Phoenix (Tuatha De Danann Book 1)

by Vanessa Skye

  I sigh and chuckle. No cops, no trouble, and no worrying for Mom. Yes!

  I grab one of Mom’s meat samosas from the refrigerator and nuke it in the microwave until it’s steaming hot and making my mouth water.

  Usually, we enjoy this kind of goodness together, and I wonder what made her decide to take the night job as I chew. She usually refuses, no matter how much money they offer.

  While she never lets on, I know money is tight. Chicago is an expensive city, and she only works part time—it doesn’t take an accountant to figure out the deficit.

  I finish up dinner and my homework before getting comfy on the couch, flicking on the television, and checking my ongoing Words with Friends games.

  ***

  Several hours later, I’m wrenched awake by an annoying buzz.

  Blinking slowly, I sit up on the couch. I must have fallen asleep. The TV is still on, but it doesn’t seem to be the cause of the buzzing.

  I rub my eyes, dig around the couch cushions for my cell, and check the display—it’s nearly three in the morning.

  I swipe the phone to life.

  Come to the corner of W 71st and S Ashland. I have a surprise for you!

  I frown. Mom wants me to walk around town on my own at the butt crack of dawn?

  A new text flashes up in its pretty blue bubble.

  Hurry!

  Glad I am still dressed, I text my mom I’m on my way and slip the phone in my back pocket. At three in the morning, this better be good.

  I grab my keys and a jacket, lock our apartment door behind me, and head downstairs to the street level. Between hiding my hair under the furry hood I pull as far down my face as possible, being so tall, and having no discernible curves whatsoever, I’m hoping the local criminals won’t realize I’m female, young, and wandering the streets at night, like a crazy person.

  Not one to rely on hope alone, I keep a brisk pace with clouds of every huff and puff I take visible in the cool night air. In a couple of months, this will all be dirty brown sludge on slick sidewalks. But for now, I am far enough away from Lake Michigan that I can’t feel truly cold air blowing off it this time of year. They don’t call it the windy city for nothing.

  I hear a woman scream, and I’m pretty sure my heart actually stops beating as I jump high enough to make me a shoe-in for my school’s basketball team.

  Mom!

  I sprint in the direction of the shriek and stumble headlong into a narrow alleyway before skidding to a stop at the horrifying sight of my beautiful, tiny mother with a gun pressed to her temple by some scruffy-looking tower of a man.

  “Run!” she screams.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” the man says quietly. “Unless, of course, you don’t care what happens to your mother?”

  He’s at least a full head taller than me with dirty long brown hair, half of which is tied in a knot on top of his head. His eyes are luminous, and I can clearly see the almost unworldly blue from several feet away even in the low light of the alley. He’s wearing filthy blue jeans and a black sweatshirt, which woefully understate the heavy air of thick malevolence surrounding him. All that’s missing is a mask and cloak to make the menacing imagery complete.

  A part of me not frozen from full-blown shock takes in all these details and catalogues them into odd little notes in the back of my mind. The one detail that triggers me to move is noticing his ears are even more pointed than mine.

  I raise my hands over my head. “W-we don’t have any money. You can check at the ATM if you don’t believe me. I’ll take you now. J-just p-please l-let my m-mom go!”

  “Money.” The man snorts, his contempt more evident in that single sound than anything I’ve ever heard. “It’s such a human concern.” His accent is strange, almost like his tongue can’t twist around his words very well. It sounds almost like an Irish accent, but also not. He grabs the back of my mother’s neck and shoves her toward me.

  She falls, scuffing her knees and hands, onto the dirty street.

  I crouch and help her try to stand on violently trembling legs.

  “On your knees, both of you.”

  I know the man’s speaking, but all I can focus on is the end of the gun’s barrel pointing at us.

  In a pointless move, my mom envelopes me in a strong hug before pushing me behind her. It’s like trying to hide an elephant behind a mouse.

