Phoenix Feather
Authors: Angela Wallace
P
HOENIX
F
EATHER
By Angela Wallace
Copyright 2011 Angela Wallace
Kindle Edition
Cover art by Char Adlesperger
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Other Titles by Angela Wallace
Chapter One
Aidan begged the pounding on the door to go away. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold on to the images from her reverie, but they melted away like smoke with each disruptive knock. An untouched glass of champagne sat on the coffee table, and the German opera singer Ivar Abendroth played in the stereo. She looked at the clock and sighed. The book club would be starting soon, and it was her turn to host. It was unfortunate timing that it fell on a day she would rather spend alone, strolling down memory lane. Aidan stood up and raised the glass to her reflection in the window. She wasn’t dressed in honor of the occasion: jeans, black Seattle U sweatshirt, strands of red hair untamed by her ponytail framing her face, and sad honey-brown eyes.
“Happy Anniversary,” she said, and drained the glass. It would have been their eightieth anniversary, though Ivar wouldn’t have lived this long anyway, even if he hadn’t died young in 1935. That life cycle was over, yet Aidan couldn’t bring herself to stop grieving his loss, perhaps because it had been so sudden, a tragic collision of Fate and shaky automobiles. If she closed her eyes though, the voice coming from the stereo could pull away from the speakers like the trail of a ghost and settle across from her. It would be like their last celebration together, when they had the theatre to themselves with only the carved cherubs gazing down at them from the marble pillars as they danced, and he serenaded her with his deep bass voice. No amount of champagne could recreate the heavenly daze of that evening.
Aidan had almost sunk back into the memory when the knocking on the door picked up again more forcefully. She sighed in defeat. “Coming!” She crossed the living room and pulled the door open.
A smiling, brown-haired beauty with blue eyes stood outside holding a box of pizza. “Sustenance,” Phoebe said, and squeezed her way inside with the pizza and a backpack stuffed with books. She maneuvered her way to the small kitchen of Aidan’s one-bedroom apartment and inclined her head toward the living room. “Ah, your beloved Ivar.”
Aidan slipped the champagne glass into the dishwasher. “Sorry, I guess I get lost when I’m listening to him.” Phoebe was Aidan’s best friend. They had met as undergrads, and Aidan had been impressed by the young woman’s tenacity in drawing Aidan out of her quiet and reserved shell. They inevitably became friends, and since then Aidan had joined the book club, participated in community fundraisers, and even taken her formerly solitary hobby of making blankets for kids in hospitals and made it an open-invitation campus community service project. Phoebe’s friendship gave vibrancy to an otherwise monotonous and tedious life cycle.
Phoebe shook her head and retrieved paper plates from the cupboard. “Leave it to you to fall in love with a guy before your lifetime.”
Aidan smiled grimly and grabbed several bottles of water from under the table. That wasn’t exactly true. She had been around long before even Ivar’s lifetime, though she hadn’t always lived as a human. Her true form was that of a great red bird with wings that shone like fire—the phoenix, an immortal creature perpetually reincarnated from the ashes of its death. It had been centuries since Aidan had decided to live among humans, a woman with fiery red hair and eyes like flames of amber, participating in their lives, their history, becoming—almost—human.
“The best kind of boyfriend,” Aidan replied, although insincerely. “The kind that comes with a remote.” It was a silly joke, one they had started simply to highlight the difficulties of balancing a serious relationship while pursuing Masters degrees. Tonight though, Aidan would have given anything to have the real Ivar in her living room rather than the recording of a dead man. And while she knew the power of loving deeply, she had no interest in dating this time around. She wanted to focus on her current life as a twenty-four-year-old graduate student of history in Seattle, Washington. She had tried so many new things over the centuries; now she just wanted plain and predictable. Besides, the road of love was well traveled and littered with heartache.
Well, not all heartache
, she amended as Ivar’s voice crescendoed, and she could almost feel her feet lift off the floor, remembering him swinging her around in his arms. Death was the true blow, the final curtain on whirlwinds of passion and intimacy. No matter how wonderful the guy and the relationship, they both always ended.
Aidan and Phoebe carried the pizza, plates, and bottles of water into the living room. Aidan’s living space was simple and quaint. A few framed posters of historic paintings hung on the walls, and little replicas of historical pieces accentuated her bookshelves and side tables. It was her way of holding on. She learned long ago not to place too much sentimental value in material things. She always lost them when transitioning from one life cycle to the next. Still, she appreciated the reminders, such as the copy of the eleventh century ink
Buddhist Temple in the Mountains
where she spent the dying years of one life in peace, or the Scottish hair comb whose gold-filigreed Celtic knots reminded her of the one she wore to a Beltane fire festival in Gaelic Ireland. Other than that, decorations were sparse. Even the black throw pillows on her sofa were plain purchases from a garage sale.
