Flameout (31 page)

When Rory looked ready to argue, I grabbed his arm and squeezed lightly. “Remember our vow. We've jeopardized our existence enough already.”

“Agreed. Go.”

I spun on my heels and ran after Jackson. The building he'd hit with his fireball burned so fiercely the glow of it lit the evening sky and heat rolled across the night. I drew it in instinctively, letting it feed my soul and energize my body. The game was still afoot, and I had a bad feeling I'd need that strength.

We ran past the building and into the nearby cross street. The fire's light turned night into day and revealed the figure of a man running down the pavement.

Jackson threw another fiery ball. It hit the concrete inches from the fleeing figure and bounced along after him, nipping at his heels, setting them alight before it fizzled out.

The figure turned, and I had a brief glimpse of a thin, pockmarked face that seemed vaguely familiar before he raised his arm and threw something. I grabbed Jackson and dragged him sideways.

“They're only fucking stones—”

The rest of his words were cut off as said stones exploded and sharp-edged little daggers cut through our clothes and across our faces, drawing blood.

“There is
never
something as simple as stones when it comes to a witch,” I growled. “Be careful.”

“Got it.”

We continued on. The witch had gained ground on us thanks to his missiles, so I reached for the mother and sent her winging ahead. Pain slithered through me, yet another warning I was pushing the limits even though I'd drawn in strength only moments before. But weakening myself wouldn't matter—not if we caught and killed the bastard ahead.

A fierce iridescent wall of flame flared across the entire street ahead, blocking the witch's path. He swung left, into a side street, and disappeared. I swore and reached for more speed, my feet almost flying as we pounded after him.

We swung into the side street, only to discover it was not only a dead end, but also empty. I slid to a
stop, felt Jackson do the same. Heard the harsh rasp of his breath and something else—a soft, almost rhythmic pulsing or slapping sound. I frowned and glanced at Jackson. He shrugged.
Worry later. Get this bastard
.

“Come out, Frederick, or I'll burn the buildings to the ground and force you out.”

I didn't expect a response, and I didn't get any. So I raised my hands, called on the mother, and walked forward, streaming fire across the buildings to the left and the right. They might have been a mix of brick, steel, and wood, but it made no difference to the force I was hitting them with. They exploded into flame, lighting the sky up and quickly spreading to the rest of the buildings. I kept on walking. Sooner or later, we'd flush the bastard out.

The buildings continued to explode as we moved deeper into the side street, and that odd pulsing drew closer and closer. Nothing and no one came out of the buildings. Not even rats. But then, rats—real rats—were rather intelligent creatures, and had probably left this hellhole the minute Brooklyn had become the home of monsters.

“Movement, end building, left,” Jackson muttered.

Even as he said it, a shadow scurried up the side of the building and disappeared over the rooftop.

Before either of us could react, bright light speared the night, hitting the street and blinding us in the process. I threw up an arm, trying to spot what was happening. Saw, in the edges of the light, the tail end of a helicopter.

“Fuck, go,” Jackson said.

I became spirit and surged upward, even as the
helicopter banked and swept away. On the ground below, violence erupted. I glanced down and saw cloaks running out of the remaining buildings and head for Jackson. He flung fire, but it was weaker than his previous efforts and did little more than singe their clothes. And as he turned and ran, a second helicopter swept in from the left and began peppering his heels with bullets.

I glanced at the fast-disappearing helicopter that held our quarry then cursed and flung an arrow of fire at the one chasing Jackson. It banked away sharply, but I didn't go after it. Right now, the cloaks were the bigger threat. I dove down. He glanced up as I neared him and raised a hand. I grabbed him with flaming fingers and swept him up, away from the immediate reach of the cloaks.

But it wasn't easy to maintain height and speed while carrying anyone, let alone someone of Jackson's weight. My strength gave out just before we reached the intersection, and we hit the ground hard, skidding several yards farther before coming to a halt in a tangled mess of fire and flesh. I took a breath, then regained human form and rolled away from Jackson.

And heard the ominous pulsing again.

“
That
was one hell of an entrance.” Amusement edged Rory's voice as he grabbed my arm and gently pulled me upright. “Did you get the witch?”

