Page 22 of Flames

“Bye, Felicity,” I mumble under my breath as I take stock of the situation I’m in. “So, can’t really jump out the window and run,” I mutter to myself. “Can’t dip back out into the hallway and sneak out.”

I begin to wander into the endless rows of books while I think. Multi-colored spines, some looking as ancient as time itself, cover the shelves. I doubt they have any smutty Omegaverse books in here to help me pass the time. Shame, I could use a distraction right about now. My mind wanders back to my captor as I walk the shelves. Mikhael doesn’t strike me as a big reader, which makes me wonder why he has such a large library. Maybe he isn’t lying—if I steal whatever it is he wants, perhaps he will let me go.

Yeah right, mafia men are totally known for being kind and fair.

“Looking for something, child?” a voice sounds from my left, dragging me from my thoughts, and making me jump damn near out of my skin.

Next to me is a wrinkled old woman. And when I say old, I mean ancient. She’s hunched over and her spine is curved. She has so many wrinkles criss-crossing her skin that I can barely see her eyes. She’s wearing a black dress and a handkerchief over her wispy white hair. How’d this ancient bag of bones sneak up on me?

“Sorry,” I stammer as I gather my composure. “You startled me.”

The old lady doesn’t say anything.

Okay, then, cue the awkward silence.

“Are you like the housekeeper or…” I trail off, letting her tell me just exactly who she is and what she wants.

“Or,” she answers simply.

Alright then.

“You can call me Baba,” she finally says after a pause. Her accent is thick and deep, as if she needs to think through each English word.

“Okay, Baba,” I begin with a slow nod. “So I’ve been kidnapped and am here against my will. Think you can call the cops for me or…” I have no hope she will agree to this. Honestly, she looks more ancient than the invention of the telephone, I doubt she’s going to risk her little remaining life for me.

“Or,” she states again.

I really gotta stop setting her up like that.

“Great,” I mutter sarcastically, turning back to the rows of books around us.

“The one you need is there,” she says, pointing a shaking, shriveled finger at a small book with a black leather binding and gold lettering. I can’t read the title on the spine which appears to say something in some Slavic language.

“Oh, I’m not really here to study,” I tell her, but she continues pointing, so I slip my finger on the top of the spine and slide the book from the shelf. It instantly feels warm in my hands. “Why am I looking for this?” I ask, but I suddenly realize I’m speaking to myself. The row is completely empty. “Baba?” I ask, but the old lady appears to be gone.

Well, that was exceptionally fucking weird.

Walking to the end of the row, I look back in the main open area of the room, but it’s empty. I’m completely alone. A shiver runs down my spine but I shake it off. It’s probably just the drugs they used to knock me out still running through my system.

Awkwardly, thanks to the unreasonably short length of my dress, I plop down at one of the long tables in the center of the room to assess my options. I flop the book down on the surface and it immediately falls open. The image on the page catches my attention. It’s a feather drawn in gold ink. The image itches at my mind, the sensation of déjà vu crawling through me. I know I’ve seen that before.

The Firebird is a common creature in Slavic Folklore. As ancient as time itself, the legend of this creature predates written language. Stories describe a beast born from fire and bathed in flames. He is thought to be the harbinger of fate. To those who are kind, he brings blessings, and to those who are wicked, he brings doom. In more modern depictions he is described as much more bird-like in nature, but in ancient scripts, he’s depicted as a monster of flames and fury. Tall, with skin the color of volcanic rock, and eyes that glow like embers. He has large horns, sharp talons, and wings, each wider than the tallest of men. He is truly a monster. He rips apart and burns those who have incurred his wrath, torching them until they are little more than smoldering ash at his feet. Bound by fate to rid the world of the wicked, anyone that stands in his way finds themselves incinerated. But, legend says that anyone lucky enough to possess one of his golden feathers will be rewarded with blessings.

Beneath the passage is a hand drawn picture. I stare at the black beast with glowing eyes and golden wings. My core clenches and my thighs tremble as I stare into the fiery embers of the monster’s gaze. There is something so tantalizingly familiar about the picture. But that’s crazy, right?

My mind reels as I read and reread the passage. Something about it sounds so familiar, like a memory of a dream, buried somewhere deep in the analogues of my mind. But, no matter how hard I try to figure out why I feel like I know this story, the answer remains just out of my grasp. Still, I can’t quite seem to shake the creeping sensation that this legend is more than just a myth.

THIRTEEN

PHOENIX

The bones in my back crack with each step, my wings poking at the surface of my skin, itching to be unleashed. My fingers keep shifting back and forth—human to black-tipped talons. And I’m fairly certain that there’s smoke rolling off my leather jacket.

Clearly controlling my monster isn’t going well today.

Ever since I watched Marisa be carted off in the back of Mikhael’s car, I’ve been out of control. Lev and I have been shaking down everyone we know, trying to figure out where they could be hiding her without giving ourselves away and getting her in even deeper trouble. But either no one knows or no one’s talking.

It pisses me the fuck off.