Phoenix Academy: Freed (Phoenix Academy First Years Book 5)

by Lucy Auburn

  "Fuck you, man. I'm not going to jail because of you."

  It all happens so fast. Santiago shoves Mateo away. Mateo pulls his gun. Santiago shoots the woman—I flinch—right in the head. At the same time, Mateo shoots Santiago, hitting him in the shoulder too late to stop him from killing the woman. The guns fall to the floor; Santiago's because his arm is torn through, Mateo's out of shock that he actually shot it.

  They stare at each other. Santiago looks shocked. Stumbling back, he spits out, "Fuck you, man. You'll pay for this."

  I think he means it. The boys run out of the house, each grabbing their guns, Santiago going slow as blood drips down his arm. Around us, the scene shifts.

  Mateo is frantically going through his room, grabbing things. His Tia watches from the doorway as he pulls money out from under his bed and thrusts it in her hands.

  "Take it," he says, sobs leaving his mouth as tears run down his cheeks. "Take all of it. I don't deserve it. The things I did—take it, Tia."

  "No." She shakes her head, pushing the money back towards him, eyes hard. "My Alejandro. You can't run away from this. Please, whatever happened, stay. We'll talk to your Uncle Jose—"

  "He'll just turn me in."

  "For what?"

  Young Mateo stiffens. He packs a bag and slings it over his shoulder, then looks back at her. "Stay safe, Tia. I love you."

  "Alejandro—"

  But he pulls out of her grip. Heads out the door. Jumps in a beaten up old sedan, and starts it, peeling down the road.

  We stay in the house, with his aunt, watching him. Remembering Mateo's nightmare, I feel my heart beating, and know that something bad is about to happen. Not just his Tia's tears or the terrible expression on her face as she watches her beloved nephew run away for good. But something far, far worse.

  Mateo mutters, "Fuck, I was an idiot. Still am."

  "Don't say that. You got a bad start in life. That doesn't mean you couldn't have been better. Fuck, I've stolen plenty of shit. Neither one of us had other options."

  "Didn't I, though?" He motions towards the house, and his aunt. "I could've worked hard. Started modestly. Saved up. Maybe fixed this house up. It's not like I was starving. I just thought I should have more, and I took it."

  He's not wrong. I don't know what to say to that. So I grab his hand and squeeze tight as the rest of the scene plays out.

  There's a crash as someone breaks into the back door. It's Santiago with one of his friends, waving a machete. They grab Tia Maria and push her into the sofa as she screams.

  "Call Alejandro. I want him to be here for this."

  Moments later, the sedan peels back down the street. Young Mateo jumps out, gun in hand, and bursts through the front door, looking at his friend with frantic eyes.

  "Please," he begs, "don't do this—"

  The machete falls. She screams at the top of her lungs. I close my eyes, then force myself to open them again. Mateo jumps in, between his beloved aunt and the blade, gun in hand—but his hands shake, and he gets stabbed for his effort. The gun falls. He tries to protect her body, but Santiago's vicious friend pulls him away.

  Eyes wide, he watches his Tia be murdered. Her gaze is on him as she dies. She lifts a trembling hand towards him.

  "Alejandro—"

  But she dies before she can finish what she wanted to say. Mateo dies next, slashed across the throat, crumbling onto the old carpet and bleeding out. I stare at his body as the scene freezes.

  "This is it," the demon Mateo says, standing next to me. "I was a piece of shit, and people died because of me. People I loved. All because I was stupid and selfish."

  Biting my lip, I point out, "Seems like Santiago was the true piece of shit in this case."

  His mouth curves up into a smile. "True. Hopefully he's dead by now and getting his fingers chopped off in some terrible corner of Hell. To think, he didn't just kill me—he ruined my perfectly beautiful face by spraying blood all over it with that shitty death blow."

  "That's one way to look at it." Staring at his aunt's dead body, I point out, "She's probably in the Great Beyond."

  "Yeah. She deserves the rest." He licks his lips, then says, "And maybe I should get to join her one day. You know, when I die again. Instead of getting stuck with all this death and bullshit, I want to be better. Do better. And get what everyone else gets: peace."

