Phoenix Aflame (Alpha Phoenix Book 2)

by Isadora Montrose

  As he slipped into unconsciousness, Pierce commanded his battered body to perform a last change to human. The three jeeps sent to locate the downed jet found a naked and bleeding Maj. D’Angelo wearing only his dog tags. He lay motionless on the pitted desert ground, an apparent casualty of the enemy. He had a dent in one temple. His left arm was shattered. He was unconscious. Only his bleeding wounds proved he was alive. Patrol laid him beside Lt. Hatcher, and transported both men to the field hospital.

  The fighter jet was salvaged by locals. For months, they eked out a living selling the scraps to the US military. A ragged goat herder told an improbable tale of a glorious bird that set the desert on fire, thereby depriving his flock of forage. This earned him a beating from the uncle whose goats had gone hungry, as well as a reputation as a masterful storyteller of enviable inventiveness.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Missiles roared out of an apparently featureless gray landscape. Two screeched past the fighter jet. The third scored a direct hit to the fuselage. The plane lurched sideways. Despite the tight webbing of the seat belts, the pilot and the co-pilot were tossed around in their seats like crash test dummies. The controls went slack in the pilot’s hands. Maj. Pierce D’Angelo wrestled futilely with his joystick. A split second later he accepted that his aircraft was in a nosedive from which he could not divert it.

  “Take over,” Maj. D’Angelo ordered his co-pilot.

  Lt. Edwin Hatcher was still flipping switches as per standing orders, one hand on his stick. He engaged and attempted to level the plane. His controls were as slack as D’Angelo’s. The plane began to spin as it maintained its downward trajectory.

  “Eject,” D’Angelo ordered.

  Despite the damage done to the aircraft, the mechanisms that released Pierce’s seat responded smoothly. He was in freefall at the count of three. His parachute deployed precisely fifteen seconds after he pulled the cord. Automatically, he checked for Hatch. The other officer shot past him, chute still unopened, orange ripcord handle gripped in one fist, the attached cord flailing wildly.

  Pierce knew Hatch was in freefall. Neither of them had been issued auxiliary packs with backup parachutes. The uprush of air into Pierce’s parachute yanked him away from his subordinate. He saw rather than heard Hatch’s scream. Without a parachute, his teammate was doomed.

  Pierce was unbuckling his own parachute before he realized he had made a decision. The canopy floated away as he shifted into phoenix. His buff-colored G-suit became confetti whisked away on the hot winds. A blazing bird spread his enormous wings to catch the fierce updraft.

  Only the radiant glow of phoenix plumage could be seen by human eyes. The dazzling, paranormal rainbow colors of their feathers were virtually impossible for ordinary mortals to see — particularly at high speed. Pierce might appear as an iridescent blur too bright to focus on, but that was all. If anyone was observing his descent, he was now as good as invisible.

  Far below him, Hatch’s body splayed out and spiraled helplessly towards the ground. Pierce could see that Hatch was unconscious. That was one blessing of freefalling. You passed out before you hit the ground. Before you died.

  Pierce was strong. Impossibly strong. In greater phoenix, he was as large as a small plane and just as fast. His eyesight was more acute than an eagle’s. At will, with the touch of a single feather, he could set anything afire. But to save his brother officer, speed was what he needed.

  Pierce folded his immense wings against his torso and prepared to dive. Like a blast from a suddenly opened furnace, a rush of hot wind battered him from the side, reminding him that this was the Arabian Desert. He fought for control. Despite the urgency and terror of the moment, he had to fight the dizzying excitement that accompanied flying faster than the speed of sound. As always, acceleration was itself an intoxicant.

  Like the streamlined raptor he was, Pierce dropped headfirst, aiming for Hatch. Below him, his buddy grew bigger as the phoenix got closer. Twenty feet above the ground, he extended his wings, thrust his mighty legs forward, and snatched Hatch’s torso in his talons. His wings decelerated them both.

  Pierce had pulled his buddy back from the brink of death. But he had not calculated for the extra weight and momentum of Hatch’s burly body. His balance altered. He destabilized. There was no time to correct his error. Pierce juddered and cartwheeled in the air on wings that had lost their lift. The ground rose up to meet him.

