ellis was concerned, was an utter lack of practical skills. Before this trip, seven out of her ten assistants had never so much as burned their own toast before this trip.
It made eating a grim affair seven out of every ten days. Ellis looked forward with longing to the days that her paid graduate students – Marissa, Kris, or Emilio – were responsible for cooking the camp’s meals.
That morning, Donovan had outdone himself with the mushiest, gloppiest, most horrible porridge that Ellis had ever had the misfortune of putting in her mouth. Sadly, she had been hungry enough to eat it anyway.
It was the dry season, and the days were hot, but that morning had been unusually so – or so it felt to Ellis. After only a few hours next to the lake, her shirt had been dark with sweat. Ellis had felt like she was in danger of melting.
Adding insult to injury, Ellis’ powers as a storm dragon had continued to fritz throughout the morning. She had spent the morning alternately calling storms to her and sending them away again.
Equally frustrating were the little leg bands that members of her team kept finding in the underbrush and near churned patches of mud on the lakeshore.
As part of her research, Ellis had fabricated small and very light leg bands containing tiny tracking chips. The idea was to affix them to the chicks’ legs so that the chips could monitor the movements, diet, and social habits of those birds old enough to leave the nest but not yet sexually mature adults. Very few of the bands had survived the chicks’ transformation into fully fledged adults, but those that did provided valuable data about the secret lives of adult firebirds when they were away from Lake Keris.
Of course, that research objective could only be met if people stopped killing her research subjects.
And if it wasn’t bad enough that the locals were eating her research – either from hunger or adherence to antiquated medical teachings – so were the rich and famous.
In recent years, bush meat – particularly bush meat harvested from rare, endangered, or magical creatures – was a ridiculously popular entrée right now in jet-setting international circles. A steak of giraffe or lion meat went for tens of thousands of dollars. Steaks from mythological creatures went for hundreds of thousands of dollars, more if the animal was thought to be extinct.
Between breakfast, the heat, her malfunctioning powers, and her disappeared research subjects, Ellis was tired and in a wholly terrible mood by the time that lunchtime rolled around. Normally, she ate lunch in the field with whatever team was out there, but that day, Ellis made her excuses and went back to camp early.
She was too hot to feel hungry, so instead Ellis changed into her swimsuit, grabbed a chilled bottle of sports drink, and went down to the spring. It was deliciously cold, and sliding into it, Ellis sighed with relief. It was the first time that she had felt comfortable all day.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been calling the storm clouds, thought Ellis, as the tiny fish came to investigate her, their bright scales flashing in the sunlight. Maybe I’ve just been unreasonably hot all day? And really irritated? The poaching situation is so much worse this year. Either that or I’ve just suddenly and completely lost it.
From the comfort of the spring, Ellis spent a couple of hours sending her newest storm out to sea. When she finally emerged from the water, skin pruney but finally cool enough to feel hungry, Ellis went to change back into her clothes.
She emerged from her tent just in time to see two strangers with bulky packs on their backs straggle into camp with the morning research team.
That team should’ve been back before this, thought Ellis, glancing at her watch. What fresh hell is this?
Switching directions, she went to meet the small group, just as one of her paid graduate students, Marissa, seemed to spot her. Marissa led the two dusty men over to Ellis, who studied them carefully as they approached.
The first man had dark hair, cool shades, and a strong build. He was handsome in a swarthy sort of way and graceful to boot. And his companion…
Guh! Ellis thought, as she watched him pick his way towards her.
Her second thought wasn’t any more coherent.
His companion was the most handsome man that Ellis had ever laid eyes on, and she included her shameful secret beefcake calendar in that assessment.
He was tall and lean with a strong jaw, a sharp nose, and a pair of ridiculous sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His walk wasn’t graceful, his strides were too carefully chosen for that, and something about it reminded Ellis of the way that the firebirds walked around the lake’s edge. As he crossed the space between them, moving steadily between patches of light and shadow, his reddish-gold hair seemed to flicker and dance like flames.
Ellis was certain that it was only her superior constitution as a storm dragon that kept her from melting into a little puddle of want on the spot.
“Dr. Hale,” said Marissa, when they were closer, forcing Ellis to reluctantly drag her attention away from the handsome stranger. Blinking, Ellis refocused her attention on her graduate student.
“Yes, Marissa?” asked Ellis. She was proud of how even her voice was.
“This is Marc Summers and Benton Hwong,” said Marissa, gesturing at first the dark-haired man and then the gorgeous one. “They’re photographers on assignment.”
“Unfortunately, our camp was raided,” said the hottest man that Ellis had ever laid eyes on. Some people called him Benton Hwong, apparently.
“By poachers,” added his companion, Marc.
Benton half turned to blink at Marc.
“Are you sure?” Benton asked. “You didn’t say that earlier. And an expedition around the turn of the century had their camp destroyed by mermaids.”
He was probably referring to the Parker-Tugwell expedition. Bitter to his core about not making it all the way to Lake Keris to see – and probably shoot at – the firebirds, Parker had dubbed Keris Island “the most miserable place on earth.”
Parker and Tugwell had been complete jackasses, not that Ellis would ever say as much out loud. Dafina’s friend Parker was one of Dr. Parker’s grandchildren.
“How many mermaids cart things off in wheelbarrows?” demanded Marc. “Or leave shell casings behind? It was definitely people that stole our food and equipment.”
“And what wasn’t stolen was trashed,” said Benton, turning his attention back to Ellis. “We have nothing except the things in our packs, we’re all a long way from help, and there’s a storm brewing. Or at least, there was. It seems to have cleared up.”
That last sent a dart of guilt through Ellis’ heart. The storm had been her fault – not that she was going to let it rain before it was time.
Nor was she going to let these guys go off and fend for themselves. Keris Island’s native flora and fauna could be dangerous at the best of times, and this certainly wasn’t that for them.
“One of my research assistants had to beg off at the last moment, so we have some extra supplies and provisions,” said Ellis. Drawing herself up, Ellis said, trying to sound stern, “But this is a research camp, and we often rotate duties. You’ll be expected to contribute.”
Her Photographer Phoenix: A Paranormal Romance (Lone Dragons Book 2) Page 3