Phoenix Academy: Awaken: A Paranormal Reverse Harem Romance Read online

  Phoenix Academy: Awaken

  Lucy Auburn

  Contents

  Get Updates

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  27. It continues…

  Also by Lucy Auburn

  About the Author

  Copyright 2019 Lucy Auburn.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Author’s Note

  This book contains some references to violence, mostly in the opening scenes.

  Phoenix Academy contains a reverse harem romance. I hope you enjoy!

  Chapter 1

  It all started with a severed dick.

  Not in the way you’re thinking; I’m no Lorena, poor thing. I wasn’t the one slicing and dicing. If I had, I would’ve picked a nice julienne, really gone to town on the thing until it was unrecognizable ribbons of flesh. Leaving it whole, swinging bits and all, just seems... cruel. Especially when the dude it was attached to was still (mostly) alive at the time to see his family jewels get taken and dangled in front of his face. What a last image to have seared into your retinas as you die.

  Not that he didn’t deserve it. Richard was like the worst version of your shittiest ex-boyfriend. Imagine an actual pile of garbage given human form.

  And his nickname was Dick, after all, so the demons were clearly going for something when they took his actual dick from him. It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so incredibly fucking disgusting. Demons do have a sense of humor, apparently.

  I just wish they hadn’t killed me too.

  Coming back to life was a real bitch.

  If there’s anything I’ve learned in my two years living on the street, it’s that rich people throw away the best food.

  That’s how I spent that fateful afternoon: standing outside a fancy set of condos, watching people walk past the trash can on the corner. Inevitably, someone would throw away a whole takeout container, bag and all, wastefully getting rid of an entire meal. And—before anyone could dump something disgusting on top—I’d swoop in, grab the Styrofoam-filled bag, and pry open the container to reveal lunch.

  At least, that’s what usually happened. For some reason I wasn’t getting the good stuff this time, and my stomach was starting to grumble. Days like this, I usually either had to resort to heading to one of the local feed the homeless places to elbow my way through a crowd, or I found a free wifi signal to hop onto with my shitty old iPhone and swiped through dating apps until some spontaneity-loving eager dude offered to take me out to dinner that very night, no doubt hoping the kind of girl who drops everything to meet a stranger is also the type to drop her panties.

  Yeah, that’s right, I’m homeless. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still got it. I keep myself clean, stash my stuff in only the most private places, and change clothes regularly. The average guy doesn’t know that the eyeliner I line my eyes with is cheap stuff I snuck into my pockets, or that I use dry shampoo because I don’t have running water, not because it’s trendy.

  Just when I was trying to decide if I wanted free curry from Mr. Shah with the bums or to fend off some entitled loser’s grab hands, I heard my name.

  “Dani?” My shoulders went up; I didn’t turn around, just in case it was... “Danielle Carpenter, is that you?”

  Crap. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw who it was and immediately blanched, wondering frantically if I looked homeless, the way I was hovering near a trash can like a hungry outside dog. But I plastered a smile on my face and greeted the person calling out my name. “Amanda! It’s been, like, forever.”

  “I can’t believe it’s you.” She rushed to me on her two inch heels, then grabbed my hands and squeezed them, her eyes raking me over in that judgmental Amanda way. “You haven’t grown an inch.”

  “Most people don’t keep growing after high school.”

  “Oh really? Guess you just have bad genes, then.”

  The urge to slap her was overwhelming, but she wasn’t alone; four other unfortunately familiar friends of hers were walking up behind her. I knew who they were instantly: Richard the jackass, Leila the boyfriend thief, Taylor the rich jackass, and Jake, who would’ve been known as the school slut if he were a girl.

  All of them were classmates of mine at Fern Valley High School, during the worst time of my life, when my foster mother Sara got sick. That was right before the bathtub incident—who knew water could catch on fire—that got me kicked out of my foster house and sent to the group home I ran away from.

  Seeing them was a slap in the face, and I can’t say that I’m terribly sad about what happened to them in the end. But at the time, all I could think was, I hope I don’t look like a dirty vagabond, and also, I wonder if they have food.

  Just my luck, Jake the slut called out, “Dani! Wanna come with us? We’re gonna have a chill party at the Overlook.” He smiled wide, his Lothario eyes taking me in from head to toe—and unlike Amanda, he looked practically porny, not judgmental. “You should come. We’ve got enough beer for everyone.”

