Phoenix (Tuatha De Danann Book 1)

by Vanessa Skye

  No, not just anger—this is outright fury.

  With a sneer on his lips and twist of his brow, the familiar face I’ve been staring at for the last six years is almost unrecognizable, and I smell his strange, overpowering pint-scented cologne again. It’s like he just bathed in it.

  All the details register in the fraction of a second it takes for his fist to close the gap between his shoulder and my face.

  Move, my brain screams.

  With a gracefulness I’ve always wished for but never had until now, I sidestep the blow.

  Time speeds up again, and Matt’s punch lands with a loud crunch in the drywall where my head just was.

  Clutching his hand, he howls and asks, “How did you…” His massive left fist is already swinging before he even finishes the question.

  Somehow, I catch his hand in mine, stopping it like a concrete wall rather than a bloody palm. Then my wrist twists in some complicated maneuver, and my leg snakes out and sweeps his feet out from under him.

  Matt lands on the floor, gaping up at me. The anger on his face replaced by fear, and there’s no doubt we are both thinking the same thing: What the hell just happened?

  Grasping my bleeding palms together, I flee.

  Chapter Two

  “Mom!” I slam the door of the small two-bedroom apartment we share in South Chicago so hard the feeble walls shake.

  “Honey?” Her face crumples as she walks out of her bedroom and her gaze meets mine. “Feck! Not again.” Pity swiftly becomes anger, and her lilting Irish accent gets stronger as it always does when she’s upset. “Jeanie Mac, that’s it! I’m going to speak to your principal. This cannot be allowed to continue!” She picks up her purse and heads for the door.

  I grab her arm. “No. No, please don’t! I might get in more trouble.”

  “What do you mean? What’s the story, Alex?”

  She leads me to the sofa, and I give her a rundown of my day, including my inexplicable ninja moves in the clinic. That’s the kind of relationship we have. I can tell her anything.

  She silently fingers the ever-present silver circle overlaid with a square-shaped cross hanging at the end of its long chain around her neck.

  The pendant is covered in intricate sweeping patterns that remind me of long curved vines and perfect elliptical leaves. It’s her only nice piece of jewelry, and I loved tracing the filigree designs from my favorite spot on her lap when I was little and needed comfort.

  Part of me wishes I still fit on her lap now.

  “Well,” she says and chuckles, “you know what they say about adrenalin. You can become superhuman when your life is in danger. Lift cars off children, that kind of thing.”

  Her optimism sounds forced, but I’m desperate for any explanation.

  She stands and scowls. “But this Matt boy’s a langer needing an expulsion, immediately. He can’t go around hitting other students! It’s unacceptable,” she says with a scowl.

  “But he didn’t hit me, Mom.” I jump up, flinging my arms wide, and spin. “Look! Not a mark on me. Nobody’s going to believe he tried to hit me and missed. He’s a varsity quarterback, and I’m a skinny girl who probably weighs about the same as one of his arms—soaking wet, and clutching a fifty-pound barbell! How did I even do it?”

  “Oh. Well, I guess…” She looks stumped, which is somehow more alarming than anything else, because my feisty mom has an answer for everything. “Maybe your parents were athletes?”

  “Weak, Mom. Even if my biological parents were Olympic champions, that doesn’t explain how I just beat his ass out of nowhere, with no self-defense training or anything!”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” she mutters, frowning. “Well…it must be the adrenalin thing, then.” She studies my face. “I’ll find you a new school. There is bound to be a vacancy somewhere.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom. It’s only six more months. I can survive six more months.”

  At least, I hope I can.

  I sigh. “Face it, it’s not going to be any better anywhere else. Not with me looking the way I do.”

  “You’re beautiful!” my mother says, cupping my face. “You could easily be on a catwalk in Milan. It’s not your fault they don’t make clothes to fit you properly, or that your skin’s pale, burns easily, and gets eczema.”

  “Don’t forget my green eyes, red hair, and pointy ears. I stick out.”

