Phoenix Awakens: A Young Adult Paranormal Romance (The Phoenix Book 1)

by Eliza Nolan

  The guy in the middle stumbled as I passed, and they bumped into me.

  "Sorry," one of them mumbled.

  I shook my head and was about to continue walking, when Wasted Guy lifted his head and looked at me. "Hey, it's you," he said.

  "Excuse me?" I said. Did I know this guy?

  "She's here, y'all!" he said, his eyes becoming more lucid. "Don't you see her? Just by the fire."

  I checked behind me, wondering where the heck the fire was, and who he was talking about. There wasn't anyone else, though, no fire, and he was staring right at me.

  The others looked at their friend like he was nuts.

  "I can totally see her," he shouted over the music. His breath reeked of alcohol. He reached out his hand, grabbing my mom's necklace before I could stop him. "She has the Kamin."

  The what? I was so caught by surprise I could only look down at it in his hand. The deep black stone of the charm glowed a dim reddish hue.

  What the...? I didn't know whether to be more freaked out by the new mood-stone quality of my necklace or of the total stranger fixated on me.

  Thankfully, his friend gently removed Wasted Guy's hand from the necklace.

  "Sorry," he said, giving me an apologetic frown.

  But Wasted Guy wasn't done. "I told you guys it was real. It's all real!"

  Ooookay, enough of that. I backed away, and hurried to the bus stop on the corner. Living in the inner city, crazy drunks were nothing new. But it was sort of weird how he thought he knew me. And why the heck did he grab my necklace and call it a Kamin? What was that? My head buzzed with questions as I hopped on the bus.

  On the ride home, I caught a look at my reflection in the window. The colors were muted, but I could see the new me with shocks of red in my long black hair. I held my mother's necklace in my hand, rolling the charm in my fingers. It was black again; maybe the red was just a trick of the light, probably some of the red from my hair or something. Who knew?

  Funny, although I knew the necklace was Mom's, I had no idea of its history. Was it a family heirloom or some sort of goofy mood stone she'd bought at a craft fair?

  Maybe Dad knew something. The real trick, of course, would be getting him to talk about it.

  When I got home, I headed for the kitchen. I was oscillating between wigging out about my strange encounter with the frat boy downtown, and trying not to get upset about missing the show of the year. Both issues required comfort food.

  "Honey, is that you?" Dad shouted down the stairs.

  "Yeah," I replied.

  I pulled a pint of chocolate ice cream from the freezer, got a big spoon out of the kitchen drawer and flopped down on the couch. Kicking my feet up, I settled in to watch some bad Friday night television.

  Let the pity-party commence.

  The floorboards creaked as Dad made his way downstairs.

  "Feet off the couch, please," Dad said as he entered.

  I sighed and pulled myself up into a sitting position.

  "What happened to the show?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

  "Samantha couldn't go. Her grandma's in the hospital." I licked my spoon and dug it back in for another bite.

  "I hope she's okay," he said.

  "Me too." I frowned. "I asked if she needed me to go see her, but she told me not to."

  "Is there someone else you can go to the show with?" He dropped his arms to his side and stepped further into the room.

  I shook my head. "Samantha has my ticket."

  "I know you really wanted to go to this thing. Maybe we can do something else instead." He sank down next to me.

  I looked at him sideways, unable to remember the last time we'd done anything fun together. "Like what?"

  "We could make cookies and watch a movie," he suggested. A smile snuck its way onto my face. We used to do it all the time. It had been my favorite father-daughter activity.

  Dad knew the fastest way to my good side was through food, and that I had a serious chocolate chip cookie addiction. As much as I wanted to sit around being pissy and feeling sorry for myself, chocolate chip cookies sounded way better. Besides, maybe if we spent some time together, I could get him to talk more about Mom. I covered my pint of ice cream.

  "Sure." I got up and followed him.

  The kitchen was small, but well organized, and with just the two of us, we navigated the cramped space with relative ease. Dad placed a bag of flour and the cookbook on the small counter, then looked at me and nodded. "You know, I didn't think I'd like you with red hair, but I have to admit, it really does suit you."

