Page 16 of Phoenix Fated (The Phoenix Guardians #4)

AIROS

“ B ack off, man,” Jackson snaps.

"I'm not doing anything," I say.

"You're in my space."

"Perhaps you haven't noticed, but we only have so much saddle between us."

Our gryph trots quickly, following the tail of the lead. Jackson keeps trying to pull himself away from me, but the rocking of the animal's gait makes it impossible to keep my hips away from him. It's simply part of riding such a beast, but Jackson is choosing to make it an ordeal.

"You must think I'm enjoying this," I say. "Believe me, I'm not."

"You better not be," he says. "Shit!"

"Oh, I'm not. If you're concerned that I might have some kind of attraction to you, then you're dead wrong. You simply being an omega is not enough for me to want you."

"Good, I'm glad we clarified that. And it sure as shit doesn't excite me to ride with you, so get that thought out of your head."

"Then please, explain this aversion you have to being close to me."

"There's nothing to explain."

"There's no one judging you, Jackson. Maybe in your world, but not here. You're an honorable person."

"Bro, you barely even know me," he says. "You have no idea what kind of shit I've done."

"I promise you, I've done worse," I reply.

"Look, Airos, it's all good. I just like my space, alright? That's it."

I would believe it, if it weren't for the scattered haze of memories I now possess.

"But that isn't true, is it?" I know that I'm treading into dangerous territory, but I only want to understand. "What happened in that forest, Jackson?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" he says with a thin voice.

"Dreams that reveal a place I've never been to, and a life I've never lived. A memory that doesn't belong to me. Something happened when our powers united over the desert."

The name McScott rests on my tongue like a feather on a fingertip, ready to be plucked away by the wind. But Jackson thrusts his fist up to shoulder height, with his palm facing forward and knuckles white with tension.

" Don't ."

"Who is he?" I ask.

It all happens in a blink of an eye, and I hardly even see it coming.

Jackson twists around, and in one smooth motion grabs the front of my robe and manages to yank me out of the saddle.

I flip over and land on my back on the sand.

The sun is clipped behind his head like a gleaming crown, and the look of rage I expect to see is instead one of betrayal.

I've gone too far. Once again, I've forgotten how to stop. Gods damn my incessant need for answers.

Azin and Onar turn their gryph and come back.

"I'm fine," I call, smiling and waving to show them I'm unhurt. "Completely my fault."

"Please. Careful," Onar replies, the words uncertain and thick with his throaty accent.

"Oh, shit," Jackson says. "You can speak our language too?"

Onar makes a gesture with his hand, as though he's trying to show us a grain of sand on his palm. He points to his ear and smiles. "I listen. Learn. Now, speak."

"Wow," says Jackson. "He's a freakin' genius."

"We are close," Onar says, pointing off to the distance. "Go."

With an amused grin, Azin shouts a cheerful comment before marching their gryph forward, the unmistakable tone of good-natured mockery in his voice.

Even without understanding his words, I can tell he's ribbing us about our little 'accident.

' I get up and dust myself off, and when I reach to pull myself back up onto the gryph, Jackson snaps the reins and takes off without me.

"Yes, I suppose I deserve that," I say, mostly to myself. "Not a problem, I'll walk."

The terrain becomes a mixture of crumbling rock and dried mud, with wide, snake-like channels carved into the earth where water once flowed.

We come over a low rise and stop at its edge.

Below is a wide and shallow valley, where the scattered remains of what may have once been a lush oasis cling to parched soil cracked into a thousand puzzle pieces beneath the relentless desert sun.

Many years ago, I studied how to open my senses to the energy of a place from a set of ancient manuscripts gathered by Gnosis priests from a forgotten sanctuary deep in the Arganon mountain range.

I was never very good at it. But now, even with just my middling comprehension of that knowledge, I can sense something profoundly wrong about the valley before us.

It's stagnant, like bad air trapped inside burning lungs.

Onar and Azin dismount, and Jackson follows their lead. I kick a pebble out from my sandal and drop to a crouch, clutching my staff for support.

"There certainly is something here," I say.

Jackson stands beside me and surveys the area. "Negative sighting. What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"I don't know."

