Phoenix Person (eBook)

Victor Rochii (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
316 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-097170-8 (ISBN)

Infos

He was reborn to save the world. But all he wants is to save her 

After being mysteriously killed by a hitman, twenty-year-old Shawn Comerford is reborn in fire-only to learn he's not just alive. He's become something mythic: a phoenix person, charged with protecting the world from monsters.

Now, with a strange fire pulsing beneath his skin, Shawn is sent on a mission he doesn't fully understand-one that leads him to Brenda Rodriguez, the one girl fate says he can never have. She's brilliant, guarded... and cursed. Romantic love is fatal for her. Anyone who falls for her is marked for destruction.

And yet, Shawn can't stay away. To be with her, he'll have to break the curse-one born centuries ago, in a land where dark creatures roam. To do it, he must put his phoenix powers to use, or lose Brenda forever.

Textauszug

CHAPTER ONE

Imagine this: I’m a twenty-year-old guy, living alone in a cottage on the outskirts of London. A total nobody. A few thousand pounds to my name. Zero enemies. I barely even know anyone. And right now, I’m on my knees, brow furrowed in confusion, staring at a man pointing a pistol at my face.

Jesus. Can anything be stupider?

The man holds the gun steady, his grimy face alight with glee. I don’t think anyone’s ever been this happy to kill someone. What the hell did I ever do to him?

“Oh, you won’t believe how much I’m being paid to kill you, lad. I’m set for life once you’re gone.” He grins, making his already filthy face look even worse.

A wave of confusion slams into me. “Wait, you were paid to kill me? By who?”

“I don’t reveal my clients, lad. Especially not ones willing to drop that kind of cash to end your little life.”

I’m too stunned to speak. Someone paid a large amount to have me killed? What the fuck?

Then a possibility strikes: maybe he’s got the wrong guy.

“Listen. You’re pointing your gun at the wrong person. You must’ve mixed up my address or—”

“Oh, I didn’t,” the hitman says gleefully. “She said your name is Shawn Comerford. That it?”

“Yes,” I reply quietly. “So it’s a woman. You said she.”

“Yeah. A woman. That’s all I’m telling you, lad. Now, any last words? I can’t bloody wait to start spending.”

The center table has been shoved aside, and we’re standing dead-center in my living room. I’d been watching the last episode of season three of Stranger Things when he kicked in the door and told me to get on my knees. Then he switched off the TV, muttering that Eleven gives him the creeps, and aimed his pistol at my head.

I scan my memory, desperate to recall anyone I’ve ever wronged in my twenty years on Earth. Nothing comes up. Unless you count the time I called the neighbourhood bully an arsehole when I was nine.

I shake my head, lost. “I honestly can’t think of anyone who’d want me dead. I mean—”

“I’ll take that as your last words. Thanks for making me wealthy, Comerford.”

He pulls the trigger. The shot cracks through the air.

My eyes widen. Searing pain bursts through my forehead.

Then darkness.

* * *

I lie motionless on my living room floor, limbs sprawled, thinking: So this is what I am now. An apparition. A ghost.

I mean, If anyone had told me I’d die today, I wouldn’t have believed them. But here I am. Dead.

Wait. I don’t feel dead. Shouldn’t I?

I feel like I have a body again. A new one, somehow formed from the fire and now within a heap of ash—my ash. My original body, apparently, was set ablaze after being shot. Burned to nothing. But now… I’m back. Sort of. A new me lies in the ash, coated in it. But if I’m dead, why don’t I feel hollow or weightless? Maybe spirits still feel human. Maybe.

Ash clings to my skin like a second layer, except around my eyes, which stare up at the ceiling. People say the soul goes beyond the sky when you die. Is that where I’m meant to go?

I slowly rise from the ash and sit up.

The room is empty. The hitman is gone.

I stand and step away from the ash pile. Panic bubbles beneath my ribs.

Where do I belong now? Where are spirits supposed to go? Is something meant to collect me and carry me off? If so, why am I still here?

I step outside. The night air is cool on my skin. I keep walking. I don’t know where to go, only that I shouldn’t stay here.

The narrow path leads to the lane. I stop in the semi-darkness, completely lost.

A sound breaks the silence—the whir of bicycle tires. My head snaps up.

A cyclist speeds toward me, eyes narrowing as he gets closer.

Wait, is this how I get taken to the afterlife? By bicycle?

I’m still grappling with the ridiculous thought when the cyclist rides past, staring.