  The landing knocked the air from Pierce’s lungs. His eyes opened. The dust had settled. He had a worrying sense of being newly awakened. How long had he been out? Pain overwhelmed him. Each breath was crippling agony. Hatch’s body was a dead weight, pinning him to the rocky ground. Had he killed himself attempting to save a dead man?

  The hot wind roared down through the gray and rocky mountains, flinging a storm cloud of gritty dust around. As if this was a signal, guns blazed from the stunted shrubs a hundred yards to the north of them. Pierce did the only thing he could do. He became fire.

  Crap. Despite Hatch’s flameproof suit, Pierce had set his buddy ablaze. If his co-pilot wasn’t already dead, he would be soon. But the fire roused the other man, who immediately began to roll in the dust, smothering the flames that enveloped him. Hatch had extinguished his G-suit and was pulling out his pistol, before the fire-that-was-Pierce had reached the clump of bushes that was his goal. Those dusty, desiccated shrubs ignited even faster than Hatch’s G-suit.

  The enemy guns went silent. Hatch emptied his pistol into the clump of bushes where the muzzle flashes had come from. Pierce desperately tried to decide on his best course of action. When a phoenix became fire, he could regenerate. But the risk was great. It was always your last option. And he had never done it before. Other members of his clan had told him about regeneration. It hurt. A lot. And there were other drawbacks too.

  But his phoenix form had been dying before he took fire. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he returned to human now. Probably nothing good. The pathway to rejuvenation was fire, phoenix, human. In that order. Excruciating agony clouded his thinking, but he struggled to reason out his options. The vegetation was too sparse to sustain him as fire for long. If he continued to blaze, he would burn away to ash. He had to take phoenix soon. And yet, remaining fire was tempting beyond his imaginings. Just as he had always been warned.

  As if trying to extinguish him, the wind blew harder. But the fresh oxygen only made him burn hotter. Blue flames jumped from the flaming bushes that Pierce was now a part of, and blazed a path across the desert scrub setting it on fire. Smoke rose in towering clouds. The dusty, spiny shrubs screening the guerrillas became a bonfire. Pierce followed willy-nilly. He was the fire, but he had lost control of his talent, and the brush fire had taken on a life of its own.

  In the face of certain immolation, the guerrillas leapt up, abandoning their hidden emplacement. Bent double, they scurried away, beating at their clothing with panicky hands. An engine started. Their dust-colored armored vehicle roared out of a pile of rocks, heading away from the fire which stood between them and their prey. A black haze effectively screened them even from Pierce’s paranormal vision.

  He gathered his remaining strength. He and the scrubby bushes had become one mighty conflagration. He would die if he did not abandon this form. He ignored the searing agony, and the desire to remain a flame, and thrust upward. His phoenix emerged from the embers as perfect as if he had never fallen. Never burned. More than perfect. Improved.

  He felt larger and more muscular than before. Wider. Longer. Stronger. His forked tailfeathers streamed far behind him as he glided over the smoke. This was fantastic. Abruptly he lost altitude. This too was something he had been warned about. After regeneration, initially you were as clumsy as a raw-boned adolescent after first-change.

  All around him the winds calmed. The dust storm died down as precipitously as it had begun. The smoke lightened. Pierce tried to level out, but his newly made wings were sluggish. It took all his concentration to get his flight
feathers to work.

  Like all birds, a phoenix’s feathers were individually under full control. But like any fledgling, Pierce had had to learn to fly when he came into his talent in his teens. It now felt as if he had to relearn the whole process. And this inhospitable place was no ideal training arena.

  To his relief, he caught a thermal and soared, regaining altitude. He peered through the lingering smoke and dust. Lightning split the sky. Before the noise of the thunderclap had reached him, torrential rain soaked the parched earth. The heavy drops also extinguished Pierce’s flaming feathers and beat fiercely at his wings. Worse, it saturated his plumage. He plunged for a second time to the ground.

