The Mark of the Phoenix
Chapter 3
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Chapter 3
"Devlin Asbury. Attorney." The words crackled with barely contained fury, a stark contrast to his crisp charcoal suit. He shot the detective a glare that could have withered steel, then turned to Alana. "Let's go. You're not under arrest." Each word was clipped.
"Devlin?" Alana's voice wavered. "Did you move back –"
"Now!" The sharp command cut through her question. The mask of fury hadn't slipped, but something flickered behind his eyes – worry? Exhaustion? She knew that tone, and protest died in her throat.
He stormed through the station, the tap of his polished shoes an angry counterpoint to the usual murmur of activity. Outside, he barely slowed his stride, and Alana almost jogged to keep up. "Devlin?"
He reached Phoebe, the familiar scent of old leather a brief respite amidst the chaos. "Get in. Don't say anything. Haven's. Now." He barked out orders, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Court... Judge Willis...can't be late..."
"But Devlin, how did you – I didn't –" He cut her off, but this time his voice was softer, laced with urgency, not anger.
"Haven called. After your text." His hand brushed across his eyes – a fleeting gesture that betrayed the strain beneath the cool lawyer façade. "No time. Please, just do this. We'll talk later." He waited, rigid, until she was buckled in.
Phoebe's engine roared to life, drowning out his final words. Or did he murmur "I missed you"? The echo was lost in the exhaust, leaving her alone with a whirlwind of unanswered questions.
Phoebe's engine thrummed, a relentless beat beneath the whirl of thoughts in Alana's head. Devlin. His voice echoing in her ears, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering in the car... and that flicker of pain in his eyes, masked by fury. Three years... it felt like a lifetime and a blink all at once.
Flashbacks flooded in: laughter echoing in their cramped apartment, the bittersweet taste of their final shared bottle of cheap wine, the desperate cling of their last embrace. Wolfsdale vs. Chicago, a chasm neither would cross. Had she broken his heart as much as he had hers?
The ache in her chest was a fresh wound, not a fading scar. She tasted something hot and salty on her lips – a tear, sliding unnoticed. Wolfsdale, a haven she'd craved, now felt like a prison.
She barely registered parking in the alley behind Mystical Haven. Devlin's scent still clung to the air, a phantom touch. Shaking off the memory, Alana fumbled for her phone – Nadiryah, Mike, quick texts omitting the messy bits. Nadiryah's reply was immediate: dog safe, no luck on the owner, will drop him off.
The back door creaked, echoing in the sudden silence. The familiar musty smell of the storage room barely stirred a flicker of recognition. Boxes stacked like silent sentinels, Haven's cramped desk... details blurred as Alana pushed through.
Beads rattled against her forehead – the shop, a sudden burst of color and noise. Customers browsing. A forced smile plastered on her face before she even registered Haven behind the counter. "What, a sale without me?" Her voice bounced off the walls, too bright, too false.
Haven dropped the altar cloth – a flash of embroidered moons against velvet – and rushed to Alana. "Sweet goddess, are you okay? What's happened?" Her voice cracked with worry as she enveloped Alana in a hug that smelled of citrus and sandalwood.
Alana clung back, eyes shut, the scent a lifeline against the chaos swirling in her head. Finally, Haven drew back, hands gripping Alana's shoulders. "Talk to me."
Haven led her to the small table, the purple cloth with its embroidered pentacle a stark contrast to the day's harsh realities. Alana collapsed into the chair, kicking off her heels. Rummaging in her bag, she found the Sweet Tarts – more a distraction, a way to buy time, than actual hunger.
Haven bustled off after the lingering customer. Alana, left alone, slumped further, head throbbing. "Peppermint tea," Haven called from the stairs, "it'll soothe you..."
The solitude was a brief respite. Alana closed her eyes, the same haunting flute music drifting through the shop. She should recognize it, but her mind felt blank, a fog where answers should be.
By the time Haven returned with the tea tray, its minty scent a soothing promise, a new customer had entered. Alana forced herself up, poured a cup. Hot against her fingers, the tea offered momentary comfort as she watched Haven work.