  "I hope you get that," I tell him, turning and staring up into his face. "I really, really do."

  He smirks. "I also want to get that fine ass of yours. In this life and the next."

  Rolling my eyes, I kiss him. He tastes like black coffee and freedom, smells like warmth and coming home. As his arms go around my waist, the scene fades around us, and my heart lifts.

  When we part, we're standing in front of his steel door with the guys again. In front of our eyes, the metal melts, dissolving into liquid at our feet. Mateo whistles.

  "Impressive. Let's keep going."

  Gaugin's bracelet warms up against my elbow, and the blue light leads us further into the darkness at our feet.

  Chapter 20

  "Of course your door is boring," Mateo says, looking over at Ezra with a smirk on his face. "It even has a nameplate on it."

  It does. Ezra's door is a flat black, business-like door in a frame, with a silver plaque that reads: EZRA, DEMON. Just that. No last name, no official title. It's in a very professional-looking font.

  Mateo adds, "I'm surprised your name plaque doesn't say 'ruler of the known universe' or 'bossy asshole.' You certainly are one."

  Elbowing him in the side, Ezra smirks at the oof that leaves Mateo's mouth. Then he looks over at me, eyes reluctant. "I guess we're going in together."

  Swallowing, I tell him, "You could leave me behind—"

  "No," Lynx cuts in. Then, absurdly, he grabs our hands and smashes them together, like a little kid making two dolls kiss. "You go in together. It's worked this far. No way are we changing things and fucking it all up."

  Ezra's hand is stiff in mine. He takes my grip, barely. His green eyes keep looking at me like he doesn't know what I'm going to do next, and I guess he doesn't. We're strangers now, after all.

  But he leads me in his wake as he goes through his door, which is more than I could possibly expect. It's a relief at least not to be left behind. I might've volunteered that, but no way was I going to be okay with it if he'd really gone on alone.

  On the other side, I expect to find another house. This time, though, we're outside a hospital. It sprawls above us, covering blocks of space, foreboding.

  Ezra drops my hand. "I think I basically grew up here."

  "Were you sick?"

  "Let's find out."

  We step forward together, and into a hospital room. What I see takes my breath away. There's a woman in the bed, her red hair fanned out behind her, sallow and weak-looking, an IV running to her arm. At her side, a boy reads a book aloud to her: The Secret Garden. His voice cracks every few words, puberty trying to take over.

  I knew Ezra was a teenage boy when he died, but I didn't realize he was this scrawny. His arms are basically spaghetti noodles. He looks like he's never gotten a tan in his life. And his rich brown hair is too long, curling at his neck and around his ears, clearly in need of a haircut.

  But his eyes, when he looks up from the book and at the woman in the bed, are the same brilliant green they've always been. And they're full of love and concern, just like I've seen them before. The sad thing is, though, his shoulders are rounded with the weight of the world. He barely looks strong enough to carry much of anything, but he's already shouldering responsibility beyond his years.

  "You look tired," he says to the woman, reaching out to press his hand to her forehead, a frown on his young face. "Maybe you should have some rest. Do you need more morphine? Is the pain bad? I can get the nurses. The call button doesn't work half the time, but Nurse Valerie—"

  "I've got it, kiddo." A doctor walks in, his voice deep and rich, his face handsome
and jawline striking. He strides over and messes with little Ezra's hair. "It's not your job to take care of your mom, Kyle. That's my job."

  Despite myself, I snort. To Ezra I comment, "Mateo will make fun of you forever when he finds out your real name is Kyle."

  "Which is why he'll never find out." Ezra cuts his eyes at me. "Never, ever."

  "Sure, if you insist," I say lightly. "I guess I'll take the secret to my grave. No promises beyond that, though."

  Little Ezra-slash-Kyle looks up at the doctor and frowns. "Dad, she seems worse than yesterday. Don't you think we should—"

  "I think you should go home with your Aunt Vanessa and work on your homework. Mom will be fine. I've got it." Reaching for the end of the bed, he pulls her charts and adds, "Don't worry, Heather. You'll be home in no time."

