The Third Sun (Daughter of the Phoenix Book One) Page 2

  Fia’s phone rang. “Hey, Jo,” she said, twirling the little bird charm she always wore on a silver bracelet around her wrist. It was Sophie’s, and she never took it off.

  “Fia, hey. I know it’s late, I just…wanted to check in on you.”

  Fia sighed and slumped down on the bare bed. “I’m fine, really.”

  “I just didn’t want you to be alone on your birthday. Well, I mean, technically your birthday is over now, but you know what I mean.”

  “Really, Jo, there’s no need to—”

  “Because the thing is Fia, you’re like a—you’re like family to me, so this thing with Henry, I want you to know you can talk to me about it. Any time.”

  Fia huffed a breath. “Thank you, Jo. I mean it.” She should probably say more than that, shouldn’t she? Tell Jo how much her friendship meant. Explain what happened with Henry.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Yeah, sure thing, see you tomorrow, Jo.” Tomorrow she’d tell Jo the whole story, tell her all about Henry and his side bit.

  Her stomach rumbled. Food. She needed food—anything to get her mind off Henry. A packet of microwaveable rice sat on the counter where she’d left it the day before, so she tore off the top and shoved it into the microwave.

  She cast her eyes over her flat, searching for any of Henry’s belongings she might have missed. The décor was sparse, anyway. A tattered grey sofa, a white coffee table with far too many ring stains, a striped blue rug, and her treasured collection of books. It was nothing much, but it was hers.

  The microwave beeped, and she tipped her steaming rice onto a plate. It had all been Sophie’s, too, not too long ago. Sophie had bought that rug at Shepherd’s Bush market, rolling it out as if it were a magic carpet the day she’d brought it home. Fia pushed her rice around the plate with a fork. Home. This had been such a happy family home, once. But they were all gone now, along with any dreams of feeling like she was a part of something. That was the only real reason she’d stuck with Henry for so long—she couldn’t face being alone.

  A pea dropped off the side of Fia’s plate, but she didn’t care. The rice was awful, anyway. She reached for her phone. The lock screen glowed 02:16. There were still a few hours left until daylight. Every year for as long as she could remember, she and Sophie would lie on a blanket under the stars on Hampstead Heath to celebrate their birthdays through rain, wind, or snow. She saw no use in breaking with tradition and stuffed a blanket into her backpack as she made her way to the door, out into the rain, and towards the bus stop.

  As Fia sat on the night bus, her eyes followed the shadows from the streetlamps, flickering in odd shapes over the back of the seat in front of her and over her feet, one, two, three. She loved the colours of London and all its rich history. After their parents had died, she would sit on the bus with Sophie, taking in the sights as it drove over Tower Bridge, past Somerset House and Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. She would trace her fingers around the shapes on the bus window of the buildings beyond, the brickwork or the carvings.

  The bus arrived at Parliament Hill Fields and Fia jumped off. A boy with similar hair to Henry’s flicked his chin as she passed his seat. Had Henry ever really liked her at all? All those times at the coffee shop. Ugh. The more she thought about him, the tangle of emotions turned to relief. At least she didn’t have to hide all the weird things that had been going on; now there was no one to hide them from. The damp, cool air hit her at once, and she flipped up the hood on her raincoat. The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle. She made her way up the path into the heath, seeking out a spot at the viewpoint.

  Fia’s blanket did little to keep her dry as she blinked up at the sky above Parliament Hill. The lights of the city illuminated the clouds, turning them into glowing tendrils of smoke. She knew there wasn’t much chance for stars tonight. Instead, she watched her breath escape in a swirling mist into the light rain. She was alone, and she didn’t belong—anywhere.

  “Does it ever get any better, Soph?” Fia asked into the cold air. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, as a long, white feather drifted slowly down onto her blanket.

  She wiped her face. The angel. It’s here. She was on her feet at once, searching left and right. This time she caught a glimpse of it, just a flicker of white heading back down the hill towards the bus stop and in the direction of the cemetery. “Wait!” she called out, breaking into a run.