Even beneath a practiced smile, Haven's voice held a hint of strain. The customer, a flash of ripped jeans, red hoodie, and artificially tanned skin, was clearly distressed. Alana leaned forward, straining to hear.
"...love potions? Jessica, people fall for who they fall for. Would you want someone who didn't choose you freely?" Haven's words carried clearly, though the reply was barely a whisper. A choked sob, the name "Joshua," and the girl bolted out, tears blurring her carefully made-up face.
"What was that about?" Alana couldn't mask her curiosity.
Haven sighed. "Apparently, a desperate bid for the affections of the fabulously eligible Joshua Gruen, who has arrived for his visit. But enough about other people's drama. What did Devlin say?"
"Oh my goddess, I can't believe this." Alana's voice trembled. "Him? Here? After all this time? It's too much."
Haven's touch was a steadying anchor against the storm swirling within her. "Saw him at Christi's this morning. Figured he's the best I know. And hey, it's my job to look out for my BFF."
"But I don't need –" Alana's protest died in her throat. "I didn't do anything."
"Course you didn't," Haven murmured. "But someone thinks otherwise. Now, spill it. Every moment."
And Alana did. Words tumbled out, a frantic retelling of the day's horrors. Haven listened, a rock of silent support. When the torrent ended, she simply pulled Alana into a fierce hug. "Oh, Lanie. I'm so sorry."
"Yeah, me too." Alana's voice was muffled against Haven's hair. "Surreal, isn't it?"
Haven drew back, concern etched on her face. "You think... the birthmark... was this what it warned of?"
Bitterness edged Alana's reply. "Who cares? A tingling mark doesn't change a thing. Bad stuff still happens."
"They aren't your fault," Haven said, a thread of steel beneath the softness. She snatched up the insistent phone, ignoring the caller ID. A moment of listening, a dramatic eye roll, then, "Yes, Joshua, we remember. Of course, we'd love to. Meet you out front? Perfect. See you then." She hung up with a click.
"Joshua, huh?" Alana couldn't keep the skepticism from her voice.
"Apparently, Aunt dearest laid down the law. Remember much about him? Think he was one of those prankster freshmen our senior year."
Alana snorted. "The ones who moved the principal's car? Super-glued all the lockers? Let's hope his humor's matured..." A flicker of defiance sparked in her eyes. "...Or maybe he'll be distractingly handsome? Jessica sure thinks so."
Haven grinned, a much-needed flash of lightness. Then, business-like again: "Look, I know your head's a mess, but mind the register for a bit? Reading booked, and honestly, I focus better if I'm not fretting about shoplifters."
"Sure." Alana gathered her things, moving to the front, but a flicker of unease lingered. Haven ushered her client to the back, leaving Alana alone. Her phone buzzed – missed texts from Darci, and worse, an email from Jackson. A knot tightened in her stomach. She hesitated, then chose the email. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.
Jackson's email was a pompous decree masquerading as concern. "Not official leave, merely a strong suggestion for our benefit… don’t return to campus, don’t interact with students." The arrogance dripped from the screen. She read it twice, the knot in her stomach twisting tighter each time, then hit delete with a vicious swipe.
She turned to Darci’s text next. Alana hesitated, dreading another wave of outrage, and with a deep breath, she opened it. Darci's words seemed genuine, a balm against the day's harshness and a mention of helping each other which sparked a flicker of hope.
Alana's anger seeped away, replaced by a weariness that sank into her bones. She didn't reply, just sat, numb, until the chime of the shop door snapped her out of the haze. Haven stood there, a beaming smile lighting up her face. The reading must have gone well.
"Looks like you're getting good at that," Alana managed, the words feeling hollow in her mouth.
Haven's grin widened. "It's in the blood, you know! Just needed some practice..." For a precious moment, the darkness receded.