  I rolled my eyes, but also smiled.

  It was nice to get along with Dad for once. We'd fought so much lately - mostly over my curfew and who the "right people" to hang out with were - Samantha was so not the right people. But tonight was different. We were having fun, the way we used to.

  "Did you preheat the oven?" Dad asked. Not waiting for me to answer, he checked the oven settings in the recipe. I sighed; he totally didn't trust me, but I couldn't be offended. I shouldn't be allowed in the kitchen unsupervised, and he was well aware of that. I was so bad at cooking and baking, I was pretty sure I could burn anything.

  He corrected my preheat settings; I had it on five hundred, so the oven would heat up faster. "You're just like your mother, so impatient in the kitchen. She could burn water." As Dad spoke, his eyes got wider, as if he wished he could take back what he'd said.

  Wow. Seriously shocking. Dad never talked about Mom. Not ever. No way was I missing this opportunity - I pounced on it.

  "Dad, can you tell me more about her?"

  The enthusiasm fell from his face, the sparkle in his eyes replaced by sadness. "You know the story. I met a woman, we fell in love, and we had a wonderful child. She had to leave about a year after you were born."

  "Yes, but where'd she go? Why'd she leave? Why don't we ever hear from her?" Risky; these were the questions that shut him down. He absolutely did not enjoy talking about Mom. I looked at him with my best pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top face. "Dad, I'm almost an adult, I should know more about her."

  "Julia, I can't…" He cut himself off, sighing. "Fine. I'll tell you what I know, but it's not much."

  Hah! I grinned broadly and clapped my hands together. Maybe now I might learn a bit more than what she looked like. The only photo I had of her showed me where my dark hair, brown eyes, and olive complexion came from.

  "Well, she was Turkish," he said.

  I set down the vanilla extract and looked at him. Not what I was expecting.

  "Like, from Turkey?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "How come you never told me that?" I'd thought maybe she was Italian-American.

  "It didn't seem important, I guess." He cracked the last egg into the mixing bowl.

  "Not important? Mom's from another country. That's so cool. Does that mean I could have dual citizenship?"

  "No," he said a bit too quickly. He took the tablespoon from my hand and replaced it with a teaspoon. "Besides, you'd need her to help you do that and she's not here." His head dropped and he turned back to the cookbook.

  "Huh," I said, taking it in. "But I'm Turkish?"

  "No, you're Turkish-Irish-American," he corrected, clearly not sharing my enthusiasm.

  I grabbed my necklace. "So, if her family is Turkish, is this necklace from there?"

  "It is," he said, cautiously adding, "That's been in her family a long time." He stirred the ingredients together in the mixing bowl.

  "How long?"

  "She never said exactly. I only know that she really wanted you to have it." His shoulders sank and his stirring slowed.

  "Did she go to Turkey when she left?"

  Dad put down the wooden spoon. "Maybe." His eyes fell to his now idle hands. Oh no, was Dad about to cry? I'd never seen him shed a single tear. His face flushed. "I'm sorry, I know you deserve to know more, but..." He took a deep breath and let out a small laugh as he wiped his eyes. "Can we finish these cook
ies already?"

  Subject dropped. I did not want to see Dad cry. Ever.

  We finished the cookies and ate half of them while watching our old favorite, Pretty in Pink.

  And I was Turkish.

  * * *

  I stand at the edge of the clearing next to an old oak tree. A new fire burns showing the small group of men in hooded cloaks. They stand in front of the altar, and another bare-chested teenage boy kneels on the ground before them. This boy has scruffy, light brown hair and wears cut-offs.

  One of the men gives the boy something to drink from a chalice before setting it down on the altar next to an old book. He picks up a knife and chants something under his breath as he returns to the kneeling boy. The kid wavers on his knees as if drunk.

  My stomach tightens. He's going to cut this boy up like he did to Graham. I would try to stop him, but there are so many of them.

  The man moves to cut into the boy's bare chest and I squeeze my eyes shut.