  She wrenches the silver necklace off and holds it up in her fist. “Fan amach ón tine, sióg,” she screams, brandishing the necklace in front of us like it’s a weapon. “Stay Back!”

  What the hell?

  He snorts again. “Your trinkets don’t scare me, Ní Ghallchobhair.” The gun hasn’t wavered in his hand yet, not even once. “You are not of the draoidheacht.” He snarls, baring his teeth, and sounds like a growling animal when he speaks again. “Now, I said, get on your knees!”

  “Leave her be! She has nothing to do with your world. Just leave her be!” Mom yells.

  Your world? What? I don’t understand how or why my mom seems to know what this man wants.

  “Ah, but you are wrong,” he says with a sneer. “She has everything to do with my world, don’t you, Alys?” He turns his unsettling blue gaze on me and stares, as if he’s expecting an answer.

  Who is Alys?

  The name sounds softer, as though it lives somewhere between Alex and Alice in a warm place that feels vaguely familiar, but I don’t have a chance to respond before my mother flings her necklace in the man’s face.

  “Cas ar lasair!”

  My eyes widen as the necklace strikes the man’s head and bursts into hot white flames, setting his hair on fire. I can feel the intense heat from where I’m standing.

  Grabbing my mom, I turn, eager to seize our opportunity to run.

  But the man simply laughs and brushes the flames away like cobwebs with his other hand. He doesn’t even have the decency to look slightly charred.

  “The draoidheacht has long since faded from the amulet, Ní Ghallchobhair,” he says.

  “No,” my mother moans inside the circle of my arms. “No, no, no…”

  “Which of you shall I kill first?” He cocks his head to one side and adjusts his grip on the gun before settling on my mother. “You, I think. You are troublesome.”

  Mom shoves me away from her, clearly ready to die for me.

  Blood rushes to my head with a growing pressure, the world slows, and a void envelops me. I feel every breath as it enters and exits my lungs in the silence.

  An exquisite pain pulls my focus as my palms split open, and blood drips down my fingers into shining red pools on the filthy street.

  Strangely curious, I bring my crimson-streaked hands to my face. A vivid blue light glows inside the cracks of my skin, as if my skeleton is a brilliant neon sign.

  I look up in time to see the bullet leave the gun with a puff of smoke, and I watch as it follows its path toward my mother, its aim true. I have no doubt it will kill her.

  I push her behind me and raise my right hand. Light pours out of my palm, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world as it surrounds us in a shimmering blue nimbus.

  The bullet bounces off the orb as if it’s nothing more than a pebble.

  The world speeds up again, and the gleaming indigo around us flickers out.

  The man stumbles back, his shock fitting since it mirrors my own, then steps forward a few paces with his gaze locked on me. “So, the cub indeed has claws on this world. Most interesting.”

  The smell of fresh-cut pine drowns my senses with each step he takes, but at least he’s no longer focused on my mom.

  “You may have talent, little one, but you cannot shield forever, and I still have the gun.” He punctuates his statement by pointing it at my head.

  I shrug and raise my hand, directing the blue light at him again. “I don’t need a gun.”

  It feels euphoric—like the profound relief of pressure being released—as the light leaves my hand like blue flame and forms an
orb about the size of a softball before shooting out of my hand and striking the man in the center of his chest.

  For a moment, nothing happens.

  Then, everything does.

  He drops the gun and howls. The eerie sound turns into horrific screams as the man starts to shake and smoke. White light pours through his eyes, nose, and mouth, consuming him from the inside, until it’s all I see.

  Collapsing to his knees, he continues to shriek until…nothing.

  He is gone—gone so thoroughly and completely that there’s nothing left but a small pile of white ash, which is soon scattered by the cold early morning breeze.

  What just happened?

  I look at my bloodied hands.

  Did I do all that?

  My mother gasps. “No! No, it’s not possible!” She rushes to the spot where the last of our attacker swirls up with the wind and disappears into thin air. “This cannot be…it’s impossible. You are in the human—what did you—how?”

