Ashes (The Firebird Trilogy Book 1)

by Stephanie Harbon

  Ashes

  Stephanie Harbon

  This book has been a long hard journey which I could never have travelled alone. I would just like to show my thanks and appreciation to those who helped me along the way:

  For my Sister; for reading me bedtime stories when I was young and terrifying me with her home-grown horror stories. Without her I would never have developed such a vivid overactive imagination.

  For my dad; for always being a constant reliable figure in my life and supporting me both financially and emotionally throughout the years.

  For my Gran and John-Dad; for their boundless enthusiasm and love for me and my work.

  For all my friends; for putting up with me and my day-dreams during school, college and Taekwon Do and for giving me inspiration for my scenes and characters.

  For Calum; for forever being there, eager to help with ideas and suggestions, and for not getting too jealous of Kieran and Jayson.

  And finally for my mum; without her I would have never got this far. She has read every single piece of work I have ever written-rubbish or not-and has been there to encourage me every step of the way. Without her I would have given up a long time ago. She gave me the confidence to persevere and believed in me no matter what.

  Thank you all.

  Steph

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to my Grandpa, who inspired me to write in the first place and gave me my mantra ‘You only get out of life what you put in to it.’

  To be able to dedicate this book to you is payment enough for everything I’ve put into it.

  Steph

  Preface

  Fire hums. I never knew that until now, but it’s true; it does.

  I guess if you listen hard enough and open your mind to the possibilities, you’ll discover what you never even attempted to acknowledge as possible. Perhaps you’ll learn things you once considered unimaginable or personally unachievable. Perhaps you’ll learn that things aren’t always what they seem.

  That pretty much reflects my life recently.

  It turns out that my beliefs of what is possible and impossible are actually wrong. For example: I’m dead; so technically I shouldn’t even be thinking this, should I? Wrong again. I know for a fact I’m dead because I was the one who felt the fire. The fire that had been burning me since the moment I was born, I just never noticed. Small, insignificant changes are easily missed.

  Death, however, is the kind of thing you never forget.

  I remember the blaze burning my skin, charring my flesh with vicious licks of flame like a dragon’s acidic tongue. I felt the excruciation of my skin as it burned, then my limbs, then my organs, and then whatever was left. I remember distinctly the way it gnawed at my consciousness, stripping away my body until only ashes remained. I remembered the pain. For a long time there was nothing but a perpetual stretch of darkness, like an eternal night.

  So how is it I am thinking again?

  I can’t see, I can’t feel, I can’t smell and I can’t taste, but I can think and I am starting to hear again. How the hell does that work?

  My confusion was pointless; I would never have an answer.

  Fire hums. How strange it was, knowing I never even realised.

  The sound was beautiful, like the gentle swaying of ocean waves or the flutter of delicate butterfly wings against a breeze. It was intricate too, thousands of different melodies intertwined into one magnificent chorus. Patterns so detailed that they would perplex any curious mind who attempted to decipher them. The noise was irresistibly compelling and seductive. It made me want to join in. It made me want to listen more.

  It was like the cry of a Phoenix.

  It made me want to live again.

  Chapter One

  It was an exceptionally cold Wednesday for early November. Inside the Black Swan, the busy pub I’ve worked in for nearly a year now, the heat in the kitchen was ridiculous. The unreliable ovens roared in protest as I shovelled hundreds of sausage rolls and samosas into their fiery stomachs, in preparation for the public outside. It was karaoke night, my least favourite night -ever-to be at work and the drunken song interpretations were about as pleasant to listen to as a howling chorus of banshees.

  I think it’s worse hearing appallingly bad music when you’re a musician yourself. Well, that’s not entirely true, I can’t play any instruments. I did, however, inherit my mother’s natural gift for singing; along with her crimson hair. My mother had been good at everything as well as being mesmerizingly beautiful, almost impossibly so, with lashes so long they brushed her high cheekbones and a voluptuous figure worth dying for. Of course this was a long time ago, before the brain tumour had drained all the luminosity out of her skin, the vibrant colour of her hair and, inevitably, her life.

