Phoenix Falling

by Laura Bickle

  She called softly for it, and something sighed. She spun on her heel, reaching to her waist for her knife. The sighing came from a ring of sandstone.

  A well.

  A voice rasped from the depths of the well: “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  She sucked in her breath. She knew that voice. It had been centuries since she’d heard it, but she knew it. “Who are you?”

  “I am Pigin, the god of this place.”

  “Are you also the God of Death, the god who fought the phoenix, long ago?”

  A sigh echoed. “The same. I thought no one remembered.”

  There was no point in lying to a god. “I was there.”

  “Then you know. You know that the phoenix has returned.”

  “Yes.” And for the first time since she approached the phoenix in the field, she had hope. “And will you fight it once again?”

  The voice was silent for a long time before it spoke again. “I do not have a choice. The phoenix will find me. It remembers, too, you see.”

  Nine shuddered.

  “Come closer, to the well. Let me look at you.”

  Nine stepped toward the well. She peered into it cautiously. In the damp darkness, an ungodly stench emanated, the smell of something long decomposed. Something down there moved.

  “You remind me of the shaman from long ago who gave herself to the phoenix.” The god’s voice was soft, like the sound of rotten leaves turning over. “Your eyes are like hers, and the shape of your hands.”

  Nine bowed her head. “I have none of the power she did. I offered myself to the phoenix, and it rejected me.”

  Water sloshed, as if something below were moving to get a better view of her. “You have some of her power. But you have been cursed, I see, little wolf. I have never seen a wolf that walks on two legs.” It spoke in her own language now. She was startled to hear it spoken aloud.

  She answered in her language, and it felt free and loose on her tongue. She had not spoken it in hundreds of years. “How do you know me and my language? And what do you know of my curse?”

  “I see into the souls of all who gaze into my well, little wolf, and learn their tongues. I see into their souls and I see what they most desire. You see, I grant wishes from the bottom of this well.”

  Nine took a half step back. She’d been around the magical block long enough to know that the granting of wishes was treacherous business. But the hope was there. So she asked, “You grant wishes? What kind of wishes?”

  “Yes. I can grant you almost anything you ask for. I can grant riches, love, and long life.”

  Nine shrugged. None of these things mattered to her. “I would wish the phoenix back asleep.”

  “I intend to do that . . . and that task may be frankly beyond my power. It took me many, many years to recover from that fight. But fight we must, as we always have. Purification and corruption are forever at war.”

  “Then there is nothing you can give me,” Nine said, turning her face to the dark road.

  And then the god said: “But I could change you back into a wolf.”

  She froze. She had searched for a solution to this, prayed on it, made offerings to the Eye of the World. She had searched the limits of her knowledge and the spirit world for a solution, a cure to her current shape. She had consulted with the Raven King and Petra’s father, to no avail. And now Pigin said that he could do it.

  “Watch,” the toad said.

  Her attention was snagged by a small red-sided garter snake crawling up to the lip of the sandstone well, like a red and yellow ribbon on the dingy stone. Its tongue flickered out at Nine, curious. It was no longer than her forearm, easy prey for larger creatures, and likely searching out bugs to eat.

  The snake’s tongue snapped back into its mouth. It began to writhe, flipping and curling in on itself, as if it had been flung on a hot pan. It raced away, trying to flee . . .

  . . . and melted into the shape of a rat. The rat squeaked, twitching, and fled away into the undergrowth.

  “You doubt me now, little wolf?”

  Nine turned her gaze back to the well. The god could do what he said. Her heart hammered in her chest. If he could turn her into a wolf again, she could run back, back the way she’d come, and rejoin the pack . . .

  She gazed down at the black murkiness at the bottom of the well. “What’s the price for such a spell? And does the spell fade? It is a true changing of shape, yes, and not an illusion?” Her questions tumbled over each other.