Aidan transferred the lit candles and potted orchid from the coffee table to a side table, and spread coasters over the glass surface. She laid down a dishtowel to put the pizza on. The other girls would be arriving soon. Even though it felt as though the repetitious life cycles were beginning to wear on her, it was only around anniversaries when Aidan became morose and sentimental. This current life wasn’t a bad one. She had good friends, was studying a subject she not only enjoyed but was very good at (having witnessed it all for herself: the rise and fall of empires, wars, discovery). She had two convenient jobs as both a waitress and a teacher’s assistant at the university, and found the West Coast’s climate to be quite agreeable. Tomorrow, things wouldn’t seem so bleak.
Aidan pointed the remote and shut off the stereo, silencing the angelic voice. She turned and caught sight of herself in the glass. Her reflection looked stark against the blackness of night outside. The window stood like a tangible metaphor for the barrier that separated her from humanity. She ran her hand over the cold, glossy surface, wondering whether it was darkness or light on the other side of death’s impenetrable veil.
Phoebe took the CD case from the shelf and flipped it over to look at the back. “How do you discover these old opera singers?”
Aidan pulled the curtains closed. “Chance.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She had been caught in the rain. He had just hailed a taxi to rescue himself, but paused when she came splashing over the cobblestones. And, since he was a gentleman, he offered her his hand and a lift into the cab.
Another knock sounded at the door. Two by two, four more girls arrived and grabbed plates of pizza and settled either on the couch or floor in Aidan’s living room. At fifteen past seven, they were ready to begin discussion. That month they were reading
The Road to Versailles
, a work of historical fiction highlighting the 1789 Women’s March on Versailles. Despite its genre, Aidan hadn’t been the one to pick it. Ironically, she had been the one to write it, under a different name in the latter years of her last life. It made discussions a little awkward for her, yet she also came across as having profound insight into the characters’ psychologies. It helped that the book was largely based on fact—Aidan had been one of the women in that revolutionary march. She could still remember the desperate cries and the clashing of weapons when the National Guard had intervened. Aidan looked around at the girls giggling in her living room; they were so much younger in spirit, though not in age, than those she had marched beside.
“Where’s Jenny? It’s her turn to lead this week,” Phoebe said.
“I’ll try calling her.” Aidan pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through the contacts. Jenny’s cell rang for thirty seconds before going to voice mail. Aidan snapped hers shut without leaving a message and laid it on the table. “We can always start without her.”
“Spontaneous tonight, cool.”
Aidan had no trouble getting into the discussion, and it proved a good distraction for her after all. She glanced at the clock every twenty minutes, but Jenny never arrived. Near the end, the girls plotted ways to make her pay for skipping out on her turn to lead. They made idle threats of forcing her to create Power Point presentations for the next three sessions, or insisting she bake German Chocolate Cake for the next meeting. They laughed and helped Aidan clean up.
They all finally left shortly after nine o’clock.
“See you later.” Phoebe paused at the door, the last to leave. “You look better now than you did when I arrived.”
“It was a good night for this,” Aidan admitted.
Phoebe gave her a hug and left.
Aidan closed the door behind her. The apartment was strangely quiet now, but she didn’t feel like putting on Ivar’s voice again. She picked up her phone and called Jenny one more time. It went straight to voice mail, and she left a brief message saying they all missed her. She grabbed a blanket and curled up on the couch to start reading the chapters for next week.
“Goodnight, Ivar,” she said absently.
At a little past dawn, the restaurant was quiet with only a few patrons sipping coffee at the bar. Aidan sat folding silverware into napkins and thinking back to eighteenth century England and a scene similar to this one, only then she had been folding cloth napkins in the kitchen of Buckingham House, before it was a palace, and the silverware had been pure silver with handcrafted moldings. She heard the doors open and felt a bit of the morning air creep in with the guest. Aidan left her mundane task to greet and seat.
A man in a casual blue fireman’s uniform stood at the counter, looking over a menu. He had blond hair that swept over his ears and came to a tight end at the back of his shirt collar.
“Bar?” Aidan asked. The solitary workmen seemed to prefer the quick grab-and-go of eating at the counter rather than a table.