  The road leading up to the cemetery was a steep hill. A tall, brick wall lined the path to her right, and to her left were large Victorian houses. The road was dark under the dense cover of trees, and thick rain clouds blanketed the sky in a layer of grey, concealing the first rays of the sun on the horizon. But there it was again, another flicker of white up ahead in the shadows.

  Rainwater ran down the hill in streams on either side of the road, and the pavement was slippery beneath her feet where leaves had fallen.

  “Keep it together,” she repeated under her breath, as she caught sight of gravestones beyond the wall beside her. The tip of a white wing caught the light of a streetlamp before dropping over the wall of the cemetery.

  I must be crazy. With one quick check left and right, she pulled herself up, over the wall, and jumped down onto the other side.

  Fia crossed the courtyard to a huge wall of arches bordering the cemetery, glancing once over her shoulder to look back at the gothic entrance building. Its tall, arched windows and stone parapets cast eerie shadows on the courtyard below.

  She paused for a moment at a stone staircase at the base of the arches. Beyond the steps lay the graves. She had to know if the angel was real. Without looking back, Fia left the land of the living and walked up the staircase into the land of the dead.

  “What am I doing, Soph?” she whispered, as her chest tightened. She began counting her breaths, her ritual to maintain calm. If the angel was here, she was going to find it. She had to. It had to be connected to the voices she’d been hearing.

  At almost dawn, the cemetery had a dreamlike quality about it. Every headstone was covered in soft, damp moss, and every tree was entwined in ivy and crawlers. Water trickled softly from dripping leaves. The path wove around crumbling graves, concealing what lay ahead in the shadows. In the bushes on either side of her sat huge, decaying tombs, set back from the path, covered from top to bottom in dark ivy and twisting wood. She had to find it. If there really was an angel, she’d search until opening hours if she had to.

  A moss-stained column loomed out from the wild grass, with small, yellow wildflowers covering the base and concealing its engraving. Up ahead, the gloomy dawn lit up a small opening, green and lush even in the half-light. Rotting cherry trees and old oaks lined the pathways amongst ornately carved gravestones.

  Fia stifled a cry as a bat flew across the expanse. She continued up the muddy pathway passing urns atop gravestones, their lids left slightly ajar to allow the spirits of the dead to escape. By now the composure she’d mustered was withering away. All the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her breath shortened as her nerves quietly ran away with themselves. Worst of all, she’d completely lost sight of the angel. “I know you’re here somewhere,” she muttered.

  Branches snapped nearby, only this time it wasn’t white feathers Fia saw, but dark clothing. Something wasn’t right. Why would anyone be in the cemetery so early? She didn’t wait to find out and launched into a run, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Stop!” a man called out. His voice was much closer than Fia would have liked. It wasn’t the groundskeeper. Even she realised how irresponsible it was to come into the cemetery at this hour—any number of weirdos could be hanging around. As her feet carried her along the path, she could hear Sophie’s voice in her head, chastising her like their parents would have done.

  Up ahead, through the trees to her left, Fia could see the great entrance to the Egyptian Avenue, its enormous stone obelisks rising on either side. She didn’t chance a look back over
her shoulder as she sprinted through the corridor of tombs. Purple wildflowers and ferns blurred at the corners of her vision as she leapt up a stairway before her.

  “Over there,” another voice shouted.

  A great cedar tree towered over the cemetery, casting shadows everywhere Fia looked. A cool breeze blew a few loose strands of hair across her face, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and leaves.

  She turned right, heading towards the enormous mausoleum, the tallest and grandest in the cemetery. Something rustled in the bushes behind her, and a heavy metal gate crashed shut. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She ran to the nearest entrance for the raised catacombs and shook the huge iron gate until it fell back against the wall with a thud that echoed down the empty corridor beyond. Shit. What if they heard that? She could hide until the cemetery opened. With one last look out to the dawn, she turned and followed the feeble light of her phone into the darkness.

