Fire Danger (4 page)

“Rachel?” he asked.

He had an accent, something old-world Europe. She studied him again but couldn’t place his nationality.

“How old are you?” she asked suddenly. “I’m trying to figure out where you came from and I can’t.”

“I’m from what you would now call Germany,” he said simply.

She made a small sound. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you only answered half my question.” The feeling of heat faded, to her relief. Now it was as if something had tilted her world on its axis.

Phoenix smiled, sending a shiver down her spine. The danger she’d sensed in him earlier came flooding back, and she wondered just how formidable an opponent he would be when roused.

He moved then, coming to sit beside her. He met her eyes as he came closer until she could see the gold and black flecks in his amber-brown eyes and the sun-bleached highlights woven through his chocolate hair. Up close his face spoke of age without having a line or a wrinkle to mark him. She decided it was his eyes. They appeared to have seen far too much. Rachel tried to remember what she could about the legend of the Phoenix. They were associated with the sun and died in fire and were resurrected. Did they have control over fire? Did he have control over it? How much of it was true and how much fiction?

“You’re projecting like a mewling werepanther. Try to shield.”

His phone rang, interrupting them, the bell echoing in the living room. She started, the unexpected noise piercing through the tension in the room.

The sense of heat began to fade, and Rachel took a breath. It retreated like a banked fire, controlled but not gone.

“Call from Griffin,” the talking caller ID announced. “Call from Griffin,” it repeated.

That wasn’t a last name. “Landline?”

“It’s easier. Safer.” Phoenix turned his attention to the phone. “Griff, they have clocks in Iceland,” he said, after pushing speaker on the telephone. “What is it?”

The voice was tinny but clear, a lilting tenor. “Aleric, what is going on over there? Who is projecting so loudly half the paranormal universe can hear her?”

Phoenix’s gaze was speculative.

“That is an interesting question, my friend.”

* * * * *

The man blinked at the sun fading into the horizon as night approached. Tilting his head, he focused again. Whatever he had felt, it wasn’t in the bazaar shop he was in. He set the object he’d been holding down and made his excuses to the shopkeeper he’d been dickering with. Running more than walking, he reached a secluded area of the city, ducking into a shop where the tourists had left for the day. With a nod to the proprietor, he took his winged form and made his escape, flying the short distance to his family compound. He quickly went into one of the small, empty rooms, trying to quell his excitement.

The first series of mental shouts had woken him out of sleep. He couldn’t calibrate them through the chatter: even in the early hours of his day, there were too many minds around and he was too unfocused. Now it was later in the day and he was ready.

Possible or not, it was real. He knew that mental signature. Or rather, he had known the signature of the parent. It was familiar to him in that way that spoke not of the parent—impossible since she was dead—but of the child. Which was impossible and yet here it was. When he heard it again, an annoying rhyme he was unfamiliar with, he winced.

His dreams had been dark, full of death and mayhem. Some had been memories.

Flexing his leathery wings, he listened for the shrill shriek again, so familiar and yet unfamiliar as well.

The booming voice came into his head.
“I have need of you.”

“Who’s that?”
He hoped he didn’t sound too eager.

A mocking laugh was his answer.
“You know the answer to that. I have need of your assistance.”

The voice wasn’t of his clan. It was possibly a god or a demigod. A supernatural being, without a doubt. Someone who lived on the darker side of life. A Demonos? He gloried at the idea. The moment he thought it, he knew that he was right. A Demonos. It could only be one Demonos. Fire. The fire Demonos had contacted him.

“I would have her,” he said out loud.

He didn’t know how this child had escaped his wrath all those years ago, but it could not stand. He would fly now, fly to where this creature was and dispose of her.

His wings flexed and the horns on his forehead burned with fire. He would destroy this abomination. He would not tell his clan. It would be his little surprise. He would be able to fix the mistake, and once he had, everyone would see he had been correct.

“Yes. You shall have her. Come to me. Come now.”

