Chapter One
The door was exactly the same as I remembered it from my childhood. The varnish was a little more weather-worn, and there was more moss growing on the front steps than there used to be, but it was still the same familiar dark-blue colour with its old brass knocker and barely legible name plate.
I drew in a breath and raised my hand to knock. I’d barely made contact when the door swung open and my uncle’s craggy face peered out. ‘Saw you coming from halfway down the street,’ he grunted. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
There was no warm hug, brief peck on the cheek or handshake. He simply turned and shuffled into the house, leaving me to follow. I shrugged and wandered in after him.
He moved more slowly than he used to, and his shoulders were more stooped, but the glacial way he greeted me made me almost nostalgic. In a way it was comforting that some things never changed. I’d been meaning to make this trip for weeks but work had always forestalled my plans. When I’d finally found myself with a spare morning, the first thing I’d done was set off, leaving early to avoid the worst of the rush-hour traffic. I hadn’t called ahead. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
My uncle settled into the same worn armchair that had always sat in the corner of the living room next to the overflowing bookshelves packed with biographies and treatises on global politics. Everything was the same, from the dusty rubber plant in the corner to the small flip calendar on the little table by the wall. I gazed at the date displayed on it in bold red letters: Tuesday 22nd June. It was hard to believe that it was summer already.
My uncle sniffed loudly. He didn’t offer me a cup of tea or a glass of water, but I hadn’t expected him to. ‘Got your birthday card,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘You’re welcome.’ His acknowledgment of the card was his way of saying thanks.
He sniffed again and crossed his legs. ‘How’s life with the police?’ he enquired. ‘Bagged yourself any criminals lately?’
‘Several. And, to answer your first question, I’m enjoying the job.’
His expression didn’t change. ‘Good.’ Then, ‘I suppose you’re here because you’re in some sort of trouble. Have you got yourself knocked up?’
I was thirty years old, hardly a teenager. If I did fall pregnant unexpectedly, not only would I be more than capable of dealing with it myself but he would be the last person I’d turn to for support. My uncle wasn’t a bad man. He’d taken me in and ensured I was clothed and fed and had a safe roof over my head. The fact that he’d never shown up at school plays or read me bedtime stories wasn’t his fault. He’d never asked to be saddled with a child and I certainly didn’t hold any grudges towards him. I’d received plenty of warmth and attention from my schoolfriends’ parents and various neighbours.
In his own way Wilfred Bellamy had done the very best that he could and then, when I was eighteen, he’d sent me off, satisfied that his duty had been done. I’d kept in touch with him but only with the odd postcard or Christmas greeting and very occasional visit. We weren’t close and never would be – but I’d come to terms with that long ago.
I smiled faintly. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not knocked up.’
‘Good,’ he said again. He fixed me with a beady stare. ‘Why are you here then?’
We were two hours out of London in a small village on the outskirts of Brighton. There was no chance that I’d happened to be passing and decided to pop in on a whim to say hello. He knew it and I knew it. That was one of the things that I liked about the cantankerous old bastard – he didn’t waste time bothering to maintaining a facade. He liked it when people got straight to the point instead of faffing around with niceties and politeness. Unfortunately, in this particular case that was easier said than done. There were things about me that I was unwilling to say aloud, at least to my uncle, but I still had a lot of questions that only he could answer.
‘I’m here about my parents,’ I said softly.
‘They’re dead.’
I gave him a long, exasperated look. ‘I want to know more about them. I don’t remember very much.’
‘You were five when they died. You must remember some things.’
Not the sort of things that were helpful. I remembered a warm, sunlit kitchen and a worktop strewn with flour as my mum and I baked together. I remembered running around a garden playing hide-and-seek with my dad. There were flashes of other memories – family meals, building a snowman, snuggling up together in front of a roaring fire. I knew I’d been loved. What I didn’t remember was any mention of the supernatural, or the fact that I could die over and over and over again before being resurrected in flames. I didn’t remember anyone ever telling me that I was a phoenix. No, I corrected myself, not a phoenix. The phoenix. Infernal Enchantments, the book that I’d come across during the course of an investigation, had suggested there was only ever one. And currently that was me.
‘Did they ever have anything to do with supes?’ I asked.
For the first time my uncle looked surprised. ‘Vampires?’ he barked. ‘Werewolves? Those sorts of … people?’
I nodded.
‘Your parents lived in Kent. We’re talking English country garden stuff,’ he dismissed. ‘Not inner-city London shenanigans.’
‘I know,’ I persisted, ‘but—’
‘I’d be surprised if either of them ever met a supernatural creature. But I wasn’t close to them, as you know. Mark, your father, was fourteen years younger than me. We didn’t grow up together. I left home when he was two. He was a snotty-nosed child with a predilection for plastic trucks. I didn’t spend a lot of time with him, even when he grew older. As for your mother,’ his mouth pursed as he thought, ‘well, I only met her two or three times. I seem to recall she enjoyed painting. She had brown hair.’ He pointed at me. ‘Same shade as yours.’
Neither of those two things were helpful, but all my grandparents were dead and my mother had been an only child. The only person in the world who could tell me about my parents was the uncle sitting in front of me. I wasn’t going to give up yet.
‘Do you have anything that belonged to them?’ I asked. ‘Any diaries? Or notebooks? Any old belongings at all?’
His brow creased. ‘Why are you bringing all this up now? They’ve been dead for a quarter of a century. What does it matter?’
I didn’t answer his question. ‘Do you have anything of theirs?’ I repeated.
He sighed and cast his eyes upward. ‘There might be a box,’ he said finally. ‘Up in the attic.’
I sprang to my feet. ‘Great. I’ll go look for it.’
My uncle didn’t move. ‘There’s a lot of stuff up there. I have no idea where it would be, even if it’s still there. I certainly don’t want you rooting around in my possessions.’
He wasn’t making this easy for me. ‘I’ll be careful.’
He shook his head. ‘I will look for it and send anything I find on to you. I am a private person, Emma. I don’t like having my routine or my home disturbed.’
I was well aware of that. I considered arguing, but I didn’t want to annoy him to the point that he shut me out completely. ‘Okay,’ I said finally. ‘I appreciate the effort.’