The sweet moment shattered with the shop door's chime. A rich baritone boomed, "There's my girls!" Haven squealed, "Daddy!" and launched herself into the arms of a man who couldn't have stood in greater contrast to her. Tall, with jet-black hair and a build that spoke of strength despite his age, Walker Tituba's presence radiated warmth. Bronze skin, etched with intricate tattoos, and the glint of gems in his ears – he wore his Arawak heritage like armor, a vibrant counterpoint to Haven's pale etherealness.
"Where's Mama?" Haven asked, breathless after the hug.
"Window shopping, of course," Walker chuckled, a deep rumble that filled the shop. "Lenora said she'd detour for a quick visit with Becky, then join us. Figured we'd beat the weekend rush."
"Ahh," Haven's eyes sparkled. "Bet she couldn't resist the new display! Becky has those gorgeous handmade scarves..." She turned to Alana, concern replacing the playful light. "With everything today, I bet you haven't even noticed!"
Alana greeted Walker as Lenora swept in, a whirlwind of energy, carrying a shopping bag and her oversized purse. With her fair skin and vibrant red hair, it was clear where Haven inherited her looks – though Haven’s smattering of freckles set them apart.
"Haven, must you always flatter your father? His head's big enough as it is!" Lenora's voice held a teasing lilt, and laughter warmed the room.
A flicker of confusion crossed Alana's face. "What am I missing?"
Lenora hugged her tightly. "Don't you recognize Walker's magic flute? Haven's playing his music, literally!"
"Of course!" Alana exclaimed, a wave of recognition washing over her. "The songs you've played... I should've known! Congratulations, that must be incredible, hearing it here...you must have recorded it!"
Walker smiled, the pride evident in his voice. "Well, I'm humbled you remember. Always thought of you as my best muse, you know. Those evenings when you'd come to us, your heart heavy, the flute would just sing your sorrow..."
Alana's smile faded. "Sorry I always arrived with so much baggage..."
"Never be sorry," Walker said, his sincerity cutting through the silence. "Our door was always open. I’m just sorry that your father never made you feel the same.”
Lenora saw Alana rubbing her birthmark, then Haven’s whispered aside, “She’s been doing that a lot.” She set down her bags, her touch on Alana's hands grounding. "We need to talk. Takeout, then we'll meet you upstairs when you close. Deal?"
"Lenora, I...today's been..." Alana's voice trailed off, exhaustion seeping through.
"All the more reason, then." Lenora's voice held a gentle firmness, and with a final swirl of paisley, she was gone. Walker winked at Haven, a silent echo of their love, then followed his wife.
Haven began straightening things, more out of habit than necessity. Alana's phone buzzed: Mike's text, a brief lifeline amidst the chaos. Yet, alongside the relief, a flicker of disappointment – was that all he had to offer after this morning's concern? No, he must just be busy... She forced the thought away.
Through the window, she saw Nadi approaching. The dog, ambling along, spotted her and surged forward. For a heart-stopping moment, Alana braced herself, but he skidded to a halt at her feet. She leaned into him with welcoming scratches, his warm fur against her hand... a genuine smile, the first of the day, bloomed on her face.
Alana turned to thank Nadiryah, but the words caught in her throat. "No luck finding the owner? But he's so well-behaved..." Her voice trailed off as Nadiryah hurried away, calling back "Yoga class! You get some rest!"
She led the dog into the shop, dreading Haven's reaction to the sheer size of him. But Haven smiled warmly. "Perfect timing! You're here to protect this one," she said, nodding at Alana, a playful glint in her eye. "Upstairs now. I'm sure my parents will be back soon to keep you company."
Alana's surprise bordered on disbelief as the dog, with barely a glance in her direction, trotted obediently up the stairs. Had he understood Haven's words? Or was it just an uncanny coincidence?
"What?" Haven blinked. "He's magnificent! Lock up, pull the shades, I'll finish the count. Dad mentioned Italian... makes me hungry just thinking about it."
While Haven did the register, Alana wandered, straightening, dusting. Her birthmark throbbed as she lifted a small Danu statue. Frustration surged. She slammed it down, the bang drawing Haven's attention. "Careful! Don't break the stock!"
"It's not fair!" The words burst out. "You were right – it warns me. But what good is it? Fate happens! What use are warnings I can't act on?"
