Phoenix Reborn Read online

  PHOENIX REBORN

  CARINA WILDER

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  The Woodland Creek Series

  About the Author

  Also by Carina Wilder

  Woodland Creek Series.

  30 Authors. 30 Shifter Stories.

  One Epic Release Day.

  www.woodlandcreekseries.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Carina Wilder

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Ashling manipulated the melting shard of silver, drawing it into a long, thin thread. The searing heat radiating from her fingertips softened the metal under her touch, the silver’s shape adapting to her coaxing as it altered alongside the instructions of her quick, deft movements. Carefully she twisted it round several times, creating a small, narrowing spiral in her hand. She pulled at one end, shaping it into a sharp point.

  The project was one that she’d begun with no goal in mind, but now as she stared at her creation she settled on the notion that she was crafting a unicorn’s horn. Something mythological, non-existent; a fantasy of someone’s creation.

  Yes, this was an excellent plan. Things that didn’t actually exist were inherently indestructible. The horn was symbolic armour that she wished she could wear on her own body to protect against hurt, against people, against judgment. Against everything. Ever since that night so long ago, she’d wanted nothing more than to find a way to defend herself. Maybe the horn could be a talisman against pain.

  But no — a sharp object, of course, wasn’t armour. It was a weapon. One which could penetrate those who wished her ill. It was aggressive and hostile. And the fact was that if she ever wore it around her neck it would more likely injure her than anyone else.

  She let out a quiet laugh at her own expense before dropping it into the ceramic crucible meant to hold molten metal, allowing the silver to begin cooling once again. Her mind began to wander to more pleasant avenues as she peered into the container. Perhaps, she thought, a heart-shaped pendant would be more likely to sell; she should really make some of those for the shop.

  Somehow, hostility and silver-smithing didn’t mix. This was a craft for those who enjoyed pretty things. If she’d wanted to make swords, she should have apprenticed for a blacksmith.

  So she began again, this time moving slowly, her thoughts calculated as she used the silversmith’s torch to liquify the silver from underneath, as any normal human being would do. She slowed her mind and her movements to the pace she’d seen in Ranach’s crafting so many times over the years.

  Where was he, anyhow? Normally he didn’t leave her alone for this long. He always seemed to sense when she was having problems and to show up in the nick of time to save her from a meltdown, whether figurative or literal.

  “That’s looking good.”

  And just like that, her question was answered. Ashling jumped, threatening to splash a little of the molten metal onto herself or worse, him. His footfalls were so quiet for a person with such a booming voice. “Yes, very good,” said the old man. “Except for the fact that it’s nebulous, shapeless and altogether quite useless. Now, perhaps it’s time to make something other than a blob. Come now, you’ve been down here for hours.”

  She took her eyes off the metal for a moment to look up at him, her eyes flashing mock rage. As usual, Ranach’s long, white eyebrows and bushy hair seemed to stick out in every direction but the correct one, which always gave him the air of a mad professor. His messy appearance would have made him seem homeless but for the fact that he smelled clean, at least. Not to mention the intelligent look in his eye that always seemed to say, “I could dress nicely, but who has the time to bother with such frivolous business?”

  Though some of Woodland Creek’s inhabitants found him a little too eccentric for their tastes, the general consensus had always seemed positive: he was a good, kind man and very helpful to anyone in need. So while dinner invitations were scarce, he certainly was well-liked, or at least well-tolerated. And no one questioned that he was brilliant. He was a master crafter. And Ashling, who knew how gifted he was, remained a mere student, and probably always would; or at least she told herself so on a regular basis.

  “It’s only a blob because I started over,” she said, her voice sheepish as she eyed her small bowl of semi-molten silver. “It wasn’t working out.”

  “Never give up. You can always find ways to change something unattractive into something beautiful,” he said. “Now, go ahead: do what I know you can.”

  She began to pour the silver into a small round mould before he protested.

  “No,” he said. “Do it your way.”

  Ashling sighed and poured the remainder of the liquid into the palm of her left hand. It should have burned her, of course, but heat never had that effect. Instead, the silver began once again to cool as she sculpted it like putty, pulling it into thin strands.

  “Access your mind’s eye,” Ranach said. “The first thing that springs into your field of vision is the very object that you should create.”

  She closed her eyes and, blind to the world outside of her imagination, continued to manipulate the material, flattening, tugging this way and that. Her fingers seemed to know what to do, as though controlled by strings held by a master of puppetry. And so she let them go, steering the silver towards the shape that she’d seen; the creature who soared through her vision.

  At last, she clasped a solid form between her fingers, delicate and thin. Opening her eyes, she anticipated seeing a mess of half-melted silver. But instead, she was greeted with the most beautiful object she’d ever managed to create.

  “There,” Ranach said, backing away. “A lovely creature which transformed from nothing but your mind and fingertips.”

