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  RISE OF THE PHOENIX

  Guardians of the Phoenix

  JL Madore

  Copyright © 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  JL Madore

  Cover Design: Gombar Cover Designs

  Note: The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

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  Rise of the Phoenix: Guardians of the Phoenix

  JL Madore -- 1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-989187-31-9

  CHAPTER ONE

  Calli

  Flying. The sensation of vaulting from a fast-moving vehicle as it collides with an immovable object strikes me as both terrifying and exhilarating. Time freezes as inertia smashes me through the windshield and hurtles me toward the graveled shoulder. My life races before my eyes, and it is a short, pathetic tale. California riffraff dies in a cross-state chase, while hunted by a pissed biker gang. The End.

  Life sucks.

  Death, too, apparently.

  Wind rushes over me, the farm-fresh air tainted with the metallic tang of blood, the burning of oil, and the throaty rumble of a dozen Harley chopper engines.

  I soar behind the surge of power brought on by Kia Rio meets power pole. Broad daylight. Straight road. Wrong time—wrong place. Mom and Dad would be so proud.

  I always envisioned me and Riley turning things around and getting whisked away to become international spies or something. Maybe the reason we went through so much as teens was to prepare us for what was to come.

  I crash to the asphalt with life-shattering force, flipping and breaking bones as I tumble across jagged stones and into the ditch. The impact jars every bit of life out of me.

  So, this is it. The big D.

  Dead at the side of some rural route in the middle of northern Texas nowherelandia. The crazy thing is. I’m not scared. Maybe I’m jaded, but life has been shitty, death can’t be much worse. Without Riley, why bother anyway.

  Whatever comes next—bring it.

  Jaxx

  TRAFFIC ACCIDENT – PEDESTRIAN STRUCK

  POSSIBLE EXPOSURE – NYMPH ADOLESCENT

  12 M ALERT. ABNORMAL BREATHING.

  DRIVER - HUMAN

  35 F UNCONSCIOUS.

  PD NOTIFIED. FS NOTIFIED.

  FCO ON ROUTE.

  I read the dispatch description as it appears line-by-line on the responder screen on the dash of my truck. Twelve-year-old nymph hit by a car at eleven o’clock in the morning? “Come on, people. It’s a school day for shit’s sake.”

  In a perfect world, kids—human or fae—would be spared the violence of reality. They’d grow up laughing and acting like idiotic fools, and blending in with human society, not being mowed down by a car and bleeding in the streets. But six years of living among narys as a first responder to the Fae Concealment Office has taught me that this is a far from a perfect world.

  Exhaling an unsteady breath, I stare out the windshield and hold my course for home. I finished my block and have the next three days off. The only things on my horizon are the b’s of bliss: breakfast-beer, bacon, and bed.

  Glancing to the steering wheel controls of my truck, I hit volume up and blast Little Big Town singing Boondocks. With both windows open and my hand riding the current of a warm Texas breeze, I press the pedal and let the growl of the engine rev. Life is good.

  A spot on the horizon up a ways catches my eye. I lean closer to the dash to squint past miles of cornfields. There’s a rising line of smoke. A human gaze wouldn’t register it, but my heightened preternatural vision picks it up without issue.

  Not that I see much. A single, wispy line of darkness rises against an otherwise bright blue sky.

  Thomas Rhett comes on the radio next and, yeah, I agree with the guy. I’ve seen his wife in the video. Blondes are my weakness, too. He can Die a Happy Man.

  I’m belting it out, serenading the scarecrows, when I come upon that smoke signal rising to the heavens. The stench of burning oil and gas is thick in the air. I park beside the mangled Kia and drop out of my truck.

  The wreck isn’t much different than any other.

  A punched-out windshield and no driver in the seat.

  That’s never a good sign. I follow the trajectory of the ejection and yep, one roadkill warrior flung into the ditch. Shit. Why even have seatbelts in cars if nobody’s gonna use them? Hustling over, I take a knee and reach under her hair to check for a pulse.

  Damn. Fifteen minutes ago, that gravel and blood-tangled mess was likely a gorgeous mane of gold.

  I lean close and take a long whiff of her scent. Human.

  Her skin is still warm, but without a pumping pulse, it won’t be for long. The unnatural angles of her arm, knee, and wrist suggest her body shattered in a dozen places. Yeah, that, and a chunk of her skull cracked open like a hard-boiled egg on the asphalt. D.O.A. Such a waste.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’. Dying out here all alone is a damn shame.”

  With nothing to be done but call it into the local PD, I head back to the mangled Kia to see if I can find any ID. The car is a beater piece of shit, Frankensteined with a mismatched door and a primer-painted rear quarter panel. The back seat is an ode to takeout containers, but I find her purse wedged between where the pole stopped and what used to be the passenger seat.

  No chance of getting the thing out in one piece. I grip the bag and give it a good haul. The strap snaps and I pull it free. Opening the passenger door to my truck, I set the purse down and fish around for a phone case or a wallet—

  A rush of magic hits my back and tingles over my skin, As the hair on my neck stands on end, the scent of char fills my sinuses. I turn back to eye the scene. Is the car about to blow? That doesn’t happen nearly as often for reals as it does on TV. Opening my gifts wide, I sense a steady build of magical tension. I lift my nose and test the scents on the breeze.