  “And food,” added Leila, a bright, dumb smile on her boyfriend-stealing face. “You look like you could eat.”

  I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t. “Sure,” I said. “Let me just...” I glanced frantically around. “Get my stuff.”

  Taylor looked at the building we were standing outside and whistled. “You live here?”

  Not on my life. But I told them yes, because the fancy apartment building had a laundry room in the basement that was far too easy to sneak into, and it was where I kept my stuff. A bum washing machine had a shitty lock on it, too, so I took quarters from it to use to wash my stuff or grab a slice of pizza from the place around the corner. The property managers didn’t need the money; they owned half the city, and I owned nothing.

  So I got a change of clothes out of the storage room, raked a hand through my hair, put some lipstick on, and threw a (mostly empty) purse over my shoulder. Glancing in the mirror on my way out, I ref
lected that I looked damned good, for a homeless girl.

  I didn’t know that was how I was gonna die that night.

  If I had, I would’ve put on a little eyeshadow.

  This next part gets fuzzy. I remember going to the Overlook, which is this makeout spot from high school, a cliff that stretches out over the Pacific ocean. It was really popular with people who weren’t dirty foster kids like me.

  I remember Richard insisting I drink beer to go with the two hot dogs I wolfed down hungrily.

  They got the Ouija board out, because rich white kids truly don’t have shit to do except mess with spirits like a bunch of dumbasses in a horror movie. I was feeling woozy by then, but Leila roped me into putting my fingers on the little triangle and moving it around. I could tell she was guiding it, and so was Jake—he kept making it spell out dirty things, and not subtly.

  But I didn’t care. All I was thinking about was whether or not I’d be able to get another hot dog and shove it into my purse to eat later. When you’re homeless, being uncomfortably full is sometimes the best option you’ve got anytime there’s free food around. And these idiots were just drunk enough they probably wouldn’t notice anything I did.

  “Enough with the small time stuff,” Richard said, pulling us off the Ouija board. “It’s dark out. Time for the main event.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. The others seemed nervous; Leila kept glancing my way, while Amanda looked like the cat that got the canary. I figured they were going to try to start an orgy or something, so I decided it was time to make my escape.

  First, though, there was something I needed. “Hey Taylor,” I called out, “bring me another beer? If we’re doing this thing, I want to by tipsy.”

  “Sure.” He exchanged a weirdly weighted glance with Richard, who looked absolutely excited. “I got you, Dani.”

  His back was to me as he knelt down and grabbed something out of the cooler. I studied him: rich kid Taylor, who always bragged about the size of his house and the swimming pool, whose parents were always doing things like skiing in the Alps, leaving his place empty for those stereotypical high school parties, straight out of a ‘90s teen movie. He was wearing a Supreme sweatshirt tonight, of course, and a pair of skinny jeans. I studied every fold of his clothes until I saw exactly what I needed: the designer leather wallet stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie, just waiting for nimble fingers to pick it.

  He took a long ass time getting me the beer, until I started to think he was an idiot and I’d need to figure out a new plan. But finally he brought it over to me, a weird, nervous look on his face; everyone was quiet and staring at him for some reason.

  I should’ve known they were up to shit. But again, I thought they were just trying to rope me into an orgy or something. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and I’d heard plenty of rumors of the wild shit Jake and Taylor got up to during those house parties. I figured maybe they were hoping I was one of those girls who’d get a little lesbian after a second beer, so they could watch me and Leila together or some other stereotypical bullshit.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed the beer from Taylor and stepped towards him, nice and close. “You know, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” I let my voice dip in volume and tone, until it was practically a purr, making sure his eyes were on my face and not my hands. “Is it just me, or are you taller?”

  “Yeah, actually, an inch or two.” He positively beamed at me—the egotistical jerk. My hand slipped into his pocket. “I’m almost taller than Jake now.”

  “That’s hot,” I said, even though I didn’t give a shit. My fingers felt at the edges of his wallet. “It’s too bad I had to leave school. Would’ve been fun to graduate with you guys.”

  I got it: cold hard cash, right out of his stupidly expensive billfold. As he babbled something or other about his freshman year of college, I slipped Taylor’s money into my sleeve and stepped back, nodding at him stupidly.

  Then Richard called out, “C’mon over here guys—let’s get in a circle.”

  Since I couldn’t see a good way to bounce just then and there, I figured I would go along with it, maybe even let some of them makeout with me or take some clothes off before I slipped away. The drunker and hornier they were, the easier it would be to disappear with—I checked my sleeve—a hundred bucks without them noticing.