  “I didn’t think I could make anything like this,” she said, staring in wonder at her own creation.

  “You can if you’re inspired. Interesting, too, that you should have crafted a bird of flame. A Phoenix.”

  “I don’t know why, even. It just sort of happened.”

  “As I said, that is exactly the best way to create. This creature was somewhere deep inside you, waiting to burst forth, and now, in a sense, it has. And speaking of beautiful birds, do you know — I’ve heard that a rare Golden Eagle has been spotted in the skies above town. You should go out and look for him today. Go out and celebrate your success.”

  “I don’t know. I have all sorts of work to do.”

  “I’m your boss, if only in a very unofficial capacity. And I’m telling you that you have nothing of import to do. Come, if you won’t actually leave the house then let’s head upstairs. You spend far too many hours cooped up down here, young lady.”

  “I like it down here,” she protested. “No one bothers me. Well, except for you, you old windbag.” Finally she laughed, realizing that there was no sense in resisting Ranach’s demands. He always won out in the end.

  The old man let out a deep chuckle.

  “Windbag. That I am,” he said, extending his hand to help pull her to her fee
t. “But how can you stand being enclosed in this prison for hours on end?”

  “It feels safe,” Ashling replied with nothing but raw sincerity in her tone. “Not prison-like at all. Out there is the real prison. The people, the world judging me and condemning me.”

  “They don’t judge nearly so much as you think, my dear girl. If only you knew how you are supported outside of these walls.”

  He rarely spoke of it, of her trick of manipulating fire and heat. Of the fact that this was the only place where she felt at ease with her strange and uncontrolled ability. And yet Ranach had never seemed to hold it against her; he even managed to treat her as though it were simply a part of who she was, like the ability to whistle or do a cartwheel. How anyone could be sympathetic to a would-be arsonist, even an accidental one, was beyond the young woman. But she gladly accepted the kindness among all of his other generous gestures. Not the least of which was the fact that he’d taken her in as a child when her parents had disappeared.

  The studio’s walls were concrete, as was its floor. Its ceiling was made of a fire-retardant tile, all of which had been a relief when Ashling had first spent time in the room. That was one appealing facet of the job: no risk of burning anything down. This was the one interior space in town in which a fire-starter could work without risk of arson. And no doubt the old man had taken that into consideration when he’d offered her the position of apprentice.

  “I’m never going to be really good at this, you know,” Ashling said, looking at the firebird that she still held as her mentor towered over her. “I’m not talented like you are.”

  “You have many talents. The only issue is that most of them are hidden, even from you,” said the man in the wise tone that occasionally convinced even Ashling that he must know whereof he spoke.

  “Well, they’re not terribly useful talents then, are they?” she said. “I’m sure everyone has some sort of hidden skill that never rears its head, but they don’t do anyone any good if they remain concealed.”

  “Yes, but yours may be useful one day, and in fact may save your life. You see your gifts as curses. But believe me, they are quite the opposite. One day you’ll understand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ranach looked at her from under his bushy brows and smiled, his eyes sympathetic.

  “Nothing that can’t be saved for another day. But come, let’s leave this small hell and head upstairs. I want to be in the sunlight for a little, even if you don’t.”

  He guided her out of their isolated bunker and up into the well-kept living room, which was filled with antiques that seemed to have come from every conceivable corner of the globe. A sunbeam poured through the window, highlighting particles of dust that flew up as the two proceeded up the staircase.

  “By the way,” Ranach said, turning to her as his foot hit the Persian rug that sat in the centre of the floor. “In addition to soaring Eagles, I hear that an old friend of yours is in town.”

  “Oh? And who would that be?” she replied, stretching her arms as she stepped into the bright living room. Friends were not exactly her forte.

  “Hawke Turner.”

  2

  Ashling froze mid-stretch, her already large eyes widening. She hadn’t heard that name uttered in some years, though she saw it almost daily. In writing, everywhere she turned, on cinema marquees, in newspapers, online. There was no avoiding it.

  Hawke Turner was the golden boy of Woodland Creek, a claim to fame of sorts for the town. He’d left when he was a teenager to pursue a career in film, and he’d made it with great success. In fact, Ashling had watched him a few nights earlier in a romantic comedy which she’d rented on pay-per-view, though she would never have admitted such a thing to Ranach or anyone else.

  But long before Hawke’s career had begun, before the awful night that had changed everything, Ashling had shared a close bond with him. All their young lives they’d been classmates. And as a freshman in high school, Hawke had often sat with her outside at lunch, chatting with her, asking questions about her thoughts, her aspirations. He’d always seemed genuinely inquisitive, genuinely caring.

