Rise of the Phoenix

Monsters, Magic, and Mates I never knew existed.

Kia versus power pole isn't the end I expect—it's the beginning of... gawd, where do I begin?
Four wildly sexy males. Powers I don't understand. And the eyes of the fae world on me as the person to unite the severed realms. No pressure.

*This is book one in a steamy paranormal shifter romance series where the female heroine doesn't have to choose. Expect polyamorous situations, rollicking action, ongoing storylines, and shifter lovers who find what they need from not only their queen but each other as well. Med-burn, med angst.*

Calli

Flying. The sensation of vaulting from a fast-moving vehicle as it collides with an immovable object strikes me as both terrifying and exhilarating. Time freezes as inertia smashes me through the windshield and hurtles me toward the graveled shoulder. My life races before my eyes, and it is a short, pathetic tale. California riffraff dies in a cross-state chase, while hunted by a pissed biker gang. The End. 

Life sucks. 

Death, too, apparently.

Wind rushes over me, the farm-fresh air tainted with the metallic tang of blood, the burning of oil, and the throaty rumble of a dozen Harley chopper engines.

I soar behind the surge of power brought on by Kia Rio meets power pole. Broad daylight. Straight road. Wrong time—wrong place. Mom and Dad would be so proud. 

I always envisioned me and Riley turning things around and getting whisked away to become international spies or something. Maybe the reason we went through so much as teens was to prepare us for what was to come.

I crash to the asphalt with life-shattering force, flipping and breaking bones as I tumble across jagged stones and into the ditch. The impact jars every bit of life out of me. 

So, this is it. The big D. 

Dead at the side of some rural route in the middle of northern Texas nowherelandia. The crazy thing is. I’m not scared. Maybe I’m jaded, but life has been shitty, death can’t be much worse. Without Riley, why bother anyway.

Whatever comes next—bring it.

* * *

Jaxx

TRAFFIC ACCIDENT – PEDESTRIAN STRUCK

POSSIBLE EXPOSURE – NYMPH ADOLESCENT

12 M ALERT. ABNORMAL BREATHING.

DRIVER - HUMAN

35 F UNCONSCIOUS. 

PD NOTIFIED. FS NOTIFIED.

FCO ON ROUTE.

I read the dispatch description as it appears line-by-line on the responder screen on the dash of my truck. Twelve-year-old nymph hit by a car at eleven o’clock in the morning? “Come on, people. It’s a school day for shit’s sake.”

In a perfect world, kids—human or fae—would be spared the violence of reality. They’d grow up laughing and acting like idiotic fools, and blending in with human society, not being mowed down by a car and bleeding in the streets. But six years of living among narys as a first responder to the Fae Concealment Office has taught me that this is far from a perfect world.

Exhaling an unsteady breath, I stare out the windshield and hold my course for home. I finished my block and have the next three days off. The only things on my horizon are the b’s of bliss: breakfast-beer, bacon, and bed.

Glancing to the steering wheel controls of my truck, I hit volume up and blast Little Big Town singing Boondocks. With both windows open and my hand riding the current of a warm Texas breeze, I press the pedal and let the growl of the engine rev. Life is good.

A spot on the horizon up a ways catches my eye. I lean closer to the dash to squint past miles of cornfields. There’s a rising line of smoke. A human gaze wouldn’t register it, but my heightened preternatural vision picks it up without issue.

Not that I see much. A single, wispy line of darkness rises against an otherwise bright blue sky. 

Thomas Rhett comes on the radio next and, yeah, I agree with the guy. I’ve seen his wife in the video. Blondes are my weakness, too. He can Die a Happy Man. 

I’m belting it out, serenading the scarecrows, when I come upon that smoke signal rising to the heavens. The stench of burning oil and gas is thick in the air. I park beside the mangled Kia and drop out of my truck.

The wreck isn’t much different than any other.

A punched-out windshield and no driver in the seat. 

That’s never a good sign. I follow the trajectory of the ejection and yep, one roadkill warrior flung into the ditch. Shit. Why even have seatbelts in cars if nobody’s gonna use them? Hustling over, I take a knee and reach under her hair to check for a pulse. 

Damn. Fifteen minutes ago, that gravel and blood-tangled mess was likely a gorgeous mane of gold. 

I lean close and take a long whiff of her scent. Human.

Her skin is still warm, but without a pumping pulse, it won’t be for long. The unnatural angles of her arm, knee, and wrist suggest her body shattered in a dozen places. Yeah, that, and a chunk of her skull cracked open like a hard-boiled egg on the asphalt. D.O.A. Such a waste.

“I’m sorry, darlin’. Dying out here all alone is a damn shame.”

With nothing to be done but call it into the local PD, I head back to the mangled Kia to see if I can find any ID. The car is a beater piece of shit, Frankensteined with a mismatched door and a primer-painted rear quarter panel. The back seat is an ode to takeout containers, but I find her purse wedged between where the pole stopped and what used to be the passenger seat. 

No chance of getting the thing out in one piece. I grip the bag and give it a good haul. The strap snaps and I pull it free. Opening the passenger door to my truck, I set the purse down and fish around for a phone case or a wallet—

A rush of magic hits my back and tingles over my skin. As the hair on my neck stands on end, the scent of char fills my sinuses. I turn back to eye the scene. Is the car about to blow? That doesn’t happen nearly as often for reals as it does on TV. Opening my gifts wide, I sense a steady build of magical tension. I lift my nose and test the scents on the breeze. 

The air reeks of smoldering flesh... 

It’s coming off the woman.