  “You’re gorgeous, and I love you. And it’s only a matter of time before everyone else loves you, too.” She pulls me into her large chest for a hug.

  I am as flat as a board and envy her chest.

  “All those boys who are mean to you right now will regret it when you fill out a bit.” She sighs and her voice breaks when she speaks again. “You are the best thing that ev-ever happened to me. I’d hate to think where I’d be without you. It makes me so upset to see you miserable.”

  I smile, even though she can’t see it.

  She loves telling me how I saved her life, when the opposite is true. She saved mine when she rescued that crying baby left in the middle of an abandoned church during an Irish winter and took on the little girl as her own, without question. If she hadn’t found me, I wouldn’t even be here.

  “You gave a lost young woman a reason to live,” she whispers.

  “Ditto,” I whisper, snuggling deeper into her hug. “Maybe when school’s over, we can take a trip to Ireland? I’ve always wanted to see it. You can show me where you found me?”

  She pulls away and brushes my hair off my face. “I don’t think it’s a great time to travel to Ireland right now. How about Hawaii…or Australia?” she asks as she heads for the kitchen. “Besides, you really need to think about college.”

  Chapter Three

  I smooth my jeans over my legs and wish, pointlessly, for the umpteenth time, that they reached my feet like everyone else’s, instead of resting just above my ankle. The wish-fest continues as I tug on my long-sleeved T-shirt, which stops above my wrists.

  What can I say? It’s my morning ritual.

  I tie my hair back just so, assuring both ears are sufficiently covered by frizzy locks, and sigh. I’ve procrastinated as much as I can.

  Despite my false bravado with my mother yesterday, I am nervous about going to school today. Matt is sure to want revenge, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. I ditched all my afternoon classes yesterday, too, so detention full of Matt and his cronies is a given.

  Banging pans and the squeak of the oven door alert me to Mom’s exact whereabouts, and I head straight for the kitchen. “Morning.”

  “Is it that time already?” Mom asks, looking at her watch. “Ah, go ’way outta that!”

  Another night spent baking. She is covered from head to toe in flour, and wonderful smells fill the entire apartment.

  How she creates the pure yumminess she does in our tiny kitchen, with so few cabinets and very little counter space, never ceases to amaze me. I guess it’s why she is the most in-demand baker in all of Chicago. Despite lucrative offers from restaurants and confectioners, she still chooses to work only three days a week at our local bakery, so she can spend more time with me.

  She wipes her hand on her apron. “Where do the hours go?”

  “They get baked in your oven along with everything else.”

  She laughs. “Here,” she says, grabbing a Danish. “Take this with you.”

  “Thanks.”

  It makes no sense. I should be twice my size, easy. I stuff my face with the sweet treats as fast as my mom bakes them.

  I take a bite of the smooth custard, fresh raspberry jam, and warm flaky pastry on my way to the bus stop then hang back from the other kids and while the yellow bus chugs its way over.

  The elderly black bus driver greets me with his usual kind smile. “Hey there, Bean Pole.”

  I know he thinks he’s being affectionate, but all his words do is hammer home how different I am…and how obvious it is to everyone else.

  “Hey,” I r
eply and avoid the popular kids prepping their not-so-witty comebacks in the back by sliding into a seat near the front, because I’m not stupid.

  The driver’s kind brown eyes connect with mine in the rearview mirror. “Bad day already?”

  “Bad life,” I mutter.

  He shrugs as he guides the bus through his usual route. “Try not to let it get to you. High school will be over soon enough, and then the real hardships start. Trust me, you’ll look back with longing soon enough.”

  I snort. “I highly doubt it.”

  He laughs. “I’m pretty sure I said the same thing when I was your age.”

  I say nothing, and he eventually stops trying.

  Fifteen minutes later, we come to a shuddering stop outside my high school.

  “Smile, Bean Pole,” the driver says as he opens the door. “It gets better.”

  I roll my eyes but offer a weak smile. He’s only trying to be nice.

