The Phoenix Prophecy: Nova

It is almost sunset. The air vibrates with heat. Sticky on my skin and in my mouth. On stage, the head of the Ridgemore Anti Magick Alliance is spouting his usual vitriol into a handheld microphone. He holds it too close to his mouth. It screeches when he raises his voice. He’s almost reached the climax of his speech.

“Together, we will put those filthy fucking supers back in the shadows where they belong!”

The crowd roars. The noise is like a swarm of insects buzzing in my ears. My heart hammers harder in my chest.

“Here in Ridgemore, we know what needs to be done. And we’re not afraid to do it!”

Another roar.

Johnny slurps warm beer from an almost-empty can, wipes his mouth with his arm, and growls in agreement. His left fist is clenched. Cracked skin stretches over his white knuckles.

He drops the can to the ground, grinds it into the earth with his foot, then takes hold of my wrist. “We’re leaving.”

“We’re not staying for the music?” I ask, trailing after him as he strides through the crowd.

He doesn’t bother to respond.

In the truck, he turns to stare at me. His lips curl into a smile. He almost looks handsome, although it’s been a long time since he was anything but monstrous in my eyes.

He leans over and drags a finger down my throat toward my chest. I’m wearing my copper hair long and loose. He flicks it out of the way and his eyes darken. “Did it feel good?”NôvelDrama.Org content rights.

I swallow hard.

“Did it feel good? Wearing our mark tonight?”

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t flinch when he touches my red, raw skin. The emblem he burned into me a week ago. The symbol of the Anti Magick Alliance. Right there on my chest, above my heart, for everyone to see. Another scar to add to my collection.

“Of course, baby.” I fix my eyes on him. Say what he wants to hear.

“Shame we couldn’t show them the other one.” His gaze lurches from my chest to my legs. Thankfully, the brand on my thigh healed a long time ago, so when he reaches it, pinching me through my jeans, I’m able to smile.

His fingers tug at my waistband. “Take them off.”

“Shouldn’t we wait until we get home?” I’ve perfected this tone; sultry, unthreatening, polite.

“I don’t think I can. Not now that you’ve got me all riled up.” His tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip.

I glance at the clock on the dash. “You wanted to see that show. On TV. It starts soon.”

He stops. His body has stiffened. “Right.” He sits back, takes hold of the wheel, grits his teeth. “After, then.”

I reach over and squeeze his knee. “After.”

By the time we get back, the apartment is dark. Johnny doesn’t turn on the lights, just heads straight for the couch and grabs the remote.

“I’ll be right there. I’m just going to the bathroom.” I’m lingering in the kitchen. The bathroom door is open. I’m half expecting him to tell me I should wait, but he simply grunts, opens a can, and lights a cigarette.

Closing the door behind me, I lean against it and flick on the light. It takes me a moment to adjust, then I step forward and examine myself in the mirror. I look like I haven’t eaten properly in weeks. Not because I’m gaunt or skinny — I’ve never been gaunt or skinny in my entire life — but because everything about me has lost its shine.

My hair is flat. Once a vivid shade of auburn, it’s now closer to rust than fire. Instead of sparkling, my eyes — my most distinguishing feature; one blue, one brown — are dark. Like murky water from the bottom of the ocean. Even my skin is muted.

I press my palm against my cheek and sigh. I’m turning into a monochrome version of myself. And I don’t know how to stop it.

It probably has something to do with the fact that I haven’t eaten or slept properly in months. Since Johnny got tied up with the Anti Magick Alliance — the ‘A.M.A’, as they call themselves — his behavior has become increasingly erratic.

He lives on cigarettes, beer, and whatever he can steal from the bar he works at. He rarely thinks to bring food home for me, and as my wages go straight into our joint bank account — an account I have no access to — I’m left scrounging off my colleagues at the pharmacy or, sometimes, stealing from the grocery store.

The most vivid thing about me now is the mark on my chest. The series of interconnecting triangles, scorched into me, with a blood-red tear drop tattooed in their center.

I trace my fingertips over the bumpy, raised flesh. I can still hear myself screaming.

When he tattooed my thigh, inked me with his initials, the pain was no worse than the kind I’d experienced a million times before.

But the poker… that was a new level of torture.

“Nova?” Johnny’s voice bleeds through the bathroom door. “Nova, get in here. It’s starting.”

I inhale sharply. Hold my breath for longer than usual, grip the edge of the basin, then walk back to the living room.

He’s still on the couch, staring at the TV. He looks sideways at me and curls his finger to beckon me over. When I’m in front of him, he tears his eyes away from the screen and puts down his can. He tugs at my shirt.

“Lean forward.” He tugs it again. “Show me.”

Closing my eyes, I pull back my hair and lean over him.

I hear him suck in his breath. “Fuck. Tor did a good job.” He looks up at me, eyes twinkling. “Good birthday present, huh?”

Oh, yeah, I feel like saying. Best birthday present I’ve ever had — being tied down while you and your buddy melt my skin with a red-hot poker. Being left with this disgusting, fascist symbol etched below my throat for the rest of my life.

