The Phoenix Girls, Book 3: The Heart of the Phoenix

By Brian Knight and M. Wayne Miller

In this explosive conclusion to The Phoenix Girls Trilogy, the girls and their expanding circle of friends prepare to defend Aurora Hollow and Dogwood against enemies from another world, and Penny faces the greatest challenge of her young life; the truth about her father, her familys darkest secrets, and the mystery of the Phoenix. Trouble has come to Aurora Hollow again, and this time the whole world is in danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tulpa Books
• Release date: May 26, 2020
• ISBN: 1732241791

Book preview

failed.

Part I

The Secret of Aurora Hollow

Chapter 1

Erasmus

The monk’s home appeared modest from the outside, partly because it sat alone in a blasted desert landscape, a place where even the cacti were stunted and scrawny and the only activity was nocturnal, but mostly because it was modest.

From the outside.

It was a small, square adobe made of eroded mud bricks and a tinder-dry thatch roof. Its door was rough and ill-fitting, a solid slab of thick wood with a worn leather strap nailed to it for a handle. The hinges were bulky and rusted, and there were no windows. Narrow slits were centered on each of the four walls to spy out approaching visitors, and an iron bar stood ready inside to brace the door and keep them out.

One would think that the monk disliked visitors, and one would be right.

Erasmus Pi wanted nothing to do with visitors, be they human, manimal, spirit, or otherwise. As far as he was concerned, the assorted races of Gallia could go jump in a hole; the deeper, the better.

Not that the monk ever had visitors. He had only spent a short time at his new home, and only one person knew he was here, his old friend Ronan, and Ronan wasn’t talking. They were both hunted now, both desperate, and Ronan could gain nothing by betraying Erasmus.

The illusion of modesty continued on the inside. A short run of steps dropped to a recessed brick floor, and the room’s most striking features were the small table, a smaller cot, and a strange device—a box with a lever sticking out of the top and a hand-crank on one side.

Erasmus Pi, exiled South Island Monk, exiled former tutor to the children of the House of Fuilrix, fugitive from the massing avian tribes, was at a personal low point in his long and admittedly too interesting life. But at least he was safe, hidden in the Dead Lands and out of reach of his enemies, which included, at last count, everyone.

Well, everyone except Ronan, but Erasmus had his own issues with Ronan.

He lay stretched out on his cot, a short man with a round, chubby face, a stout torso, and limbs that seemed slightly too long, out of proportion to the rest of him. He wore a black top hat pulled down to a pair of black welding goggles and a long black coat with a split tail that hung down to either side of his gently swinging cot, brushing the floor. He’d been in that cot napping for the past several weeks without interruption. Not his personal best, but still a respectable nap. He was prepared to spend the next several weeks in the same fashion if fate allowed. Out of trouble’s way and recharging.

Then the alarm sounded, and his pleasant nap came to an end.

Erasmus floated upside down in a cloud of stardust, far above the gentle curve of a serene blue-green globe that was familiar from several of his favorite books. He was above the dayside but could see a rim of twilight creeping along beneath, eating up the bright colors. A bright tracery of artificial light etched the dark scarlet of the encroaching night like rivers of burning coal. The moon crested behind it, lending a certain pockmarked ambiance, not to mention a gravitationally stabilizing hand.

Erasmus moved farther away and shifted his perspective to include the other Earths stacked above and below, seemingly to infinity. Many were identical to the one he’d been watching, with their own moons, oceans, identical continents, and a few with their own traceries of electric light. Some had no moon, with deeply tilted axes and wildly erratic rotations. Many were green with life. Many glowed red with fire or radiation. Some were dead lumps.

But they were all Earth.

Erasmus searched for his and found one he figured was close enough. There was no moon, no eclectic lights on the approaching night-side, and a disturbing irregularity in the pitch, but it was home. He moved in closer until he could see the mass of islands where his people came from, the large one on the outer western rim where he’d lived. He hadn’t been there for a long time.

Ronan often told Erasmus that his obsession with the mysteries of the multiverse blinded him to the world he actually lived in. Erasmus often told Ronan to mind his own business, but had to admit to himself at least that his foxy old friend had a point. He thought he would be much happier if he could just let it go, but letting go was hard when you grew up in a culture that specialized in obsession, many of its more accomplished members spending the majority of their lives in speculative trances.