  "I know I will," she says, smiling at her husband weakly. "I've got the best doctor in the world. I just hope we get a diagnosis soon. The second best doctor in the world is on that one." Winking at little Ezra, she jokes, "He'll be going to med school before you know it."

  Proudly, Ezra puffs up his chest and tells his dad, "I was reading some of your old medical books, and I think I figured out what's wrong with mom. Based on her symptoms—"

  "We can talk about it in the car, kiddo," Ezra's dad says sharply, weirdly angry over nothing. "Time to go."

  The scene changes. We're inside a house now; looking around at the fireplace in the corner and the pictures hung on the wall, I get the sense that this place cost money. Not so much to make them rich, but enough that I buy it took a doctor's salary to pay for all of it. The living room is expansive, but a good portion of it is taken up by a bed with metal railing, and the frail woman sleeping in the sheets.

  Ezra's mother looks gaunt. Her red hair barely has any color, and has been cut close to her neck, no doubt because it was too long for her to take care of anymore. There's no color to her skin, no vitality to her. I have to step close to even see her chest rise and fall.

  Just like at the hospital, Ezra is sitting at her side, a book open in front of him. This time, though, he's not reading aloud. He's staring at the words with a worried frown on his face.

  It's not a medical textbook. At least, not in the traditional sense. The front cover reads: He Doesn't Love You: Dealing with a Partner Who Has Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

  It doesn't look like the kind of thing a teenage boy would buy to read. In fact, based on the way he glances over the top of the book to stare at his mom, I get the sense that little Ezra found this book among her belongings.

  "I remember this now," Ezra says, and I tear my eyes to him. "It took me so long to figure out. I was so dumb. If I'd just realized..."

  "Just realized what?"

  He doesn't answer, mouth tight. But little Kyle does. Throwing the book to the ground, he stands up and heads towards the kitchen—then stops, reconsiders, and walks around to the other side. Following him into the dining room, we watch as he leaves the lights off, creeps up to the door, and opens it just enough to peek through.

  On the other side, his dad is putting food on a tray: rolls, chicken soup in a bowl, a glass of orange juice. He puts two pills beside the soup. All normal.

  Then he looks around to make sure he's still alone, bends down to open the cupboard beneath the sink, and pulls a box out. The cardboard is unlabeled, but the vial he pulls out doesn't have to say POISON on the side to make its intention clear. As he pulls liquid into the dropper and adds it to the soup, I feel my stomach churn.

  So this is what changed Ezra. What made him the way he is now. He must feel guilt for not realizing sooner that his father was slowly poisoning his mother to death, all while pretending to "treat" her for her ailments.

  Looking over at the demon, I see it in his face: the weight of the world that he carries on his shoulders. Though I know it's useless, I tell him, "It's not your fault."

  "No, it isn't," he says, surprising me with his agreement. "It was his fault. That's why... I have the feeling I know what comes next. I don't remember it, but at the same time, I do."

  We're in the kitchen suddenly, with Kyle, who's wearing a different outfit. It must be a new day. He has a determined look on his face as he stands over the stove, flipping two burger patties, his shoulders curved with that grave responsibility.

  His father walks in, and he startles. "Hey, kiddo. How those burgers coming?"

  "Fine." Teenage Ezra looks at the beer in his father's hand and presses down on the patties with a wide spatula. "I'll have them out to you in a minute."

  "No rush." His father smiles, soft and warm, but a shiver goes down my back at the knowledge of what's hiding beneath that expression. "I'm just glad we get to watch the game together, Kyle."

  "Me too," the boy says to the grill, not looking up. Once his father leaves the room, he stares in the direction he went, eyes hard.

  Another shiver of trepidation goes down my back.

  Ezra and I watch together as the mortal teenage version of him flips the patties, puts cheese on them, adds onion, tomato, and lettuce, then squeeze ketchup onto the top bun of both. Then, after making sure the coast is clear, he goes to the same cupboard his father opened, pulls out the cardboard box, and lifts the glass vial out with trembling fingers.

  He stares at it for a while. Then pulls the bun off one of the burgers and squirts several drops out at once, mingling it with the ketchup and melted cheese. Putting the bun back on, he grabs the tray and hides the vial, then stops.