  There was a small splash from below and a delighted-sounding laugh. “You are a cagey negotiator, little wolf. Like the shaman from long ago. You would be a wolf forever, in flesh and blood. But there is indeed a cost. The price for the spell is blood and bone, delivered to this well.”

  “Blood and bone?” she echoed.

  “Yes. In order to fight the phoenix, I require bones and blood, freely given to me, to work my magic. I have learned a few new tricks since we last met, and these are the ingredients of my spells.”

  Nine chewed on her thumbnail. She considered the weight of the bargain. She knew of the magic of blood and bones, from her father. And she knew that the more unusual the bones and the rarer the blood, the stronger the magic. Surely there was some heinous criminal she could lure here, some horrible person who deserved to die at the bottom of Pigin’s well? There was no shortage of evil people in the world of men. All she would have to do would be push him in, and her former life would be restored to her. She thought of the people who left their animals abused and neglected at the animal shelter where she worked. She thought of evil men from generations of evil blood, men like Owen Rutherford. She thought of the men who encroached upon the small bit of land remaining to Maria’s tribe, flinging papers and shouting about wanting to drill for oil. She could do great good in the world of men by pushing one down a well.

  Nine paced around the perimeter of the well, clockwise and then turning to go counterclockwise. Yearning swelled in her chest. She needed to be with the pack. And she was unencumbered by human definitions of right and wrong . . .

  . . . or was she? Something prickled in her throat. Something that felt like sadness and regret and fear and hope. It was a sticky mess of something that tasted warm and metallic, like a coin on her tongue. Maria had taken her in without a thought after Petra had found her. She’d been cared for like she was family. The people on the reservation had been kind to her, asking no questions and giving her meaningful work. She didn’t have the pack, not the way she had them before; she could only peek in on them through the Eye. But she did have sisterhood. A sisterhood that had sunk deeply into her skin, and had changed her. But how deeply had those changes sunk in? Did they reach the marrow, where the atavistic feelings of love and hate and belonging and exile were lodged?

  These questions warred within herself as she stared down the well. The blackness mirrored the choice before her, and she’d never wanted something so badly.

  With a deep breath, she stood straight, nodding. “I, Nine of the wolves, accept the offer that you, Pigin, God of Death, have offered to me. Bones and blood to change me back into a wolf, exactly as I was before I was changed to a woman.”

  Nine reached up to her neck and untied Maria’s necklace, feeling a deep stab of guilt in her gut. She held the warm beads in her hands and then dangled them over the well. Taking a deep breath, she let them go into the dark.

  She didn’t hear them hit bottom. Instead, she heard Pigin sigh: “Beautiful. The buffalo . . . it has been so long since I’ve tasted buffalo. I can hear the thunder in their bones, still.”

  Nine pulled her knife from her waist and drew the blade across her palm. She held her fist over the well, letting the dark fluid drip into the well for some minutes. When she felt dizzy, she closed her hand and bound it up with her bandanna.

  Pigin rumbled. “Magical blood . . . so rare and potent. I can taste your father’s magic in it. And yours.”

  Nine looked into the darkness at the bottom o
f the well. “I hope these offerings please you.”

  “They do. They do.”

  Doubt welled up within her, then. She was going to lose her human family: Maria, Petra, the Raven King, Mike, and all the rest. She would likely never see Coyote again in his current form. She would be unable to continue her work with the animal shelter, and without her help, dogs and cats would suffer. And she would be unable to watch over the pack from the Eye of the World, to protect them with the power of a mortal woman.

  And the people she loved would never know what had happened to her. They would think the fire had taken her. And they would feel sorrow, and guilt, and all the roiling emotions that came with being unable to say goodbye.

  What had she done?

  The black ooze below her churned and spat something up. Nine caught it in her hands and drew the small object to her waist. Opening her fingers, she saw that it was a round, smooth piece of obsidian the size of a coin.

  “What’s this?” she asked softly, uncertain how long she’d be able to muster a human voice.