Their obsessions varied. Erasmus’s father had spent most of his long lifetime speculating on the planet beneath their feet; the internal forces that shaped and changed it over periods of time, creating land and oceans and the living things that covered it, and the great explosions and shakings that sometimes ripped pieces of the world apart in moments. The apex of a successful life was the moment when a lifetime’s speculation condensed into truth. His father had awakened from his last long trance and spent a sleepless year writing everything he’d learned, then died of exhaustion at the writing’s conclusion.

Most were not so successful. Erasmus’s foolish uncle Bilge had been convinced that rocks and plants had a lively inner consciousness and that he could make contact with the spirit of a favorite potted cactus by thinking happy thoughts at it while in trance. Bilge had spent several months cuddled with the prickly cactus, and it had been a young Erasmus’s responsibility to keep the plant alive and pluck the occasional spine out of his weird uncle’s hide. Bilge had awakened at the end of his long trance, uttered one of the foulest phrases in his race’s language, and died of embarrassment.

Erasmus was positively flighty by the standards of his race, which is perhaps why he’d done the unthinkable and left the island to explore the wider world beyond.

Mostly, he never regretted the decision to leave the island. He was a bit of an oddity to the assorted peoples of the mainland, but they had found him a useful oddity at least. There was always something interesting to keep him occupied, whether telling stories to entertain travelers at the inns that dotted the roads between the cities and villages, bartering for goods and lore with the manimal tribes that existed on the fringes of the wild, or fleeing for his life from the united avian tribes of the east. Life was interesting.

Things didn’t get weird until he met the Reds and started visiting other worlds.

For a member of a race that mostly exists on a single small island, traveling his own world was quite adventurous enough, but to visit another world ... That was not an easy sell, but the Reds had finally enticed him. It was in another world that he discovered his purpose, a thing called science. There were writings, tools, wild ideas and discoveries beyond anything he could have imagined, knowledge that might make the attainment of his life goal accessible.

But his association with The House of Fuilrix had gotten him into just the kind of trouble his people had warned him about when he left. Now the family he had once served had turned against him, hunted him, driven him into hiding, and would likely have him soon, whatever world he chose to hide out in.

Even the world inside his head wasn’t safe anymore.

The bird cheeped and dove down at Erasmus. It landed on his shoulder and looked the sleeping man in the face.

Hey, you, the bird said.

It was a small bird, tiny, a scale model copy of the colorful Plumed King from the South Islands; bright yellow, red, and blue, with a beak like a sickle. The Plumed King was a majestic bird, though bad tempered and prone to bouts of foul language and childish pranks. Erasmus’s miniature version, his security system, was no less bad tempered.

Wake up, idiot!

Erasmus grunted and rolled over, dislodging the miniature Plumed King from his shoulder.

It fluttered around his head and landed on his other shoulder, then pecked him sharply on the tip of his bulbous nose.

Erasmus grunted in his sleep again and swatted the bird away. A moment later, his tall black top hat slipped off the top of his head, releasing a black nest of long tangled dreadlocks, which also began to swat at the bird.

Back off, squid! The bird ducked and dove through the flailing hairy tentacles that seemed to be operating independently of the still sleeping Erasmus, then pecked one that came too close.

The squirming tentacle reared back and curled itself up close to Erasmus’s head, its heart for the fight gone. The bird landed on his shoulder again, slipped its beak into his ear, and let out a piercing shriek.

Wake up, you lazy old twit! The bird took flight again and hovered a few inches below the ceiling, well out of Erasmus’s reach.

The little man, fully awake at last, sprang from his cot swinging his pudgy little fists over his head.

What? Erasmus bellowed up at the little bird and leapt up for another swing at it. Get down here, you little nuisance!

No! The little bird dove down to peck at Erasmus’s groping hand, then darted back out of his reach. Not until you’ve settled down!

Erasmus growled and jumped again, his spindly legs barely lifting him off the floor.

Ha! The bird laughed and clicked its beak aggressively at Erasmus, then dove for him again.

Erasmus made another snatch at the bird, but not with his hands. His tangled nest of dreadlocks began to stir, then burst into activity. One snapped upward and wrapped around one of the bird’s feet, then a second grabbed hold of the other.