  Her death had hit me and my dad very differently. My dad became a workaholic, spending all his time at the office and on extended conferences, leaving me to continue on alone. I soon became independent; with my dad constantly away I was the one who had to look after our small house, nestled on the edge of the forest that lingered around our town in the Lake District.

  Not for much longer though. Soon I’ll have saved enough money to leave. It doesn’t matter where, just anywhere but here. Anywhere but that dark depressing house which sparked nostalgic memories of a time when I was happy, when Mum was still around; when I still thought of Dad as a father.

  “Ruby?” Tanya called, snapping me out of my own thoughts. She stood by the door, her hands pressed against her hips, frowning, “Take a break darling; you look like hell.”

  I yanked open the oven again, hearing the deafening screech of its hinges as I cautiously placed the last tray inside. Once I’d finished I turned to Tanya and smiled exhaustedly, “Thanks. I’m just a little tired that’s all.”

  Her expression grew sympathetic, “Still having trouble with your Dad?”

  I nodded, despite his apparent lack of interest in me, every time I mention leaving home he flips. It’s like he’s trying to keep me near, but not to actually be with me; more out of duty or something. Sometimes I wonder if he even is my father. We look absolutely nothing alike and his cold indifference is enough to arouse suspicion. There’s no point confronting him about it though. I think I’d regret asking.

  I realised I’d drifted off again and answered Tanya, my boss, “It’s just never the ‘right time’ to talk to him about it. You know what he’s like.”

  Tanya sighed, coming over; placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, her eyes were large and wrinkled with laughter lines. “You listen to me Ruby. You need to make him listen. You can’t stay cooped up at home all your life.”

  “I know,” I said, “I will, I promise.”

  “Go on,” she waved, “I’ll take over.”

  I rushed out of the kitchen, sweeping past the wooden tables piled high with empty pint glasses and the makeshift stage where a man was currently massacring Robbie’s much favoured Angels. Behind the bar Lauren looked at me with a run while you can expression. Twisting the brass knob I opened the heavy stained-glass door that lead to the car park. I breathed in the rich country air.

  Looking up into the night sky, I noticed dark clouds grumbling over my head. Raindrops fell like crystal tears from the sky, drenching my upraised face and washing the perspiration from my forehead. I was shivering slightly from the cold and moved under shelter.

  Suddenly I heard the deep thundering roar of motorbikes turning into the car park. There were two, a Suzuki and a Ducati, and that’s about all I knew; I guessed that they were very fast and very expensive. They were big, menacing-looking things with polished metal and gleaming paintwork, coming to an abrupt stop not far
from me. The first man who stepped down off his bike was extremely tall, clad in black leather. When he removed his helmet his face was surprisingly young, with black haunted eyes.

  The second man wore only leather boots and trousers and a black t-shirt. As he took his helmet off, his back to me, I could see the rippling bands of muscle that wrapped around his darkly tanned arms. As I watched another man and two girls walked out of some nearby trees and made their way over to the bikers. I frowned slightly, wondering why they’d been walking through those trees; there was nothing behind them but forest and hills, it wasn’t a shortcut into town or anything. I shrugged mentally. They all looked very similar, with tanned skin, dark hair and earthy coloured eyes, perhaps all in one family.

  Then the second biker turned around and I saw his face.

  Suddenly a weird sensation filled my stomach, tension raised the hair on the back of my arms and I stared harder, fascinated by this unusual creature.

  He had this presence about him, like he was…not important exactly…more powerful. It was the way he stood, the cocky lean in his stance and the look of lazy contempt on his astonishingly gorgeous face. He was tall, tanned and muscular like the other two men. His hair was blacker than a raven’s wing and kind of in an indie style with choppy edges. It suited him like that, though perhaps it didn’t quite fit the biker stereotype. He had a face that any male human would cherish with pride of possession; high cheekbones, square jaw, perfectly symmetrical…

  That wasn’t why he kept my attention though. I mean, I’m not that shallow.

