Phoenix Found (Brothers of Fire #5)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Oliver pulled off his long-sleeved T-shirt, then shoved down his track pants and toed off his runners. Everything he wore had been given to him, the same as always. The only reason he was taking his clothes off was because he didn’t have anything else in the cellar to put on if he incinerated them. But it was a relief to get the fabric off his skin, as even that light touch was too much.

Dalmon gathered the clothes and placed them near the door with his.

They were both in the cellar, wearing only their underwear. The stone beneath his feet was cold, while his skin was hot.

He held the key, knowing that he needed to use it, but he didn’t remember the last time the cuffs had been removed. Just because he didn’t remember didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

Mind-reading witches did more than read minds. They could manipulate them. And how would he recognize if one had messed with his mind?

“Will I shift as soon as I unlock them? ”

“Probably because you can’t control it, and your shifting heat is running high. I’m not sure I’d be able to control my shift in your situation.”

“Why not bleed some magic off and teach me how to control it? Wouldn’t that be safer?” He searched for any excuse to stall.

“There is nothing unsafe about this. The only thing to learn is the timing of your shifts in relation to your shifting heat. Remember this feeling of when it’s gone too far, and don’t let it reach that point again,” Dalmon said as if that helped.

You’re a danger and can’t be taught. You’re not safe to be around.

Your magic must be controlled.

When he blinked, he saw Everest with fire crawling all over him. His laughter crackled like flames. He hadn’t seemed human or phoenix. He’d been monstrous. That was the destructive nature of the magic they shared. Yet, no one was binding Everest’s magic.

He slid the key into the lock and turned it. There was a small click, and the binding weakened. Flames bloomed on the back of his hand, and he let the cuff fall to the floor.

Fire raced up his arm. He stared, part fascinated, part freaking out. It should hurt, his skin should be blistering, and he should be screaming. But the flames were part of him.

Now there was a lop-sidedness to him, with one hand free while the binding tried to contain his magic from the other hand. It was like being squeezed too tight. The pressure was going to have to go somewhere. Breathing hard, he unlocked the other cuff.

He didn’t have time to draw another breath as he imploded and exploded at the same time. The pain of destruction stole all his senses as his body broke apart and reformed before the cuff, with the key in the lock, had even hit the floor.

He wasn’t touching the floor.

He wasn’t breathing.

He didn’t have hands.

Instead, he had wings made of fire.

He’d shifted.

“Well done,” Dalmon said with a nod.

But Oliver hadn’t done anything. It just happened. And the building was still standing. And Dalmon was still alive. He hadn’t killed or destroyed anything.

“I’m going to shift and join you for a little fly around the cellar.” Dalmon stretched, and as he did, flames licked his skin, swelling as though consuming him. Then he floated above the floor, all fiery phoenix.

Dark eyes were glowing embers. Feathers made of flames. An ever-shifting array of gold and orange and deep red.

That was how he must look.

Dalmon tilted, swooping past a stone column, the tip of one wing trailing over the stone floor and his flames illuminating the dark recesses of the cellar.

Was he expected to follow?

How did he fly when he had no physical wings to flap?

How was he hovering?

But as the thoughts appeared, he became aware of the currents of air around him, the cold drafts, and the warmer air around him. He didn’t need to flap his wings; all he needed to do was use the currents and manipulate them.

He mimicked Dalmon, tilting and swooping though not as gracefully. His wings brushed the stone columns and the floors and the wall as he tried to dance on the currents. And while Dalmon watched, he didn’t draw closer.

What would it be like to fly above the city?

To go wherever he wanted?

This is what they’d kept from him. Every time they’d bled off his magic, they had stopped him from shifting. They had used his magic for themselves.

But the terrifying memory of Everest was a warning that he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just about shifting. There was more to it. He needed to shift every month for the rest of his life, and no one could learn what he was, in case they captured him again.

Dalmon dropped to the floor near where he’d started. The tips of his wings brushed the ground. The flames shrank and seemed to collapse inward. Then Dalmon was a man again. He remained crouched on the floor, fingers sprayed, head bowed.

When he looked up, flames filled his eyes, and his voice was rough. “Your turn.”

While the need to shift had been all-consuming and had taken no effort or skill on his part, Oliver was sure that returning to human wasn’t going to be so easy.

He wasn’t ready to try, either. There was a freedom in this form, as though nothing else mattered but catching the next current. He could just be.

Dalmon stood and grabbed his pants, pulling them on so he was no longer naked. “I mean it, Oliver. If you stay like that, you won’t be able to eat, and you will die. You need to give yourself a month, at a minimum, to figure things out before making big decisions.”

Oliver did another lap around the cellar, wishing he was outside. How far would he be able to fly?

Oh…that was why they weren’t outside. He might fly off and run out of energy, then he’d be unable to shift back. Which meant his egg would be out there for anyone to pick up.

Had he died the night he’d been taken?