Hey, let go! The bird snapped at the tentacle-like dreadlock restraining him, and a third knotted itself around its beak. It let out a muffled squawk as they yanked it down, and a moment later, it was trapped in a wriggling, hairy cage.

Erasmus chuckled and sat down, then rubbed his pudgy face and yawned.

Get your hairy appendages off of me, the bird squawked. Let me outta here!

Not until you’ve calmed down, Erasmus said, and flopped onto his back again.

The bird pecked him on the top of the head. Erasmus bellowed in pain, and the bird darted free of the unwinding dreadlocks.

You set me to watch, you buffoon, the bird squawked indignantly. Don’t get angry with me for doing my job!

Bah! Erasmus shouted in frustration and bent to retrieve his hat. While he brushed dust from the old felt, one of his longer dreadlocks slithered back over his shoulder and disappeared down the back of his coat. A moment later it reappeared waving a wand threateningly in the alarmed bird’s direction. Erasmus stood again with a grunt, clutching the small of his back with one hand, holding his top hat out, open end up, with his other.

Back in with ya, he said. The dreadlock holding the wand emphasized the command with a sharp jab in the direction Erasmus wanted the bird to go. In the hat!

Ingrate! The miniature Plumed King glared at Erasmus and dropped obediently into the hat.

Erasmus settled the hat back on his head and stalked to the eastern wall of his adobe while his nest of living dreadlocks slid themselves back inside their spacious felt home and yanked it down snug against his ears. Stalking back to the center of the small room next to the table, he faced the ceiling, as if peering up through it. He closed the eyes behind his dark goggles and waited for the eye inside his head to open.

The eye inside his head received only dim images from the outside. His input was bad and inconsistent, split between a hundred creeping, crawling, and flying things. He saw the world through their eyes and felt it through their senses; the limited perspective of simple creatures.

Then a clearer image overlaid the jumble, his patch of desert from high above seen first through a single pair of eyes, then several. Within seconds, he was seeing his home from every angle, high and low, and from every direction, through a multitude of eyes, a three-dimensional projection from the eyes and minds of every living thing in his range.

Some were on the ground, some airborne, all coming for him.

The thatch ceiling began to crackle, sifting dust down around Erasmus.

Oh sh ...

The ceiling flew upward in chunks and strips, opening his dark little hideaway to a scorching desert sun and a dozen armed and armored fliers. They circled over him with crossbows wound and spears cocked back, ready to fly. Only one had a wand, the fat one with the red plumage. Facing only one magic user, Erasmus gave himself fair odds.

The south wall shattered behind him, and he found a second wand pointed his way. Not a flier, a human, skinny, bald, every inch of bare skin tattooed.

You’re surrounded, Erasmus. Nowhere to run, no way to escape. It was the fat red one, the Cardinal. Erasmus was flattered the birds would send someone so important just for him. We’d prefer to take you back with us alive and … undamaged.

That’s very reassuring, Erasmus shouted, then ran to the strange metal box on his table and began to crank the handle on the side.

Laughter rained down on him. The skinny tattooed man turned a questioning look up to the Cardinal.

What do you hope to accomplish? The Cardinal shook with laughter and dropped several feet toward the ground before he remembered to flap his wings again.

It’s quite amazing, Erasmus shouted. He cranked harder, hoping the machine would in fact do what he’d designed it for. He’d never tested it. Are you familiar with the physical laws of electromagnetism?

I don’t like this, the tattooed man said. Make him stop.

More laughter rained down from winged soldiers above.

Erasmus smiled at them and nodded in agreement with their assessment of the situation.

It really was ridiculous.

The tattooed man moved his wand in the beginning of a spell. One of Erasmus’s animated dreadlocks drew his wand from beneath his tall hat and deflected the spell. It bounced upward and blasted one of the Cardinal’s soldiers out of the sky.

Work, you piece of junk!

Erasmus felt the metal buttons on his long coat tug against their threads, then snap them. They flew off his jacket and scattered against the wall behind him.

Enough of this nonsense, the Cardinal shouted. Take him!

The machine under Erasmus’s hands began to hum, then to vibrate. The fliers dove down at him.

Erasmus stopped cranking, yanked the handle on the black metal box, and dove under the table with his arms over his head.

