Page 11 of Phoenix Fated (The Phoenix Guardians #4)

AIROS

B eneath the stars, seeing this vast expanse of sand and rock feels like looking out at the sea from what used to be my favorite perch on the tip of the helm of the thunder god's great statue at Tassos.

The dunes rise and fall like waves frozen in time and bring me back to the island that had once been my home.

It doesn't matter how far away I go, whether in time or steps taken—even after almost twenty years since I fled its soil, that place continues to keep me as a prisoner.

I expect I'll never make peace with what happened there. And perhaps I don't deserve to.

I've made camp not far from where we went down, where the warm breeze occasionally carries the scent of the phoenix hunter insects crushed into a paste beneath their rocky tomb.

What little energy I maintained after the battle I'm using to care for Jackson.

He lies on his cloak, which I've spread out across the ground like a blanket, his head cushioned by my travel satchel.

His breath is steady and even. Apart from a few new scrapes and the nasty bruises left by his captors, he's not badly injured, just depleted of energy. He should return soon.

But what had happened up there with him?

I'd asked Jackson to lend me his assistance in defeating the insects and had received something beyond expectation.

For that brief moment it was as though we were submerged together in a shared spring of being, where our phoenix powers merged together and revealed something I'm struggling to comprehend.

I saw possibilities of knowledge impossible to put into words.

I felt memories of things I'd never done, and seen places I'd never been—a different realm, a different life and more.

It was a glimpse of Jackson's core, and the raw determination and the deep-seated fears driving him forward.

A conflict over something I wasn't able to clearly see or understand.

Jackson groans softly, and his head slowly shakes back and forth like he's trying to escape from something in his unconsciousness.

I dab the sweat from his knotted brow with a scrap of cloth.

Suddenly, his eyes snap open and he catches my wrist with his hand.

He looks at me with wide, confused eyes. Slowly, they focus. He's back.

"Airos?" he murmurs weakly. "What are you doing?"

"Unfortunately, I have no medicines with me, barely any water, and hardly a sliver of energy to conjure any sort of magic... So, this is the most I can do for you. I've never seen someone sweat so much."

"What's going on? What happened?"

"You've been out for several hours. Five, I think."

His other hand urgently goes to his pregnant stomach.

"Don't worry," I tell him. "Your baby is safe. So are you."

His grip on my wrist loosens. "Jesus," he says with a relieved breath.

I smile, thinking of Kalistratos. "Yes. Cheesus."

I help him sit upright. He sniffs the air and crinkles his nose. "God, I can still smell those things."

"There's a puddle of them right over there."

Jackson leans over to look, then sighs again and pushes his hand through his dark hair. "Everyone else?"

I shake my head. "They haven't come."

"Five hours, and they haven't come? That's not good." He tries to stand, but he can't get himself off the ground. He's too weak. "Shit..."

"Neither you nor I have the ability to do very much, not until our powers have recovered."

"And how do we do that?"

I've forgotten how little he knows about himself. Phoenix energy is most quickly regenerated through the heat of desire, but I'll keep that to myself.

"Rest. Food," I say, uncorking the water skin. "We don't have much, and only a few mouthfuls to drink. There's no point in worrying about the others while we're in this condition. Before we went for you, we agreed that if we became separated, we would find each other in Kausos."

"How about, uh, Al'Phaer? That name mean anything to you?"

A tingle goes through my body as my mind conjures up a memory of Al'Phaerean merchant flyers moored in the waters off the coast of Tassos, and the dread I'd felt seeing them arriving from the distant horizon.

"Why do you know of this place?"

"That's where they were taking us on that ship."

It feels as though a winter's chill has descended on my thoughts, numbing them into stasis.

"They want him in Al'Phaer. " The voice echoes out of my memories and repeats over and over in my head until it becomes a screeching roar, more deafening than the buzz of the hunter insects' obsidian wings.

"Hey. Airos." Jackson claps his hands in front of my face. "You good?"