“No.” Jackson's voice was tight with both anger and weariness. “We did, however, collect a tail.”

Rory's gaze ran past us. “Oh, fuck. More cloaks.”

“And not just cloaks. Someone is aiding the witch, and they're backed up by helicopters.”

As if to confirm my statement, the bright light pierced the night and bullets peppered the ground again.

“Get out of here,” Rory said, voice flat. “I'll take care of these bastards.”

“You can't fight a helicopter
and
the cloaks,” I said. “We need to run—”

“I know what I'm doing, Em.
Go
.”

And with that, he flamed and surged upward. Jackson grabbed me and forced me forward. Sam was already struggling to his feet. His face was white, sweat beaded his forehead, and a rough bandage now protected his broken arm.

I pulled my grip from Jackson's. “Go, both of you.”

“Not without you.”

It was said in unison, and I couldn't help smiling. “I'm coming, never fear. I just have to set the world alight.”

In skies above us, a battle raged. Bullets and fire bit through the night sky, neither one entirely catching the other. The helicopter pilot was skilled, and his machine nimble and fast. More bullets ripped through the tarmac as the second machine swept in.

And so, too, did the red cloaks.

“Go,” I urged, then spun and called to the mother.

Her fire erupted through me, around me, and for the briefest instant I wavered between flesh and spirit, between the need to remain and fight and the desire to give in to the seductive song of the earth and the mother . . .

An explosion ripped across the sky, and the force of it rocked me off my feet as burning bits of metal and god knows what else rained all around me. Then
fiery hands gripped me, held me, snatching the mother's force from me then flinging it outward.

The red cloaks went up in a gigantic whoosh that didn't even leave ash.

The two of us became flesh again, but Rory didn't release his grip. “Run,” he said, voice tight. “There's more cloaks coming, and another helicopter out there somewhere.”

We ran as fast as we could.

Fire followed us, jumping from building to building, setting Brooklyn alight just as I'd promised not so long ago. The force and heat of it rolled over us, feeding us, fueling us, but we were both dangerously low on reserves and still walking an edge that was far too tight.

The soft pulsing began to bite through the air again.

Rory cursed and increased his speed, all but hurling us through the night.

Jackson and Sam came into sight. Not far beyond them were the lights of Melbourne, a glimmer that promised safety—but only if we could reach it.

Light speared the night again, and the helicopter swept in.

“Go,” Rory said and released me.

I didn't fight his decision, as much as I wanted to. I just ran on. The fire around me began to curve inward, until it had created a tunnel of flame that protected and hid our position.

As I neared the two men, they hesitated. “Go, go,” I urged as bullets began to pepper the ground around us.

But they stopped almost as quickly as they'd started, and the pulsing of air altered and changed, briefly dying then coming to life again.

Again bullets peppered the ground, quickly followed by the sweep of magic.

Fear hit me, so fierce and fast I could barely even breathe. I skidded to a halt, swept a window into our protective tunnel, and looked up.

Just in time to see the whole damn helicopter explode into a ball of flame.

I blinked, my heart in my mouth, unable to take a breath. Then a fiery form pulled free from the wreckage as it began to fall from the sky. As our tunnel peeled all the way back, Rory dropped to the ground, regaining flesh as he did so.

It was done. We were safe. And despite what instinct and fear might have believed, the only ones who had died here tonight were Luke and his cloaks.

Tears stung my eyes, and it was all I could do to remain upright. The danger might be over, but we still had to get out of here, and I wasn't about to let anyone carry me.

“And that,” Rory said, with a cheerful if weary grin, “should be the end—”

He didn't finish.

He didn't get the chance.

A single shot rang out and snatched the rest of his words way, along with his life.

“No!” I screamed as his blood and his brains splattered across my face.

Just for a moment, horror held me still as his body crumbled. But as flames began to consume his flesh, I spun and saw a glimmer in the distance. Luke might be dead, and his pet witch might or might not have died in that helicopter crash, but they'd left behind a
parting gift, just to ensure we didn't have the final word.

I sucked in the fire, sucked in the force of the world around me, and flung it, with every ounce of strength I had left, at that building.