  Under incredibly long black lashes, his eyes were a shocking emerald.

  He turned away, unaware of me lurking in the shadows of the shelter. When he spoke his voice was deep, husky and brimming with an amused arrogance, “Well, can you imagine our luck, its karaoke night,” he said, falsely enthusiastic, flashing a set of sparklingly white teeth. “Shall we go in and send off for hearing aids tomorrow, or save time and just cut off our ears now. I have a knife on me if anyone wants to go first.”

  “Is it really?” the first biker groaned, “Can’t we go somewhere else?”

  “I’m not changing again,” complained a girl of around twenty, with hazel eyes and a tumbling mass of brown hair.

  “I’m sure it won’t affect the taste of the beer,” said the last man, wearing jeans and a t-shirt which didn’t quite hide the chiselled muscle underneath. “What does everyone want? We could sit out here.”

  They all shared a strange accent I couldn’t quite place. They were definitely new to the area.

  “But it’s starting to rain,” moaned the youngest girl with hair like dark chocolate and an athletically built body.

  “Somebody fetch an umbrella, quick,” said the green-eyed biker fanatically, his eyes exaggeratedly wide, “We have about four seconds before she melts.”

  The girl shot him a look and it was at this point I decided I shouldn’t be eavesdropping and silently crept back inside. There was nobody on stage at the moment, thank God, but then Tanya rushed over to me and I wished there was someone up there. I could see the intention in her eyes.

  Before she could open her mouth to speak I interrupted “No. I know what you’re going to ask and no. I did it last week.” Whenever there was a long gap in-between songs she asked me to sing, just to keep things moving.

  “Please,” she pleaded, the fine wrinkles around her eyes fanning out. “People like it when you sing, it makes listening to everyone else bearable.”

  I shook my head decidedly, “Ask Lauren.”

  “She sounds like a dying cat when she sings,” Tanya complained. “Plus she’s busy; come on Ruby.” I was about to shake my head again but then she made things interesting, “I’ll let you leave early.”

  I paused, a slow smile starting across my face, “How early?”

  Her eyes narrowed; we’d done this before, “Ten minutes.”

  I deliberated momentarily, “Twenty.”

  She frowned and then reluctantly sighed, “Fifteen, that’s my final offer.”

  I grinned, “Deal. Where’s Charlie?”

  Charlie, Tanya’s husband, organised the karaoke. When he saw me coming he breathed a sigh of relief, “Thank God, I don’t think I can stand anymore bad singing. I think I might just stop karaoke night.”

  I grinned, “You say that every week.”

  “I know,” he sighed, then smiled, “What do you want playing?” he gestured towards the song book.

  “Have you got your guitar with you?” I asked, ignoring the book as well as the sound systems, microphones and screens I didn’t know how to work.

  “It’s in my car,” he grinned, knowing me well, “I’ll go fetch it.”

  Minutes later I was standing in front of the chatting audience, Charlie beside me with his acoustic guitar already playing familiar melodies; his fingertips fluttering rhythmically across the strings. The room hushed instantly; the crowd was waiting, a strange hunger enchanting their eyes, growing ravenous as they recognised who it was illuminated under the stage lights. Someone even shouted my name. I think they were drunk though.

  So I took a deep breath and began to sing.

  At first I felt a little nervous but eventually I used my voice to its full potential, thanks to the encouraging familiar faces. I soon hit each note perfectly, the pitches ranging from almost impossible highs to intense lows. Constantly I changed the volume and texture of my voice to entertain the crowd, like Mum had taught me. They clapped and cheered obligingly. My voice rang as a piercing beauty, almost mournful in essence; like the cry of a songbird. Charlie had chosen what my friends would call a ‘neggie’ – or negative, to anyone else - song. I quite liked it.

