Phoenix

by Dawn Rae Miller

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Blank Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  PHOENIX

  A Sensitives Trilogy Novel

  Dawn Rae Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording without prior written permission from the publisher.

  PHOENIX

  Dawn Rae Miller

  Copyright 2014 by Dawn Rae Miller

  Cover Design: Copyright 2014 Sarah Marino

  First Edition

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For all my readers. Thanks for taking the journey with me. xoxo

  CHAPTER ONE

  "It's going to be okay, Birdie. I swear. You're going to be okay."

  Beck's hands move over my body as he recites words I don't understand. He stops at my chest, just over my heart, and strange flutter-like vibrations fill my body. Against my will, I buck and writhe.

  "Stay with me, Lark. Don't you dare die." Beck presses his hands against my chest, applying more pressure. His chanting accelerates until the words sound more like humming than speaking. A bright light shines behind my eyes, and I focus on it, trying to stay present.

  The memory of the attack rushes through my mind. I was in the garden, lying on the gravel, so where am I now? Surely, I'm not in the garden. No one would leave me there. Or would they? And why is Beck here?

  "Step away from Lark," an unfamiliar voice orders. Metal clangs against metal.

  "She's dying," Beck cries, horror and pain filling his words. "I can't let her die."

  I want to reach out to him with my mind and reassure him, but my brain isn't listening to me. I can't move, I can't talk, I can barely think.

  But my heart, it whirls and burns deep in my chest. I want to cry out in agony, but all I can do is lie on the cold floor.

  More noises – like a fight – surround me. Beck's hands are no longer holding my chest together, and the bright light is fading, turning gray, then black, then to nothingness.

  I am nothingness.

  #

  Rough concrete tears at my cheek as I turn my face from the icy coldness of the floor. When I rub the raw spot, shooting pain rips through my torso, and I bring my knees to my chest and gasp in agony. My heart feels as if it were ripped out, patched together, and shoved back into my body. Unlike earlier, at least I think it was earlier, I can move. It hurts, but I can do it.

  "Light," I whisper into the blackness surrounding me. Nothing happens.

  "Warmth," I croak, hoping to remove some of the damp chill, but like last time, my magic doesn't work.

  I crouch backward until I hit a wall.

  In order to figure out where I am, I need to stand, but my legs are numb and pin-prickly, as if I'd been folded into one position for hours. As I slowly stretch to my full height, pain rips through my gut again, and I scream. Something is wrong with my mid-section, but I'm too terrified to touch it.

  Slowly, with my hand against the wall - both to steady myself and to explore - I begin walking. Each step sends the pain surging through me, but with determination, I blindly observe that there are four right angles, which means there are four small walls surrounding me. All concrete, just like the floor and ceiling that I can reach tip-toe with my fingertips. The box must be no larger than five feet eight inches.

  The box jostles to the left, sending me swinging into what I believe is the middle of the floor. I scoot back until my shoulders graze a wall and brace myself. My fingers play with my necklace, and it gives me some sense of calm. If only it could ease my pain.

  Lark? Beck's voice echoes through my mind. Can you hear me? Are you okay?

  I'm here. Wherever here is, I say.

  You're alive. Relief floods his voice, and my heart flops.

  Should I be dead?

  Beck's emotions rush through me – relief, pain, confusion, joy. At the jail cell, you weren't responding. You were dead. At least I thought you were.

  The memory of Beck pressing against my chest comes back to me.

  What did you do? I cry out.

  What I had to, he says.

  The cement box shudders again, this time moving straight up.

  Beck, I say, panic filling my words. Where are you?

  No response. He's gone.

  There is no noise, nor light, but I'm positive I'm alone in this box. I'm also positive I can't do magic in here.

  #

  Time moves. Or at least I think it does. The darkness doesn't allow for the measuring of it.

  Every so often the box jolts and swings, and I tumble over, skinning my knees and palms.

  The box swings. Huh.

  With my feet planted firmly hip-width apart, I begin to rock the box. Back and forth. Back and forth. The pain in my abdomen is lesser now, or perhaps I've become used to it. Either way, I no longer feel as if I may pass out from pain.

  The box swings harder and faster as I rock, and there is the distinct sound of metal scratching against itself.

  "Lark Greene," a distorted male voice booms from some unseen place, startling me. "You stop that right now."

  The voice is familiar yet unplaceable, but the words - the words - are so reminiscent of Bethina that I flinch.

  "Who's going to stop me?" I demand, swinging the box harder and knowing I'm not in a position to demand anything.

  "You have no magic here. No power. Best you watch yourself."

