Phoenix Fallen (3 page)

He shook his head, releasing her arm. "Why do you give a shit about me, anyway?"

She shrugged. "Curiosity, remember? I'm not used to getting the brush off,
Jules Gentry.
" His name rolled off her tongue smooth as honey and made something inside of him thrum in pure masculine ego.

He wanted to hear her say it again, breathless and low and pleading. He wanted to see her beneath him, that vibrant hair tangled on his pillow, those lips swollen from his mouth…

Shit.

With an effort Jules pulled himself back from the wicked daydream in time to catch her last words.

"…and you have to admit it's interesting.
Phoenix, Inc.,
for god's sake. Dang. Why have I never seen you in any of their press before?"

"I like to stay in the background."

"Ah.
Bit harder to do that now. I see."

Jules stepped back at the understanding in those icy-blues.

"No, you don't." He frowned as sudden suspicion hit him. "Did Kelsey send you? Or
Miles
?" He bit the name out, unable to say it without bitterness chilling his tone.

"Rousseau? Heaven's no, darling. That cat is way beyond my sphere. Is it true then? He turned you?" Her expression took on a slight edge.

Was she frightened? Probably. Miles had that effect on people.

One of the bleeders bumped into him, staggering, moving for the road.

Jules flinched in surprise, brought back to their surroundings with a jolt. His hunger was far from satisfied. He’d have to find another bite. Hopefully one that tasted better than the last one. Nobody looked remotely appetizing now. Not with her here for comparison.

He loathed this fucking place.

Somehow Rissa's presence had made him forget where he was for a second. She breathed out class and sophistication like expensive French wine. He shook his head, the tension behind his eyes tightening up again.

“Not your business, lady. Get out of here. You really don’t want to be around me tonight. Go home, shower off the smell of this place and put on your silk pj’s—“

“Silk?” Her voice cut him off, a delighted trill in those sultry undertones. “You've imagined me in silk, have you?" Her eyes danced when his face gave him away. "What color?”

Champagne, he nearly said, but caught himself. “Jesus, lady. You just don’t take a hint, do you?”

“Perhaps your hints are rather less 'definitive' than you think.”

He glared at her, but chose not to respond. She was right. He both wanted her to leave him the hell alone and yet…he didn't. He liked looking at her. Listening to her. And having x-rated fantasies about her. He shifted again, feeling that pleasant heaviness in his groin. Well, what man wouldn’t?

Her speaking voice wasn’t as intoxicating as her singing one, but it had a sultry purr that made his lower stomach tighten and his cock sit up and pay attention. There was that little hint of home that said she’d spent some time in or around New Orleans.

He stared at her, taking in the luscious curves, the tendril of flame-colored hair that had escaped her hood to caress the sweet line of her throat.

She smelled amazing, like a wildflower he couldn't quite place. He found himself wondering how she would
taste
; her skin, her mouth, her blood…

The image of her lying beneath him, her legs spread, his tongue sinking inside her while she whimpered for him…

He swallowed, wanting to step back from her, but his body refused to move an inch. Hunger of all sorts flared in every pore he had. Vamp, he reminded himself. She's goddamn
vamp.

I don’t care,
insisted both his thirst and his cock. Jules felt the urge to pound his head into a nearby tree.

Rissa sighed into the thick silence, and he could feel her need almost as acutely as his own as she swayed toward him.

Fuck, this is dangerous.
She's
dangerous.

“Why don’t we get out of here?" Her voice was raw, her full lips barely moving. It was clear she was just as turned on as he was. "I can't promise not to jump you, Jules, but there are better places than this to fulfill your needs. Cleaner places.”

Of course, she's dangerous. She's. A. Goddamn.
Vamp.

Don't forget that, don't
ever
forget that.

As if he could.

Jules forced himself to take that step back.

“I don’t want clean. Not for this. It should be dirty, it should feel…”

“Wrong?” She supplied with a knowing half-laugh. “Ah, I get it. This is about punishing yourself. Masochistic much?”

He frowned. “It’s not like that.”
Yes, it is,
his heart whispered,
yes, it really is.

Rissa leaned forward, reaching up to stroke his cheek. The feel of her silky skin made both the monster and human inside him growl even as the concern in her gaze floored him. He had to be imagining it. Vamps didn't have the kind of humanity.