It didn't explode. It simply disintegrated into pieces so tiny the drifting wind caught them and flung them away.

I dropped to my knees, struggling to breathe, struggling even to remain conscious. Pain ripped through me, pain caused both by pushing myself way past any reasonable limits, and by having the other half of my soul so brutally ripped away.

Hands gripped me, held me, and warmth bled from his body to mine.

Jackson, not Sam.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't.

I simply held out a hand and called to Rory's ashes. They rose from the ground and swirled toward me, wrapping almost lovingly around my fingers and wrist, a warm caress that had tears spilling down my cheeks.

He was dead, and it was my fault. I was the one who'd called him into this fight, even though I'd feared this would be the result. Damn it,
I
should have been the one who'd died; I should be the one facing the pain of rebirth, not him.

His ashes and energy merged into my flesh, became a part of me, held safe deep inside until the time for renewal came.

Which would be soon.

And once he was whole . . .

I took a deep, shuddering breath and forced myself to move.

Once he was whole and alive once more, I was going to track down the bastard who'd killed him and return the favor.

I
raised my face to the sky and drew in the heat of the day. It ran through me like a river, a caress filled with warmth and sympathy, as if the sun was aware of my reason for being in this clearing out in the middle of nowhere.

And maybe it was. It had witnessed me performing this ceremony far too many times in the past.

I closed my eyes and ignored the tears trickling down my cheeks. Rory's death was once again my fault. If he hadn't been in Brooklyn with me, he'd still be alive.

And if he hadn't been there,
that inner voice whispered,
not only would it be you who was dead, but possibly Jackson and Sam as well.

I hated that inner voice, if only because all too often she was right.

Rory had died saving our asses, and I knew he wouldn't be angry about that. He'd always had something of a hero complex and had often said that if he had to go before his allotted one hundred years was up, he'd rather do it saving someone he loved.

And he and I
did
love each other; hell, I couldn't physically survive without him, nor he me. But we weren't
in
love, thanks to the curse that haunted all phoenixes—a curse that was said to have come from a witch after a phoenix lover had left her with little more than the ashes of broken promises and dreams.

But it was a curse we could have ultimately lived with, if not for the fact that it came with one other kick in the teeth—that
no matter whom we
did
fall in love with each lifetime, the relationship would end in ashes just as the witch's had.

As far as I was aware, no phoenix had ever found a way to break the curse. I certainly wouldn't—not in this lifetime, at any rate. Sam might have gotten as far as talking to me as of late, but I doubted it would ever progress beyond that. Not given what he saw as my complete betrayal of his trust—even if he now understood the reasons for it.

I drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, letting it wash the lingering wisps of regret and hurt from my mind. I needed to concentrate. The sun had almost reached its zenith and
that
meant it was time to begin.

I stripped off and folded my clothes onto the loose white tunic I'd brought here for Rory, and then kicked off my shoes. The slight breeze teased my skin, its touch chasing goose bumps across my body despite the sunshine.

Within me, energy stirred, energy that was a part of me and yet separate. Rory's soul, impatient for his rebirth. When phoenixes died—as Rory had in Brooklyn—their flesh became ashes that had to be called and then retained within the heat of their mate's body. If for some reason that process didn't happen, then there was no rebirth. And that, in turn, was a death sentence for the remaining partner, as phoenixes could only ever rise from their ashes through a spell performed by their mates.

But there was also a time restriction on rebirth. It had to be done within five days of death, or the life and the fire of those ashes would die, and his spirit and energy would be returned to the earth mother, never to be reborn.

It had been three days since Rory had passed. I was pushing it timewise, hence his impatience and, perhaps, a little fear. But I'd had no other choice—the weather in Melbourne had been so bad any fire I'd have lit would have struggled to remain alight. And while as a phoenix I could have kept the flames burning, I couldn't afford to waste energy when I had no idea how much I'd need for the ceremony. Because no matter how long I'd been doing this, no rebirth was ever exactly the same.

I brushed stray strands of red-gold hair out of my eyes as I moved into the center of the clearing and the square
stack of wood I'd already piled there. The dry grass was harsh and scratchy underfoot and the scent of eucalyptus teased my nostrils.

