Phoenix Reborn (Woodland Creek)(14)

Unfortunately, they brought out the worst in Ashling. She hated herself for replying or acknowledging the unkindness. But the alternative was to say nothing, and that wasn’t an option, either. For too long she’d allowed herself to hide from people like that. And now she was seeing that they were to be pitied, not feared.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and, clicking on Hawke’s number, wrote a text that went utterly against her shy nature:

I’m really looking forward to seeing you tonight.



A moment later she was walking down the street, her heart and mind each a little lighter. Finally, she was moving forward with her life. Finally, she could let the past start to disappear.

For one evening, at least.



* * *



At seven-thirty p.m., she looked in the mirror, ready for her “date,” or rather, to meet some important people she’d never heard of and try not to make an ass of herself. Everything seemed in place, though Ashling had always felt inadequate when it came to things like makeup application. Her long hair curled softly around her shoulders, her eyes as always bright. She’d always considered them too big, as though too much of her might escape through them — her soul rushing out via its own window.

But this was as good as it was going to get: a dark red dress, a little lipstick. After all, this was a bar, not a Hollywood gala.

She stepped outside in her flat shoes, making her way quickly — too quickly, as she was in no rush to be early — to the bar. The air was once again crisp and clean, the sky shades of dimming oranges and blues.

Few people wandered through Woodland Creek at this hour; most had retired for the evening in front of their televisions. So Ashling gratefully found herself alone as she strolled. She caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window and even admitted that she looked rather like a normal human being. And inside her, all felt settled for once. The usual churning of a hidden stress seemed to have been put to rest. Could it be that Hawke was responsible for this?

After a block or so, she saw the first pedestrian: a tall man with dark hair, leaning against the wall of a closed storefront across the street. His arms were crossed before him and he wore an old leather jacket, his shoulders hunched. In his mouth were the remnants of a narrow cigar, which he extracted and threw to the ground when he saw her.

Something in him was odd; his eyes were too prying, too eager to stare at her, and Ashling found herself picking up the pace. But he was far off, and no doubt he only looked at her because she was the only creature stirring on the street.

As she passed him, though, he began to move. She could hear the footsteps crossing the road behind her, keeping pace. Pursuing. But perhaps he too was headed to the bar; it was only a block or so away. She could see its sign from her current location: Fibber McGee’s. So close now.

When she was about three buildings away, a gnarled hand grabbed her left arm, stopping her in her tracks. She had no choice but to turn and face him.

“Fire Girl,” he said, his voice rasping. “You’re the one, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?” she said. How did he know about that? He was too old to have been at the high school party, to remember the events from that night.

“You don’t know,” he said, a dumbfounded expression overtaking his features. “You really don’t know what you are.”

His fingers were digging into her upper arm now, clawing her, his eyes wild as he stared at her from beneath a mop of greasy hair.

“I certainly don’t know who you are,” she said. “Now, please let go of my arm.”

He dropped it, his eyes moving to focus on something behind her. She turned to see that Hawke was standing, holding the bar’s door open as he glared at the man. “Ashling,” he called. “Are you all right?”

She looked at the man who’d grabbed her for a moment before replying. “Fine.” With that she made her way over to Hawke, who welcomed her into the building, placing a hand gently on her back.

Her spine tingled with nervous excitement, caused both by the stranger and by the young man who was now protecting her.

“Who was that?” he said.

“I don’t know. He said — some strange things.” She didn’t want to bring up the word fire. No doubt Hawke remembered the party years ago; he didn’t need reminding.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t like the look of him. Make sure to call me if anyone like that tries to harm you, okay?”

“Harm me? What do you mean?”

“Ashling — there are things that you don’t know — “

A man in a white polo shirt and jeans interrupted them, stepping before Hawke and extending a hand.

“This must be Ashling,” he said. “I’m Wayne. I’m the location scout. I’ve been checking out your lovely town, scoping it for places where Hawke here can run around on screen.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, smiling as well as she could given that her mind was still focused on the stranger outside.

Wayne invited them to accompany him to a table which he and Hawke had been sharing with two others: also producers, wanting to discuss the casting of extras, costumes and other film-related topics.

But after a few minutes, Ashling began to get the distinct impression that Hawke was somehow in charge of the entire film, which struck her as odd for an actor. And impressive.