  "GEAAH!" the boy cries out. "Aaah. Mmmnnn huh, ha ha." The cry turns into giggling laughter, and I open my eyes. He sits on the ground, blood dripping from his chest. He moves in a haze, wasted. Our eyes meet. There's no mistaking it. He can see me. A flash of lucidity crosses his face as he stares into my eyes. "Hey, it's you," he says, then points across the clearing, directly at me. "She's here, y'all!"

  I should run, but my feet refuse to move.

  He continues, "Don't you see her? Just by the fire." His words strike me. There's something familiar about them.

  The others look in my direction. "Who's he talking about?" one asks.

  Their eyes search the nearby woods. They can't see me. But for some reason, the boy can.

  "I can totally see her," he says. He reaches out his hand, grabbing at the air in front of him. "She has the Kamin. I told you guys it was real. It's all real!" His laughing continues.

  His words ring in my ears. I've heard them before. The drunk frat boy in Downtown Minneapolis said the exact same thing - word for word. But this isn't the drunk frat boy, and we are nowhere near Minneapolis.

  Chapter Four

  On my way through the halls to third period, I spotted Samantha alone at her locker. She looked exhausted. She'd sent me a few texts over the weekend to let me know how her grandma was doing. Not well.

  I wove my way through the crowded hallway. She was hunched over, staring into her open locker, but looked up when I approached.

  "How's Nana?" I asked.

  "I don't want to talk about it." Her nose wrinkled, making her look more pissed than sad.

  Samantha turned back to her locker, pulling things off the top shelf, when her eyes suddenly widened and she stood up straighter. I recognized the look; her phone - always set on vibrate - was going off in her pocket. She pulled it out and as she looked at it, her face lit up. "I have to run outside." Without another word, she closed her locker and scurried towards the door, leaving me behind.

  Damn, maybe it was news about Nana. If I was any kind of friend I'd be with her, just in case it wasn't good. I hurried after her, flashing my badge at security. When I shoved open the front door, I scuffed to an abrupt stop. The sight that greeted me was unexpected, to put it mildly. Samantha stood at the bottom of the steps with her limbs wrapped around Jeremy, and his tongue was down her throat. WTF?

  I stood for a moment trying to process it. Samantha was, last I heard, single. Though she never stayed that way long, she always told me about her latest boyfriend as soon as she got a chance. And she was with Jeremy, the same loser who'd asked me for money at the show on Friday.

  Not good.

  Oh God. I had to turn back, get away from this hideous sight. But I was too late. Jeremy noticed me and pulled away from her. Samantha saw me and waved me over.

  I groaned and dragged myself down the steps to what was sure to be a painful encounter.

  "Enjoying the show?" Jeremy asked. I glared at him.

  "Hey, Jules, remember Jeremy?" Samantha said. What was she on? We'd all been part of the same group. Samantha even agreed with me about what a total ass he was. But this wouldn't be the first time she'd shown poor judgment in guys.

  I took in a deep breath, composing myself. "Hi, Jeremy," I said, trying to be as cool and calm as I could. "So, you decided to transfer back to West High?" I sucked at making small talk, but maybe if I tried, he would be nice, since he was now, apparently, dating my best friend.

  "No," he said. "I just couldn't get enough of Samantha this weekend. I came back for more."

  Wait.

  My face flashed hot. Did I hear him right? I looked over at Samantha. Her lips pressed together and she stared at the ground - guilty. Damn, my hearing was just fine; it was my best friend that was messed up.

  "Is your Nana even sick?" I asked.

  She didn't answer.

  "You skipped out on the show to hang out with Jeremy." My voice shook. Shock, disgust and anger flared inside me.

  "I..." She couldn't finish. Her eyes fixed to the ground in front of her.

  Jeremy jumped in. "She didn't miss the show. Thanks for letting me have your ticket, Julia."

  My jaw dropped and I stared at Samantha. She was looking at Jeremy, her mouth open too.

  I pulled my hand through my hair, unable to believe what was unfolding in front of me. "So what, you're just gonna throw our friendship away for this loser?" I asked.

