All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording without prior written permission from the publisher.

PHOENIX

Dawn Rae Miller

First Edition

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For all my readers. Thanks for taking the journey with me. xoxo

CHAPTER ONE

"It's going to be okay, Birdie. I swear. You're going to be okay."

Beck's hands move over my body as he recites words I don't understand. He stops at my chest, just over my heart, and strange flutter-like vibrations fill my body. Against my will, I buck and writhe.

"Stay with me, Lark. Don't you dare die." Beck presses his hands against my chest, applying more pressure. His chanting accelerates until the words sound more like humming than speaking. A bright light shines behind my eyes, and I focus on it, trying to stay present.

The memory of the attack rushes through my mind. I was in the garden, lying on the gravel, so where am I now? Surely, I'm not in the garden. No one would leave me there. Or would they? And why is Beck here?

"Step away from Lark," an unfamiliar voice orders. Metal clangs against metal.

"She's dying," Beck cries, horror and pain filling his words. "I can't let her die."

I want to reach out to him with my mind and reassure him, but my brain isn't listening to me. I can't move, I can't talk, I can barely think.

But my heart, it whirls and burns deep in my chest. I want to cry out in agony, but all I can do is lie on the cold floor.

More noises – like a fight – surround me. Beck's hands are no longer holding my chest together, and the bright light is fading, turning gray, then black, then to nothingness.

I am nothingness.

Rough concrete tears at my cheek as I turn my face from the icy coldness of the floor. When I rub the raw spot, shooting pain rips through my torso, and I bring my knees to my chest and gasp in agony. My heart feels as if it were ripped out, patched together, and shoved back into my body. Unlike earlier, at least I think it was earlier, I can move. It hurts, but I can do it.

"Light," I whisper into the blackness surrounding me. Nothing happens.

"Warmth," I croak, hoping to remove some of the damp chill, but like last time, my magic doesn't work.

I crouch backward until I hit a wall.

In order to figure out where I am, I need to stand, but my legs are numb and pin-prickly, as if I'd been folded into one position for hours. As I slowly stretch to my full height, pain rips through my gut again, and I scream. Something is wrong with my mid-section, but I'm too terrified to touch it.

Slowly, with my hand against the wall - both to steady myself and to explore - I begin walking. Each step sends the pain surging through me, but with determination, I blindly observe that there are four right angles, which means there are four small walls surrounding me. All concrete, just like the floor and ceiling that I can reach tip-toe with my fingertips. The box must be no larger than five feet eight inches.

The box jostles to the left, sending me swinging into what I believe is the middle of the floor. I scoot back until my shoulders graze a wall and brace myself. My fingers play with my necklace, and it gives me some sense of calm. If only it could ease my pain.

Lark?
Beck's voice echoes through my mind.
Can you hear me? Are you okay?

I'm here. Wherever here is,
I say.

You're alive.
Relief floods his voice, and my heart flops.

Should I be dead?

Beck's emotions rush through me – relief, pain, confusion, joy.
At the jail cell, you weren't responding. You were dead. At least I thought you were.

The memory of Beck pressing against my chest comes back to me.

What did you do?
I cry out.

What I had to,
he says.

The cement box shudders again, this time moving straight up.

Beck
, I say, panic filling my words.
Where are you?

No response. He's gone.

There is no noise, nor light, but I'm positive I'm alone in this box. I'm also positive I can't do magic in here.

Time moves. Or at least I think it does. The darkness doesn't allow for the measuring of it.

Every so often the box jolts and swings, and I tumble over, skinning my knees and palms.

The box swings. Huh.

With my feet planted firmly hip-width apart, I begin to rock the box. Back and forth. Back and forth. The pain in my abdomen is lesser now, or perhaps I've become used to it. Either way, I no longer feel as if I may pass out from pain.

The box swings harder and faster as I rock, and there is the distinct sound of metal scratching against itself.

"Lark Greene," a distorted male voice booms from some unseen place, startling me. "You stop that right now."

The voice is familiar yet unplaceable, but the words - the words - are so reminiscent of Bethina that I flinch.

"Who's going to stop me?" I demand, swinging the box harder and knowing I'm not in a position to demand anything.

