Phoenix Alight

by Isadora Montrose

  “I can put myself to bed.” He swallowed his embarrassment. “Thank you. I think I showered this morning. I know I smell like a billy goat. But I’m too tired to stand in the shower right now.”

  “I’m not going until you’re tucked in.”

  * * *

  Frankie~

  The bachelorette party was a huge success. On their way to the restaurant, they had picked up half a dozen other friends. And seven or eight more had met them there. As the evening went on a few more trickled in.

  Genevieve’s Air Force buddies had not been invited as asking them to use their leave to attend a bachelorette party had seemed selfish. There would be other opportunities to celebrate. She and Eleanor would make sure of that.

  They ordered round after round of margaritas. When the bill came, no one was in any condition to fight them for it. After all, Frankie and Eleanor had their D’Angelo trust funds. Genevieve was going to be their sister. This was their treat. One hundred percent.

  Dinner eaten, they all piled back into three stretch limos and headed to the bar they had selected. They were going square dancing. Someone had suggested male strippers, but that ribald suggestion had been booed down and firmly vetoed.

  Frankie was just as glad. She was as interested in sex as the next woman, but there was something unwholesome and skin-crawling about paying another human being to show you what should be private.

  The band was good, the caller an expert. Their party danced together as they had at so many high school dances. The margaritas were cold and even better than the ones at the restaurant.

  Genevieve caught up with her old friends and looked at photos of fiancés, husbands and babies and shared a few of her own. To dropped jaws and chuckles, she told them about her tiny Frankfurt apartment and European ideas of what constituted a working kitchen. All in all, a fun time was had by all.

  The moon was sinking when they dropped the last of their friends off. Now it was just the three of them in the back of the limo, heading back to Elora. They were somewhat the worse for wear. Exhausted from dancing and more than a little tipsy. But filled with the pleasure of renewing their girlhood friendships.

  “You never did tell us how you found out we D’Angelos are phoenixes,” Eleanor said. She hiccupped behind her hand. “Or when.”

  Genevieve giggled. Her green eyes sparkled as brightly as her emerald pendant. “Grant didn’t tell me until last week. He wanted to be sure I wouldn’t back out of the wedding!”

  “You’re kidding!” Frankie leaned forward, frowning, her drowsiness completely shaken off. “My brother. Did. Not. Do. That. Please, please, tell me, he didn’t do that.”

  “I hate to be the one to burst your bubble,” Eleanor said dryly. “But that’s just what our charming brother would to. I don’t know if I should laugh or short-sheet his bed. What a jackass!”

  “Is that why you haven’t told him you will accept the Gift of the Phoenix?” Frankie asked curiously.

  “Is that the bit where I turn into a phoenix myself?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Yup. I figured Grant deserved a li’l bit of payback for playing me for a sucker.”

  “You bet.” Eleanor said. “For sure he should’ve told you before he even asked you to marry him.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Frankie~

  Van Buren! No one took advantage of Frankie’s friends. Much less her sister. Grant needed to be taught a lesson. Like yesterday. “Has he told you what you have to do in order to become his phoenix mate?”

  “Mate,” spluttered Genevieve.

  “Mate,” Frankie said firmly. “We’re birds, Gen. Great, blazing birds of prey. With huge curved beaks and talons like steak knives. We take mates. For life. We’re animals. If Grant didn’t make that plain, he should have. Of course, the positive side of that is that we love forever. Deeply. Truly.”

  Genevieve was looking owlish. “I believe you. Grant loves me. But I didn’t know about that other stuff. He mostly talked about how I would live for a very long time. And control fire. And fly.”

  “All perfectly true,” said Eleanor. “Plus you can actually become fire. And regenerate.”

  “Like the legend?” Genevieve asked wide-eyed.

  “Yup.”

  “Y’all come back from the dead? I don’t believe it!”

  “Well.” Frankie covered a yawn. “Dead is dead. But phoenixes can forestall death and recover from injuries that would kill a mortal. It’s kinda like resurrection.”

  “Do you turn back into a baby?”

  Eleanor and Frankie howled. “No. You become a perfect version of who you were.”

