Fan Fiction ❯ Black Phoenix ❯ Angel of Death ( Chapter 2 )

Black Phoenix

Chapter Two

An angel of death. A grin. A mysterious tattoo and waiting for death.

A gun was pointing straight towards me.

Had I known that would happen later in the day, I never would have gone into the bathroom to look for a mirror. I never would have listened to Larry as he pointed at my face and laughed. But here I am, walking towards the mirror.

I'm pretty sure that Larry, the idiot that he was, was still standing on the balcony like he belonged there, laughing. No lipstick. No phone number. No bruise. If any of those things now graced my face I would have snorted, turned to Larry and told him to piss off back to his own apartment. He wouldn't have liked that. He would have sneered and I would laugh and eventually he'd creep away, no, slither, like some hideous reptile. A poisonous snake.

Only Larry was harmless. Then a thought struck me. Where did Larry live? To my knowledge the only thing he owned was Myth, the nightclub beneath my apartment, and if he was renting the apartment to us . . .

I had a vision of Larry almost bent in half, his arms wrapped awkwardly around his body, his mouth open as his face was pressed down on the bar. Asleep on one of the bar stools, his upper body crushed against wood. Snoring. Larry, living in Myth like an infestation. Maybe that's why he was always so dirty.

I would have laughed, or actually questioned Larry about this, had I not been preoccupied. Larry was still laughing, but I could barely hear anything beside my own heartbeat. My heart thundered in my chest like a huge drum, the noise echoing through my body, and I wondered if Larry could hear it.

I was aware that my lips were moving, as if I was trying to talk, but no words were uttered. At least none that made sense. I hated that. It was a loss of control, and I hated not being in control. I never let my eyes leave the mirror, and it was almost eerily staring at myself. The more I looked the more I wondered who I was looking at. Slowly I raised a hand and brushed long fingers over my face. My face, not the mirror face. Some part of my brain that was still working helpfully informed me that the mirror was in fact not me.

There was something on my face, to put it bluntly. Something that Larry had found highly amusing.

I was just disturbed.

It was a tattoo.

A tattoo of what looked like a large animal, twisted, it's huge wings spread out to the side. Feathers. So a bird and not a dragon then. Its head was turned, its beak open, a beedy eye staring almost meaningfully at me. It had a tail too. Lines that emerged from the bottom of the bird and ended in twisted patterns.

I felt my stomach in my throat. So much adrenaline was pumping through my body I began to shake.

It wasn't the fact that I had a tattoo on my face. It was the fact that I didn't know where the hell it had come from and who had done it.

I raised a hand to the bird again, ran my fingers down the body.

Black.

I had a feeling that this bird, the real bird, was quite colourful. But the tattoo was completely black.

And it smudged beneath my fingers. Only slightly, barely noticeable, but it smudged. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not permanent then. But my slight relief did nothing to stop the nausea spreading across my chest, or the hollowness in my stomach.

And then Larry appeared in the mirror and my heart leapt into my throat. I turned on Larry, my body bent, shaking and on the verge of collapsing.

"Larry!" I shouted, unaware that my voice was so loud. "What're trying to do? Give me a heart attack?"

I chose that moment to sink to the floor. Jesus, you'd think I'd just looked in the mirror and seen someone else staring back at me. Or found that half my face was hanging off, the liquid skin dribbling down my neck, the blood coated muscle shining in the light. I heaved. I thought I was going to be sick, and even though I was next to the toilet I had no inclination to turn.

For a moment Larry seemed to contemplate what to do or say. For a moment I thought he was going to shout back at me, start an argument, because of what I'd said. Then I thought that he was going to say something smart about the fact that I was a seventeen year old boy dry heaving in a pile on the floor. But what he actually did surprised me. He fell to the floor, clumsily, and looked me straight in the eye. My chest was heaving but I looked at him in confusion.

"You really don't know how this happened, do you?" he asked softly. Softly? We're talking about Larry here. What on Earth was happening?

I gave up on analysing Larry once again and shook my head instead. "No," I said. "Do you?"

He looked almost sorry for a moment, and then he too shook his head. "'Fraid not," he murmured.

I realised how pathetic I looked then, and I resented Larry seeing me like this. But then I reminded myself that it wasn't my fault. Firstly, my head was still pounding and my body felt so weak. Yep, that's a hangover for you. Secondly, I could feel the anxiety building up inside me. It's not something that I like, but I've always had problems with anxiety that not many people could understand. And thirdly -

Thirdly, I had a mysterious black tattoo on my face and I had no idea how it got there.

Life's a bitch.