"Yeah," I say, but my voice comes out unsteady and thin, and Jackson looks at me questioningly. "Apologies. I'm exhausted."

"You haven't been awake this entire time, have you?"

"Someone had to keep an eye on you," I say with a weary smile. I wave my hand. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"Like hell you are. You rest. I'll keep watch."

With a grunt he pushes himself to his feet and stretches his arms high above his head.

The front of his tunic, stretched tight against his very large pregnant stomach, pulls back to reveal a crescent sliver of bare skin.

I shift my gaze to the ground, then shuffle over to take his place on the spread-out cloak.

"Hey," he says. "While I was out, did I...say anything?"

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Sleep talk."

"Hm. Ah, I think I remember something." I try to imitate his voice. "Oh, Airos! I'm so happy you rescued me!"

His face scrunches into a scowl as he skulks away. "Go the fuck to sleep."

I laugh and lay down, and as I allow myself to finally relax, the heavy weight of sleep quickly drifts over me. Then, just before it takes me, I hear him say, "Thanks. Thanks for coming after me."

The sun beats down on us like a molten hammer as we slowly move over the waves of sand. Jackson walks in front of me, head bowed and covered by the hood of his cloak, his steps a steady and even march.

"This brings me back," he says. "Al-Tanf, in Syria."

"I don’t know of this region."

"Of course not. I mean, shit, even if you were from Earth, you wouldn't know it unless you were deployed there."

"Deployed," I repeat, mulling over his usage of the word. "Ah, the campaign you took part in as a soldier."

"Yep. That's where I did my tour. After that, I went freelance. Volunteer mercenary."

"You fought without pay? I’d never offer my skills without a price."

"Some things are more valuable than money, I guess."

"I agree," I say, shaking the empty wine gourd hanging from my hip. "I'll always consider a refill as payment."

"So, that's all you're after? Money or drink?"

"Not at all. I want knowledge. Knowledge of all the details of this world. The money keeps me going. And the wine makes suffering through the lunacy of it all, bearable."

"I knew plenty who thought the same thing. That shit just numbs you. Makes you make mistakes."

Suddenly, an untethered memory flashes into my mind in scattered fragments.

My surroundings change. I'm in a dark forest. And there's someone else with me, a man.

He's so close I can smell him; his skin is anointed with a pungent smoky aroma and the musk of his sweat.

I feel a smoldering flame of excitement and need, and then a deep, cold shame.

And then I'm back in the desert. I see two Jacksons in front of me, swirling around until they slowly become one. I jab my staff into the sand and keep myself from stumbling over.

Jackson stops walking and looks back. "You good?"

I point up at the sun.

He nods. "Are you sure we're headed the right way? Because it sure as hell looks like there's nothing but sand ahead."

"I saw a well while we were up in the sky. It's not far."

Jackson gives me a skeptical look. "How do I know you're not delusional?"

"Keep going. You'll see."

My eyes had not deceived me. As we come up to the top of a low dune, we see a solitary stone trough sitting in the middle of a rocky field just a short distance away, like an island in the middle of the ocean.

"Well, goddamn," Jackson says. "That's not a mirage."

"No, it isn't."

He turns to me with a wide grin, punches me on the shoulder and sprints giddily down the side of the dune.

I smile too, taken by Jackson's sudden unreserved excitement.

It's the same smile he'd given me when I'd appeared to rescue him off the flyer—bright as the day and as rare as.

..well, water in the desert. It's clear he's not an omega who shows his delight very often, and I can't help but feel happy to be treated to it twice.

"Don't", I tell myself. " Especially not him."

But as I watch him kicking sand everywhere as he bounds down the dune, it's difficult not to be taken by his giddiness. I bolt after him and quickly overtake him.

"Yo, hell no!" he shouts. "Get your ass back here!"

He chases me across the sand and catches up just before we make it to the well. I can taste a change in the air—moisture, and saturated earth.

"That baby doesn't slow you down at all, does it, Jackson?" I say admiringly.