  “Godfrey.” Genevieve looked between her friends. “You’re having me on.”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you ever regenerated?”

  Frankie and Eleanor shook their heads. “No.”

  “Has Grant?”

  “If he has,” Eleanor said judiciously, “He’d have bragged about it. So I’d say no. Besides, opera singers don’t generally get badly hurt, even if the audience boos and throws rotten eggs. Which so far no one has.”

  “I’m not sure I want to live forever.”

  “You don’t have to,” Eleanor told Gen. “In my family, we try not to outlive our generation by too wide a margin. But it’s handy to know how to stave off aging for decades. Ever wonder why my folks look so great?”

  “Now that you mention it, they are awfully youthful. Figured it was clean, healthy outdoor living. Do you mean to tell me, they are regenerating all the time?”

  Eleanor giggled. “Nope, they just fly together. Merely taking their phoenix form keeps them young. But sooner or later they’ll have had enough of this life. Just not for years and years, I hope.”

  “Oh. Well, that sounds pretty neat.”

  Frankie figured it was time for her bombshell. “So are you going to swallow the Egg of Immortality?”

  “What egg?”

  Eleanor leaned forward. “Frankie, no,” she hissed.

  Frankie shushed her sister with a spread palm. “She has to know, sooner or later. Better sooner.” She lowered her voice and infused it with ominous undertones. “Grant is going to offer you a speck of boiling lava to eat, Gen. And when you swallow it, you’re going to turn into a six-foot tall, flaming bird with a twenty-foot wingspan.”

  “Boiling lava? I. Am. Not. Swallowing. Boiling. Lava. Abso-damn-lutely not.”

  Frankie smirked at Eleanor. “Our work here is done.”

  * * *

  Frankie~

  Her head was splitting. The sun was too bright. The house too loud. Van Buren, what had possessed her to drink those last two margaritas?

  “Frankie,” Eleanor shouted.

  “Keep it down,” Frankie muttered.

  “I’m whispering. I brought you coffee.”

  Frankie sat up. “What time is it?”

  “It’s ten hundred hours.” Eleanor held the coffee out of reach.

  Frankie adjusted her pillows and accepted the mug from her sister. “Thank you. I think. How come you’re so perky this morning?”

  “I switched to water after the first jug,” Eleanor said smugly. She looked fresh as a daisy in cambric shorts and a yellow tee. “Drink up. Mom expects us to clean every bathroom in the house before noon.”

  The coffee was excellent. Hot, fresh, with just a splash of cream. Just the way she liked it. Frankie sipped, swallowed, relished. Came back for another swallow. Memory flooded back. “Tell me I didn’t sink Grant’s boat last night?” she pleaded.

  “If you mean, is the wedding off? Not as far as I know. But then I haven’t seen Grant or Gen this morning. Maybe he’ll still marry her even if she refuses the gift.”

  Frankie winced. “I blew it, didn’t I?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “It was all true.”

  “That’s the worst part, twin. You told the truth, but your motives were not pure. Not by any means.”

  “What am I going to do? This is
awful. If Gen really bails on Grant, Mom is going to hit the roof. Grant will never forgive me. Gen will never forgive me. I’ll never forgive me.”

  “You’ll have to run away and become a Buddhist nun,” Eleanor said unsympathetically. “Drink your coffee. We’ll think of something. We always do.”

  * * *

  Cameron~

  The sound of voices woke Cam. He lay drowsing in the half-light, listening with half an ear. Genevieve and Grant were keeping their voices low. But he could hear them. They were having an argument. Not the kind of raging battle he and Frankie had. Theirs was a civilized fight, low-voiced and genteel.

  “I’m not going to do it.” That was Genevieve. Crisp, firm, and excruciatingly polite.

  Grant’s deeper voice rumbled. “She was just trying to scare you, sweetheart. Do you really believe I would ask you to do something that would actually hurt you?”

  “No.” A long pause. “I guess not. But boiling lava? Of course it scared me. I guess Frankie was just having me on.” Gen still sounded doubtful.

  Grant cleared his throat. “She told you the truth. But so am I. Genevieve, darling, you are my mate. I will never lie to you. The Egg of Immortality is chip of lava. Living lava. But it won’t harm you. It will transform you. Turn you into an immortal phoenix. Isn’t that worth a little fear?”