  “There now. Your beautiful smile just lit up my whole day. The boys must be all over you.”

  “Yeah, but not in the way you think.”

  I wait for all the other kids to get off the bus before stepping onto the curb outside my school. I don’t want to be here. Who knows what Matt will do today? I humiliated him yesterday. Revenge is as certain as the sunrise. I’m so desperate, I actually consider ditching again.

  There’s a loud crack, and with a start, I look up, searching for the source of sound so out of place in the hubbub of school drop-offs.

  The world does that strange slow motion thing again, and I watch a large branch from one of the old oaks scattered around the front of my school start to fall to earth, with me in its path.

  It must weigh half a ton, at least. The detail of the rough bark and pointed ends of multiple branches sprouting off the massive limb come into clear focus, and I know, without any doubt, I will be killed.

  One pounding heartbeat later, I watch the branch crash into the ground and splinter small sticks, like shrapnel, everywhere…right where I was standing a moment ago.

  The smell of pine needles floods the air.

  I frown and search the faces in the yard, expecting to see Matt holding a saw.

  The driver rushes off the bus and looks at the branch on the ground then back at me, his eyes wide. “Are you okay, Bean Pole?”

  “Y-yeah, I think s-so…”

  “I though for sure you were gonna be crushed. How did you get out of the way? I didn’t even see you move!”

  “I-I d-don’t…”

  He takes my elbow and guides me to a safe area, closer the school, while teachers and the vice principal rush past.

  “It must be rotten or something,” he mumbles. “You should tell your school about that. It’s dangerous having rotten trees near kids.” He continues going on about unsafe trees, dead branches, and girls who move so fast his old eyes can’t keep up as he wanders back to his bus, closes the door, and drives away.

  I look at the solid oak branch. It looks strong and vigorous, with its scalloped green, yellow, and red fall leaves casting pretty shadows in the sunlight. The jagged end of the tree twenty feet above me also looks dense and healthy, but then how would I know what rot looks like?

  The second bell rings, and I realize I have about two minutes to get to homeroom.

  I slide through the doorway just as the tardy bell sounds and head for my usual desk near the front.

  “Don’t bother, Alex,” Miss Tolle says with a glare. “Go straight to the office.”

  I bite my tongue, turn, and walk out with the gleeful cackles of my fellow students echoing down the hallway behind me like a wheezing pack of hyenas.

  So…in the last twelve hours I’ve almost been punched in the face, killed by a tree branch, and now, I’m in trouble for ditching—which wasn’t technically ditching. It was self-preservation.

  FML.

  I join the line of students loitering outside the glass window of the office and resist the urge to scratch my palms. I tug at my hairband and pull my hair over my ears instead. The long, tangled waves reach my lower back and act as a flag to a bull for any nearby tormenters—but not as much as the ears do.

  “Next.” Some random junior covering the front desk motions me forward. “Name?”

  “Um…A-Alex Baylie?”

  She writes my name down and turns to hand it to the mystery woman behind the wall.

  The first two periods of every day are spent with the woman who actually runs our front office hidden in a small side room typing out attendance and any upcoming events on the daily announcement sheet sent to all the classes before lunch. Unless a student spends a lot of time in the office, which I try not to do—until recently anyway—the official keeper of the office gates is rarely seen. After three and a half years, I still don’t know her name.

  “Oh.” The girl who took my name nods her head and turns to face me, ready to hand down the keeper’s ruling. “You didn’t show up for any of your classes after lunch yesterday. Do you have an excuse?” She obviously doesn’t care about any explanation because she’s already reaching for a detention slip before I even have a chance to open my mouth.

  I feel the tears gathering. “I-I…the thing is—” I can’t go to detention. Matt will be there, and who knows what he’ll do to me after being encouraged by a bunch of thugs no better than he is?

  “She was with me.” Mr. Arden steps forward and flashes a warm smile. “Weren’t you, Alex?”