I laughed at this, slightly hysterical. Larry looked at me like I was mad, but I didn't care. Laughing always helps with anxiety. I pulled myself to my feet, strangely steady, and Larry followed too, standing. I kept chuckling under my breath.

I was fine. I knew it. And Larry seemed to sense it too.

"Looks like that tattoo'll drive away the flocks of women," he said with a sneer. I looked at him, raised an eyebrow. He was still jealous.

"Not as much as that face of yours," I said, and laughed when he scowled. We always argued like this, and it was normal. I was in control.

I turned and looked in the mirror once again. The tattoo was quite large. It sat down the side of my face, curving down my forehead, past my eyebrow and ending just above my mouth. In a weird way it actually made me look quite cool.

I wanted to talk about it, but not with Larry. I'd have to find Rian.

Damn it. I suddenly remembered why Rian wasn't here in the first place.

"You seen Rian?" I asked Larry as casually as I could.

Larry raised an eyebrow, then laughed his dirty laugh. "Oh yeah, he ran through the bar this morning. On the verge of tears, I'd say. He looked like he wouldn't make it down the street."

For a moment my heart leapt, and then I saw the stupid grin on Larry's face. The stupid git was winding me up. No way would Rian ever cry over something so stupid, and there was no chance in hell that the ex-assassin was currently lying on the concrete path outside the club.

I don't know if it was an insult or just a friendly quarrel when I looked at Larry and said, "Screw you."

He looked alarmed, shocked, and then he turned away and left the apartment, muttering something under his breath about, "Ungrateful tenants." Ungrateful? He was getting more for this tiny place than anyone else would ever contemplate paying him.

My mood lightened immediately. No point in crying over spilt milk and all that. So what if Larry was nice to me for a moment? I don't know everything about the guy? So what if Rian's disappeared? He can take care of himself. And if he's angry I'll let him shout and me and if he's upset I'll apologise. No skin off my nose. And so what if I've got a bird across my face? It's not permanent. It'll wash off. And I was drunk last night. I can't remember what happened. It was probably Cindy or Donna who drew the bird on my face. Bet they're cringing about that right now.

I thought all this as I buttoned up my white shirt, pulled on a pair of old trainers and grabbed one of Rian's leather jackets. It wasn't because wearing leather gave me a thrill, though it did. Mainly it was because I had no jackets and Rian had one too many. But Rian was taller than men and slightly larger, so the jacket wasn't exactly a second skin. In fact, it was more like a tent. But it was warm, and it reminded me of Rian.

Okay, so I can't dress myself two days in a row. I don't care, so why should anyone else?

I wasn't sure if I was looking for Rian, avoiding Larry, trying to find Donna or Cindy or whether I was just leaving the apartment for a break. I didn't really care. I decided to leave through the back exit and not through the bar, wondering if Larry was catching up on some sleep on his nice little stool. I chuckled as I left the building.

I had barely walked away from Myth when I saw Cindy leaning against a rail outside. I first thought that she had been waiting for me. I cringed. Cindy was a nice girl and all, but it was pretty obvious that she had a huge crush on me that I just couldn't reciprocate. Then, as I saw her tight grip on the rail and the slightly dopey look on her face I realised that she had just left the nightclub and was currently trying to get home. I tried not to laugh as she, not noticing me, let go of the rail and began walking. Her legs were too far apart and her body was taut, and she looked to the entire world as if she was constipated.

"I don't think you should be advertising the fact that you're having bowl problems," I called as loudly as I dared. The streets were pretty empty anyway.

Then Cindy froze, looking like some kind of weird huge crab, and she turned. Immediately the dopey look on her face was replaced with an equally dopey grin. She had great difficulty turning around, hard to describe. Like a flurry of arms and legs that didn't seem to fit together and suddenly she had turned and was facing me.

"Well if it isn't Syrian Black?" she screeched. I had no desire to laugh.

Today Cindy's hair was lime green. Last week it had been pink. I seem to recall that at one point it had been orange and purple, at the same time. Just when had this girl turned into a walking rainbow?

But with her slightly tanned skin and her green cat suit, her citrus hair actually suited her.

We made it all the way into the local café, ordered six cups of coffee (the waitress gave us a strange look) and sat down at an empty and relatively isolated table before Cindy even noticed the tattoo. And I wish that she hadn't.

"Oh my God!" she shrieked, practically high enough to shatter glass. "What is that on your face?"

I'd like to say that her high-pitched voice was part of her being drunk, but it's not. It's just part of being Cindy.

But when she said that my good mood began to die. She obviously didn't know anything about the tattoo on my face.