  The air reeks of smoldering flesh...

  It’s coming off the woman.

  Jogging back over, I take in the smoke steaming off the tattered rags that used to be her clothes. W.T.F.? I reach down to pull her up onto the gravel shoulder but hit a wall of searing heat. Staggering back I raise my hand to shield my face.

  She is burning up. Like literally—burning up.

  Human combustion isn’t real, is it? As the magical tension in the air nears critical mass, it pushes out from the woman like a latex balloon filled past its limits, thinning as it nears detonation.

  Potential energy pushes at the air around us. I back off fast and barely turn in time to save my face from the blast.

  The woman’s body goes up in a fiery ball of flames.

  In six years living among humans, and all my life witnessing the fae world strange and unusual, I’ve never seen a
nything like it. That woman erupted into a raging fireball of human flame.

  I gauge the height and brilliance of the inferno and cuss a blue streak. That will draw attention. As a sworn duty officer in the FCO, preventing exposure of the magically unexplainable is part of my job.

  I’m torn. Spontaneous human combustion is bizarre but doesn’t technically fall under the category of other.

  The distant scream of sirens solidifies my resolve. Okay, human problem, human solution. How do I explain the woman catching fire? Maybe the car caught on fire, and she got caught up in the aftermath of the blast?

  It’s a stretch, but the fire chief is in my pride. He’ll fudge the rest. Right. Stage the scene. I hop to it and grab the jerrycan out of the utility box in my truck bed. One flick of a handy-dandy lighter and whoosh, the car goes up in flames.

  “Mmmph…”

  The throaty female grumble makes me yip and jump clear of the ditch. Frickety-frack.

  The dead woman moves. I check that no one heard me whimper like a schoolgirl. Nope. My reputation for unending masculinity is safe.

  Flailing a weak hand, blondie brushes at her face and groans. Okay, that’s just wrong. What the hell is she? And yeah, I guess we are solidly in other territory now.

  I run over and lean in close. With my mouth open, I draw the air over the scent receptors in my tongue. Pulling her scent into the full depths of my lungs, I purr, long and low. She holds a heady mixture of feminine strength, char, and something that triggers my jaguar to prowl forward.

  Mine.

  I can’t explain that reaction even if I wanted to. My body ignites as I scan her naked curves. The fire blast burned away her clothes, and she lays gloriously bare and unmarred by the accident. Shame. On. Me.

  Mama taught me better, but I can’t look away.

  As a hot-blooded alpha male, my cock growing hard could be an involuntary physical response. I’ve never gotten roadside randy over a crash victim before, but regardless, I can still excuse it. I’m more concerned with my jaguar’s primal need. My wildling mojo is thrumming beyond all logic.

  It strikes me then—the legends I learned as a cub.

  No waaaay. That can’t be what this is, can it?

  Holy shit!

  Brant

  “Damn it, Brant, hold him still, or he’s going to hurt himself.”

  “You’re worried about him?” I adjust my boots in the shifting mud, struggling to guide Chocolate Mousse, a sixteen-hundred-pound bison, into the portable med-chute. “He might’ve been more agreeable if you hadn’t castrated him the last time he was in this thing.”

  The furry ass fights to swing his massive head around to get a look at Doc’s tools. I struggle to hold the line, cracking my knee against the wall of the chute. With a firm grip on the beastie’s horns, I work the slow and steady to back him up.

  “A few more steps, big man…” I grunt, throwing more shoulder into the effort and digging in for another push.

  Mousse isn’t known for his congenial disposition. In fact, in a pack of sixty-two, he is the biggest, most stubborn son-of-a-bastard we have, which is why we are in this situation. “You gotta learn to play it cool with the ladies, dude.”

  Mousse responds to that by stomping his hoof and splattering a glop of rank-smelling muck up my jeans. “That better be mud, Mousse, or I’m barbequing your ass.”

  Gritting my teeth, I dig the toes of my boots in and give it hard. My massive thighs burn with the effort, and my muscle-banded arms blow well past the rubbery ache of overdoing it. I’m a fucking enforcer for the FCO. On the daily, I fight twenty-foot trolls and swamp monsters and rogue warlocks. Why am I letting this oversized pot-roast get the better of me?

  “Stop being such a stubborn ass,” I grunt.

  Another stomp and another splat of filth flies. This one catches me in the face and my bear growls. Nope. Not mud. I fight not to gag. “That was low, Mousse. Stop being such a prick and get into the fucking chute.”

  Head down, body thrumming, I stop playing nice and release my grizzly. My animal roars forward, rising to the surface with a surge of cocksure power to get the job done. The bison on the farm are afraid of our bears, but the time for being a nice guy ended when I started eating shit.

  I growl, meeting the beast’s gaze with my own. My bear’s presence glows in my golden eyes, and the beast will not only see it but sense it.

  Mousse snorts and backs up fast.