Haven paused, then tilted her head. "Lanie, I don't know, but shouldn't your family... Aren't there traditions, lore you should be learning?"
Alana barked a bitter laugh. "A Phoenix training manual? Right..."
"Well, I smell food..." Haven said, practical as ever. "Let's go, maybe a good meal will help."
Upon entering the living space, the aroma of lasagna hit them – a welcome change from the shop's lingering scent of incense. The table was set, Lenora's touch evident in the vibrant tablecloth and flickering candlelight. Best of all, the dog was already settled, bowls of food and water nearby, a testament to the Titubas' hospitality.
For a time, only the clink of silverware broke the silence, each person lost in their own thoughts. But as plates emptied, Lenora's voice cut through the quiet. "Haven, love, refill those glasses, would you? Something to sip while we digest..."
The dog, with a few final circles to flatten an imaginary nest, settled with a contented sigh. Lenora turned to Alana, her eyes warm but filled with an unmistakable seriousness. "Sweetheart, you know we see you as family. That's the only reason we're doing this."
“Is this an intervention?” Alana's attempt at a joke fell flat, the laughter dying in her throat. She knew this was coming, but the suddenness of it made her heart pound.
Walker's voice was gentle, yet resonated with quiet strength. "Alana, my family carries a long line of piai, shamans of the Arawak. We use every tool we have – the wisdom of nature, ancestors, even crossing between worlds... for guidance, for clarity." A flicker of a smile. "Not the 'magical thinking' you dismissed years ago. This is truth. What we know. What I am. Walker."
Alana bit back a retort. Memories of her Anthropology 101 final, the argument that followed, still stung. Her focus shifted to the dog's steady breathing. Each inhale, each exhale, steadied her own ragged rhythm. Better to wait, hear them out, than lash out from old wounds.
Lenora's voice held a softness that did little to mask the steel beneath. "For years, Alana, you've turned your back on your own power, the Phoenix within you. Shut your heart tight..." Alana tried to interrupt, but Lenora forged on, "We know why. It's in your eyes, the longing glances at Walker... we've felt it all along. You blame yourself for Bryan's leaving, but his choices weren't yours to bear. He left because of something broken in him, something that couldn't love what was right in front of him. And now..." Lenora's voice caught, "you're making the same mistake."
"I never run away!" Alana's words exploded from her, and Haven's hand tightened on hers, a lifeline in the storm.
"It's not the running, Alana..." Lenora's voice was hushed, yet filled the room, "...it's the closed heart."
"I don't..." Alana's protest died, choked by a sudden, painful tightness in her chest.
"You do, Lanie," Haven's voice was gentle, yet insistent. "You blame yourself for Bryan, shut yourself off from the gift that you think scared him away. But gifts are meant to be used! Then, you went further – convinced yourself you're nothing like him, wouldn't ever leave Wolfsdale... That's why Devlin moved to Chicago, isn't it? Not lack of love, but fear of facing the choice. You let him go... and now he's back. Didn't have to help this morning, but he did."
Alana crossed her arms, a wall against the painful truth. "Maybe he didn't love me enough..." The words lacked conviction.
Lenora cut her off, a thread of steel beneath the softness. "You need love, Alana. But while you lock your heart, you deny your strongest weapon – your own power. That's dangerous, and it makes you more like your father than you care to admit. Not in leaving, but in running from who you are. Please, talk to Mamo. Truly listen. Will you at least do that?"
Alana nodded, a gesture of surrender, but the spoken "yes" stuck in her throat. As if silence could ward off the inevitable. Lenora rose, the conversation was over for now, and Walker offered to walk the dog. When Alana moved to help, Haven's voice stopped her. "No time. Devlin's coming. Texted on his way."
Alana wiped the table, a futile effort to distract herself. Wine refilled her glass, a talisman against the coming storm. Notebook and her lucky purple pen emerged – armor for the battle ahead. Cleansing breaths, a desperate attempt at calm. She owed Devlin a conversation. Niceness was the goal, but if that failed... silence would have to suffice.