  I blink a few times. “Um…yes?”

  “I apologize for not going through the proper channels, but I needed Miss Baylie’s help on a learning project yesterday afternoon. That’s my bad. It won’t happen again.”

  The girl’s fingers twitch over the slip as though she’s desperate to hand out a detention, despite the justification.

  “Are we done here?”

  Mr. Arden’s gaze is particularly piercing, and the girl looks confused for a moment before she nods vacantly.

  Looking past me like I’m not even there, she calls the next student forward, and I trip after Mr. Arden in my rush to follow him down the hall.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you could use a break,” he replies.

  He searches my face and I realize, now that he’s standing next to me, he’s a few inches taller than I am and I don’t need to slouch. I’ve never noticed. He must be six foot three, at least.

  I stand up straight and my upper back cries in relief. He’s still taller than me, and for a second, I have an urge to hug him.

  “Do you want to tell me why you ditched yesterday?” he asks, pushing his round glasses back up his nose.

  “I, ah…ah, do I have to?” I doubt he’d believe me anyway. To be honest, I’m not sure I believe me. The whole event is hazier by the minute, like it was part of a dream. I’m almost ready to put it down to my vivid imagination and call it a day.

  He smiles and shrugs. “No, you don’t have to. Just know I’m here if you need to talk.”

  He enters his classroom, and I head toward my first period class.

  ***

  The day passes without incident, and I want to cry with happiness when I walk out of the gates at three o’clock without having been harassed even once. I can’t remember the last time that’s happened.

  Of course, I know it’s only temporary since Matt was absent today. But even a brief reprieve is still a reprieve, and I’m practically bouncing as I walk the eight blocks home.

  I wander past old Cill Airne Cathedral and, at the last second, decide to squeeze through the chain-link construction fence and into the demolition site. The beautiful old church is being torn down to make way for a new block of apartments, and the loss of this stunning, intricate piece of history makes me sad.

  I maneuver through the old iron gates and into a crumbling courtyard covered in cobblestones and bright green moss. Beyond is an overgrown church garden and cemetery set around a huge maple.

  I smile and head for a hollow section in t
he trunk of the proud old tree. It’s been a favorite hiding place of mine since I was a little girl. I have no idea why, being situated in a decrepit graveyard and all, but a place that should have scared a lonely, quiet girl actually provided some much-needed peace and comfort. I used to curl up inside the tree and pretend I was somewhere else. Sometimes, I swear I heard it whispering to me.

  I sit in the grass at the base of the tree soaking up the quiet in the afternoon sun and deciphering the worn letters of the ancient stained and cracked gravestones.

  Looking up at the church, I notice demolition has stalled. Half of the church is still standing. Its old sandstone walls are battered and scarred by the years, and the stained glass removed from the tall arched windows. The steeple, I know from experience, is still accessible by a set of circular stone steps that seem to disappear into the darkness of the soaring tower, but the old bell is long gone, and the wood of the landing is rotten and dangerous.

  The afternoon sun feels cozy, and I close my eyes.

  The soft whispers of the leaves overhead sound almost like voices as the breeze picks up.

  I smile at the familiar murmurs, wiggle into a more comfortable spot against the tree, and slip into an unintentional sleep, dreaming of a beautiful white unicorn named Mandrake galloping across an impossibly green field and eating shiny red apples out of my open hand.

  ***

  I start awake.

  It’s dark and I fell asleep, alone, in a poorly guarded construction site in a dubious part of town. My current situation is what the next day’s news headlines are made of.

  Shit! Mom’s probably called out the National Guard by now.

  I grab my book bag and sprint three blocks home, up the stairs to our apartment, and through the front door without stopping once.

  “Mom?”

  It’s nearly nine o’clock. Given everything that’s happened lately, I’m kind of surprised not to see police conducting interviews.

  I search the few small rooms before I spot the note on the table:

  Offered a job at a catering company, just for tonight. Big $$$! See you later. Love, Mom xxx