  "No," I whisper into the darkness. Cold sweat beads along my hairline and down the back of my neck, and I rock the box harder even though the motion sends the sharp, stabbing pain ripping through my gut again. I refuse to cry out and let the voice know I'm hurting. Instead I bite my lip until the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

  "You are responsible for the death of Malin Greene and the starvation of our people." The voice takes on a menacing tone. "For that you are condemned."

  Lark, what's happening? What's going on? Beck's panic fills me until I'm fighting with both of our emotions. "Why is he saying you killed Malin?"

  I bu
ry my head in my hands, block out Beck, and try to focus on what I know.

  One, I'm in some sort of box.

  Two, it's made of concrete.

  Three, my magic doesn't seem to work.

  Four, Beck and I can still communicate.

  Five, I don't know who is holding me, but I assume it's the Splinter group.

  Six, Mother told me never to make assumptions.

  The box shakes and creaks. This time when I stand my head brushes the ceiling. In the blackness, my fingertips touch the coarse, chilly sides when I spread my arms open.

  Seven, the box can move, and it is shrinking.

  Wonderful.

  When I lay back down on the cold floor, my feet touch one side of the box and my head the other. Five feet – that's how big my prison is now.

  I ache in so many places, but mostly in my stomach. I fight the urge to touch my torso because in the dark, I have no idea how bad it is. Touching it could make it worse and spread infection. A detail I remember from health class at school.

  "Really, Love, laying around on a cold floor moping because you can't make sense of a situation. It's beneath you."

  My eyes flutter open, and there, near my feet, sits Mother holding a glowing light orb. I blink, trying to adjust to the brightness of the light.

  Surely, I must be hallucinating because Mother is dead. At least that's what I believe. We never recovered her body. We celebrated her life and sat in mourning. How is this possible?

  "How are you here?" I ask. My voice is hoarse and low. Whoever was speaking earlier must be wondering whom I'm speaking with, unless they of course, sent Mother in. Or someone who can mask to look like Mother. Someone like Henry and Beck. But can masking mimic the dead? I'm unsure how it works.

  "How did you get in here, and who are you?" I demand.

  "Love, that's something you should tell me." Mother's red lips part into a pretty smile.

  "You're my imagination?" I say. "Or an imposter?"

  Amusement dances in her eyes as she holds out the glowing orb. "This should take some of the damp chill out of the air."

  "How are you doing that?" I ask, pointing at the light. Heat radiates from it, and I move a little closer. "My magic doesn't work."

  Mother smiles at me knowingly. "Practice." Her left hand plays with her string of pearls while she leans forward and places the light orb between us. "Plus a little residual magic."

  "Can you get me out of this box?" I ask. I'm sure I'm talking to figment of my imagination, but I don't care. If my subconscious wants to give advice, I'll gladly take it.

  Mother wags her finger at me.

  "Now, now, Love. I thought I taught you better than to rely on others. You have to do it yourself." So this is Mother. It has to be. Or my hallucination of her. There's no way anyone else would know about our private conversations.

  "But you got in. You're here, so how did you do it?" I demand. "I can't transport, my wristlet is missing, and my magic is useless."

  The floor has become comfortably warm to the touch.

  The box wheezes and contracts again, causing Mother and me to inch closer to each other.

  "Please, Mother, help me. I'm going to be squeezed to death if you don't." I sound pathetic, but I don't care. I need help.

  She lets out a loud sigh. "Lark, what do you know about the box?"

  I run through my list and add, "It swings," as an afterthought.

  Mother beams. "Does it knock into anything?"

  "I don't know."

  I rise to my knees and begin swaying from side-to-side. The motion makes my throbbing torso ache, and this time I grab at it, only to yank my hand away when I encounter something crusty and oozing.

  But the box moves, and once I get it swinging, it hits something on both my left and right.

  What was that? Beck asks. Did you feel that, Lark? Something hit the box I'm in.

  It was me, I say. I'm trying to figure out where we are.

  Added to things I know: Beck is in a box next to me.

  I try swinging front to back, but hit nothing.

  Beck, I think. Tell me about where you are.

  It's a cement box of some sort. Hanging I believe. It's getting hotter in here by the minute.

  He's right. The temperature has risen considerably, something I attributed to Mother's orb, but it's gone beyond that. It almost feels like summer...and I hate hot summer days.

  "Mother? Do you think--"

  Mother is gone, but the orb remains.

  Where did she go and how?

  I don't have time for that now. Instead I say to Beck, Swing your box toward mine – the direction you felt the thump. Let's try smashing them.

  I'm not sure it's wise to rely on Beck, but I have no other options right now.