  Fia shone the weak light at the coffin-lined walls, the smallest corner sections saved for the tiniest of coffins. A chill travelled down her spine. She pushed aside a low wooden barrier, holding her phone out to lead the way. In the distance, the first few rays of morning light began to shine through an opening above. She allowed herself a small moment of relief that she’d be out of there soon.

  The clink of metal against metal from amongst the shadows echoed in her ears, and she froze, listening until the echoes became silence. The darkness wrapped around her, and she pressed on before the growing sensation of claustrophobia could take hold.

  She had no idea where she was going. Don’t think about the coffins, don’t think about the coffins… She kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead of her and walked on, deeper into the chamber. A dead end.

  Something moved in the shadows behind her, and she flashed the light back, fighting the rising hysteria. Her chest tightened, and her breathing grew short and sharp.

  She reached a hand out to steady herself against the wall behind her, stumbled, and then all at once the world began to spin.

  Chapter Two

  Fia

  Fia was falling.

  Mud, sky, mud, sky, mud, sky. Everything blurred into one continuous loop of brown and blue. Am I dead? Is this what dying looks like? But then she saw the angel’s wings, so she had to be. Sharp pains shot through her leg, her arm, her head, so quickly it became hard to define where the pain was coming from. Her breath was knocked out of her with the constant tumbling and the mud, sky, mud, sky, a flash of white feathers, and then a crack.

  Fia hit her head, hard. Reaching out, she felt the warm, stickiness of blood. She looked up to see the sky once more but instead saw white feathers and a pair of crystal blue eyes looking down at her anxiously. The angel’s arms wrapped around her and lifted her. And then darkness.

  It was warm. There was a sickly smell, mixed with damp moss and earth. It stung her nostrils, and her whole body seared with pain. Muffled sounds grew louder, faster, and then lulled. The white wings of the angel flashed somewhere nearby as she opened and closed her eyes, but the throbbing in her head was unbearable. She heard a piercing scream, her scream, and the voices turned to cries until she could see the blue eyes again. Silence. Fia fell in and out of consciousness, dreaming of the angel until the sickly smell woke her again.

  This time the pain was worse. A drum was beating, or was it her heart? Fia opened her eyes to stinging smoke. The beat quickened.

  “Altair, she’s awake again,” a deep voice said beside her, gentle and soothing. White feathers flickered at the edges of her vision.

  Those eyes…the white feathers. Wings. I must be dead. The drum beat louder, drowning out the voices. An old man with a dark, weathered face leaned over her.

  “Stay with her,” the old man said, his voice scratched with age, as she drifted in and out of a daze.

  It was hard to tell if she was dreaming or awake, as the beat grew louder, closer.

  Voices sang, “Ho-yah-wa-hay-ah!” The beating was so loud Fia could feel it in her chest. Her heart was racing, but she didn’t know why. All she remembered was being in the catacombs, and then she had reached out for the wall and…fallen. The sickly, sweet smell hit her in waves once more, filling her nostrils. But fallen through what? Her head spun.

  “Ho-yah-wa-hay-ah!” followed the beating of the drum. It was so fast and so loud. She felt like she was still falling, but she was lying down, covered in blankets, and there was a flurry of movement all around.

  “Fia…” another voice called to her, from somewhere far, far away. “Fia…”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but fear stole the breath from her mouth. Her heart raced so fast she was certain it would burst through her chest.

  “Ho-yah-wa-hay-ah!”

  Her eyes began to focus. She was in a tent, with a high ceiling swathed in reams of green and gold fabric. Through the smoke, she could make out more of the old man’s features: tall, tan, and leathery, with eyes as dark as an evergreen.

  “Ho-yah-wa-hay-ah!” he sang again, throwing his arms above him, his great fur cloak swinging from enormous shoulders.