  Looking between the two burgers, his mouth hardens. And he seems to come to some sort of decision. I watch as he takes the second bun off and adds another dose of poison to the other burger, so both are covered.

  Then I follow him into the living room, Ezra at my heels, and watch as he passes a burger to his father and takes the other one for himself. His gaze briefly goes down the hallway as he sits on the couch next to his dad. Glance that direction, I see an open door, a bed inside, and a heart rate monitor by the bed.

  "She went into a coma," Ezra says, voice roughened by grief and anger. "She was never going to come out of it. I knew that. I had no one because of him."

  He's watching himself take a bite of the burger and chew it tentatively, then another. Beside him, his father eats gustily, not one bit the wiser—apparently he picked a tasteless poison for his wife.

  "Why did he do it?" I ask demon Ezra, watching his father lick the last of the burger from his lips. "Did you ever find out?"

  "I have no idea. If I have to guess, there was another woman. Or maybe he just wanted to play the hero. I thought at first that he was going to 'cure' her magically at the last minute, give her a diagnosis and reverse the poison. Now I wonder if he was just bored of her, and if he'd done other things like it before, without anyone knowing. Other patients..." He shakes his head, mouth hard. "Does it matter why he did it? He murdered my mother. The one person I should've been able to count on no matter what."

  Watching teenage Ezra eat half the burger then set it down, his face pale, my heart hurts. "Why kill yourself, though?"

  "I knew I couldn't live with what I'd done," he says, voice bitter. "Unlike him, I wouldn't be able to walk away from it. Maybe because I was weak or a coward. But I knew that a world with two dead parents wasn't for me."

  Slowly, his father's eyes go shut. He tries to fight it, face confused, but eventually realization dawns on him. By the time it does, it's too late—his limbs are weak, his breathing shallow. He looks over at his son, who looks peaked, and his face breaks out into a sneer.

  "You stupid boy," he says. They're his final words before he dies.

  Kyle dies slower, coughing a little. Getting off the chair, he falls to the ground, and crawls on his hands and knees to his mother's room. She looks so weak and pale, but somehow he finds comfort as he drags himself up onto the bed next to her and closes his eyes for good.

  Ezra and I watch him die, and the scene freezes in front of us, heartbreaking and somehow inevitable.
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  "You shouldn't have been punished for this," I tell him, looking into his green eyes. "You were just a boy."

  "I was old enough to know what I was doing, Dani." He shakes his head, face grim. "This wasn't something spur of the moment. I planned out every detail. I invited him to eat burgers with me. Even told him I'd been practicing the recipe. And I ate mine slowly because I wanted to watch him die."

  I feel like my phoenix heart might just burn up into ash in my chest. "You never would have done it if he hadn't been such a monster."

  "Maybe," he agrees. "But maybe I was also a little bit of a monster, like him. I was too much of a coward and a narcissist to live in a world where I was a murderer who everyone reviled for killing his own father. So I chose suicide, and look where it got me."

  "You deserved better," I tell him, taking his hand firmly in mine. "There could've been other options. You weren't done growing up. Hell is a terrible place for a teenage boy."

  "It is," he agreed, "but it's made me strong. Capable. Hardened."

  I want to cry at the burden he's placed on his own shoulders. "You're not alone, you know. The rest of us can be strong for you."

  "I know that now." Leaning towards me, his presses his forehead against mine, his green eyes fluttering closed. "Can you ever forgive me?"

  "For what?"

  "Forgetting you."

  "It's already forgotten."

  We take each other's hands and stand like that for a while, each of us leaning forward, each of us taking a little bit of the other's weight. I feel peace wash over me, and wonder if this is what it's like to grow in love, until you feel bathed in it.

  The world changes around us. The darkness returns. Stepping back, we watch together as Ezra's door cracks in the middle, then splinters outward, the wood crumbling into pieces, then blowing away as nothing but sawdust.

  Ahead of us, the blue light sparks to life and zips forward.

  One more to go.

  Chapter 21

  Sebastian's door is made of the darkest, blackest glass: obsidian. Its surface is rippled and jagged, so sharp at the edges it would cut fingers open if you touched it for too long. There is no knob or handle—just more jaggedness.