  That was his Frankie. Shift-disturbing. No doubt she had some high-minded reason for making trouble between her brother and his fiancée. His stubborn mate fancied herself an avenging goddess. But did she really want the wedding called off? Think, Reynolds. Think.

  His brain remained foggy, groggy and nonfunctional. His fricking new normal.

  Out in the kitchen, Grant had not changed Genevieve’s mind. Not one little bit. “But it’s got to damage the throat, the esophagus, the vocal cords. At least a human being’s.”

  “I am a human.” Grant insisted. He laughed. Cam winced. Bad move, D’Angelo.

  “Making me feel foolish is not a persuasive argument.” Not surprisingly, after Grant’s faux pas, Genevieve’s dander was now up. “I’m sorry, Grant, but I’m not going to do it.”

  Ouch. That was pretty much a line in the sand. Grant seemed to realize it because he shut up.

  It took Cam a fair amount of time to make it to the kitchen. The mornings were good in some ways – his head ached less at this hour – but in other ways they were worse. His knee always stiffened up overnight. This morning, his ankle was also swollen and aching from yesterday’s overuse. His walker was twice as hard to manage.

  By the time he shuffled in looking for coffee, Genevieve was sitting stony-faced at the table staring silently and unhappily down at her mug, and Grant was looking seriously pissed. Really, Frankie did have a gift.

  “Morning,” Cam said. “How was your party?”

  Genevieve tried to smile, but her face was stiff. Still she was a daughter of the south, and an officer. She tried. “Good morning, Cam. Thank you for asking. We had a great time.”

  Cam managed to pour a cup of coffee without splashing too much onto the counter. He dried the bottom of his mug with the kitchen sponge and staggered over to the table. He eased down into a chair and wiped up the coffee he had slopped on to the table with a used paper napkin.

  “That’s good to hear. I want you to tell me all about it. But first I want to know how Frankie is handling having to wear frills.”

  Grant narrowed his eyes. “My sister,” he said through his teeth, “Is a beautiful woman. I’m sure she looks even lovelier than usual in the dress that Genevieve picked out. The elegant, frill-less dress.”

  Cam sipped his coffee. “If Miss Genevieve chose the dress, I’m sure it’s lovely. And Frankie would look great in a burlap sack, D’Angelo. I’m interested in the expression on her face when she saw something soft and feminine with her name on it. And what she said.”

  “Can’t help you,” Genevieve replied. “I didn’t go to the fitting. But I’ve seen the dress on Eleanor. Seeing as they are identical twins, I assume Frankie looks every bit as fantastic as her sister.”

  “Frankie can wear a pretty dress for once in her life without acting like a spoiled child,” Grant said.

  “Frankie is being totally supportive,” Genevieve said loyally.

  “Supportive.” Cam rolled the syllables on his tongue. Thank goodness he didn’t stutter in the mornings. He had a speech to make. “Is that what you call it? I’d call it trouble-making, myself.”

  “What are you talking about?” Grant’s voice was still low and civilized, but now it had an edge.

  “I’m not deaf,” Cam said apologetically. “I’m afraid I heard your argument.”

  Grant and Gen exchanged mortified looks.

  “You know, Gen,” Cam went on in his most reasonable voice. “It’s no good asking Grant about the Egg of Immortality. Or any other phoenix born. How would they know? They’ve eaten no lava. You need to ask someone who’s actually swallowed it. Like Tasha, or Beverly or Diana. Or Grant’s mother.”

  He took a pull of coffee. Paused to let his words sink in. “But how bad can it really be? They all look fine and they all have the use of their throats and vocal cords. In fact Tasha’s voice – her singing voice – is even lovelier than it used to be.”

  Grant had his cell phone out and was speed dialing before Cam finished his pitch. Tasha and Diana were walking into the kitchen laughing and chattering, about when he was ready for his second cup of coffee.

  Today, Tasha’s blonde hair was curled and her makeup perfect. In her loose tunic, she looked lots better than she had the night before. Diana’s dark hair had been combed and she was wearing James’s cereal on her T-shirt, but she looked radiant. Motherhood agreed with her.