  The echo of her name rang in her ears and left her hands trembling. On the ground before her were several men and women on their knees, rising and dropping to the old man’s song, pulsing their bodies to the same beat that had been drumming in Fia’s head. She couldn’t move, but all the panic began to melt away, her chest was no longer tight, and her head had ceased spinning. What just happened? Her eyes adjusted to the light as she took in every detail of the strange little tent and the people kneeling, sweat beading on their foreheads.

  “Altair,” called the deep, gentle voice, “it’s done.”

  The old man nodded and from the shadows beside him stepped…an angel. She wasn’t crazy, after all.

  He was tall, his shoulders broad and strong. He wore only some loose, hemp-like trousers, tattered at the ends and tied at the waist with a narrow piece of rope. His bare chest was neatly sculpted. He stepped lightly towards her on bare feet, his candlelit face revealing the same crystal blue eyes Fia had seen when she fell through the…whatever it was. His wavy hair was the colour of wet earth, with copper streaks here and there, almost reaching his shoulders and curling at the ends and around his ears.

  She tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and no sound came out. The angel sat beside her, and she stared in silent awe at his enormous white wings as they moulded around him. She focused on her breathing, steady and slow. Not crazy, but very possibly dead.

  Fia reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the feather that had drifted onto her blanket on Hampstead Heath. With her free hand, she gently touched one of the angel’s wings. It was thick, with hundreds of large, soft feathers, and each one was slightly different. Some had a silver sheen, and some were slightly speckled, as if by sand or dust. Some had grey tips, and a few were entirely grey. But there was no doubting it—the feather was his. All this time, she’d thought she was going crazy, but here he was, her very own guardian angel. Wherever here was.

  The angel took her hand. His pale skin was cool and smooth and his touch gentle. There was no anxiety balling in her throat, no racing thoughts in her head, or the need to count her breaths. Her cheeks flushed, and she pulled her hand away. He was more beautiful than any image of an angel she’d ever seen. His lips were pressed tightly together, his brow deeply furrowed in concern.

  “Fia, can you hear me?” he said, his voice calm and soothing.

  She nodded, but only the slightest, smallest of nods. All this time, the angel had been real. Why did he never show himself? Why didn’t he save Soph? Fia felt a flash of anger. She was grateful for the coat covering up her chest—it always flushed pink despite her best efforts to will it not to.

  The angel helped her to sit, his hand around hers, and passed her a small wooden bowl of chestnut brown liquid. “Drink this. Here,” he said, taking a sip. “It’s safe.”

  The liquid was sticky, and it tasted like bark. She drank all of it,
relishing the soothing feeling on her throat. “Thank you,” she croaked, handing back the bowl. “Where am I?” She reached for her head, and her fingers met with the rough fabric of a bandage.

  The men and women were gone. When had they left? But Altair remained, his fur cloak swinging behind him, as he shuffled around in the shadows.

  “What happened? I was in Highgate and now I’m here…wherever here is.” Fia waved her hands, taking in the patterned fabric of the tent, the wooden bench the angel sat on, and the rugs on the floor. “And how do you know my name? Am I…did I die?” Sophie. She could see her sister again.

  “I’m Alexander,” the angel began. “This wasn’t exactly—”

  “Makya,” cried a voice from outside the tent. “MAHKEEEYAAAAH!”

  Altair moved surprisingly fast for an old man. “We’re under attack, we need to move.” He barked orders, already pushing his way out of the tent.

  Fia was too dazed to speak. Her head didn’t hurt, but it was fuzzy, her thoughts a jumbled mess. If this is what death is like…. She could fight, but she felt weak, and her vision was still blurred around the edges. Alexander pulled her to her feet before she had time to decide and led her out into crisp night air.

  “We have to go, now,” he said. “This way.” He guided her amongst tightly placed tents of white canvas reaching high above them. It was dark, and Fia tried to hide her unsteadiness from him.

  At first it seemed as if balls of fire were being shot into the camp, spreading flames at an alarming speed. But as they ran, darting through a series of tents and wooden structures, Fia saw swirls of deep, black smoke, exploding in and out of the camp. Voices cried out behind them as others fled, too.