  “I-I d-don’t know!” I shake my head and tears well up.

  She grabs my hands in hers. “You must tell me!”

  “I don’t know what happened!” I wrench away from her, sobbing. “I don’t understand.”

  She rushes back to the scorched area and searches the alley as if she’s expecting to find the man hiding behind some smelly dumpster.

  But there is nothing left. Not the gun, not a scrap of clothing, or a single hair remains. Not even her necklace.

  She covers her mouth and sinks to the ground. “Oh no,” she moans through her hand. “No. No, no, no…” She rocks back and forth, hysterical, as the tears stream down her cheeks.

  “Mom!” I rush over and touch her face gently.

  “No!” she screams.

  The fear in her eyes feels like a slap in the face.

  “It’s okay, Mama.” I wave my hand in front of her eyes. “Dearmad.”

  Her face goes slack, her gaze blank, and all evidence her tears ever occurred immediately disappear.

  I have no idea how I know, but I know I caused it. I caused dearmad. I just made her forget.

  Chapter Four

  I sit bolt upright, push off my blankets, and slam my feet on the carpeted floor as though a starter’s pistol went off.

  Something happened. But…can’t quite grasp what it is.

  I look down. I’m in my pink flannel pajamas, same as every morning, and the smell of delicious baking fills the apartment.

  “Mom!”

  As events of a few hours ago wash over me in a tsunami of memories, I run toward the kitchen expecting to find my mom wielding a knife for protection.

  She steps out of the kitchen brushing flour off her hands. “What is it, honey?” There is no trace of the fear in her expression, just the usual love and concern.

  “Are you okay?”

  She looks at me then frowns. “Of course I’m okay. Are you okay?”

  “I-I think so…”

  She turns back to her baking. “There’re some Portuguese tarts on the table for you.”

  “But…” My stomach growls on cue.

  “Your favorite!”

  “Aren’t we going to talk about what happened last night?”

  Mom frowns again. “What happened last night?”

  “You know…the man…the gun…the white and blue fire,” I whisper.

  She stares at me for several seconds before smiling. “Wow! You must have had a doozie of a dream.”

  “So…” Was that all it was—a dream? “You didn’t go out last night?”

  “Me? Do you mean like on a date? No!” She laughs as if it’s the most absurd thing she’s ever heard.

  “No, I mean…” I glance at the neckline of the blue shirt under her apron. “What happened to your necklace?”

  She reaches up and fingers her throat. “Gosh, I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It must have fallen off. It’s old and that clasp was goin’ arseways. Hope it’s not in one of the tarts! Chew carefully.” She giggles and goes back to kneading dough.

  What the… I’m losing it.

  I scowl and drift back to my room to get dressed. The more I think about it, the more last night seems like a dream—a vivid one, sure, but just a dream.

  As I rummage through the shirts in my closet, I wonder if I can get away with wearing a white shirt without bleeding all over it.

  I check my palms and gasp. Not one trace of the eczema remains.

  I throw on the first pair of pants and shirt my hands land on and hurry back into the kitchen.

  “Look at this.” I press my hands, palms up, into her flour-covered ones. “How is that possible?”

  She flips my hands over then back again as her grin grows. “Awesome! Did you use a new cream or something?”

  “No, nothing. In fact, it was worse than ever yesterday.”

  She shrugs. “Well, a couple of those doctors did say you’d grow out of it. Whatever happened, it’s gone. Let’s enjoy it and hope it doesn’t come back.”

  “Maybe.” I sigh. “I’d better get to school.”

  “Okay, honey. Have a great day.” Mom kisses my cheek, like always, and turns back to her tarts.

  I grab a couple to munch on as I wait for the bus and work on the logic of last night while I walk. It was just a bizarre, vivid dream. I fell asleep on the couch watching television, and Mom put me to bed. End of story.

  But—my brain starts to argue.

  Shut up!

  Stupid brain.

  I could always check for Mom’s text messages if I want to verify the dream theory. However, part of me—the part in denial—doesn’t want to verify squat.

