Authors: Heather R. Blair
Tags: #Romance, #Military, #Paranormal, #Vampires, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban, #Romantic, #Demons & Devils, #Psychics
Phoenix Broken
PHOENIX BROKEN
By
HEATHER R. BLAIR
PHOENIX BROKEN
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
© 2015 Heather R. Blair
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COVER ART by the amazing Julie Nichols
<3 you, doll!
https://www.facebook.com/WallpapersArtworkAndFanArt/
For Veronica, because she’s the best writing buddy in the world.
And because she loved Scott.
Hope I got it right
.
For Ripley, too, because betas are like the cobbler's elves,
Putting the pieces together
That make something beautiful
Thank you for helping make Phoenix Broken beautiful.
<3
High up in the sky the little stars climb
Always reminding me that we're apart…
~ Stardust, Nat King Cole
"One…and two. One…and two." Up and down. Down and up.
His arms and lungs were burning. Eyes front and center. His muscles starting to get the shakes, warning him he should stop now.
Fuck that.
"One…and two. One…and two." A pair of expensive men's shoes entered the corner of his vision. He ignored them.
Up. Down. The shoes and the owner attached to them moved to a spot directly in front of him. Very expensive shoes. Alligator, maybe? No, that was illegal. Crocodile. Yeah. Martin Dingman or some such shit. A grand for a pair of shoes. Nuts.
"One…and two. One—"
"Davidson."
"— and two."
"For fuck's sake, Scott!"
Scott Davidson raised his head, elbows locked at the apex of the push-up. His dark green eyes looked up. Way up. Jules Gentry was a tall man at 6'5”. Scott resented the crick in his neck.
Not to mention the interruption.
"I'm working out here."
"Yeah, I see that. That's all the fuck you do anymore. Take five, would ya?"
With a military snap that belied his perpetual exhaustion, Scott jumped to his feet. "Yes, sir."
"Don't pull that sir shit with me. You're not back in the ranks, and I never was."
Scott's eyes narrowed. "What're we doing here, J? I'm busy."
"The hell you are. Goddamn, Scott, I'm done. I've tried looking the other way, letting you do whatever it is you have to do to get past this—"
"There is no past this. Not for me. Not ever."
Jules sighed and dropped his dark gaze, twirling a ruby ring on his finger. Scott could almost see him drawing strength from that symbol. From the symbol of Jules' wife, Rissa. Scott remembered that feeling; that wonderful feeling of being centered and whole.
But his wife was dead.
Jules said softly. "I loved her, too, man. You know that."
Scott closed his eyes.
Not like I did, goddamnit.
When Scott chose not to respond, Jules cleared his throat. "You never go out, you never take the kids anywhere, you never do anything except work out like a goddamn machine, and take cases in between looking for Cross. And you always take the Number Fives. Always. That shit ain't good for your head."
Phoenix Incorporated used a number system to rank their case load. Number Ones were simple, no conflict requests. Twos might mean situation a little tense, but still no threat of real violence. Threes were violence possible, but certainly not fatal. Number Fours; violence likely, but mortal contact not expected, though possible.
Number Fives were violence certain, fatal contact likely.
"Don't worry about my head. Don't worry about me, period. I'm not your fucking problem, boss man."
"Not my—? Have you lost your fucking mind? Jesus, Scott, it's like I don't even know you anymore." Jules waved a big, beefy hand in frustration. "Fannie wouldn't even recognize you, man."
It was true. The wild, curly hippie hair was gone. Ruthlessly buzzed close to his scalp. Always in good shape, Scott had dropped every ounce of fat in the last eighteen months and gained about twenty pounds of raw muscle. At 5'10", he wasn't a huge man like Jules, but he sure as fuck was a lethal one, every inch of him honed to a keen, fighting edge.
"We're family, goddamnit. You do remember what family is, right? My godchildren need their dad, Scott."
Scott opened his eyes. "Leave Toby and Tish out of your little lecture, okay? They're fine."
"The fuck they are!"
"Watch it, kemosabe." Scott's words were quiet and final.