"It's cool," she said slowly, and I realised in horror that she was flirting. She lowered her eyelids and began to lean across the table. "It's very . . ." Closer now. I can see the waitress approaching with our coffee. "Sexy," she drawled. And at that very moment the waitress made herself known by placing the coffee in front of us. And Cindy, preoccupied with flirting, reacted like a scalded cat. With a shriek that almost hurt, she flew into the air and landed very ungraciously on the floor.

I held back the urge to laugh as the waitress rolled her eyes and walked away. Cindy was still lying on the floor in a strange heap of clothing and body parts, and with all the green she looked like a lime rolling around on the floor.

"What the hell?" she cried, pulling herself to her feet. "Where did that coffee come from?"

Ah, the joys of having hung over friends.

So after sharing the coffee (I let Cindy have more since she was so much drunker) my friend turned into more of a human being and less of a walking, talking fruit. She saw the confusion in my face and looked more closely at the tattoo. Thankfully, in her 'slightly more alive' state, she didn't take the opportunity to try and kiss me.

"Well," she said after a while. "It's a mystery. I didn't put it there; I know Donna didn't since she disappeared with Larry." Larry. I cringed. "And I saw you pretty much all night and never saw it."

"No offence, Cindy," I said, taking a sip of coffee, "but you're not the most observant person when you're drunk."

She scowled at me and flicked her hair over her shoulder. "What I mean," she said forcefully, "is that if I was with you all night, when could it have happened? When could someone have drawn a phoenix on your face?"

I cringed when she said 'all night.'

Then I looked at her and stopped breathing.

"A what?" I cried. "There's a what on my face?"

She looked at me like I was about to explode. "Okay, Syrian, we've been through this. There's a tattoo on your face, remember?"

"I know about the damn tattoo," I snarled. "You said there was a fa . . . ph . . ."

"A phoenix," she said calmly. Then she raised an eyebrow and smirked slightly. "Oh, I see. I've used a word that's not in your vocabulary, huh?"

I snarled again, wanting to insult her, but my mind returned to 'phoenix'. Strange how I'd just accepted there was a bird on my face without questioning what type of bird. Now I knew. It was a phoenix.

Uh oh.

Dead end.

"Um, what's a phoenix?" I asked her as casually as I could, hoping that she would simply answer and not decide to brag about how smart she is.

She didn't say it, but she was probably thinking it. She raised the cup to her lips, which incidentally were also lime green, and dragged out her answer as long as possible. I wanted to reach across the table and hit her. Calm down. Calm down.

Eventually she said, "The phoenix. A legendary, mythical bird. There is only ever one in existence. It is born in fire, dies in fire, worshiped by all other birds and is said to bring light to the world." God, she sounded like a textbook. I frowned.

"So if this bird is all 'mythical' and whatever, how do you know that the bird on my face is a phoenix and not . . . an emu?"

She laughed slightly and then pointed a finger right at my face. "Because, Einstein, the bird on your face is rising out of the flames. Can't you see it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, Cindy, I have always had the ability to look at my own face." That girl was annoying drunk or sober.

I went to the bathroom with the intention of looking at my face in the mirror. Heard a couple going at it in one of the cubicles and decided to be as quick as possible. I almost wish that there wasn't any fire so that I could brag about how Cindy was wrong, but when I looked into the mirror I saw the small flames curled around the bird's feet. I scowled. Black of course. Just like the bird.

So what did that mean? If the phoenix was supposed to bring light into the world, I was pretty sure that the bird, like Cindy, would look like some kind of personified rainbow. But the phoenix on my face was black. Devoid of all colour.

I knew it meant something. There was some part of my brain that was screaming, "Listen to me, I know the answer!" but I couldn't hear it. I left the bathroom, entered the café and headed towards the table where Cindy and I were sitting. I didn't have to look hard since the café was empty. 100% devoid of all life except for us and the . . .

I looked at the counter and wondered where the waitress was. I don't know why that thought scared me. But I quickened my pace as I headed towards Cindy.

And then my body froze.

Cindy was no longer sitting at the table. She and the waitress were both sitting on the ground, their hands on their heads, alternating between murmuring and screaming. And I knew why.

Standing directly in front of me, a grin on his face and his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, was a man. Not one I knew, and not one I ever wanted to know. Dressed entirely in black like an angel of death. Where the hell did that come from?

And as he continued to stare at me, his grin widened. He looked at my face, and my heart began to pound.

The phoenix.

He was looking directly at the phoenix.

And then he raised the gun so that it was pointing straight at me.

~TBC~