  Then something changed as the tone of the song dropped and slowed.

  Apprehensive silence fell on everyone inside the pub.

  People now watched me with an absorbed and slightly dazed expression as my voice dipped into a low almost sedative murmur. I could feel my body begin to tremble. My skin felt hot and sweaty and a series of burning sensations trickled down my spine. Something felt wrong.

  From the corner of my eye I noticed the strangers from outside join the crowd. The young biker seemed to whisper something to the others.

  They shook their heads immediately. ‘Impossible’ mouthed the youngest girl. The biker glanced at the fascinated, blank faces surrounding him, eventually returning his gaze to me. He started to move closer but the oldest man held him back with a restraining hand on his shoulder. His knuckles whitened dramatically, as if he were clenching tightly.

  Panic crawled up my legs in vigorous convulses now, but my voice remained hypnotic and untarnished, as smooth as a placid lake. It didn’t feel like I had any control over my own voice, it was leaking from me without permission. I could see people’s eyes closing in synchronisation with each other, becoming deeply unresponsive, almost as if they were falling asleep. Was this a big joke? If it was it wasn’t funny. What was wrong with them?

  I continued the song; but Charlie wasn’t even playing his guitar. He gazed at me dumbly like everyone else; all except the fierce new arrivals. They had to be all in on some horrible practical joke or something. They couldn’t seriously all be falling asleep? They were tricking me. That’s not nice at all.

  At least that’s what I thought initially.

  However, as the crowd seemingly slipped unconscious, their necks flopped down like a broken rag dolls, their arms went slack and the pint and wine glasses they held slipped from their grasp, smashing loudly on the wooden floor. I cringed at the noise, but then the situation intensified.

  The people who were standing abruptly collapsed; crashing into tables and injuring themselves in the process. Was there some sort of gas leak or something in the room? I decided now would be a good time to stop singing. But I didn’t stop.

  No, I couldn’t stop.

  I felt powerful, I felt strong. I felt alive. I had never felt this… wrong and yet completely right. This had never happened bef
ore. I couldn’t stop.

  What was happening? Was I speaking English? I was frightening myself; what the hell was happening? Why couldn’t I stop? Why were they asleep?

  My heartbeat echoed inside me, imitating the way my voice bounced off the walls of the pub. Feverish sweat clung to my skin like a persistent itch. The music flooded everywhere; filling the darkest corners and cracks in the floorboards. I could almost see it dancing and twirling through the air, intoxicating everything into a fatal numbness. I’m sure if I tried I could reach out and grasp it… but then what?

  I gasped the final note abruptly. It was over.

  Immediately staggering forwards as exhaustion smacked into me, my vision blurred. Strong arms caught me. I weakly craned my neck up, looking into smouldering green eyes. The whole world spun but those eyes remained as still as the constant stars. They were the most beautiful shade I’d ever seen, brighter than emeralds which turned coal black at the perimeter of the iris, like a ring of onyx. It was surreal. It was wrong.

  They reminded me of weapons; brilliantly terrible.

  I remembered that specific colour. I’d seen it before, in a dream. Something intuitive clicked in my mind, screaming that this stranger was dangerous. Really dangerous. Not fast-food dangerous but serial killer dangerous.

  A familiar danger. A danger I recognised.

  Those eyes guessed at the truth. The truth I didn’t even know yet.

  Then a blinding surge of agony exploded through me, tracing from my head down to the bottom of my spine in a blaze of excruciation. I winced, a gasp escaping my lips. I fell again, just managing to catch a glimpse of everyone waking up before my vision blackened as I fainted.

  I groaned as my eyelids grudgingly opened, my back throbbed and my head ached. I was sitting outside up against a cold brick wall.

  What the hell just happened? I wondered in frightened astonishment.

  Did I really just…sedate people? Was I imagining it?

  Tremors rocketed though my exhausted system. I couldn’t understand it. What logical explanation would make people act like that? Were they all in on some cruel practical joke or something?