He didn't want to fight. He didn't care enough to fight. Not about this. There was only one thing he wanted. One man's head. Then maybe things would start to matter again. Or maybe not. Until he got that man, he really didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to be left the hell alone.
Jules ran both hands over his head, his dark hair even shorter than Scott's. "Okay. Okay, man. I just don't know what to do with you anymore. There's this thing tonight. This gig over at Centaries. Call it a stake-out. Put on some decent clothes, make yourself a little less scary and go check it out. Rumor has it one of Cross's old cronies has been seen there. That psycho bitch, Docie May. We need to scout it out."
Scott knew the name. He knew every known acquaintance of Daimen Cross. But what was this about a club? Some kind of trap, some sneaky shit of Jules to get him off his routine?
"Why me?" Scott wasn't really a people person anymore and his forte was nature, not the urban jungle. Being a rare elemental para, with the ability to control plants, trees—basically anything that grew from the earth—Scott shouldn't be first choice for a job like this, despite his investment in anything to do with catching the vampire that had killed his wife.
"It's a swing club, dancing and all that jazz. You can handle that crap with your eyes closed, the rest of the guys have two left feet."
Scott's lips tightened. He and Fannie had first met swing dancing. They'd both loved it. Up until her murder they'd managed at least a night or two a month.
"This better be legit, J."
"It is."
"Okay, I'll be there."
Without another word, Scott dropped back to the floor. He barely registered when the expensive loafers moved off awhile later. He certainly didn't notice the frustrated hopelessness in Jules' dark brown eyes as the other man exited the gym.
"One…and two."
An hour later, Scott stripped in the locker room for his shower. Dumping his damp, sweaty clothes in his gym bag, he strode naked to the sink. He rinsed his mouth out and spit, then caught sight of his reflection in the mirror.
It startled him.
Scott grimaced at the man reflected there. Jules was right. He looked nothing like the man he'd been two years ago.
The short, spiky cut was a light burnished gold that left his face looking hollow; cheeks and jaw razor sharp and shadowed with a darker gold. His eyes, moss green, blazed from that burned-out face, a stranger's eyes.
He'd seen eyes like that in Russia. Survivor eyes. Not glad to be alive, but fucking pissed about it. A black anger smelted in a bombed-out shell of a soul. His son and daughter were both in therapy and he probably should be. But what did it all matter? The man he'd used to be was gone, and he wasn't coming back.
That man; that absurdly happy, content man was just as dead as Fan. Bowing his head, he swallowed a sob. His hands clenched around the sink, which creaked as the body he'd honed to such deadly perfection shuddered hard.
Scott snapped his spine straight and turned his back to the mirror.
He had work to do.
And people to kill.
Closer than Scott would've dreamed, the man that topped his list turned from a crackling fireplace. Daimen Cross’s expression was amused, but his eyes were cold in the flickering light from the flames.
“Preshea, please don’t tell me you think you've any say in what I do.”
“Of course not, darling,” she purred, "but revenge is petty when you could aim for so much more."
Daimen resisted the urge to slap her. Taking Preshea as a lover had seemed like a good idea at the time. He was between women—having sent his last whore to her death—and with his other lover inaccessible at the moment.
He quite liked having this tiny, manipulative blonde under him, literally pounding it home who was in charge. But apparently fucking her had given Preshea the impression she had a hold over him.
Delusional woman.
Daimen cocked his head, watching her talk without actually hearing the words. Preshea Abbey was petite and delicate, the perfect image of her time.
She'd been born in an age where women were seen almost as living dolls; poseable, pretty and ever on display. Her hair was a lush fall of gold and silver waves. Small, delicate hands flashed with rings; her sweet bow of a mouth opening and closing as she prattled on, unaware he was seriously considering killing her.
Not for the first time.
So far, he'd decided it would be more trouble than it was worth. Preshea was far more vicious than she looked. She was also brilliant, and the de facto leader of the Society, though she pretended Daimen held that role for the masses.
The little vampire was smart enough to know the bulk of her allies in the Society were old-fashioned and would chaff with her at the helm. They’d be happier, and therefore more malleable, having someone with a dick between his legs in charge. She'd campaigned relentlessly for Daimen to take on that role. Eventually, Preshea had gotten her way, but the Victorian vampire resented the need for him.