Devlin arrived minutes later. Not the crisp attorney from this morning, but a man showing the strain of a long day. Suit slightly rumpled, tie loosened, a hint of stubble... and a weariness in his shoulders she hadn't noticed earlier. Was it new, or had she simply been too blind with hurt to see it back then? That day of goodbye, his posture had been defiant, rigid.
Her thoughts shattered as he sat, eyes locking with hers. A silent duel, searching for... what? Anger? Joy? She forced a mask of neutrality, the practice of the past hours serving her well. Yet, a flicker of uncertainty betrayed her as she met his gaze.
She broke the silence first. "Thanks for coming. Maybe it wasn't needed, but... I appreciate Haven calling, and you responding."
"Alana, what did you expect? Of course I'd come." His voice held an edge, a weariness she hadn't noticed before. "Did you think I'd let you tangle with a murder investigation alone?"
Her resolve to be calm crumbled. "I didn't do anything!"
"Don't be naive. Your prints on the weapon, those emails, him dead in your office... doesn't matter if you weren’t caught on camera. They have a suspect, and it's you."
"Anderson said she didn't think I –"
"She lied. She wants you to slip up. Search warrant's coming, Alana, mark my words."
Her sarcasm was a thin armor. "Great. Two breakfasts with detectives in a row."
"Alana, I'm serious. No talking to them without a lawyer. Not me, fine, but someone.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Call me the minute they arrive, please?"
Alana nodded, a wordless surrender. As he reached the door, he paused. "Sorry, I've gotta run. Today was long, and I was supposed to meet Darci ages ago..."
"Darci?" Her voice cracked, a mix of disbelief and a pain she couldn't hide.
Devlin grimaced, a flash of guilt crossing his tired face. "Thought you knew."
"Knew what?" Alana demanded, but he was already gone, leaving her with the echo of his words, "Talk to Darci, Alana."
The door clicked shut behind Devlin, and Haven found Alana – eyes brimming, voice barely a whisper. "Did you know? Darci and him?"
Haven's hug offered comfort, but Alana recoiled, a sob tearing loose. "No, no..." Bag snatched up, she bolted for the back door, taking the steps two at a time. Walker and the dog stood startled, then the dog bounded after her. At the car, a flash of realization hit – no room for his giant form. Decision made, she hit the lock button, slammed the door, and took off on foot. Each stride pounded out the betrayal.
Moonlight sliced the night, turning bushes into monstrous shapes. A shiver, not from the chill, and her fingers gripped the charm stone. The dog pressed close, a warm, solid reassurance against the darkness. Her hand found his head, seeking solace in the soft fur, and together they reached her porch and threw open the door.
Collapsing onto the couch, the day's whirlwind threatened to drown her. Eyes closed, she fought for calm, but her breath hitched, heartbeat a frantic drumbeat against the dog's steady warmth beside her. He nudged closer, a gentle giant, his breath a warm puff against her cheek. She clung to the rhythm of it, focusing on each inhale, each exhale, until her own raggedness began to ease.
She felt a flare in her birthmark, then a lick on her cheek. "Thanks, boy. Least someone still loves me..." Bitterness cut into the gratitude, followed by a choked laugh as tears spilled over. “Til your owner comes, then you’ll go too.”
Sobs wracked her, the dog a solid, unjudging support. Finally, with a squeeze and a whispered "thank you," she released him. The bathroom offered familiar rituals: a splash of cold water, the comfort of old pajamas. Bed beckoned, a refuge beneath the covers.
Phone in hand, she let out a self-disgusted huff. “Big Friday night? A dog and an early bedtime!” Burrowing deeper, the weight of loneliness pressed down, a darkness the blankets couldn't keep out. Her fingers trembled as they found her grandmother's number. A connection, a voice across the distance, might be the only way to chase back the shadows.
Mark of the Phoenix: Book 1 of the Fenwich Legacies / Chapter 3 © 2024 by Stacy Taylor is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 . This means that the work may only be shared with attribution, and it may not be altered or used for commercial purposes.