  When the latch of the gate clicks behind me, I let off a roar. “Yeah, that’s right. Fuck you, Mousse.”

  Doc laughs. “Get out of there before he tramples you.”

  That’s all I need to hear. I climb the slatted sides of the metal chute and up-and-over it onto the pasture grass. Lying flat on my back, I yank off my gloves and swipe the gritty manure out of my mouth. “That’s nasty. Tell me again why I’m here doing this instead of out saving the world?”

  “You didn’t let the Wookie win, R2.”

  I cough as oxygen gets reacquainted with my heaving lungs. Oh yeah, I kicked the FCO squadron leader’s ass the other night during the annual wargames. The military stuffed-shirt smiled through the loss like a gentleman, but the next day, I was cycled off rotation while upper management ‘reviewed’ personnel files.

  “Those pencil dicks at FCO headquarters need to learn a big paycheck doesn’t make them big men. Just because they have administrative clout, doesn’t mean we grunts have to bow down on every front—or that we’re too dumb to see what’s going on.”

  “And what is going on?”

  I don’t want Doc involved in that mess… whatever it is. “I’m just saying that you practice like it’s real or else you end up dead in the field. Where in the playbook does it say I had to let him win?”

  “Nowhere. It’s a common sense thing.”

  “Yeah, well common sense isn’t my strongest suit.”

  “And that’s exactly why you are home spitting bison shit instead of living the life you love.” Doc stands over me, his short-cropped hair as dark as his bear’s black pelt. “Enough rest. Get your lazy ass up and hold him steady so I can sew up this gash.”

  “Then we head inside for breakfast. I’m starving.”

  “Even after your manure amuse-bouche?”

  “Har-har,” I say, the bitter taste still pissing off my grizzly. I draw a deep breath and shake off the muscle quakes. Back on my feet, I round the chute and reach through the slats to push the bull against the rails. “Work, work, work. All work and no play makes Doc a dull boy.”

  Doc looks up from stitching. “I’ll survive.”

  “But will it be a life worth living?”

  Doc pulls the suture hook and tightens the black loop of the stitch until the bison’s pelt pinches together. Rinse and repeat. Each time the needle gathers more fur and flesh, another trickle of scarlet pulses from the cavity of the gaping wound down the round of Mousse’s side.

  “I’m serious, Doc. You’re a catch: ex-military hero turned home-town doctor. The ladies eat that shit up.”

  Doc laughs. “You coming on to me, big boy?”

  I roll my eyes. “You wish. What I’ve got going on is too much bear for you.”

  Doc continues his work. The guy is a damn talent with the doctoring. “You get enough play for our entire brood, my brother—when you’re not covered in shit, that is. Today, not so much. You reek.”

  I shift my stance and secure my hold. Mousse is losing patience with this whole process. “I clean up good. And the ladies like a big strong male with the heart of a teddy bear.”

  “And modesty. That goes a long way too.”

  One minute, I’m laughing with Doc. The next, a weird buzzing lights off in my skull. My world shifts and I tilt my head, searching the sky for a plane, or a swarm of those crazy murder hornets I might be hearing. Nothing.

  I shake my head, but the sound doesn’t clear.

  Did I get knocked in the noggin?

  “Yo, Brant. Pay attention.”

 
I stare into the distant sky. The buzz expands from my ears into my cells. I reach toward the morning sun and feel a fiery heat ignite inside my chest. “I have to go.”

  Doc laughs. “Yeah, right. Breakfast will be there—”

  I straighten and start back. “Sorry, Doc. Gotta go.”

  “Brant, what are you… Hey, we’re almost done. What’s wrong with you? Brant!”

  Nakotah

  My claws rip into the earth as I dodge the rough-barked trees and slick roots jutting up from the forest floor. The pithy ground offers me traction to dig in and propel myself forward on the hunt of the rabbit that has no chance against me. Sorry, Bugs, it’s lunchtime.

  As a man, I blend into the student body of my university and pretend that life on two feet is enough for me, but as a wolf, when I’m running the private lands of my father’s forest corridor, only one truth exists—this forest is my home.

  Mine to run in, to hunt, to play without fear of hunters, to drink from cold streams, and not worry about pollution. The energy of these twenty-two-hundred acres of protected land pulses in my veins as powerfully as the strength of my lineage in my royal wildling blood.

  I overtake the rabbit in a brilliant lunge.

  The panicked hair kicks in my jaws, twisting in a brief but brave attempt to break free. I flick my head and clamp my maw down with enough force to end the creature’s suffering.

  The coppery tang of warm blood seeps into my mouth, and I can’t help the grumbling of my stomach. Animal instincts win out when I’m in wolf form. A rush of dry air breezes past and ruffles my thick coat.

  A storm is brewing.

  I lift my muzzle, breathing past the downy fur of the rabbit, wondering what has my hackles raised. Scents drift to me from near to far. The smell of the wood-chip path shifting under the tough pads of my paws comes first. Beyond that, other forest smells sift in: leaves, wet soil, distant animals.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  In the distance, a chipmunk shrieks as something startles it on the forest floor. What has me so on edge?