"Not much does, and you better learn that quick." He runs his hand across the rock slab laid over the top of the well. "This is insane. How is this just out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"These wells belong to the tribes of this land," I tell him, drawing on what I know about this region. "They rely on these to travel through the desert."

"Well, fuckin' thank you very much," Jackson says.

We push the slab aside and Jackson leans over the edge of the stone-lined pit, peering into its depths.

"There's water," he announces, the relief evident in his voice. "But it's too far down to reach. Is there a bucket around here?"

There is none, just four notches in the stone on each side of the trough.

"The nomads take the frame and pulley with them to prevent others from pilfering from their well. Stand back. Perhaps I can use what power I have left to lift some up."

"No, I've got this."

Before I can protest, Jackson begins untying his cloak and slipping his arms free of the garment he calls a shurrt . He pulls the garment, stained with sweat and dirt and the purple blood of the hunter insects, over his head with a grunt, and I find myself unable to look away.

His body tells a story more clearly than any words could.

Bruised muscles sculpt his shoulders and arms, built from years of soldiering, and like myself, he has many scars—some narrow and precise, others jagged and angry—like a map of battles fought and survived.

But what truly arrests my attention is the swell of his belly, smooth and round, stretching taut over the egg carried within.

The contrast is striking—this warrior's body, honed for combat and endurance, now cradling new life.

His pregnancy hasn't diminished his strength; if anything, it seems to have transformed it into something more profound.

I've seen many beautiful things in my travels, but there's something uniquely captivating about this sight.

The hard lines of a soldier's physique giving way to the soft, nurturing roundness of imminent parenthood. What a sacred sight.

Jackson notices my stare and immediately tenses, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and something else—uncertainty, perhaps. Self-consciousness. His hand moves instinctively to cover his belly.

"What are you looking at?" he asks.

"Nothing," I lie. "Just wondering if you need help."

"I'm fine," he mutters.

He turns away as he removes his belt, then fastens the shurrt , cloak and belt together in a long strand with the end tied to our open waterskin.

He lowers it into the well, careful to submerge only the bladder.

I move forward and help him pull the makeshift rope back up, the pouch now heavy with water.

"You first," I say.

Jackson tips the mouth of the bladder to his lips and takes several slow, deep gulps.

Water dribbles down the side of his chin and falls onto his collarbone.

Then he pours a bit on his upturned face, hands me the skin and runs his wet fingers through his hair with a deep sigh of satisfaction and relief.

I give him a mischievous little smirk before dousing my face and head.

"So much for me trying not to be wasteful," he says, laughing.

"There's a lot more down there," I say. "And trust me when I say, I need this."

"Fuck it, I'm not complaining." He thrusts his hand out. "Come on, give it."

Jackson copies me and turns the skin nearly upside down over his head, drenching himself.

He lets out a delighted whoop. " Hell yeah! That's what I'm talking about."

We refill both the skin and my empty wine gourd.

"Man," Jackson says. "Thank God for the guys who made this thing, and may they forgive us for helping ourselves to a little of it."

I crouch to stow the bulging waterskin into my pack as Jackson unties the makeshift rope and shakes out his tattered robe. He turns to slip the garment back over his head.

"I doubt they'll ever know we were here," I tell him as I fasten my pack shut.

"Airos..."

"Assist me with the cover stone," I say.

"AIROS."

He hammers me on the shoulder blade with his fist. I turn around to see we've been silently ambushed by a group of six men mounted on sand gryphs—sleek creatures with a hawk-like head and a body similar to that of the desert lion.

In each man's hand is a leather sling primed with a stone, and plenty of ammunition hanging in a pouch from his waist. Layers of rust and ochre-colored fabric cover their bodies from head to foot, and their faces are almost entirely hidden behind a cover save for their eyes, just visible between a gap in the fabric.

I step in front of Jackson and thrust the butt of my staff into the sand, readying what little strength I have to defend him.