“Hey! Why are you naked?” he yells, then zips away before I can reply.

My jaw drops. He’s not some angelic cyclist here to collect my soul. He’s just a guy. And he saw me. How?

Maybe he can see ghosts.

Another cyclist appears. This one’s more focused. Serious. Maybe racing the first guy.

To test my theory, I shout, “Hey, can you see me?”

He glances over. “Why wouldn’t I, freak? I can see your dick too.”

I freeze. People can’t see ghosts. Right? So why can they see me?

A third cyclist comes into view—a girl. Crap. Girls and naked guys don’t mix well. She might even crash her bike from the shock.

I bolt for my pickup truck, yank the door open, climb in, and slam it shut. Then I peek through the window as she rides past.

And that’s when it hits me.

I just opened a car door. I touched it. Closed it.

Shock rolls through me.

Am I a ghost or not? Why can people see me? Why can I touch things?

Driven by desperation, I grab the steering wheel. My hand doesn’t phase through. I turn the key. The engine groans to life. I step on the clutch. It moves.

What the hell? Can ghosts drive?

I sit there, stunned, staring out the windscreen. Okay, say I’m not a spirit. What am I? The body has only one inner being: the spirit. So what’s mine trying to prove? That I’m still human? I don’t get it.

And I still don’t know why someone wanted me dead. But right now, that’s not the priority. My identity is.

What makes me a spirit besides the fact I emerged from ashes? Where’s the bright light? The angelic voice? The sense of transcendence?

Instead, I’m in a truck, like a dazed zombie.

Unless… maybe some spirits stay behind. But if so, why don’t people see them? Why don’t cars drive themselves around London?

A wild thought surfaces: Spirits don’t bleed. Cut yourself and check.

Genius. I reach into the glovebox, pull out a pocketknife, and press it to my palm.

Nothing. The blade won’t pierce.

What the bloody hell am I?

After several frustrating minutes of trying and failing to understand myself, I climb out of the truck and head back inside. I go straight to my room, sit at my desk, and type into Google:

Can people see spirits?

The top answers are unanimous: No. They can’t.

Of course they can’t. I sigh and lean back.

So that settles it. I’m not a ghost. I was seen. I opened doors. Started an engine. So if I’m not a spirit…

Then what the fuck am I?

A ludicrous thought sneaks in: What if I’m another human version of myself?

That’s insane.

It’s impossible. Illogical. Unprecedented. That a replica of me—flesh and blood Shawn—emerged from my dead body and picked up life where the old me left off?

There’s a knock at the door.

I tense. No one knocks at this hour.

The hitman?

Strangely, I’m not scared. I’m curious. Maybe the person knocking has answers.

I throw on some joggers and head for the door.

I open it slowly. A postman stands there.

Silently, he hands me an envelope, then turns and walks away.

I want to call out, ask why I’m getting mail at midnight, but I let him go. Maybe this is the explanation I’ve been waiting for.

Back in my room, I sit at the desk, open the envelope, and pull out a note. Under the lamplight, I read the slanted handwriting:

Dear Shawn Comerford,

I bet you’re going crazy trying to understand what’s happening by the time this letter gets to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t visit tonight. Something urgent came up. I’ll drop by tomorrow and explain everything. In the meantime, stop trying to figure it out and go to sleep. Goodnight.

No name.

An anonymous letter from someone who knows what’s going on. Someone who promises answers.

I don’t know who they are, but I agree with the last line.

Exhausted from the madness of the night, I climb into bed, lie on my back, and stare up at the ceiling, forcing my thoughts to quiet until sleep claims me.

I sleep like a baby.

But my dreams are another story.

In one dream, someone knocks at the front door in the dead of night.

I get out of bed and answer it.

It’s my father’s face—dead and malevolent—staring at me.

I freeze. Fear clenches my chest. So this is it. The spirits have come.

“You’re dead, Shawny,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You don’t belong here anymore. Follow me to where you belong.”

“For your information,” I reply, “I’m not exactly a spirit.”

Tyler Comerford grins darkly. “What do you mean, Shawny? Of course you are. Come on, let’s go.”

Even in death, he’s still smug. Still calling me Shawny like I’m ten. Still the same old bully.

“I’m not a spirit. And I’m not going anywhere,” I snap.

“Then where do you belong, Shawny? My cottage?”

Still bragging...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 21.7.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-097170-7 / 0000971707
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-097170-8 / 9780000971708