“All the guys are doing it now.” Johnny’s still staring at the scar, but his hands are creeping up beneath my shirt. “Getting their wives and girlfriends marked.” He pulls me closer and grazes my stomach with his teeth. Now he’s chewing on me. Like a dog slobbering on a bone.

He pulls me into his lap and licks from my throat to my chest. As his tongue laps my scarred flesh, my stomach twists. His cock is rock hard. He groans into my neck, then he flips me over, down onto the couch, on my back, beneath him.

His hands are everywhere. But I’m somewhere else.

I turn and look at the TV. The show he was so desperate to watch has started.

“Johnny…” His weight is pressing down on me. I try to move my arm, but it’s trapped between his torso and mine.

He’s grunting now. Thrusting, even though he’s not inside me yet.

I keep my eyes fixed on the screen. Johnny has never been into Friday-night talk shows but, this week, a member of the A.M.A. is being interviewed alongside Nico Varlac. America’s biggest supernatural celebrity. A werewolf and a self-appointed do-gooder with a mission to unite supers and humans.

Nico is waving at the studio audience. His hair is jet black. His shoulders ripple as he moves across to take his seat on the guest couch. I sometimes think Sam would have looked like Nico. If he hadn’t…

“What the hell?” Johnny stops moving.

I turn my head. His eyes lock onto mine. He pinches my face between his thumb and his index finger, and squeezes. Hard. “What the hell are you looking at?” He growls. “Are you looking at him?” He jerks my face toward the TV. “While I’m fucking you, you’re thinking about a filthy mage super?”

I open my mouth to speak, but he moves his hand to my throat and stands, pulling me with him. He holds me there for a moment, then throws me to the floor.

“Are you a sympathizer?” He steps toward me.

I bring my knees up to my chest and scoot backwards. There is no point in answering him.

His shadow falls over me. Illuminated by the glare of the TV, his face is cast in a light bluish hue. He’s skinny, but cruel enough for it not to matter. He lunges for me. As he moves, something happens.

The air shifts. A rushing sound fills my ears, as if I’m on a train and hurtling through a tunnel. I slam my eyes closed.

When I open them, Johnny is still moving, but he’s like he’s wading through treacle. Like time has slowed to a fraction of its normal speed. I stagger to my feet and duck sideways just as everything roars back to life.

Johnny stumbles and falls into the TV. It shunts backward on the stand but stays upright. He turns around. He’s flexing his fingers at his sides, then his right hand moves, quick as a flash, to his belt. He pulls out his pocketknife.

I take a step backward, scanning the room for something — anything — I can use to keep him at bay. I look past him to the bathroom, but there’s no way I’ll make it in time.

He stares me down. For a moment, neither of us moves. I’m barely even breathing. Then he comes for me.

I jump sideways and race around the back of the couch. He trips on the corner of the rug. He’s drunk and clumsy. Probably the only thing in my favor right now.

He rights himself. I know I need to stop him. Fear pulses through my limbs. I’m in the corner of the room. I have nowhere to go. The only thing I can reach is the vanilla-scented candle his mother bought us last Christmas. The only ornamental thing in the entire apartment. I grab it and hurl it across the room.

I’m aiming for his body. Anywhere on his body. But I’ve misjudged, and it’s going to hit the floor instead.

As it does, a jolt of electricity shoots through me. So violent that I’m flung back against the wall. The candle hits the ground, and then…

Flames.

Huge, billowing flames come from nowhere. They spread sideways, casting a shield of fire between Johnny and me.

He’s on the other side of them. He stops, knife still in his hand. “What the…?”

The fire is spreading, snaking across the floor toward my feet. But I’m not afraid. It licks my bare toes. I know it should feel hot.

It doesn’t.

Johnny yells and drops his knife. He levers himself over the back of the couch, heading for the door. Before he can reach it, a wall of flames appears in front of him. He turns. More flames. He turns again.

He’s surrounded.

I watch him panicking. His eyes wide, he drops his knife and starts to cough. Smoke is curling around the flames, enveloping his legs, his arms, his chest.

I step forward. The heat tickles my skin. As I move, the fire moves too.

Johnny is staring at me through the fire. His dark eyes lock with mine. I tilt my head and take him in.

He’s the only boy I’ve ever been with. The boy who took me away from my last and shittiest foster home when I was fifteen. When I was lost, and he seemed like the sun and the moon. The boy who later taught me to fear him, to obey him. The boy who told me magick was evil, and that supers weren’t to be trusted.

As my thoughts spiral, I tilt back my head. My chest is tight. I open my mouth and scream. The sound reverberates through my bones as it leaves my body. The flames burn higher and harder, and I swear it’s like the louder I scream, the bigger they get.

When I stop screaming, Johnny is staring at me. “Witch! You’re a fucking witch!” He points at me. He’s afraid. I look at his pants. He’s pissed himself.

A tower of ferocious heat shimmers between us.

His expression changes. He puts his palms up, eyes wide. Like a mouse being hunted by a hawk. He’s shaking his head now, trying to surrender. Trying to buy himself some time. “Nova. Baby. Please.”

I turn away.

I feel the force of the heat on my back.

“Goodbye, Johnny.”