The Legend of the Eight: The Hunted (Book 5)

1: Three Months Later

ONE: THREE MONTHS LATER
FEBRUARY 1
PHOEBE DOMINGO

MORNINGS HADN'T BEEN THAT COLD since the holidays. The kind of cold that reached into your core and wrapped itself around every inch of you, chilling you literally to the bone. Most people chose to spend mornings like that one wrapped up in a bed, piled high with blankets in a cozy cocoon.

But not Phoebe Domingo.

She was awake by five and dressed for a run by five-fifteen. She slipped out of her room in the North Hall quietly (as to not wake her sound bedmate) and then stepped into her most comfortable Nike sneakers—the purple ones with the orange Swoosh. When she was halfway down the stairs, she zipped herself up in a warm coat and then headed out.

There was a large, multi-million-dollar stadium at the very edge of the Academy of Magic & Magical Studies' campus and Phoebe had run approximately three and a half miles to reach it.

She spent most of her time during the last four years in that stadium, playing soccer on a championship-ranked team. That ended when she abruptly quit the team last year—things were too complicated now and she was too busy for it.

Behind the tall bleachers was a small trail which ran parallel to the tree line at the edge of a dense forest, bordering the Academy's campus. And there, waiting with a hood over his sandy blonde hair and a fresh tattoo peeking out from the cuff of his sweatshirt was Finn Parker.

Phoebe approached him and he almost didn't recognize her. Her small stature was made bulkier by the layers of winter warmth she'd bundled herself up in. He picked his head up and his eyes—a unique violet color—flicked to hers. He was smirking. He was always smirking.

"Damn, love. Thought I was bound to freeze myself to death waiting for you."

Since meeting him months ago, Phoebe had gotten used to his accent. He was a New Zealand native before learning about his Shadow Hunter roots and while he had spent the last five years of his adult life bouncing between Realms, tracking down Thieves, he hadn't lost that accent.

"Calm down. I'm sure the weight of that huge ego of yours kept you warm," quipped Phoebe, kicking a chunk of snow with her sneakers. "Besides, you're the one who called me. What was so urgent that you dragged me out of my warm, cozy bed so early?"

Finn shrugged. "I saw Al the other day. And when I asked if he'd spoken to you, he said not in sixteen years."

Phoebe bit her lip, envisioning her father, the elusive Ghost Alessandro Domingo, saying those words. "Yeah, well, um, that's kind of what happens when you disappear for sixteen years."

"I suppose," Finn half-agreed. "But what I find particularly interesting is that six weeks ago, I gave you a phone number. And that phone number connects to one Alessandro Domingo. And don't tell me it's out of service or that he wouldn't pick up because I tried it myself. Four times."

Phoebe's cheeks, dusted with hundreds of tiny freckles, turned pink not from the cold but from that familiar sinking feeling of embarrassment.

"Right. Well, I've been waiting for the right time."

"The right time?" Finn started laughing—a deep, hearty laugh. "Sweetheart, there is never a right time. You just have to do it. Make the call."

Phoebe twisted the thin gold band around her wedding finger, acting like she was thinking but the truth was, the idea of making that call terrified the hell out of her. What would she do when she heard his voice? Would some inner subconscious child within her recognize it? Would she freeze up and hold the phone like a statue or would she come down with an unfortunate case of word vomit and scare him off?