It was a perfect day for resurrection.

I reached down to the inner fires and called them to my fingers. As flames began to dance and shimmer across their tips, I stopped on the west side of the bonfire and raised my hands to the sky. Sparks plumed upward, glittering like red-gold diamonds against the blue of the sky.

“By the dragon's light,” I intoned softly in a language so old only the gods and another phoenix could understand, “and the mother's might, I beseech thee to protect all that surrounds me and the one I call to me.”

As the words of the spell rolled across the silence, the air began to shimmer and spark with the colors of all creation. It was the heat of the day and the power of the mother, of the earth itself, rising to answer the call of protection.

“Banish all that would do us wrong,” I continued. “Send them away, send them astray, never to pass this way. So mote it be.”

The sparks I'd sent skyward began to fall gently downward but they never reached the ground, caught instead in the gentle hands of the shimmering light.

I moved to the north section and repeated the spell. The shimmering net of sparks extended and the hum of its power began to vibrate through my body. I echoed the process on the two remaining sides, until the net joined and my entire body pulsated to the tune of the power that now surrounded me.

I faced the bonfire and again raised my face to the sky, watching for the precise moment the sun reached the pinnacle of its arc. Heat, energy, and sparks ran around me, through me, a force wanting to be used,
needing
to be used.

Now,
that inner voice said.

I called to my flames then stepped into the center of the bonfire. As flesh gave way to spirit and I became nothing but a being of fire, the wood around me burst into flame. I held out my hands and raised the fire to greater heights, until it burned with a heat that was white-hot.

It felt like home.

Felt like rebirth.

“I beseech the dragon that gives life and the mother that nurtures us all to release the soul that resides within.”

The words were lost in the roar of the flames but they were not unheard. The ground began to tremble, as if the earth itself was preparing for birth.

“Let the ashes of life be renewed; give him hope and bless him with love, and let him stand beside me once more. By the grace of the mother and the will of the dragon, so mote it be.”

As the last word was said, power tore up my legs and through the rest of my body, the sheer force of it momentarily stretching my spirit to the upper limits of survivability. Specks of luminescent ash began to peel away from those overstretched strands, gently at first but rapidly intensifying until they became a storm of light and ash. As the heat of the flames, the force of the earth, and the brightness of the day reached a crescendo of power, the motes began to condense and find form, alternating between our three—fire, firebird, and flesh—until what the earth and the day held in their grip was the spirit I'd spent aeons with.

Rory.

I thanked the earth mother and the dragon in the sky for their generosity and the gift of life, and then I reversed the spell, this time moving from south to east. The wall of energy and sparks shimmered briefly then began to dissipate, the energy returning to the mother and the fiery sparks drifting skyward as they burned out and disappeared. All that was left was the bonfire and the adult man who remained curled up in a fetal position in the middle of it.

Weariness washed through me and I all but fell to the ground. I sucked in several deep breaths to clear my head then crossed my legs for the long wait ahead. Rory might now be reborn, but physically he was extremely weak. That was part of the reason I'd piled the bonfire so high—he would need the flames to fuel his body. He wouldn't wake—wouldn't even regain his flesh form—until the ashes in his soul had refueled enough on the heat of the fire to enable full functionality. And even then, it would be days before he'd be back to his old self and fully, physically mobile.

The afternoon passed slowly. I boosted the fire a couple
of times and kept the heat at a white-hot level. It was close to four in the afternoon when his spirit form began to jerk and tremble, a sure sign that his inner fires had fully awoken. An hour later, he began to keen—a high-pitched sound so filled with pain that tears stung my eyes. Rebirth was never pleasant, but the pain was so much greater when we died before our time. I had no idea why but figured it was the mother's way of making us a little more careful about how we lived and, ultimately, how we died.