  So we sat in the inane circle. I drank the beer, feeling weirdly faded for someone who hadn’t even finished her second drink. Amanda started talking something about the spirits of her ancestors or some other bougie hippie girl shit, and Richard got out this book. I skimmed its title and frowned; The Arcane Arts of the Living and the Dead seemed like a mouthful. Next he pulled out a big black piece of something that reflected light like a mirror.

  I drank another sip of beer, and the can fell right out of my hand, spilling out onto the ground. Staring at my fingers, I frowned and slurred, “Why the fuck am I so drunk?”

  Richard said something; I didn’t understand.

  The last thing I remember before the gore and the horror is passing the fuck out like some kind of lightweight.

  I came to with agony in my middle. Coughing around a dry throat, I groaned and tried to push myself up off the ground, cursing the fact that I’d somehow gotten my hair crusted with dirt. It was going to be shit to try to find a good shower in this state; people didn’t let you sneak into their gym with a stolen ID if you looked like a sewer rat.

  I probed my middle and discovered blood, which was confusing because I didn’t remember getting hurt. I tried to remember what happened that got me in that state, but my head hurt too much, and it was all a black pit.

  I was so focused on figuring out why my belly button felt like it was on fire and how I’d blacked out after two beers that I didn’t hear the screaming at first.

  But when I did, I was wide awake and on my feet in an instant.

  You see some bad shit when you’re homeless: people shitting themselves on benches, the mentally ill ranting about Ronald Reagan and waving knives all over the place, cops demanding blowjobs in exchange for a little safety, and all the worst that humanity has to offer. By the time I was up there on that cliff over the ocean, I was pretty sure I’d hardened my heart to anything that could happen to me.

  But I’d never heard a scream like that before.

  It was an animal sound, full of terror and horror, hopeless and crying in pain. It shot straight through me to the lizard part of my brain, making my pulse soar and my stomach churn. People weren’t supposed to sound like animals getting skinned alive in a factory farm.

  As the sleep cleared from my eyes, I saw the source of the screaming. And my stomach churned, perilously close to losing my last meal on the ground beneath my feet.

  Somehow, between the moment I passed out and when I woke up, four strangers had joined us. Three of them were surrounding most of the group, who were kneeling on the ground, looking frightened. The fourth was shoving a sword into Leila’s stomach—she was the one screaming.

  They weren’t people, exactly. Their edges seemed to shimmer with power, and they moved too fast, had too much strength. Looking at them made me feel like I was staring at some sort of optical illusion: there was the people-shaped part that was visible to the naked eye, but also something different just beneath the skin, something not quite right.

  I’d seen something like it a few times in my life, and knew by now that it wasn’t good.

  So despite the fact that Leila had been pretty nice to me, and right then had a sword going through her stomach to the other side, gutting her and bleeding her dry—I didn’t do anything to stop it. They hadn’t seen me yet; they were advancing on the others with weapons drawn, obviously out for violence. The last thing I wanted is to be discovered.

  So I backed up, slowly, towards the road, where Taylor’s car was parked. Richard’s motorcycle would’ve been faster, but it was on the other side of the sword-plunging action, and I didn’t really want to find out what my dyi
ng scream would sound like.

  As I watched with wide eyes, Leila’s body sagged around the sword, blood gurgling from her mouth. The tall, strong, optical illusion of a man holding the sword tossed her body off his blade and wiped its edge on her shirt.

  I took another few steps closer to the road.

  Swordwielder stalked away from Leila’s body, over to the rest of the group. He asked one of the other strangers, who had brown skin, “What about the others?”

  This stranger had a pleasant French-Caribbean accent. “Selfish, angry, vengeful and spiteful. They’re even worse than that one, if you can believe it.”

  On the ground, Taylor pleaded, “Please, I have money, I can—”

  One of them sliced right through him with a knife to the throat.

  This time, I really did lose my stomach. As I barfed on the side of the road, staying as quiet as possible so they didn’t hear me, Amanda started crying. She got her neck twisted for that, until the bones were broken and her eyes went blank.

  Jake babbled and whimpered as I was wiping chunks from my mouth. He’d always been a strong guy, but in his last moments he turned into a complete wimp. I guess watching all your friends get killed by a bunch of weapons-wielding psychopaths will do that to you.