Page 40 of Phoenix Academy: Madness

This time it's not black or white that surrounds me, but endless, beautiful blue.

The blue of unnatural dye. Of magic and glitter. A color that only exists in nature to screampoisonorbeautyorfake.The very same unnatural, impossible blue I now see in the mirror, coating every strand of my once-brown hair.

I'm in the middle of a stream of magic that runs through the air all around me, and it feels like coming home.

Finally, I can breathe. There's no lurking behemoth in this dream, no dying sister with hard eyes and cutting words. Nothing traps me or holds me down. I'm free to move through the magical wonderland without a care, jumping up into the air, dragging my fingers through the blue and laughing when they come back stained.

I know it won't last, though. These are sick dreams, full of madness, that warn of portents to come. My mother called them foretelling dreams; she told mehermother called them truth dreams. They're a gift for witches that come with teeth, and there is no peace in the middle of dreaming them.

So it doesn't surprise me when the fog of peaceful magic breaks to reveal a coven of blue-haired witches in the distance, their eyes glowing blue like a portent of what's to come.

No, not witches. They're phoenix, all of them, born of madness, who dished out revenge for what was done to them. Once they would've been legends, stories told by the fire of blue-haired women who rise from the ashes of a witch burning, but now they're much more than that. Stories no more.

Now, I know that they're real.

I don't walk towards them as much as float. The magic between us folds in the middle, tugging us together. I count them: five witches. Five pairs of all-knowing eyes.

They're dressed in clothing that spans the ages, none of it modern in style. The last Blue Phoenix must've been born more than three hundred years ago, during the Salem Witch Trials. I can recognize her by her early colonial clothing. The rest look like they come from eras even older. One even appears to be wearing a Roman woman's clothes, reminding me that even in centuries long past, witches were hunted to death, and rose from the dead to enact revenge.

"Hello," they say in a singular voice. "Sister, we greet you."

The first and eldest says, "You were born from the whisper of warfare on the wind."

The second, "Your power is needed in this time, so into it you were born."

The third, "Men will always be foolish and hungry for power."

The fourth, "Madness awaits those who violate the laws of nature."

The Salem witch has the final words, "The dead are restless, trapped by a powerful hand that drains their power."

Together they say, "Avenge them."

I wait for more, but apparently that's it. I've been dragged through terrible dreams for this singular portent: an assignment. One that doesn't even have anything to do with me or how I died, much less my family.

"And what about my revenge?" Resentment bubbles up inside me. "What about what happened to me? I was tortured to death. So were my mother and sister—witches as well. Don't we get revenge?"

In answer, the blue-haired witches just blink at me. Rage fills me, igniting my power. I feel it make my heart beat faster, my jaw clench, and know that my eyes must be glowing blue right now.

One of the Blue Phoenix says, "All will come with time."

Flames rise up around my fingers. With a snarl, I throw them at the witches. I know it's useless—this is just a dream—but it feels good.

So good that I summon more fire, and burn the magic in the air around me, turning it into dust. The witches disappear into the blue flames, which just fuels my rage even more.

It isn't fair.None of it is fair.If the Heretic hadn't been my father, Lizzy and Mom would still be alive. If I'd been stronger, I could've saved Lizzy.

Now here I am, back from the dead, and instead of getting help from those who came before me so I can enact my revenge, I'm being given a fuckingassignment.

Let it all burn. I'm done being a tool for others. So I unleash the full force of my powers, destroying the dream with my flames, tears streaming down my cheeks.

A moment later I feel it: the tug of a hang on my arm. The strange sensation of being jerked out of this dream and into the waking world.

I leave the dream all at once, falling away from it as I'm brought back to consciousness. Tingles run up and down my arms and legs, and it takes me a moment to become aware.

Hands are gripping my arm.

A face is very close to mine.

---