She thought she hid that resentment well, but Daimen knew. He always knew what his light skirts were hiding. Resentment or not, Preshea would do anything to gain her vision. That grand scheme he was rapidly losing patience with.
Not that he'd ever cared much for it.
Overthrow the humans, set up a world where shades could run free, blah blah …
Blah.
It wasn't a bad idea, in theory, but Daimen had neither the patience nor the enthusiasm to commit to such a grandiose plot.
He'd take his 'petty revenge' over her foolish bid for world power any day. He loved a stage, yes. But smaller venues had always been his favorite. The effect was so much more…
intimate.
He didn't need the world, he only longed to set fire to a small piece of it.
Phoenix Inc.
Daimen wanted their screams in his ears, their blood on his tongue. It'd started with that miserable nigger, the one that'd gotten away. Then his slippery Miss Riss, who'd also fallen through his fingers.
That those two should meet up, years later, and fall in love… It was as if fate were thumbing her nose at him. Daimen had decided it was no longer enough to destroy Jules and Rissa alone.
Everyone associated with that
para
foundation deserved to burn; particularly the blue-eyed telepath who'd shot him, and that bastard, Davidson, with his vexing elemental powers.
Daimen shuddered, then forced a smile. The one whose wife had tasted so sweet.
“….prudence though, would dictate—"
“Fuck prudence, darling.” He cut off Preshea's monologue at last, drawing his accent out to make a mockery of the endearment. Daimen strode forward until he was looming over her, but she looked up at him with a small, steady smile.
“Because that worked so well for you last time?” she said, making his eyes narrow.
It wouldn’t do to underestimate this one. Preshea was his elder after all. She didn’t have much more than a couple of decades on him, but she was smart as a whip, and connected. He needed her.
For now.
Mentally, Daimen took a long, slow breath before replying. “It didn’t work the way I planned, true enough. Still, you have to agree the outcome was better than the plan.”
Preshea tilted her head, acquiescing to the truth of his statement. Daimen may not have succeeded in killing Jules Gentry, but Fannie Davidson had been one of Gentry's best friends. He'd torn her throat out right in front of that jumped-up nigger. The same way he'd done Jules' mother when that nigger had been nothing but a nine year old swamp brat.
That the woman he'd murdered had also been the wife of Scott fucking Davidson, the first mortal to give Daimen the willies in over a century… that was just a bonus.
Daimen had to admit, if to no one but himself, that the encounter in the forest with the elemental
para
had shaken him. He would never call himself a nature-lover, per se, but he'd long been comfortable in the woods—out of necessity if nothing else. In his old life, as a carnie, then briefly as a soldier in the late 1800s, camping out under the trees had been the norm. It'd never bothered him in the least.
Now he couldn't so much as stand under a tree without getting a chill on the back of his neck.
Fucking Davidson.
The ground coming alive under his feet. The lash of the vines, the creaking moans of the trees as they reached for him… as if the whole forest was a beast intent on consuming him.
The vampire suppressed another shudder even as his lips twisted into a self-mocking sneer. Ridiculous.
The human was nowhere near his equal. He'd beaten the man that night in the woods, and the only other time they'd met.
Crushed him.
He'd taken the bastard’s woman away while he'd been forced to watch. Then there was the fun he'd had with their son. A pity the boy had lived.
Yes, Daimen had won that round, hands down.
Davidson was pitifully weak everywhere that it really counted. All who had families were. Daimen still planned to introduce himself to the freak's daughter.
He smiled again, watching the fire.
The death of the nigger woman would've been satisfying solely for the pain it'd caused the two men he loathed, but the payoff in negative publicity for Phoenix Inc. had been huge. A gift that was still giving; to the Society, and thereby to Daimen himself.
Two years after he'd slaughtered Davidson's pretty wife on the para foundation’s grounds, the public venom against the company now headed by two vampires had barely slowed. The Society couldn't be happier with him.
Of course, Preshea, like all women, wanted more.