  On three. One. Two. Three. I swing my box hard and hit nothing. Again, I order. This time our boxes make contact, but they don't break.

  The walls of the box glow a soft yellow, and when I accidentally touch one, my hand burns.

  If I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to be in an oven.

  Another try, Birdie? Beck says.

  I grunt my reply. Adrenaline floods my system, dulling the ache radiating from my stomach.

  Again. I order

  This time, my box cracks. Buoyed, I slam into Beck's box again, and the box dissolves around me, turning into a fine dust. I tumble several feet through the chilly air to the unforgiving ground and sit there, blinking into the dim evening light. It does no good – I can barely see, and instead, sharp pain hits behind my eyes. I need a healer, not just for my headache, but for...

  Oh. My. God.

  Rust colored blood crusts the front of my torn dress and a giant slash covers my torso. Someone did minimal effort to ease my bleeding, but they didn't do a proper healing spell. Could that have been what Beck was doing?

  I blanch at the sight and smell. My feet wobble, and I collapse to the ground.

  I have no idea where I am, except that I am outside.

  And there are four more boxes hanging over my head.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Slowly, my brain wakes up. Even with the oozing, rust-colored gash leaking from my abdomen, I need to stay alert since I have no idea where I am or who did this to me.

  To my left and directly in front of me is a sparse forest. On my right, more open field. I turn around carefully so as to not tear open my wound. This direction, with my back to the forest, stretches down to the gray, fog-shrouded Bay.

  I must be in the Presidio somewhere near my old school, yet I don't recognize this place, which seems impossible since Beck and I have scoured it from top-to-bottom over the years.

  Carefully, I tilt my head backward and study the four remaining boxes. They float above me, suspended by magic. One of them jiggles a bit, but the others remain still.

  The one directly to my left – the swinging one - has a large crack running across a side. That must be where Beck is, but Beck can't be here. He's in a jail cell, awaiting his death sentence. The one I gave him.

  A memory flashes through my mind. I was crawling toward the house, praying for someone to help me, and then I was transporting, being carried away by the chilly darkness and landed...

  In Beck's cell?

  That can't be right, can it?

  And it doesn't help me know who – or what – are in the boxes? And who was talking to me in the box?

  More importantly, was that really my mother? Is she alive? Or was it wishful thinking on my part. What I wouldn't give to turn back time to when she was still here.

  Have I gone crazy from the trauma of the experience?

  The most logical explanation is that it was a Light witch masking as Mother. But who? And why be so kind to me?

  No. I was hallucinating, much like I did immediately after her death.

  I had to be.

  I rub my fingers together and instantly a comfortable warmth surrounds me. I grin in delight. My magic is working again.

  My celebrat
ion is short-lived, however. Vomit bubbles in my throat, and I bend forward taking care not to get any on my shoes. The pain has become more intense, but I still wipe my mouth clean and lean my head back until I'm looking at what I think is Beck's box.

  Beck, I say. Swing your box so I know where you are.

  The box at the left end begins to rock. Good, he can still hear me.

  Okay, I see you. Get ready. Your box is going to disappear.

  Hurry, Birdie. It's awfully hot in here.

  My heart burns with magic as I concentrate on an image of the box disintegrating much like mine did.

  I count to three for him before flicking my wrist and visualizing the box gone.

  A dust storm rises from where the box had hung, and Beck tumbles to the ground.

  Like me, deep gashes line his face and chest, but he doesn't move. He lays, face-up and spread eagle on the ground. From here, I can't tell if he's breathing or not.

  Stepping over my vomit, I inch my way toward him, not out of concern for my own safety, but rather out of pain. Each step sends hundreds of sharp knives stabbing through my stomach.

  When I reach Beck, I bend slowly to a crouching position and touch his arm. He doesn't stir.

  My shoulders tighten, and my lip trembles. This isn't right. He should be up moving around. The fall wasn't too high.

  "C'mon, Beck. You need to help me," I say, poking him harder. He doesn't move, and I hold back my tears.

  The blood around him is darkening and slowing. His chest remains still. I close my eyes and focus all my energy on getting him to breathe.

  Nothing happens.

  Hot tears break free and run down my face. I grasp my necklace between my fingers as hysteria washes over me. The burning pain in the back of my throat matches that in my torso. Snot runs out of my nose, but I don't care. My sobs fill the air with anguish.

  Suddenly, Beck sputters a breath. It's labored, but at least he's breathing. My sobbing ebbs, but the enormity of the situation I'm facing hits me. I'm a Dark witch. I can't heal. I can't help him on my own. I need Eloise and Henry. I need a Light witch.