  And she’d always liked him for it; after all, a shy girl’s greatest ally was a friendly boy. It didn’t hurt, either, that he was handsome, even then. Over time, though she’d never expressed the words out loud, her feelings for him had developed into something like first love. Each day she’d anticipated seeing him at school, her young heart fluttering whenever he walked into the room. Days when he was away sick always felt as though something had been temporarily removed from her being.

  He had been her hero, that boy who was so attentive and so caring. Her saviour. And for a time, he’d seemed fond of her, too.

  Adults always said that children and teenagers didn’t understand love. But Ashling had been convinced otherwise during those years. In truth, she had cared deeply for Hawke in spite of her youth. And never had she felt that way about anyone since. She’d had boyfriends; she’d experienced the pleasures of sexual intimacy. But no man had caused her heart to dance in her chest as he had.

  And so, when things had gone south on that infamous night so long ago, her withdrawal from her peers and from society had broken her heart. Because she’d lost him too. As she’d done with everyone else, she’d pushed him away, retreated from him, from herself, from everything.

  She would never forget the moment when Hawke had seemed to realize that they were no longer to be friends. From across a crowd she’d seen him looking at her, his eyes sad, confused, questioning. And she’d known that he felt it, as the others did it. Fear, disgust. Loathing.

  She knew then that he would never come and sit with her again. And soon after that he’d gotten his first acting job, which had meant that he had moved away from Woodland Creek. That was the last that Ashling had seen of him.

  And now, after years, there was no hope of reigniting that friendship. A girl who could do what she’d done tended not to have a great number of friends — particularly not famous ones.

  As the memories reeled in her mind, Ashling remembered that Ranach had just spoken.

  “Hawke is coming here?” she said, her heart accelerating in her chest. “Why on earth would he even be in Woodland Creek?”

  “Well, he was born in this town, after all. Even movie stars like to visit their families.”

  “Yes, but he can afford to fly them anywhere in the world. Surely…”

  “Perhaps he simply misses the place. I know that I would, if I were gone for a long time.”

  For years she’d avoided reading about Hawke in newspapers or looking him up, not wanting to know what it was that she’d lost in that fateful moment eight years earlier.

  But for whatever reason, he’d been on her mind of late. And the film that she’d watched had been her link to him; a reminder of another era. Watching it had brought on painful memories, but it had also satisfied a long-developing curiosity. She’d heard, of course, that he was doing incredibly well. And a part of her was proud of him for it, for getting out of Woodland Creek and for carving such a name for himself onto the world’s consciousness.

  And she’d discovered that as well as everything else that he’d become, Hawke had grown into an incredibly handsome young man, his dark hair still thick and unruly, his face expressive, lips kissable, not to mention apparently sought after by every Hollywood starlet.

  One scene in particular had caused Ashling to hit the pause button, her heart once again surging inside her chest just as it had done in her younger years. In the scene he’d been standing in a bedroom, shirtless, wearing only boxer shorts. His abdomen had looked as though it had seen more workouts than most Navy Seals. He was, without a doubt, a thing of exquisite beauty, and for a moment she’d wondered how life might have been different, if only…

  If only so many things had never happened. Too many to count.

  “You and he were quite close at one point, were you not?” asked her mentor, raising an eyebrow inquisitively,
as though in the midst of reading her thoughts. As always, Ashling felt certain he already knew the answer to his question. He was only asking to pull her out of the invisible shell that she used for armour.

  “Close? Sure, when we were about twelve,” she said, avoiding any mention of the incident that had occurred during her teen years — the incident that had ensured that her social life would come to an abrupt and painful end. “It’s not like we’re in touch now.”

  “Well, you will be back in touch soon enough. He’s on his way over.”

  “What? When? Why?” Ashling found herself wondering how much of the studio’s dust and grime had settled on her face. God, she must look awful. She was suddenly sorry to have worn an old pair of torn jeans and a dark grey sweatshirt that she’d owned in high school. But then, if Hawke was like most men, he would remain oblivious to her choice of wardrobe, and likely wouldn’t be any the wiser if her face weren’t immaculately clean.

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming over?” she asked, wiping her forehead with a ratty sleeve.

  “Because if I know you at all, I can predict when you might panic — as you’re doing now. As for your other question, he’ll be here at any second.”

  And, as if on cue, the doorbell rang.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Ranach, smiling sweetly. Ashling glared at him before taking the few steps to the door. Cruel, cruel mentor. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d somehow orchestrated this deliberately. Though what his motivation was, she couldn’t guess. Ranach was a lot of things, but he wasn’t generally sadistic.

  She opened the door with one hand, running her fingers through her slightly tangled mess of auburn hair with the other. And there he stood; tall, handsome, Hawke.

  If she hadn’t known him as a child, she would never have believed that his name could be real. It had always seemed designed for someone who might end up in a hall of fame; you didn’t name your child Hawke unless you expected him to go places.