The diving avians stopped in mid-air as the electromagnetic pulse generated by his machine hit them and repelled the metal in their light armor. Metal spearheads snapped off wooden shafts and flew away, crossbows flew out of hands, and the Cardinal’s heavy neck-chain flew backward and began to choke him. The armored avians above shrieked and tumbled upward into the sky.

With a loud bang, the metal parts of Erasmus’s electromagnetic pulse generator shattered and embedded themselves in the mud brick walls.

The tattooed man screamed and clutched his leg as a hook of smoking metal tore into it. His wand dropped from his fist, and Erasmus summoned it to him under the table with a flick of his wand. Another of the strange little man’s dreadlocks snaked out from beneath his top hat to catch it, and Erasmus emerged from beneath his table armed with two wands and more confidence than he had diving beneath it.

Keeping his normal eyes closed, he scanned the skies again. His airborne attackers were regrouping. The men and creatures on the ground were picking themselves up and searching for their lost weapons. The Cardinal circled above, squawking at his troops.

Stop him! Don’t let him get away!

Come and get me y’self, Erasmus shouted, shaking a fist at the retreating red figure, then blasting a spear out of the air a moment before it would have pierced the top of his old hat.

His lively dreadlocks continued to work independently as he swept a candle, book, and stained cloth from the table in the center of his humble shack. Two of them operated wands while another caught a spear that missed his head by inches and twirled it in the air behind his back, blocking a second and third spear before they could make his day any worse.

Erasmus stood before the uncovered table, which was not a table at all but a door, old and splintered, set into a frame and elevated above the floor on four crooked legs. He dug through his pockets while his enemies closed in from all sides and above, cautious at first, then aggressively when he didn’t repeat his trick with the black box.

Where is it? Erasmus rifled through the many pockets of his long coat. Objects hit the ground at his feet as he turned out his pockets; a telescoping looking glass, a set of chattering teeth that began to march in circles around him, braying laughter as it walked, an old iPod, its screen blank, powered down, a red silk bowtie.

Give up, Monk! The tattooed man limped at the head of a small contingent of ground troops, humans and humanoids, mercenaries and desert scum. He bared his pointed teeth at Erasmus in a feral grin, dodged a spell that Erasmus sent his way with casual grace. The spell hit a wild looking human behind the tattooed man and sent him flying into a tight packed group behind him.

The tattooed man’s grin became a grimace as he advanced on his wounded leg. He produced another wand from a holster on his belt and fired at the distracted Monk.

Erasmus’s twirling spear splintered and flew in all directions. A moment later, the first avian dropped through the shattered ceiling, and Erasmus was too slow to avoid it. It crashed into him, and they sprawled on the floor. The avian threw a fist, and Erasmus dodged it. He heard the birdman’s fist break against the brick floor. The avian’s moan of pain became a howl as Erasmus darted his head forward and bit his neck. It lashed out, its beak closing over one of Erasmus’s wands, and yanked it free of the living dreadlock’s grip.

A second avian landed next to them and clamped his long, clawed toes around Erasmus’s throat. A third landed, then a fourth, and he fired wildly at them before they seized his last wand.

A moment later, they stood around him in a tight circle, avians, humans, and others. The Cardinal dove down and perched above them on one of the remaining shack walls.

On second thought, I don’t think anyone will mind if we damage him a little. The fat red avian clicked his beak and chuckled.

Let him go, the tattooed man said, and the others did, backing away to stand against the walls, giving their savage leader the room he required.

Is this to be a physical contest? Erasmus asked. Because I should warn you that I’m …

The tattooed man flourished his wand like a sword, then pointed it at Erasmus.

The chubby monk flew from the floor like a marionette under the control of an unskilled puppeteer and hung in the air, the tips of his toes scraping through the rubble.

Feeling a little weak at the moment, Erasmus finished.

Erasmus braced himself for an attack, but the tattooed man returned his wand to its holster and paced. He seemed to consider the little monk, looking him up and down, grinning and cracking his knuckles. He turned briefly to consider his audience, then spun, launching a foot up into Erasmus’s face.

The monk cried out in surprise and pain, spinning in place where he was suspended. The top of his tall hat brushed the floor and fell off. The miniature Plumed King took squawking flight, then vanished in a puff of smoke and drifting feathers. A tarnished doorknob rolled out of it, coming to rest under the table.