"I cannot argue that you have been invaluable to the cause, Daimen. But we're at a pivotal crossroads, surely you can see that. Our focus must be on the prize, distractions now could easily lead to disaster. All I ask is patience, so we can complete your masterpiece properly. Please." She caressed his thigh with the same practiced ease that she used to stroke his ego.
The prize. The Society and its fucking vision.
They planned to start with a purge.
There'd been more than one serious push in the last year to remove Kelsey Daegar Rousseau; Gentry’s best friend and business partner, as CEO of Phoenix Inc. It didn't matter that the newbie vamp had been a business icon before her turning; a shining example of the best of the
paras
and the good they could accomplish for humankind.
It didn't matter because the media had gleefully tarred all shades with the same brush after Daimen's attack, using it as proof of the instability and violence of shade kind. Fox News was screaming to the rafters that 'the monsters will kill us all'.
An old refrain, but an effective one. And if the Society got its way, a prophetic one.
They were the driving force behind a new bill. A bill that would prevent shades from holding any majority positions in business. It was seen as the first step to revoking shade rights entirely, and what a polarizing concept
that
was. So many against, but so many whole-heartedly
for.
It would seem strange that the Society stood solidly with the
fors
, since they were at heart a shade fundamentalist group.
In truth, it was subtle genius. Nearly all shades that currently held such corporate positions were friendly towards humans or —at the very least— willing to work with them and bend to their laws. The least violent, most adaptive of their respective races.
The Society had no patience for such compromise, or those who would promote it. They were gleefully set to cull their own ranks to see those alliances crumble. More shade laws were set to pass; much like the Jim Crow laws of Daimen's own Reconstruction era.
Even moderate shades would go on the defensive if pushed hard enough. The Society and their supporters in Washington were set to push damn hard. They were intent on crushing the growing promise of a world where humans, shades and
paras
could co-exist peacefully.
Then their own vision could emerge. One where
paras
were exterminated, humans were in chains and shades held the whips.
The Iron Hand Society was setting the scene for war. This bill was the first step.
To push it through Washington, the Society had reached out to a possible ally whose plans had always mirrored their own. Negotiations were nearly complete. Daimen had been skeptical, given the nature of the parties involved, but…you never knew. He'd learned that much over the long years.
It had been Preshea’s position that only the political maneuvering of Kelsey's husband, the Marquis Miles de Rousseau, was keeping the bill in holding. She loathed the French vamp, while being slightly obsessed with him. Preshea had no objectivity where Rousseau was concerned, but this time she was likely right.
The bill had been languishing for close to a year. The Marquis' influence and acumen were far-reaching, in business and politics, and he wielded both like the master he was. But soon even Rousseau would be out of moves. He wasn't American, after all, and business influence could extend only so far. Soon the bill would hit the Senate floor. And then…
You just never knew.
Daimen reached for a cut-crystal glass on the table next to Preshea as her fingers wandered higher, teasing the tip of his cock through his pants. She watched him avidly as he raised the rim to his lips and drained the ruby-red liquid in one long swallow. She was so obvious.
Did she really think she could lead him around by his dick?
His eyes met hers, seeing the firelight reflected in those cornflower blue orbs. It was possible this bitch could succeed in gaining her crazy vision.
Daimen wasn't sure how he felt about that. He set down the glass, licking his lips to get every drop of the present she'd brought him. The human was hardly breathing now, sprawled naked on the rug before the crackling fire. Even the moans had ceased. The flow of blood from the ripped throat had slowed as well, though Daimen could probably fill his glass once more, should he choose.
He inhaled instead; letting the intoxicating scent of fire, fear and blood clear his head.
He’d made up his mind.
Daimen held out his hand to Preshea. "As you wish, my sweet. Patience."
For now, you uppity bitch.
She ducked her head, but the spark of satisfaction in her eyes had been unmistakable. He hid his own with more skill.
Let her take him to bed, let her think him appeased. Daimen would content himself using her body and her resources until the last moment. Then he would do as he damn well pleased.
And what he pleased would be spectacular.
Phoenix Inc. in fire and ashes.