  The giant yellow Clydesdale of a bus finally rolls to a stop, and I let the others climb on board.

  Of course it was a dream, because the alternative is unthinkable. The alternative is I’m a murderer. That’s just crazy.

  “You look deep in thought there, miracle girl,” the bus driver says as I step inside. “Anything I can help you with?”

  I shake my head and smile. “No, thanks anyway.”

  “Well, after yesterday, you should be counting your blessings you are even with us.”

  I stop. Does he know what happened—correction, what didn’t happen last night?

  Then I remember the tree branch yesterday morning. It seems like a thousand years ago now. “Oh…yeah, right,” I say, finding a seat near the front.

  The driver is listening to the headlines on his portable radio, as always, and I can’t help keeping an ear out for any reports about strange occurrences in alleyways, or missing men with pointy ears.

  I hear nothing unusual and breathe a sigh of relief.

  ***

  As I make my way to homeroom, I hope Matt is absent again today.

  No such luck.

  I spy him slouching in his seat at the back with his buddies crowded around listening to explanations of his obvious injuries, which include two black eyes and a hand encased in plaster.

  “There was, like, three of them. Huge gang members,” he says, gesturing well over his head and then stretching his arms out to twice his width, “with guns and knives and everything.”

  Three of them? Guns and knives?

  It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing.

  “They tried to mug me in a parking garage downtown. But they didn’t know what hit them.” He puffs out his chest. “I took them all down, no problem, but got a little banged up doing it. Nothing compared to what they look like, though! I’m lucky to be alive.”

  I sit, smirking and waiting for roll call, but even the homeroom teacher is listening to his bullshit.

  “How did you fight them off, man?” his buddy Rob asks.

  Matt slides his gaze away. “I…uh…I grabbed the gun, you know, took it away from this one guy, then punched and kicked the others. You know, it…uh…all happened so fast I can barely remember it. The training just kicked in, you know.”

  It sounds like complete horseshit to me, but then, I know Matt
telling them some skinny girl beat the shit out of him twice in one day doesn’t sound nearly as heroic.

  “The gangs in this city, they’re getting out of control,” the teacher says with a sad shake of her head. “Anyway, everyone’s glad you’re okay, Matt, but it’s time to take your seats and settle down!”

  It takes a few minutes for the students to calm down after the excitement of Matt’s story.

  I risk a glance his way.

  He’s glaring at me, both his eyes a livid purple and his nose all pink and swollen. “Freak,” he mutters.

  I turn away. Looks like it’s going to be bad day after all.

  Homeroom is over all too quickly. The bell rings and we file out.

  “Hi, Alex,” Mr. Arden says with a smile. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I glance up and find him staring and pointing.

  “Your hands? They’re…”

  “Oh, yeah.” I look at them wrapped around my books. “The eczema’s gone. Isn’t it great?”

  He frowns, and for a moment, it looks as if he’s going to argue. Instead, he shakes the worried expression off and smiles. “Yeah, it’s great, Alex. Really great. You better get to class.”

  ***

  There is minimal harassment during the morning periods, and I start to believe today won’t be as bad as I initially thought.

  During lunch, almost everyone is chattering about Matt’s heroic efforts. What started off as three attackers has now grown to twelve, and the guns and knives have multiplied to ridiculous proportions. The guys make it sound like Matt survived a Die Hard movie. Not a single one of them questions the likelihood of Matt fending off a dozen armed gang members, which just reaffirms my low opinion of the general intelligence of high school kids.

  Whether the exaggeration is Matt’s doing, or the usual Chinese whispers that whip around high schools, I don’t know, and I don’t care. While they are occupied, they are leaving me alone.

  The hero himself is seated as his usual table, with students from every grade crowded around, eating, as they listen to his crap.

  If I felt brave, I could have my pick of seats from just about any other table in the place. Not only are students standing next to him, they’re also perched on chairs and tables in an attempt to get a glimpse of the mighty dragon slayer.