Laughter rang out above and below as Erasmus’s spin slowed and stopped with his toes brushing the floor again. His head sagged, his chin resting against his breastbone, blood dribbling from his mouth and nose. He sagged, semiconscious for a moment, then shook his head and lifted his gaze to the tattooed man. His dark goggles had slipped down the bridge of his nose. One of his lively dreadlocks tugged at the adjustable strap that held them in place, loosening it.

How did such a weak-bodied worm like this survive so long? the tattooed man asked in heavily accented Dingo, an antiquated native dialect long ago appropriated from the southern region’s lawless nomad communities.

If you really want to know that, you nomad scab, come a little closer and I’ll tell you, Erasmus whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

The tattooed man’s face cramped with anger, flushing bright red, and for a moment, Erasmus saw his hand dip back toward his wand. Then he mastered his emotions, favored the monk with a hard grin, and stepped forward. He stopped, nearly nose to nose with the suspended monk, and glared directly into the black circular lenses of Erasmus’s goggles.

Ya have something strong to say, island scum?

The animated dreadlock working unobtrusively on the strap holding the dark goggles in place gave a yank, and they fell free, exposing the monk’s wide black eyes.

Because I’m much smarter than you, Erasmus said, and smiled so broadly that the corners of his mouth seemed to touch his ears.

All expression left the tattooed man’s face, all tension fell from his body, and his pupils swelled as he stared into Erasmus’s exposed eyes. The force holding Erasmus broke, and he thumped unsteadily to his feet.

The crowd of mercenaries and scum gathered behind the tattooed man regarded one another with confusion.

Above them, the scattered avians drew closer together to see what was holding up their show.

Don’t look into his eyes, you fool, the Cardinal screamed above them, but too late.

Be a good fellow and help me out, will you, Erasmus said.

Without looking away, not even blinking, the tattooed man raised his wand and fired a volley into the group of fliers gathered above the shattered ceiling.

The avians squawked and scattered into the sky. Two fell, landing just out of sight behind one of the adobe’s intact walls. The Cardinal cursed, then took panicked flight as the tattooed man fired a second volley at him.

The foot soldiers attacked as one, rushing the tattooed man. They leapt at him, on him, trying to drag him down, disarm him, but they might as well have attacked a statue. He spun on the spot, wand firing and fist flying, and scattered them.

Free from his magical bonds and the unwanted attention of a dozen or more unfriendly intruders, Erasmus decided the time had come for his exit. He bent low, scooped up his hat, and then dropped it again in favor of the tarnished old doorknob.

There you are!

He dropped to his knees in search of his wand, and settled on the old iPod when he couldn’t find it.

He was rising again when he felt the point of a wand press into the small of his back and heard the Cardinal’s voice behind him.

My orders were to bring you back alive, the Cardinal said, but I’ll take a scolding for the pleasure of seeing you dead.

Erasmus froze, doorknob in one hand, iPod in the other, and every dreadlock standing on end, as if raised in surrender.

I think alive is a pretty good idea myself.

Don’t grovel, old friend. A new and unexpected voice joined the conversation. A familiar voice, one Erasmus was mostly glad to hear. It’s undignified.

The Cardinal gave a surprised squawk, and the wand tip pressing into Erasmus’s back vanished. There was a thump, a thud, and a drift of bright red feathers falling down before the monk’s wide, black eyes.

Ronan? Erasmus spun to face the newcomer, and cheered at the sight.

Point those things somewhere else, Ronan barked. I’d rather not lose what’s left of my mind today.

Erasmus closed his eyes and wrestled the dark goggles back over them, tightened the strap that held them in place, then faced Ronan again with his wide, manic grin.

Ronan stood nearly ten feet tall with a muscular humanoid frame covered in sleek red fur. He wore a loose and tattered poncho and loose-fitting short pants, the garb of a desert dweller, though his home was far west of the heat-blasted desert sand-scape where they stood. His vulpine features were partly obscured by the hood of a sand-crusted cloak, but his snout was open in the familiar foxy grin, and his yellow eyes seemed to glow in the darkness under his hood.

Erasmus fought the urge to rush his old friend and embrace him, remembering that he was still annoyed with the meddling old fox, but couldn’t quite kill the grin on his face.