Dusk had begun to seep across the sky in fiery fingers of red and gold by the time his spirit gave way to flesh. By then the bonfire was little more than softly glowing embers, but they didn't burn him. Which isn't to say that we, as spirits of fire,
couldn't
be harmed by our element. The scars down my spine were evidence enough of that. But they'd come from a situation in which I'd been unable to either control or feed on fire, thanks to the fact I was rescuing a child and in full view of a crowd of people. Vampires and werewolves might be out and proud—and generally accepted into human society far better than most of us had ever expected—but there were still enough people who deemed them a threat to civilization in need of erasing that the rest of us thought it better to remain in the shadows.

Who knew how society would react if people ever realized just how many of us were living among them?

Even though Rory was unconscious, in rebirth the process of feeding was automatic; the bonfire continued to fuel him until the light within it was completely drained and all that remained was cold ashes.

Only then did he stir.

Only then did he open his eyes and look at me.

“Emberly.” His voice was little more than a harsh whisper, but it was a sound so sweet it bought tears to my eyes. Because it meant everything had gone right; he was back and whole, and life for the two of us could go on as it always had.

I smiled. “Welcome once again to the land of the living.”

“Not sure this can
ever
be called living. Not when every fucking piece of me is aching like shit.”

“
That
is the price you pay for getting yourself shot.”

He grunted and rolled onto his back. Ash plumed skyward then rained back down, covering his flesh in a coat of fine gray. “Did you get the bastard who did it?”

“That depends.”

He raised a pale red-gold eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“That I sent every ounce of flame I could muster and every bit of energy I could demand from the mother into the building the shot had come from. It exploded into pieces so small they were little more than dust, so I undoubtedly got the shooter.”

“But it's the bastard who ordered the kill we want.”

“Exactly.” I uncrossed my legs and pushed upright. Just for an instant, the clearing spun around me, a warning that Rory wasn't the only weak one right now. “And I thought you might like a piece of
that
particular action.”

“You thought right.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes then looked around. “Where are we?”

“Trawool. Or just outside of it, anyway.”

He blinked. “Where the fuck is that?”

I smiled and held out my hands. “It's about fourteen kilometers out of Seymour and about an hour from Melbourne. Ready?”

His fingers gripped mine and, after a deep breath, he nodded. I hauled him upright; ash flew around the two of us, catching in my throat and making me cough. He hissed and his fingers tightened briefly on mine as he gathered his balance.

“It never gets any easier,” he muttered.

“No.”

I held on to him and waited. After several more minutes, he nodded. I released one hand and shifted the other to his elbow. Just because he thought he was stable didn't mean he actually was.

“I wasn't able to drive the car into the clearing—there were too many trees,” I said. “But it's parked as close as I could get.”

“I'll make it.” He took a determined step forward, paused unsteadily for a moment, and then took another. He very much resembled a toddler taking his first steps and, in many ways, it was an apt image. The two of us might have spent more years alive than either of us cared to remember, but
each rebirth came with the cost of major muscle groups remembering how to function again. Sometimes recovery was almost instant—as had happened this time when it came to speech and arm movement—and other times it could take days. Hell, the last time I'd been reborn, it had taken close to two weeks for full function to return to my legs.

When we finally reached the edge of the small clearing, I quickly re-dressed then picked up the soft tunic, shaking the dirt and leaves from it before helping him into it. Right now, his skin was so new that it was also ultrasensitive. Anything too tight or scratchy would rub him raw.

It was only half a dozen steps from there to the car I'd rented, but by the time he'd climbed into the back of the station wagon, his body was shaking and sweat beaded his forehead.

I slammed the back door closed then climbed into the driver's seat and started the car up. “There's protein bars and a couple of energy drinks in the backpack.”

He dragged it closer and opened it up. “Whatever did we do before modern food manufacturing?”

“Snacked on beef jerky and drank unrefined cow's milk boosted with raw eggs.”

“Which is probably the reason I hate both with a passion today.” He tore open the protein bar and began munching on it. “Except, of course, when said milk is combined with either brandy or rum in the form of an eggnog. How many days have I missed?”

I checked the mirror for oncoming cars, even though that was unlikely on this off the beaten track, then did a U-turn and headed down to the main road.

“Three. I had to wait for a hot enough day to perform the ceremony.”

He snorted softly. “If Melbourne can be relied on for anything, it's weather that does
not
do what you want.”