“I understand the temptation, and it will be stronger when you shift outside. All of us have been tempted to fly forever at some point. And if that is what you choose, all I ask is that you have someone follow you on the ground to retrieve the egg. ”

Oliver swooped past Dalmon, who didn’t seem at all concerned by the flames brushing against his skin, then hung in the air in front of him. How did his brother, a stranger to him, read him so easily?

How was he able to discuss the end while discussing living?

How could Dalmon put all that responsibility on him?

He was twenty-six and shifting for the first time. How was he supposed to know what he wanted?

“Drop to the floor, or you’re going to find out the hard way that your human body does not float on air currents. You’ll only do it once…” The way Dalmon said it suggested he had definitely done it more than once.

Oliver had been pushed to the ground enough times to know that knees and stone floors did not make a good combination. It took him a while to settle on the floor, and even then, he wasn’t sure if he was on the floor or hovering really close.

That would have to do.

He glanced up, hoping to be told what to do next.

Dalmon squatted in front of him, Oliver’s flames reflecting in his eyes. “You’re going to need to pull your flames within you.”

Oliver tried and failed.

What if he couldn’t and he was stuck like this until he died?

The sudden rush of panic made him shoot up. He flew close to the ceiling, setting cobwebs and dust on fire, leaving a trail of sparks behind him.

When he circled back around, Dalmon was waiting, and Oliver had no idea how much time had passed.

“Try again,” Dalmon said as if untroubled.

Clearly, it wasn’t an emergency yet.

Oliver resettled close to the floor. He let the tips of his wings drag as if they were ready to become hands. Then, he hunched his body, mimicking Dalmon’s pose, and imagined becoming a man as the flames became nothing but a ball of heat within him.

He lurched forward, lungs screaming for air but unable to do anything but gasp. Every fiber of his being hurt worse than when the magic had been building up.

Dalmon put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. His touch was a scalding brand that made him twist away.

“Lungs take a few seconds,” Dalmon said.

Oliver gasped, the air seeming to tear at him. His eyes watered as his fingernails clawed at the floor. But just as he was convinced he was suffocating—and realizing that he didn’t want to die—he drew in a breath without pain, and everything stopped hurting.

He hung his head, his heartbeat echoing in his ears.

There were no scars on his wrists from the cuffs. It was as if they’d never been there. Nor was there the familiar pressure, like a blanket wrapped around him, as they suppressed his magic.

“Always give yourself a few seconds after returning to human, as your body has to finish reforming. It’s not instant and unlike other shifters who remain corporeal, our flesh is remade each time.”

Oliver looked up at the older man, his brother, and the man who ran the Coven, the organization he’d been taught to fear. “Is it always so painful?”

He coughed as though clearing his lungs.

“All shifting is painful to a degree. Some welcome the heat and their other form. Those who resist it find it hurts more.”

Oliver stared at him. He was supposed to enjoy this?

And he needed to do it every month?

But the freedom of flying, even in the enclosed space, was fresh in his mind .

“Please don’t shift without one of us. And as tempting as it is to fly over the city, I do not advise it as it will be hard to explain a phoenix to the humans living here. Most paranormals don’t know we exist.”

“Fire witches.” Even the Shadow Board had referred to him as that.

“Yes.” Dalmon extended his hand. Oliver hesitated before taking it and allowing Dalmon to pull him to his feet. “You did well for your first shift. You’ll need to watch your shifting heat; it’ll be unpredictable for a bit after being suppressed for so long. Your body may not be able to regulate it.”

Oliver pulled his hand away as soon as he was standing. “I can control it?”

“Lust and anger can make it spark, but can also bleed it off, to use the words you’re familiar with.” Dalmon walked over to the door and pulled on his shirt. “Dress, then eat something. Now you’re shifting, you’ll burn more calories, and a shifter without energy reserves is a stuck shifter.”

“What do you mean?” Oliver pulled on his track pants. His body felt different without the dampening cuffs on. They hadn’t restricted his movement, and yet, he was somehow freer.

“That’s a lesson for another day. In the meantime, pay attention to the way your body feels and eat if you’re hungry.” Dalmon knocked on the door and said something in French. “Do you know how to find the kitchen from here?”

Oliver shook his head.

“The guard will show you. Help yourself. Be aware, only Gerrit can summon the kitchen staff at all hours, though he rarely does.” Dalmon smiled. “Mostly because he has his valet to fetch him things.”

The door opened.

Oliver pulled his long-sleeved t-shirt on along with his socks and shoes. “You’re not hungry? ”

“I’m having supper with Lucian. You can join us if you’d like?”

Oliver shook his head. He wanted to be alone to process what had happened. How was he supposed to figure out what was normal when he didn’t feel like himself?

“Another time? I’ll have Lucian see you tomorrow.” Dalmon turned to the guard, and they had another short conversation. No doubt about taking him to the kitchen.