What are you doing out here?

I’ve been close, Ronan confessed. And a little birdie told me you were in some distress.

The miniature Plumed King darted out from beneath Ronan’s hood and perched on the tip of his snout, glaring down at the monk.

You’re welcome, it snapped, then flew back inside the upended top hat resting in the rubble of the disintegrated north wall.

Erasmus grimaced down at the Cardinal’s prone form and gave it an irritable kick. I’m running out of places to hide, old friend.

"You know what the solution is, old friend." Ronan looked at the doorknob in Erasmus’s hand, then the horizontal door currently serving as a table. There was a hole in the wood near the locking tongue, but no knob.

I was desperate … it’s not an idea I embrace. The monk regarded the scattered unconscious bodies lying around them, then the tattooed man standing docilely behind him, wand in hand and waiting for orders. Why don’t you be a good fellow and run along. Make sure no one bothers us.

The tattooed man nodded and left them alone.

How long will he be working for you?

Erasmus took a moment to consider. A few seconds of eye contact is usually good for a few minutes, but that one is so dumb he’s barely sentient. Could last for hours.

Then may I suggest a hasty escape before the Cardinal’s lackeys regroup and make another attempt?

Erasmus shrugged, resigned, and fitted the spike at back of the doorknob into the hole in his horizontal door. So where are we going then?

Ronan chuckled. I’m heading west again. You’re going somewhere a little more … distant.

I’d guessed that much, Erasmus snapped.

Remember the avian that captured you and stole your collection of relics?

How could I forget? Erasmus hugged himself, as if trying to massage a sorely bruised ego.

You’re going to meet the girls who defeated him and took all those dangerous toys away.

The Phoenix Girls? Erasmus sounded almost curious.

Ronan nodded.

I haven’t been to Dogwood in years. The smile returned, but wilted quickly. What new trouble are you about to get me into?

Ronan only smiled and gestured toward the door.

Beneath them, the Cardinal began to groan.

I suppose we should kill this one, Erasmus said, but without any real enthusiasm.

We should, but we won’t, Ronan said. The king might do it for us when he fails to bring you back.

The king? Erasmus had not expected that. I thought the avians were looking for me.

They are, Ronan said. But King Tynan is the one who hired the Vulture to find you.

The Vulture was the name of a large gang of outlaw nomads that called this desert home, though if there was an actual Vulture, no one outside of the gang had ever seen him. The fat red avian currently snoozing on the ground behind them seemed to be the one in charge.

Help me drag them outside. If I’m leaving, I’ll need to cover my exit, and it will look better if these fools survive.

Ronan was apprehensive. What exactly do you have in mind?

Erasmus held up the old iPod and grinned his ear-to-ear grin. He could have tried to explain, again, what happens when Old Earth electrical gadgets encountered this world’s much stronger electro-magnetic field, but Ronan didn’t have a mind for science.

I’m going to make a great big hole in the ground and hope everyone thinks I was blown to dust along with my home.

A few minutes later, they stood in the open air, sand blowing around them, unconscious bodies scattered, the tattooed man standing in the far distance keeping guard. The avians who had escaped could be back with reinforcements at any moment. It was time to part.

Be safe, and don’t call too much attention to yourself over there, Ronan said.

I know how to keep a low profile, Ronan, Erasmus said, twiddling his recovered wand in one hand while his living dreadlocks straightened and snugged his tall black hat more securely on his head. One by one, they slithered back under the cover, the last pausing for a moment to wave goodbye at Ronan. Can I expect to see you on the other side?

In a manner of speaking, Ronan said, flashing his vulpine smile. He turned away, then back to Erasmus. Tell your bird goodbye for me. I like him.

Erasmus scowled at Ronan’s retreating back, then scurried back down the recessed entrance to his half-demolished home.

He hesitated only a moment, looked around, then shrugged. No matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to miss the place.

He turned the knob, one of the old relics stolen by that bounty hunter avian and returned by Ronan only a few months before, and then opened the door and lifted himself up and into the frame of the door that led to another world. He removed the doorknob and dropped it in a pocket, pushed the power button on the old iPod, and dropped it onto the rubble-covered floor.

Erasmus vanished through the doorway, and it slammed shut behind him, once more just