Azin transfers a portion of water from the big pouch hanging around his gryph's neck to a smaller bladder that he tucks into his sash, and then starts his way down the steep rocky slope to the valley floor.

"We go," Onar says to us, gesturing. "Careful. Slow."

Both of them are now deathly serious. At first, it feels as though we're tracking a prize or game, moving carefully in order not to be detected. But then, I see the look on Azin's face is not the excited confidence of a hunter tracking prey. No, we're trying to avoid becoming the hunted.

It's impossible not to disturb the loose rocks and sand, and little streams clatter down the slope and make little puffs of dust as they reach the floor.

Azin and Onar pause to listen and watch.

Jackson crouches low, and he moves his head back and forth in constant alertness.

And when the two move again, he immediately follows, holding a perfect distance from them.

I'm seeing Jackson the soldier again, and am reminded that the definition of a soldier in the realm he comes from is nothing like any of the common undisciplined, inelegant foot soldiers I've met in my travels through Circeana. And he's an omega. Pregnant.

How can I not react as an alpha and a warrior? It's alluring. I can't deny it.

We come to the edge of the valley floor. Lying amongst the desiccated remains of the thorny plants stretching out from cracks in the sand are bleached white bones—the skeletons of animals.

"Jesus," Jackson whispers. "This place is a graveyard."

"They search for water," Onar explains quietly.

"Then they all died of thirst," Jackson mutters.

"Not all," he replies darkly.

I'm curious to know what knowledge the debris might share with me, and take a step forward to inspect the bones. Azin grabs my arm and pulls me back.

"No!" Onar says. "Do not cross."

I then realize that there is a clear boundary where the bright sand ends and the scattered bone field begins, and I feel like a fool for not noticing it.

"We not go further. Here is safe. Shimat far away. You look." He gestures to his eye, then points out to the distance.

"Of course," I say.

"Yeah. Look, don't touch, Airos," needles Jackson. "We're here for intel, remember?"

Azin and Onar step together across the boundary and walk a few paces forward. Jackson and I wait tensely for some reaction to their advance, but nothing happens save for a startled insect flitting out from its hiding place beneath the creaking branches of a dried-up bush.

The two then start moving rocks and other debris away from the area in a silent, practiced cohesion that reminds me of the way two craftsmen go about their work in perfect unison, each performing their actions without getting in each other's way.

The ritual continues until a half-moon space has been cleared and is completely free of any obstructions.

Every piece moved has been placed carefully along the perimeter of this space.

"What's with the housekeeping?" Jackson whispers to me.

"A spell circle," I tell him. "See how they've placed the bones and branches pointing outward? They act as a conduit of power. Now, they will call to the elementals."

I've seen a similar type of ritual performed by Palossian farmers calling for relief from a long drought. Next will be an offering, then the summoning, which typically is done with a set of a verse, song, or spoken prayer.

Onar uncorks the water bladder and gives it to Azin, who draws in a mouthful.

"They'll both drink," I predict. "And then offer some to the soil."

But instead of passing the bladder back to Onar, Azin re-corks it, sets it down between them. Onar lowers onto both knees and tilts his head to the sky and opens his mouth wide, like he's hoping to catch falling rain on his tongue. Azin bends over and takes his omega's face in his hands.

Jackson leans forward. "Is he gonna?—"

Azin releases a stream of water from his lips into Onar's mouth, as measured and steady as though he were pouring it from a sacred pitcher.

The water splashes across Onar's tongue and drips down his neck, darkening the hem of his cloak.

They hold each other's gaze with such intensity that it gives this strange ritual a heightened intimacy.

I feel like it's something I shouldn't be watching.

I glance over at Jackson. His face is flushed pink, and I can see he wants to look away, but can't.

It's oddly cute.

Onar turns from Azin and sprays the water from his mouth across the boundary in one quick motion.

He rises up to stand side by side with Azin, and the two look out across the wasted valley and clasp their hands.

They wait silently, as if listening for some signal to come to them.

Then, in sudden unison they slam their right feet into the dirt with a heavy thud, sending up a puff of dust.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.