How she had eluded him and hidden all these years was a puzzle, and he would solve it. He focused on the picture the voice had given him. America. He was unfamiliar with most of their cities, but even halfway across the world, he recognized the Golden Gate Bridge. That must be where the atrocity was. She could not be permitted to live.

Time to fly.

Chapter Three

So many selections,
the human assassin-for-hire thought, standing in front of the glass case of the gun store.
So many ways to kill.

Wonderful.

“Need help?”

He shook his head, staring down the much bigger, burly man covered in tattoos. The other man didn’t blink, crossing his powerful arms and flexing his forearms.

“Still deciding,” he said. “I will let you know when I am ready.”

The tattooed clerk moved down the line, giving another customer his attention.

The man called Ron resisted the urge to pat his pockets. His false IDs were safely tucked away, well crafted and perfect. They had already passed the highest tests, as was evident by the California driver’s license and US passport, as well as a social security card and gas bill. More importantly, he had a clean record. Ron Davies was a good boy. He had never been arrested nor gotten as much as a moving violation. He had probably been a Boy Scout, or would have been if he had lived past the age of two.

The man’s slight frame and mild, uninteresting looks were an advantage in his line of work. It was an effort to remember him, even if someone had met him more than once. The prison guards had only remembered him when the other inmates tried to fuck with him. Then, everyone remembered him. For a time. But violence was unremarkable in the prison system, and once again he was quickly forgotten.

This ordinary part of his persona made him perfect for the job.

The clerk was hovering again, giving him a narrow, stony-faced look. Ron had been lingering too long in front of the case. Would it be wise to go elsewhere?

He pointed to the gun case. “That one.”

The rifle would do nicely. It was the perfect size—big enough to get the job done, but not enough to raise eyebrows. The weapon would be suitable after he had modified it and added a scope. He would need ammo, grenades, bomb supplies and other instruments of death as well. There were ways to get those things.

It would be perfect for the assassination. Killing someone could change the world. As he checked the sights, he tried to remember the name of the man whose death had caused World War I. He had been some dull piece of European royalty or petty tyrant, a nobody who meant nothing—until he died. Then his death pulled the major countries into a war that swept over the world and took decades to overcome.

Ron nodded his approval at the weapon and followed the clerk to begin the registration process. Registration wouldn’t be an issue for Ron Davies.

That was the nature of things. You needed to know the right string to pull, with so many interlocked. The wrong one and your assassination would hit a dead end. The right one and the world would explode.

If what he had been shown was true, it would explode in fire.

He liked fire, but he liked killing more. The events he was going to set in motion might end in flames and destruction, and that would be fun to see. But it was the killing he would enjoy the most. He hoped his client would let him kill more when his task was done.

Once his mission was completed, Ron exited the store and headed for BART. A little sightseeing was in order. Fisherman’s Wharf to start, and then Coit Tower and the Transamerica Pyramid. He was new in town, and San Francisco was a pretty city. He would explore it now, before he turned it into a battleground. Before he became that guy. The one who started World War III.

* * * * *

Rachel was still sleeping in his bed when Phoenix rose from the sofa. He glanced toward the bedroom with its shut door, missing the expanse of his king-size bed. Then he shook his head. It had been centuries, but there had been many times in his short human life when he’d been grateful for anything other than hard ground to sleep on.

The enigma of the woman in his bed tugged at him. It was crucial they quickly find out what supernatural blood flowed through her veins. Something in her spoke to the fire in his blood, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Fire calls to fire
, he thought and shook his head. That had been disproven a long time ago. He had almost died because of his belief in that silly prophecy. If she was fire, he should run hard and fast.

Griff’s call last night reminded him of what they were facing. Challenge. Iceland’s volcanoes were rumbling and his enemy had put in an appearance. Phoenix had yet to see Haures, his fire Demonos foe, but it wouldn’t be long. He would need to call Sphynx and Ondine later, check in on their status.

Walking over to the computer, he jostled the mouse so the screen came up, cursor flashing on the password box. Time had been when all their answers had to come from educated guesswork and signs put in their paths. The modern age made it so much easier.

There was a plaintive meow from the bathroom.

