THREE
PHOENIX
“Twenty million,” he offers as he takes off his glasses and folds them neatly, tucking them in his pocket.
I scoff. He thinks I’m a fool. I hate being underestimated.
“I don’t think so,” I tell him before I shift the matchstick lodged between my teeth to the other side.
I might look like a human on the outside currently, but the monster is never far away.
The urge to light up and turn the world into a blazing ember, persistently itching beneath my skin.
The sulfuric taste of the match in my mouth curves some of my baser desires. “Forty.”
“Forty million?!” The man has the audacity to look as if he’s been insulted.
I’m used to being underestimated in my human form—a side effect of being an immortal creature of flame and fury is that you don’t really age on the human continuum.
I’ve looked the same age in my human skin for centuries.
This man may be a refutable art dealer, one who will in fact get the tapestry into the right hands, where it belongs, but he’s acting like a crook right now.
“The tapestry is priceless,” I tell him.
“Dating back to the eighth century, it’s Iranian and depicts a magical golden bird breaking free from its cage.
It would be of interest to collectors throughout Eastern Europe and the Middle East, as well as a number of museums.” I level him with a burning stare. “Forty million is a good deal.”
“You know your artifacts, Mister…”
“You can call me Phoenix,” I tell him as I shift my hands into the pockets of my pants and lean back against the wall. “I’m a bit older than I look.”
Understatement of the year.
“And you acquired this through refutable means?” the man asks as his beady eyes scan over the glimmering golden threads woven into the feathers on the tapestry.
The feathers are a near mirror image of the ones I wore on my mask to acquire this piece.
Part of me felt bad about swooping in and stealing it right out from under the female’s nose.
She let that gross pig-person Alexander finger fuck her to get this piece, so she must have wanted it badly. But there’s no honor among thieves.
“Sure,” I lie. We both know this game—all he needs is a confirmation that it was acquired legally, he’s not required to do more than that in this country.
My mind flits back to the way the woman, Marisa, looked when she realized she’d been played.
The fury on her face was intoxicating. Most women are boring, good for a quick and mindless fuck, but they’re all bland.
There’s a certain fury running through this redhead though that has the monster within me itching to try to tame her.
Her tits would look fucking fantastic reddened by my heated marks. I bet she’d whimper so pretty for me.
My cock swells in my pants at the thought and I have to shift to avoid looking like a creep with tented slacks. What is this girl doing to me? I can’t even focus on a forty-million-dollar deal.
“Forty it is then.” The man nods and spins back to his desk. Pleasure ripples through me as he sits and pulls out a leather bound check book.
I flop down into one of his ghastly uncomfortable chairs and prop my booted foot up on the arm rest. The office is clean and crisp. I rasp my fingers along my thigh, my nerves a mess of excitement and anticipation.
“I assume I can’t just make the check out to Phoenix,” the man drolls, looking down his nose at me.
Here comes the fun part.
“No,” I reply with a nod. “You can make it out to The Solentsevskaya Organizatsiya,” I tell him and watch as he pales.
His hand trembles slightly as he signs the check.
This new knowledge shifts the mood considerably.
The delicious sweet scent of terror fills the room.
It’s taken me years, decades even, but I now can induce fear in both my monstrous and human forms. My skin begins to heat in excitement and I have to tamp down the urge to go full flame thrower.
With a shaky hand, he hands over the check, which I quickly snap up and place into my inner jacket pocket.
“Spasibo,” I tell the man with a small nod as I flick the match from my mouth onto his desk before turning to leave.
My bike is waiting outside for me. I’m generally opposed to human modes of transportation, most being horrific death traps.
But I must admit—a motorcycle is as close to flying as I can get in this form.
It is most enjoyable. And the risks of riding one don’t truly apply to me—immortal being of flame and all that, I can’t really die in a crash.
Zipping up my leather coat, I slide my leg over the blacked out Kawasaki Ninja.
I do see the appeal of a bigger, more rugged motorcycle but the Kawasaki is the fastest in the world.
Its speeds rival even my own when in my true form.
I can go from zero to sixty in under three seconds. As close to flying as you can get.
Weaving through the busy city streets, the cool evening air whipping across my heated skin is one of my favorite feelings. The small fortune in my breast pocket isn’t bad either. A smile pulls at my lips and a small chuckle leaves my throat. It’s a good fucking day.
Pulling up to my favorite dive bar, I kick the gears lower as I slow down.
I could clearly afford a nice cocktail at some swanky as shit place to celebrate, but where’s the fun in that?
Plus, I’ve noticed the person trailing me across town, and if they’re looking for a confrontation, I’d rather it be on my own turf.
I knock down my kickstand once I come to a stop.
Pulling the helmet from my head, I let the cool evening breeze ruffle my dark hair.
I’m perpetually warm, a side effect of my monstrous otherness, so I take any chance I can get to cool down.
Sliding from the seat, I move towards the door of the bar.
The feeling of eyes on my back has my skin prickling with the sensation of being watched.
But I don’t let it show. Let them think they’ve gotten the upperhand.
The familiar stench of piss, smoke, and whiskey fills my lungs as soon as the door to the bar swings open.
I love The Firebird. The only bar in town truly worth going to, in my opinion.
The bartender greets me with a curt nod as I saddle up to my favorite barstool and slip a match from my pocket, sliding the wooden stick between my teeth and kicking the end around with my tongue.
Lev comes to sit beside me, in his usual spot.
“Everything go well, boss?” he asks as I signal for the bartender to bring us a round.
Lev is my right hand man. A truly loyal and constant companion over the years, he is not exactly a monster and not exactly a man, making him something truly unique and unusual in this world.
I find his calm and stoic presence reassuring.
I would trust the druzhban with my life.
The bald bartender, whose name I always forget, slides me two double whiskey neats. I take one and hand the second to Lev.
Slipping the check from my pocket, I hand it over to Lev who lets out a low whistle. “That worked out exactly how you’d hoped for.”
It is at that exact moment that the door to the bar swings open, crashing against the wall with a resounding thunk.
All eyes swing towards the noise. Several guns cock.
I can’t stop the slow smirk that spreads across my face as I feel her eyes land on my back.
I take a slow sip of my drink, reveling in the burn.
“Phoenix, you asshole!” my favorite redhead calls out from the door she just kicked open. The righteous fury in her voice has my entire body crackling with excitement.
I knew she’d find me.