  "No." She let out a sharp breath. "Well, I…now that we're talking about it, I guess I should tell you that I'm transferring to Como." Her eyes searched the sidewalk as if she couldn't handle looking at me.

  "You're kidding." Was I dreaming? Maybe this was just some horrible nightmare and I'd wake up any moment. There was no way Samantha could be doing this. We'd promised each other.

  "This is my last day here." She wasn't kidding. She was really leaving.

  "So, screw all the stuff we said about sticking it out until the end. You're going to go make like a lemming and jump off the cliff with everybody else? What about college?"

  "Samantha was right," Jeremy said, one side of his mouth lifting. "She told us how you think we're all a bunch of deadbeat losers who'll never amount to anything."

  "That's ridiculous," I said, crossing my arms and glaring at Jeremy.

  "Nope. True," he said. "We were all hanging out by the railroad tracks on Thursday night and she told us about how you wanted to be all Goody Two-shoes and stay in school. How sick it made her having to listen to you drag on about it all the time."

  I looked over at Samantha and she quickly turned away, but didn't deny it.

  Sure, we'd talked about how we didn't want to give up on our future, and maybe that implied we thought our friends were wasting theirs. But I never actually said that, and I wasn't the only one talking. She was there, too. For her to tell them that? No wonder Starr had been so short with me on Friday.

  What hurt even more was that Samantha was sick of listening to me. My eyes teared up.

  So that was it. There was nothing left to say. I turned and headed down the street, away from them and away from school, and towards home. I lived about five miles away. It would be a long walk, but I needed to process what just happened.

  Samantha, who'd been my best friend for almost six years, had just sold me out for her flavor of the month.

  I knew why she'd done it. She was trying to impress our friends and her new man. I'd seen her do some pretty outrageous stuff before to impress guys. She'd told countless lies about hanging with bands she'd never even met, and about going to places she'd never been. This was different, though. I never thought she would hurt anyone in the process, least of all me.

  I wiped the tears from my face with my sleeve.

  And then, I got mad.

  She'd told all our friends I thought they were losers. What kind of friend does that? What kind of human being does that?

  Anyways, I didn't need them. And maybe there was some truth to what Samantha said. It wasn't that I thought our friends were deadbeats - th
e path they chose was fine for them - but I did want more than a high school diploma. I wanted to make something of myself. So maybe I shouldn't be hanging around with people who didn't want that.

  Oh man, I couldn't believe I was starting to think Dad was right.

  When I got home I stormed upstairs to my room, slamming the door behind me so hard it bounced back open. But I didn't care because I'd already face-planted on my bed.

  I cried myself to sleep.

  * * *

  Gentle hands stroke my back lightly before pulling me up into an embrace. I rest, heavy and exhausted from the pain.

  I don't know who's holding me, and I don't care. It's comforting. It's what I need.

  "Shhhh, You'll be okay," she says.

  I sniffle and sigh in her arms. "How can this ever be okay? I just lost my best friend."

  "It may not feel like it right now, but you'll get past this. You're strong."

  "I'm not strong," I say into her shoulder. "I'm a wuss. I get bullied. I can't…"

  "Sure you can. Besides, something's coming, and soon you'll be so busy you won't have time to think about the past."

  "Wait. What's coming?" I pull away, able to see her for the first time. She's a young woman, with deep brown eyes and olive skin. Her short, black hair sticks up in little spikes. She looks familiar. "Do I know you?"

  * * *

  When I woke, it was dark. I reached up and turned on the lamp on my bedside table. Next to the light was the photo of my mother. The woman in my dream could've been a younger version of her with short hair.

  I wanted to write it off as another dream, but considering the way things had been going lately, maybe there was something more to it. I clasped my mother's necklace in my hand, holding the black sphere up so I could ponder it. If it was an old family heirloom, why the heck would it glow like a cheap costume gimmick?

  Maybe it contained magic. I laughed aloud at the ridiculous thought, letting the necklace drop back against my chest. Still, suspending disbelief for one moment and pretending that magic actually did exist, what would that say about all the dreams I'd been having? What did it say about me? And what did that woman mean when she said something was coming?