Despite the animal’s apparent dislike for him, Phoenix turned to the kitchen. No being went hungry in his house. After preparing some leftover steak and chicken he found in the refrigerator, Phoenix opened the bathroom door. The cat snuffled the air. Unlike before, he was quiet.

“Here you go, cat. Your mistress will be awake soon.”

Phoenix put the plate down, and after a sniff, JT deigned to eat a bite, and then another. Satisfied that his task was done, Phoenix closed the door and returned to his computer.

He had learned over the centuries that there was rarely such a thing as coincidence in his world. He’d been idling around, making nowhere in particular his home until San Francisco. An Elemental house, one of many owned by their company, had been where he’d ended up. In this day and age, even supernatural beings had an LLC.

He had not expected his Challenge to include an unawakened woman who had no idea of who she really was. Whether she was intended to help or hinder his Challenge remained unknown.

The local news talked of many routine things. Earthquake preparedness. The San Francisco 49ers. Tourist traffic. The mayor of Chicago was visiting the San Francisco mayor, an old friend. Originally from Croatia, she was a popular mayor. It was a routine visit. Her closeness to the president and the always-unsettled nature of the former Yugoslavia were the only things that made the news interesting.

National and international news also didn’t offer up any obvious clues. It was still the same wars, the same destruction. He was going to have to dig, checking gray-area sites and conspiracy theories, and many of the outwardly crazier ideas that so many paranoid folks had.

They weren’t always paranoid. Sometimes they were the very few who had been born with the ability to
see
, and, like Cassandra, they were cursed with not being believed.

The Challenge could only be fire related. Until Rachel turned up, he had intended to join Griff in Iceland, to spend some time with his friend before it all began again.

He itched to do something. Sparring in the boxing ring and long-distance running only went so far. Better to fulfill his role and fight.

His Skype beeped. The young image of Ondine, their water Elemental, appeared on his screen. Appearing to be in her midtwenties, Ondine was already ten years beyond that. Her age had been permanently fixed at the time of her assuming the mantle of water Elemental. Having a female to contend with as an equal was new to Phoenix.

As usual, her short, dark hair was damp. Whatever the criteria was for the choice for a new Elemental when an old one died, the chosen person always fit the station. In this case, Ondine had been associated with the water as a human, but he didn’t remember the details.

“Just checking in,” she said when he answered. “The dolphins and whales are agitated. Do I need to be worried? I haven’t been through one of these. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I feel something strange, though.”

“Keep vigilant,” he said, knowing nothing he could give her would be reassuring. “There is no mistaking it. It is early, but it is the time of Challenge.”

“I can’t wait.” Sarcasm.

“Where are you?”

Her shoulders moved in a shrug. “The yacht. I’ve got a couple of shifters with me who say they want to help. We’re going to Europe to meet up with Griffin. After that depends on Challenge. Anything I should know?”

Phoenix shook his head. “Not yet. Stay in touch.”

“I will,” she said and cut the connection.

A frustrated sigh accompanied his lurch out of his desk chair, sending the chair spinning.

Ondine was too damned young. He needed Trevor’s insight. The old Hippocampus had a way of sorting through possibilities when Challenges came, coming up with the only possible one. It had helped mitigate the damage one of the times they had been Challenged, a time that had ended in Elemental failure. Plague had been their price of defeat, the Demonos’s chosen cause of human death. The Black Death had killed more than one-third of Europe, Asia and the Middle East’s population in less than ten years. At least seventy-five million people had died, a staggering number for that time period. While other plagues hit the continents in the next centuries, only that one had been caused by the Elementals’ failure. Their fault, their price for losing their Challenge.

The bathroom faucet turned on and the toilet flushed. Rachel. The urge to peek into her mind was an almost overwhelming compulsion.

Rude, Phoenix.