“It doesn't have to be…but if you change your mind.” Her fingers pressed a card into his hand. “You’re welcome anytime, whether I'm around or not. Just show the card at the door and your needs will be seen to.”

Jules stared at the card, holding it so tightly the psychic residue that clung to it started to hum down his arms before he could stop it. He felt her essence on its surface, a trace of sad anxiety. Anxiety for him? She barely knew him. What game was she playing here?

Jules lifted his head, his brows furrowed. "Why?"

She dropped her gaze, tightening the belt of her coat. "Why what?"

"Why the hell do you give a damn about me, or where and how I
feed?
" He spit out the last word, hating the foul taste it left in his mouth.

Her fingers smoothed her lapels absently, but Jules noticed she wouldn't lift her eyes to his. He was about to turn away in disgust when she cleared her throat, her voice very soft.

"I know how hard all…this can be. How difficult it is to get used to things—"

"No." Jules cut her off with a snarl. "No, it's all too fucking easy to get used to 'things', isn't it? People do it every day."

"Some don't." She looked up at him then and her eyes sparkled in the faint starlight. It had always been far easier for him to read objects than people, but her pain was clear.

"Oh." He swallowed. "You lost someone? Someone who was turned?"

Rissa sighed. "Yes. I did. But it doesn't just have to be about that, does it? Can't I just have compassion for you? As a person? Is that so hard to imagine?"

"Vampires don't have compassion. They are cruel, heartless and sick."

She cocked her head at him, her gaze steady. "Sure. Some of them. So are some humans. Look around."

He let out an impatient breath. "It's not the same. Don't pretend it is. Vamps are
monsters.
"

She stepped close again, her eyes narrowed. That disappointment was back. "Sounds to me like you're the one pretending here. Convenient. I wouldn't have pegged you for one of those, but okay. Makes sense, you being here then. I get it now."

"Get what?" He leaned down, puzzled by the derision in her tone and distracted, wishing she didn't smell so goddamn good.

Honeysuckle. That was it. The wildflower scent that she gave off; it was honeysuckle and just a hint of champagne.

Wild with a touch of class. Jules tuned back into her words with an effort.

"…that you're one of
those
who believe that their soul has been stolen. That because they were turned, they've no choice but to be twisted. To become a 'monster'. It's a nice excuse if you can swallow it."

Jules stiffened as if she'd slapped him. "I didn't say that. But that is the way most vamps go. You
know
it is."

Her lip curled and she turned away in disgust. "Oh, poor baby, all the other fanged kiddies are doing it, wa-ah. Seriously? Didn't you have a dick the last time you checked?"

He grabbed her arms without thinking about it, his nostrils flaring. Yanking her up by her elbows, he growled in her face.

"Fuck you, Clarissa. You were the one pretty damn interested in checking out my dick the other night."

"Changed my mind," she sneered at him. "Seems you're a little soft for my taste."

"Bullshit." Before he knew what he was doing, Jules had one hand wrapped around her chin, tilting her face up to his. It wasn't a kiss. Not really, he told himself.

It was more like calling a bluff.

But her fucking
mouth
. That full, pillowy mouth was soft under his and tasted so goddamn hot and sweet. He couldn't stop at the one taste. Instead, he pushed her against a nearby tree and took more. Rissa didn't fight him. Of course not. She met him more than halfway, that lush body curving into his.

She felt good, just like he'd imagined. Too good. Those curves, her velvety skin…had he actually been trying to pretend he didn't want this? That he hadn't been craving her from the second he'd walked into that lounge two weeks ago?

When his fingers slid into her hair, she sighed. He took the opening, his tongue forcing her lips apart, sliding against hers until she let out a whimper and arched against him. The sound and the feel of her woke the beast inside him to raging life. For a second Jules went still, as not only desire but a raging hunger tore at his chest.
He wanted to rip out her throat, to sink his fangs deep inside her and—

"Fuck!" He threw himself back, spinning away from her, staggering.

For a moment he couldn't see, his vision washed in red. The humans around them had vanished. Even these bleeders weren't too far gone to recognize a vampire on the verge of losing it.

Rissa's hand came up softly against the back of his neck. He flinched away, but her touch followed him.

"Easy, big guy.
Jules.
You can't hurt me. Just be cool."

He shuddered but allowed her suede voice to soothe him. For a moment. Then he pushed her hand from him and stepped away.

"This isn't okay. This will
never
be okay."