"You have no magic here. No power. Best you watch yourself."

"No," I whisper into the darkness. Cold sweat beads along my hairline and down the back of my neck, and I rock the box harder even though the motion sends the sharp, stabbing pain ripping through my gut again. I refuse to cry out and let the voice know I'm hurting. Instead I bite my lip until the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

"You are responsible for the death of Malin Greene and the starvation of our people." The voice takes on a menacing tone. "For that you are condemned."

Lark, what's happening? What's going on?
Beck's panic fills me until I'm fighting with both of our emotions.
"Why is he saying you killed Malin?"

I bury my head in my hands, block out Beck, and try to focus on what I know.

One, I'm in some sort of box.

Two, it's made of concrete.

Three, my magic doesn't seem to work.

Four, Beck and I can still communicate.

Five, I don't know who is holding me, but I assume it's the Splinter group.

Six, Mother told me never to make assumptions.

The box shakes and creaks. This time when I stand my head brushes the ceiling. In the blackness, my fingertips touch the coarse, chilly sides when I spread my arms open.

Seven, the box can move, and it is shrinking.

Wonderful.

When I lay back down on the cold floor, my feet touch one side of the box and my head the other. Five feet – that's how big my prison is now.

I ache in so many places, but mostly in my stomach. I fight the urge to touch my torso because in the dark, I have no idea how bad it is. Touching it could make it worse and spread infection. A detail I remember from health class at school.

"Really, Love, laying around on a cold floor moping because you can't make sense of a situation. It's beneath you."

My eyes flutter open, and there, near my feet, sits Mother holding a glowing light orb. I blink, trying to adjust to the brightness of the light.

Surely, I must be hallucinating because Mother is dead. At least that's what I believe. We never recovered her body. We celebrated her life and sat in mourning. How is this possible?

"How are you here?" I ask. My voice is hoarse and low. Whoever was speaking earlier must be wondering whom I'm speaking with, unless they of course, sent Mother in. Or someone who can mask to look like Mother. Someone like Henry and Beck. But can masking mimic the dead? I'm unsure how it works.

"How did you get in here, and who are you?" I demand.

"Love, that's something you should tell me." Mother's red lips part into a pretty smile.

"You're my imagination?" I say. "Or an imposter?"

Amusement dances in her eyes as she holds out the glowing orb. "This should take some of the damp chill out of the air."

"How are you doing that?" I ask, pointing at the light. Heat radiates from it, and I move a little closer. "My magic doesn't work."

Mother smiles at me knowingly. "Practice." Her left hand plays with her string of pearls while she leans forward and places the light orb between us. "Plus a little residual magic."

"Can you get me out of this box?" I ask. I'm sure I'm talking to figment of my imagination, but I don't care. If my subconscious wants to give advice, I'll gladly take it.

Mother wags her finger at me.

"Now, now, Love. I thought I taught you better than to rely on others. You have to do it yourself." So this is Mother. It has to be. Or my hallucination of her. There's no way anyone else would know about our private conversations.

"But you got in. You're here, so how did you do it?" I demand. "I can't transport, my wristlet is missing, and my magic is useless."

The floor has become comfortably warm to the touch.

The box wheezes and contracts again, causing Mother and me to inch closer to each other.

"Please, Mother, help me. I'm going to be squeezed to death if you don't." I sound pathetic, but I don't care. I need help.

She lets out a loud sigh. "Lark, what do you know about the box?"

I run through my list and add, "It swings," as an afterthought.

Mother beams. "Does it knock into anything?"

"I don't know."

I rise to my knees and begin swaying from side-to-side. The motion makes my throbbing torso ache, and this time I grab at it, only to yank my hand away when I encounter something crusty and oozing.

But the box moves, and once I get it swinging, it hits something on both my left and right.

What was that?
Beck asks.
Did you feel that, Lark? Something hit the box I'm in.

It was me,
I say.
I'm trying to figure out where we are.

Added to things I know: Beck is in a box next to me.

I try swinging front to back, but hit nothing.

Beck
, I think.
Tell me about where you are.

It's a cement box of some sort. Hanging I believe. It's getting hotter in here by the minute.