  The violent downpour stopped as quickly as it had begun. But by then it was too late. Pierce made a clumsy landing a long way from Hatch. Probably at least a mile. The brief violent rain had washed the air clean. Pierce could see the other officer clearly now, even though Hatch had camouflaged himself with mud.

  He took stock. He was hurt. Not as badly as he had been when Hatch brought him down. But badly. For sure his left wing was broken. And he was in bird form. Rule one was never stay in phoenix when mortals were around. He would heal quickly in this form, but not as quickly as a search team would reach him. Shit.

  As he slipped into unconsciousness, Pierce commanded his battered body to perform a last change to human. The three jeeps sent to locate the downed jet found a naked and bleeding Maj. D’Angelo wearing only his dog tags. He lay motionless on the pitted desert ground, an apparent casualty of the enemy. He had a dent in one temple. His left arm was shattered. He was unconscious. Only his bleeding wounds proved he was alive. Patrol laid him beside Lt. Hatcher, and transported both men to the field hospital.

  The fighter jet was salvaged by locals. For months, they eked out a living selling the scraps to the US military. A ragged goat herder told an improbable tale of a glorious bird that set the desert on fire, thereby depriving his flock of forage. This earned him a beating from the uncle whose goats had gone hungry, as well as a reputation as a masterful storyteller of enviable inventiveness.

  Read the rest of Phoenix Ablaze on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

  New Release: Preview

  Dragon’s Confession

  When Victor Lindorm met gorgeous curvy Ingrid at his Uncle’s house party, he was smitten. So he bespelled her. Big mistake. Next morning, even though she was now a dragoness, his beautiful no-longer-virginal mate wept tears of diamonds because she didn’t want to get married. So he did the only thing he could do: He let her go.

  Six years later, now Kapten Lindorm of the Swedish Royal Navy, he has permission from his billionaire dragon clan to resume his interrupted courtship. Victor is honor bound not to claim Ingrid by right of capture. But his dragoness bride has charms that appeal to many mateless dragons. And one is stalking her.

  Can Alpha Male Victor keep his dominant dragon in check long enough to win a second chance at this passionate champion skier’s love? He knows he can satisfy Ingrid in bed, but her heart is the prize he’s after. How can he explain his feelings when so many misunderstanding lie between them?

  Spice alert: Dragon and dragoness set the sheet alight. The earthy love of these two shifters will fulfill all your emotional and sensual needs.

  This 25k novella reintroduces the Lords of the Dragon Islands series. It is a standalone and has a HEA and no cliffhangers.

  Available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Six years earlier, Chateau Lind, Loire du Bois

  He pulled her behind the door where no one could see them and planted an inexpert kiss on her lips. Ingrid von Schwalm wound her arms around Victor’s neck and kissed him back. When his tongue asked for entrance, she opened her mouth and tasted him.

  It wasn’t her first kiss. Not even her first French kiss. But apparently it was Victor Lindorm’s first. But he made up for his lack of skill with husky murmurs and brute enthusiasm. When he raised his head his eyes were unfocused. She wasn’t a giggler, but she giggled.

  He placed her hand over his heart. “You are the one,” he declared.

  Ingrid peeked up at him through her lashes. He was so intense. In the last two days this blond giant had tugged her into a dozen of the alcoves and niches that formed part of this sixteenth century castle. Each time he had uttered versions of the same desperate phrase.

  Her trouble was that she was beginning to believe him. Could fate intend her to find her one true love already? Was she destined to marry a dragon after all? To become a dragoness? Her father would be ecstatic. She needed to be careful of this handsome boy.

  Victor’s phone beeped. He turned scarlet and answered it promptly. He spoke rapidly and respectfully into it before turning it off. “I’m sorry, Ingrid. I have duties. Forgive me. Do you know the way to where you were going?”

  She nodded. “The Chateau Lind is a big place, but no larger than the Schloss Schwalm. I’ll be fine.”

  He bowed as if she were a princess. Pressed a hard kiss on her lips. “Later.” He was gone before she had her eyes open.