  “To return to your previous shape, swallow the stone. I will not lie to you—as you and I have some history together, and you remind me very much of the shaman who gave herself to the phoenix many years before—your transformation will be a painful process. You will feel each bone break and every inch of your skin tear. Every muscle fiber will split apart and be remade, little wolf. You will suffer greatly, and you may not survive it. But if you do, you will arise on four legs to rejoin your pack.”

  Nine clasped the stone to her chest. The God of Death had given her a boon. He had given her the truth, and a choice. “Thank you. You are both kind and powerful.”

  There was a snort from the water. “I am neither of those things. I am darkness and rot, tricksy and enjoying of suffering. But you have given me something I need, tools to fight the phoenix. I am appreciative of those gifts. And . . .” The voice grew softer. “You brought me back a memory.”

  “I can help you fight the phoenix,” Nine began. “I can bring bones . . .”

  “No. Do not return here. Do not tell anyone that you have seen me. Go and live, beyond the touch of death.”

  She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the stone. “Thank you.”

  She walked away, swearing to herself that she would never return. She had the sense of having walked into a moment of sentimental weakness that the God of Death experienced. And that that interaction could never be repeated without danger to her life.

  She walked, for miles and miles, along deserted roads and through fields. It was many hours into night by the time she reached Maria’s house. The front porch light was on, with insects dancing around it. She knocked quietly on the door, and it opened immediately.

  Wordlessly, Maria drew her inside and wrapped her in a hug. Pearl wound around her ankles. Petra piled into the hug, and Coyote’s cold nose began vigorously inspecting her clothes. Behind them, the Raven King watched, a look of relief on his face.

  Whatever she was, wolf or woman, she was wanted here. As a wolf, she had a pack. As a human, she had another.

  This was, here and now, home.

  Chapter 15

  The White Witch’s Internet Parlor

  Hopefully, this run of shitty luck was temporary.

  Owen had gotten stuck in traffic on the way home to the Rutherford Ranch, and his radiator overheated. He topped it off with some bottled water and limped it to the gas station for more antifreeze. When he went to pay at the counter, he discovered that the bank had put a block on his credit card. He spent twenty minutes on hold with a bank call center three states away to get the block lifted. Apparently, someone had gotten hold of his credit card number and bought an anatomically correct sex doll from Japan, to the tune of six thousand dollars. Owen reassured the bank that the sex doll was not his. They promised to issue him a new card, but he was SOL for the time being.

  Owen dug around in his glove box for an extra twenty-dollar bill that he kept there for emergencies and a handful of change in the console. He paid for the antifreeze and got the radiator filled back up, only to discover that his left headlamp was out. He swore colorfully and went back inside with the remainder of his cash to buy a carton of ice cream, a frozen pizza, and a six-pack of beer, the dinner of champions. They were out of beer, and he was forced to make do with a bottle of rotgut red wine with a thick layer of dust on the bottle.

  When he got home, he discovered that the wine had turned to vinegar and the ice cream had been melted and then refrozen, so he pitched both of them and hoped for better luck with the pizza. He turned on the oven, only to discover that the knob made a clicking sound, but no gas flame lit. He shut off the knob and muttered to himself, going to the basement to check and make sure that there was a pilot light going in the water heater. The pilot light was out. No gas. He went outside to the propane tank. It was empty.

  He called the propane company. Turned out, they hadn’t received payment for last month’s delivery. And Owen couldn’t give them a valid credit card over the phone. He hung up in frustration, deciding that he could make do with cold military showers until he got this shit figured out.

  Fuck cold showers. The water in the hot water heater would likely only keep warm for a few hours. He decided to spend it all in one shot. He headed into the bathroom, slammed the door, and shucked out of his uniform. He yanked open the frosted glass door to the shower enclosure and began to step in . . .

  . . . but he lurched back, grasping the swinging door to balance himself.

  “Holy shit,” he breathed.