What was it about her? Perhaps it was the fire he sensed in her, although he had not dealt with many other fire beings since his disastrous encounter those centuries ago. He pictured Rachel, dewy and slack-jawed, in his California king bed, her trim body under his thick black comforter. His body stirred even now at the remembered image, hardening against the snug jeans. He contracted with the Dhampirs when he needed a woman, but it had been…months since he had bothered. It had been decades since he’d been with a mortal. He left the womanizing to Griff, who wore the crown proudly. Griff played in the safe zone, among supernatural beings and minor deities. Among the nonhumans, being with an Elemental often earned the partner bragging rights.

Phoenix stayed out of danger. The Dhampir clans served his needs when the desire for skin contact became too great. His body itched right now, wanting the feel of her against him. He heard her pleasant voice cooing to the cat. He could get used to that voice moaning softly under him. Phoenix shook his head. Enough of that. He had a job to do.

* * * * *

Rachel entered the kitchen to find Phoenix dressed in jeans and a shirt that, judging by the quality of the cloth and the tailoring, had not come from a department store.

He was even more handsome in daylight than he was at night, wreathed in moonbeams and shadow. Dark blond pieces of his predominantly brown hair caught the light, shimmering on his head. His arms were dusted with hair, covering the strong muscles of his forearms and scattering along powerful biceps. His face wasn’t perfect—his nose was a little too large and his lips were too full for a man—but his face would seem unbalanced without them. Conventionally handsome men were boring, anyway.

As they had the night before, her palms heated and she resisted an urge to rub them together, creating friction. So strange. Memories of past instances when she’d woken up with the smell of burned matches and the feeling she’d been singed. The sickness inside her she had put down to aftereffects of the fugue. So far nothing had linked her to the burns, but she had been the only one around at those times.

Her hands tingled, the redness moving up her arms in a slow crawl. Rachel’s heart began beating fast. She caught a whiff of sulfur warring with her perfume.

She was in the same clothes from the night before but had put on a light coat of makeup before facing the man whose house she had landed in. She hadn’t wanted to rise from the very comfortable, huge bed, but eventually hunger and curiosity had gotten her up. There was a day ahead of her, questions to answer. Danger to confront.

A memory surfaced of a hushed, urgent voice. One she’d only ever heard in her mind.

“Get out, Rachel. I will protect you.”

“Rachel?”

Phoenix’s eyes were narrowed, and he was following the path of red up her arms. He stepped closer and took a deep breath, looking at that moment like the bird that was his namesake. There was an overlay of a beak before it faded.

“Fire calls to fire,” he muttered to himself.

Rachel’s brow creased. It sounded like a chant, a benediction and also a curse, but it meant nothing to her.

“Who are your parents?” He asked it with a fierce tone, something underlying the words, but she couldn’t pick anything out of his mind. He had walled his thoughts off to her with a skill she yearned to possess.

She sipped her coffee, holding on to the cup like a lifeline. “Just people. Harley and Jane Quinn.”

“Not people. There is no chance at least one of them isn’t something different.”

She tried to smile. “I don’t like those odds.”

“You weren’t meant to. Where are they now?”

Her shrug was careful and slow. The redness continued but she didn’t feel faint, nor did she feel any sign of a fugue coming on. It was more like swallowing an energy drink, her body charging with power.

“Dead,” he said finally. “It fits. You’re alone. Why now? Why is it happening now?” He gripped her forearms and turned them over, seeming to note the red streaks with interest. “You smell of fire. You are more than you seem. How is this possible?”

The view out the kitchen window was an uninteresting one of the hillside and neighboring houses, but it was better than his questioning eyes.

“I don’t know, Phoenix. I was leading a normal life, sort of. I was having fugue states and the doctors couldn’t figure out why, but there was nothing special about me. Then the wolves and shadow people yesterday. I don’t know how to answer you.”

He kept one hand on her forearm and used the other to turn her face up to his. “We will have to investigate the fugues. And the way you smell of fire. As for the others…the wolves are a good place to start.”

Easier than the shadow people, she supposed.

* * * * *

It might have been a state park, but the air of menace made it feel like something out of a bad movie. Maybe it was knowing there were werewolves somewhere in and
under
the park that gave it its ominous feel. Rachel had never felt this shiver of dread when seeing its name before.