  That evening after dinner when the house guests were gathered in Lady Lindorm’s music room for an impromptu recital, Victor sang a credible accompaniment to one of his aunts’ piano playing. He executed the lyrics in flawless German. It was an old love song, but he sang it for her, in the language of her homeland. At least that’s what her heart thought.

  Vater nudged her when the song was over and a laughing group of giant Lindorms were arranging themselves into a chorus. “Would you fetch my reading glasses, please?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She glanced at the front of the room. Victor was already gone. He kept telling her that he had duties. And it seemed to be true. He was always vanishing. She smiled as she slipped past the rest of the audience and went for her father’s glasses.

  Victor followed her up the curving staircase. “Where are you headed? This isn’t the way to your room.”

  “My father needs his glasses.”

  “I will come with you.”

  “Don’t you have duties?”

  He shrugged. “I have to play the violin later. Do you know where your father’s room is?”

  She grinned at him. “Lady Lindorm put him in the Chinese room.”

  His brows rose. Obviously he had recognized that the Graf von Schwalm was a highly honored guest. “I know a shortcut.”

  Of course he did. “Why would I want to rush?” she teased.

  He let her pick up Vater’s spectacle case and start back to the music room. On the second floor landing, he tugged her behind the drawn curtains of the bay windows. The gold satin lining enclosed a tiny space with the windowpanes forming the three other walls. Victor’s big hands pulled her against him. He brushed kisses all over her face. Tender, exploratory, reverent kisses.

  He stopped with a huge sigh of regret. “We need to get you back, before they notice.”

  “Who?”

  “My family. Your father. Your brother.” He sounded cross. “Don’t play games, Ingrid.”

  “I’ll go to bed early. Come to my room. We’ll…talk.”

  His smile made her feel feminine, powerful, grown up.

  * * *

  Ingrid had cocooned herself in the top sheet. She huddled sobbing and trembling on the edge of the bed. With each shudder, her pearly shoulders peeped tantalizingly through the pale hair that cascaded over them.

  Victor stared helplessly at his mate. Her tears made his heart cramp. The harder Ingrid cried, the faster her tears trickled down her face and tinkled onto the floor in a flood of tiny crystals. He had no idea how to make her stop.

  He rolled out of bed and grabbed his pants, stuffing his legs into them commando style. He rounded the ornate footboard to sit beside his mate. “It’ll be all right,” he said as comfortingly as he knew how.

  If anything, Ingrid cried harder. Her tears made a small and musical backdrop to her sniffling. He edged closer to try
and put his arm around her and trod on a great pile of them.

  “Damn.” His mild expletive frightened Ingrid. She shrank further away.

  This was dreadful. He had not expected her to be so frightened and sad. He knelt before her and tried to take her hands. She clutched the sheet and shook her head. Blonde waves bounced. The diamonds, for she was weeping diamonds, cascaded faster. They bounced off her lap and puddled on the carpet.

  Victor tried again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said desperately. “I’m sorry.”

  Abruptly her tears stopped. “You didn’t hurt me.” Ingrid wiped her face with the corner of the sheet. “I just don’t want to marry you.”

  That rocked him back on his heels. “Oh.” He ran a hand through his hair. Now what? “I don’t think we can get away with that.” He enunciated slowly and carefully. It was far too late for her to change her mind.

  She took the sheet away from her face. Despite her distress and her grief, she was still the most beautiful girl he’d ever met. “I know. But I don’t want to get married. I’m only seventeen.”

  Victor looked down at his hands. What the hell had he done? He was older than Ingrid. He was pretty sure her father and his parents would blame him. And the Eldest of his House – it didn’t bear thinking what Lord Lindorm would have to say to his nephew and youngest sword bearer.

  He swallowed hard. “I don’t think,” he began.

  “I haven’t even finished school,” she said despairingly. “I don’t want to go off to some island in Sweden to make babies.”

  This morning, Victor was by no means sure that they would be allowed any such pleasure. His plan which had seemed so clever last night, now seemed crazy. He had a feeling that after her family and his were done with him there wouldn’t be much left. Because this mess was his fault, Ingrid was only seventeen. He should have protected her. Especially if that meant protecting her from himself.