Her hood was down, the perfect waves of her hair mussed and tangled from his hands. Her lips flushed and swollen from his mouth. She had to be one of the most beautiful things he'd seen in his entire life and almost certainly the most dangerous.

And he wanted her anyway.

Goddamnit.

To his surprise, she didn't try to disagree with his hard words, she only nodded.

"No. It really won't. But it does get better."

"Better? What the fuck does that look like, Rissa?"

“Not like this,” she smiled at him sadly. The bleeders were already starting to leak back in from the shadows between trees, sensing the danger had past. "I have to go. Will you come to my show Sunday?"

He shrugged, knowing he would. That he wouldn't be able to help himself, but unwilling to tell her so.

Rissa lifted an eyebrow, but turned to leave. He cleared his throat, making her pause.

"That person you lost? Did it really hurt you so much that they couldn't handle this? That they choose to end it rather than to exist like
this?
"

To his embarrassment, Jules could hear the pain and frustration vibrating in his own voice. Rissa bent her head, looking impossibly delicate in the moonlight.

"No, Jules. The thing that hurt the most was not that they chose the sun. It was that I was too scared to follow."

She walked away into the night.

Jules stared at the point where she had vanished for a long time before he shook himself and moved back into the woods to get that drink.

He was going to be a problem.

Rissa sighed as she opened the door to her suite at the Silversmith. For some reason she couldn't get the damn man out of her head.

Yeah, she knew she was vain and maybe even a teensy bit shallow.

She was okay with that. She knew that Jules turning her down had pricked her ego, making her even more curious about him. Rissa understood herself enough not to be surprised by that.

It still shouldn't have been enough to cause her to make a fool of herself by chasing him down like some stalker nutcase.

Nope, that idiocy could be put down to her stupid, soft heart.

She’d been that way ever since she could remember. Her little sister Laureen had laughed at her more than once for her tears over some poor creature she couldn’t save.

Whether it was a nest of baby rabbits their gardener had uncovered and Daddy’s hunting dogs killed or a baby bird that Laureen had accidently stepped on and that same gardener had had to snap its neck. Things like that had always haunted her. Her sister had been much more practical. Not Rissa. She wanted to save
everything.

That hopeless look in Jules’ eyes; the dull sheen of a deer caught in the headlights. It tore at her. Despite herself, she was concerned about him. She couldn't help it. As she'd told him, she'd seen that look in the eyes of other vamps…other vamps that were nothing but ashes and dust now. Thanks to her.

Her stomach roiled and she ripped off her coat and threw it over the dresser. That wasn't all this was, though.

This interest of hers went beyond regret, ego or even lust. Something about Jules Gentry struck a damn chord with her, almost like they’d met in another life.

Rissa couldn't identify why and it was starting to drive her mad. When she'd seen the press conference earlier while flipping through the local cable channels, it had been like the universe was purposely shoving him in her face. Or some sort of weird voodoo magic from down home.

She'd thrown the remote and then watched the whole thing with her mouth half open.

Phoenix Inc.? He was behind that place?
Interesting.

She knew it, of course. Who didn't anymore? Phoenix Inc. was practically the face of the para population in this psychic-savy, shade-acknowledging, brave new world they had all been living in for the past thirty years or so.

Most scientists agreed the explosion of psychic
—
or paranormal — powers, now known as the
para effect
in the human population, was simply evolution's response to the Reveal. That year when shades had come out of hiding at last.

Vampires, lycans, shifters, wraiths, weres, demons; they were all real. As Rissa herself knew all too intimately. There had been increasing rumors throughout the mid to late 20th century, but the world-alternating events of '87 had yanked everyone from the murky gray of
maybe
, to the blazing hi-def of
most certainly
. The nightmares were real. They always had been.

Paras were nothing more than humanity's survival instincts kicking in at the DNA level.

That didn't mean they'd been welcomed with open arms. Far fucking from it. Humanity in all its glory. Nature genetically engineers saviors for mankind — mankind attacks and persecutes said saviors. It was all too predictable.

Some very nasty shit had gone down before paras had begun to be tolerated. Shit like the Cleaners; a cultist faction with government ties who had kidnapped and extorted children with para powers, raising them as nothing more than brain-washed assassins, used to target prominent shades. Jules had been one of those children. So had his best friend, his partner and the CEO of Phoenix Incorporated, Kelsey Daeger.