  The usual kisses and hugs were exchanged. Beverly arrived just as the fresh coffee finished brewing. They all sat around the kitchen table. Grant and Genevieve were deliberately not touching or looking at each other. Trouble in Paradise. Way to go, Warrior Woman. Cam leaned back and sipped his black coffee, willing the painkillers to do their job.

  “So what’s the emergency?” Beverly asked. “Linc said you needed me double quick.”

  “Hmm,” murmured Diana.

  “I want you to tell me what it was like swallowing the Egg of Immortality,” Genevieve blurted.

  Tasha blushed to the roots of her blonde hair. Beverly and Diana simpered and exchanged glances.

  “That’s a bit intimate,” objected Tasha. She looked at her sisters-in-law for support.

  “Intimate? Swallowing a piece of molten lava is intimate?” yelped Genevieve.

  “Oh, that,” said Tasha, her blush fading slightly. “Burns a bit going down. But it’s nothing really. Right, Di? Bev?”

  Bev nodded. “On a scale of one to ten. Ten being childbirth, the Egg is a five or a six.”

  “More like a four,” said Tasha.

  “Definitely a five,” said Diana.

  “Really?” Genevieve’s voice was full of hope.

  “Yup. And then you get to the good part.” Tasha smiled reminiscently.

  “Yeah? So what happens after that?” asked Genevieve.

  “Will you look at the time?” Diana rose to her feet. “James is about ready for his next feed. I’ll see you guys later.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Beverly offered. “I have to check in with my staff. Goodness knows what they’re doing without me.”

  Tasha was left glassy-eyed at the table. She was scarlet again. But game. A Reynolds was always a good sport. “The ritual is beautiful,” she said. “Transformative in every way. If you think you love Grant now, wait until you have flown with him and share a phoenix bond.” She smiled. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Actually it was.” Genevieve and Grant were holding hands. Grant was practically purring. Gen didn’t seem to realize that Tasha had revealed nothing that explained her cherry blush.

  Cam was ready for a nap.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Frankie~

  Th
e cottage smelled unpleasantly of unwashed, rank bear shifter. What in blue blazes had happened to Cam? He had never been a dandy, he was a bear after all, but he had always been military trim. Clean and clean-shaven. The wreck on the couch was wearing yesterday’s clothes and yesterday’s stubble. He didn’t so much as stir as she sat down and stared at him.

  Even asleep, his aura was peculiar. As if his paranormal side was no longer well integrated into his normal side. Except that was impossible. Once a shifter grew into his paranormal talent at puberty, it was just there. Cam’s aura shouldn’t be so foggy and blurred. His brain waves shouldn’t be missing whole sections.

  Unless he had suffered major brain trauma. George Washington.

  Still, staring at a sleeping derelict got old fast. She ambled down the hall and into his bedroom. It was easy to tell which room was his. Grant’s was scrupulously tidy. Cam’s stank. Really stank. Dirty laundry lay scattered over the floor. The bed was unmade. The sheets gray. The blinds were tightly drawn and the windows closed, presumably to keep in the stench. Charming. Not.

  She sighed. She raised the blinds and opened the windows to air out the funk. The cottage had a laundry room. Running a load of sheets and remaking Cam’s bed with crisp, fresh sheets from the linen closet took only a few minutes. She brought back a plastic hamper and dumped the dirty clothes in it, took them out to the laundry room for later.

  Running a duster over the furniture took longer than she had anticipated. Bottles of pills were everywhere. On the windowsills, on the nightstands, on the dresser. Some in the pocket of his jeans. General Custer. Between what he was taking, and what he was forgetting to take, no wonder he was a mess.

  Another bottle rolled out from under the bed when she took a dust mop to the floor. Enough was damn well enough. She gathered all the meds into a mixing bowl, added the cluster of bottles from the kitchen and sat down in the living room. Sure enough, there were a couple more vials on the coffee table.

  She began sorting his drugs. Fortunately she had phoenix vision so seeing in the dim room was no problem. Every bottle had been opened, even though some of them were duplicates. This was a train wreck. She had put his clothes in the dryer and was making a chart when his eyes cracked.