  The bottom of the shower stall was covered in black toads, hundreds of them. There were so many that they obscured the Carrera marble floor, coating it in a seething, bumpy mass. The toads twisted to look at him, as one, opened their mouths, and hissed.

  He banged the shower door shut, rattling the glass. Snatching up his robe and tugging it around him with his good hand, he scanned the floor. How had they gotten in there? How had Pigin figured out where he lived? Did toads really hiss? Weren’t toads poisonous? What the fuck was happening?

  Owen cast around the bathroom for a weapon. The most fearsome tool he could find was a toilet brush. Gripping it tightly, he advanced on the door and wrenched it open.

  The toads had disappeared. All but one of them. It slowly hopped into the loosened shower drain and disappeared.

  Shit. Owen shoved the shower drain cover back in place with the toilet brush. For good measure, he went to the bedroom, grabbed a hideous sculpture of a cowboy that Sal had made, and set the heavy tchotchke on the drain. There. Even if the little bastards were able to unscrew the drain plate, they wouldn’t be able to move that piece of shitty art. Hopefully.

  Owen took a shower in the first-floor bathroom instead, after ensuring that the floor drain was tightly screwed in place. He extracted four minutes’ worth of hot water from the water heater before it turned cold. He didn’t dare sit down to take a shit in the toilet, though. He was too rattled. He dressed in sweats and returned to the kitchen.

  He stuffed the pizza into the microwave and punched the power button. The turntable got hung up with the pizza crust overhanging the edge of the plate, but he decided to ignore the irritating clunking sound while he went through his mail. There was a cease-and-desist letter from an attorney there, concerning one of the outer fields of the ranch. The nearby reservation was stating that the Rutherford Ranch fences were encroaching upon their land, and he needed to move them.

  Owen pinched the bridge of his nose. His cousin, Sal Rutherford, had been a pitch-perfect asshole where land borders came into play. Owen hadn’t developed any further interest in exploring the back forty since his run-in with the carnivorous mermaid, so the fence must have been established before Owen took control of the property. Not that it made any difference. It was his land, and his problem.

  He decided that the easiest thing to do would be to hire some guys and move the damn fence. Of course, seasonal work would cost him—h
e didn’t have the slave labor Sal had with the Hanged Men. He was betting that was gonna be a few thousand dollars he could set fire to.

  His mustache twitched. He smelled something burning. He turned to the microwave to find his pizza curled and brown, with the cheese separating. He burned himself getting the damn thing out of the microwave. He decided that he was going to consume this motherfucker anyway, out of pure spite. He had nothing else in the house to eat except for a box of stale cereal and a carton of curdled milk. He savagely cut into the pizza and slapped three slices onto a plate and stomped into the living room. He plunked down on the leather couch and clicked on the TV.

  His favorite show, a sci-fi drama about alien conspiracies, had been preempted by a baseball game that was running late due to a rain delay. He groaned and leaned back into the couch cushions and stared at the vaulted ceiling. He had really been looking forward to seeing something even more implausible than his daily life to make himself feel better.

  “Hey.” Anna sat on the back of the couch and peered down into Owen’s face.

  “Hey,” he said. “I have had a colossal run of bad luck. At least, I hope it’s bad luck, and that the Toad God didn’t curse me. But he sent his little buddies to hang out in the shower. So I’m pretty sure I’m cursed.”

  “You believe in curses?”

  “Sure. Why not?” He’d seen weirder shit.

  Anna made a face and glanced at the television. “Are you gonna watch that?”

  “No. No, I am not gonna watch that.”

  “Can I watch the princess movie?”

  “Sure. You can totally watch the princess movie.”

  Owen climbed off the couch and pawed through the stack of DVDs underneath the massive flat-screen television. He hadn’t bought that monstrosity; he’d inherited it from Sal. He supposed it was okay for movies, but it often gave him a headache. Anna seemed to enjoy it, though.