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Scene #90
The Fall of the Black Phoenix
Ayr stepped into the winter night
as another clap of thunder split the air. Strange, he thought,
looking up at star-filled sky. Deep in the heart of winter, a thin
layer of frost clung to the hardwoods and pines, and rain-laden
clouds loomed overhead, poised on the brink of unleashing a torrent
upon his head. Lifting his face to the sky, Ayr closed his
eyes and willed his body to leave the ground. He rose up, his wings
a transparent shimmer, a latent memory of what they were when he
graced the heavens. In spite of his earthly presence, the celestial
extensions never failed him. They had always served as a
pseudo-conduit, opening his mind to the evil forces at work. From
out of the dark came a roll of thunder, so loud it shook the
stars. A far-off shriek shattered his concentration, startling
him. His powerful body careened left and for a moment threatened
his symmetric balance. Gathering his wits, he focused on the
direction of the blood-curdling scream. The malevolent energy he'd
sensed earlier seeped into his pores. He struggled to block out the
interference and allowed his mind to lead him toward the ill-fated
source. Banking south, he cupped his wings, lowered his head
and prepared to land. A barrier rose before him—an invisible
barricade with the strength and force of impregnable armor. With
steeled determination, he pushed onward and landed at the mouth of
a wide, litter-riddled back alley. The stench of refuse and
blood spiraled up his nose and, something else― an
intoxicating mixture of red patchouli and bold, pale musk. The
scent of a woman surely made in heaven. Shadows shifted in the
alley; one, a stunning beauty, the woman whose fragrance he'd
devoured moments ago, and oh, God, the other, Lazarus, his young
protégé. The warrior-woman held his limp body by the lapels of his
jacket, her emerald eyes fixed on his bloodless face. His friend's
eyes were open, the pupils rolled back in his head. The image
reminded him of a scene from Night of the Living Dead. Laz' chest
rose and fell with shallow breaths, so miniscule a human would have
thought him deceased. Ayr knew he should do something . . .
like kill the bitch, but why did his feet feel nailed to the cold
ground? Transfixed by some unknown force he watched as the woman
covered Lazarus' mouth with hers. Ayr knew the act was not that of
a wanton lover, nor did her actions spawn from a personal vendetta
against Laz. Her cold eyes lacked lust or desire, discounting
necrophilia. This was the work of a professional, a cold-hearted,
highly skilled killer. She lowered her mouth, covered his lips
with hers and sucked in her cheeks. The magnificent green eyes
closed and her chest heaved inward. A cold chill snaked down Ayr's
spine, and not from the frosty air. With a sudden jerk of her neck,
her head arched back and a trail of pale blue smoke spewed from her
lips. Another shudder shook Ayr as he drew his gaze to Lazarus. The
man's body convulsed and a garbled choke slipped from his throat.
Like a sunflower caught up in an ice-storm his flaccid body
sagged. The woman released her hold on his jacket and Ayr
waited for the sound of his body to hit the hard ground. He hadn't
counted on what happened next. Laz' physical being turned to dust
before his eyes; a handful of gray soot that blew away in a cold,
bitter wind. The red-haired beauty watched the matter take flight
then made the sign of the cross. A jolt of lightning jerked
Ayr from his trance-like state. “Soul Thief,” he whispered and
prepared for battle.
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