Yeah, Rissa had done some major Googling after watching Jules' press conference. She'd quickly hit on all the rife speculation—including the eyewitness testimony of a French Gendarmerie officer—about who'd turned Jules, and Kelsey as well.

The Marquis Miles de Rousseau?
Very damn interesting. 

And it had all happened during a suspected 'terrorist' attack in Paris last month that had taken out a major landmark.

The whole mess had intrigued her, more than enough to send her driving down into Hickory Hills to scope out the enormous glass-and-steel complex that was Phoenix Inc. headquarters. Rissa had been told Jules was unavailable but once outside she had caught his scent and, well....

Rissa threw her key on the nightstand and sat down, putting a hand to her quivering stomach. No wonder his smell had perplexed her. He was living off of bottom-of-the-barrel junk bleeders and he had been sired by a goddamn legend.

It didn't compute.

She had never heard of Rousseau siring
anyone.
Then he'd supposedly just up and made two new vamps in one night. The woman was somewhat understandable. Supposedly they'd been lovers once upon a time and were now rumored to be engaged.

But Jules? Not so much. Obviously Jules had some issues with vamps in particular, issues that seemed far too deep-seated to be related merely to his turning.

No doubt some serious shit had gone down. Something not fit for public consumption.

Whatever it was, Jules was taking his turning hard. Very hard indeed. Some did. Hell,
most
did.

She herself….

Rissa sighed. Her eyes drifted to the black-and-white photograph in the heavy, sterling-silver frame on the hotel dresser. The one she had carried everywhere with her for the last seventy years or so.

February 22, 1941. Her last day as a human. Her sister, Laureen and her best friend, Gloria stood on either side of her, three prim girls with mischief in their eyes.

Laureen and that ridiculous hat, pink and black ostrich feathers exploding over the brim. At the time, she'd been damn jealous of that hat, Rissa remembered with a soft smile. Laureen had begged and begged for the silly thing, even though Rissa had been saving up for it for months. In the end though, Rissa had to indulge her beloved baby sister. It had been worth it just to see Laureen’s blue eyes sparkle.

They all had their arms slung around each other; happy, absurdly young faces mugging for the camera. Gloria's smile exactly like that girl from the old Colgate ad.

Mardi Gras. What a day for your life to end. Or begin, depending on how you looked at it.

Daimen had stolen that picture from her sister's bedroom a year later while he'd made her wait outside. Rissa had been crying with fear. He'd probably been trying to please her, in his own twisted way. Along with having his fun terrifying her, letting her think he intended to hurt Laureen. He hadn't. Not
that
night.

Knowing him, Daimen had savored the taste of her tears far more that night than her sincere gratitude for the gift of the picture.

He was like that, going to great lengths to indulge her on one hand, while being a sadistic monster on the other.

Daimen had terrified her on a regular basis, but she'd been far more terrified of leaving him. Everyone in their little group had been. They were the puppets and he'd been their demented puppet master.

She'd met him that February night. The city was raucous for Mardi Gras, even in those times. Maybe especially in those times. It had been pre-Pearl Harbor, the war a distant rumble in the distance adding to the manic mood.

They'd been waiting in line, trying to get into the 500 Club to see Lily Christine, the Cat Girl.

Rissa smiled. Back then, she would have died rather than set foot on a stage herself, she had been such a shy thing. But dang, if she didn't love watching those torch singers light up the clubs. She had wanted to head up Bourbon Street to catch one of the blues acts because burlesque hadn't really been her deal. Laureen, though, was going through a naughty phase that year. So the Cat Girl it was.

She closed her eyes and leaned back on the bed. Rissa remembered her dress, a cream-and-black lace confection. The sexiest thing she owned. She'd had a hat herself, of course, one far more demure than her sister's and a year older, but still quite fashionable. Cream to match the dress, with a huge black silk bow.

A sheba, that's what she had been. One helluva hot dame. More than one man, with a little too much Fat Tuesday liquor in him, had called her exactly that as she'd dashed from where Gloria and Laureen held their spot in line. She'd had to pee something fierce and was hoping she could dash into the Absinthe across the street to use the ladies.

Rissa never made it to the Absinthe, and she never made it back to Gloria and Laureen to see the Cat Girl.

A handsome man, with an angel's face and white-blond hair had caught her hand and laughingly spun her into a frenzied dance. He had made her forget everyone and everything around her. By the time, she had caught her breath and really looked into those slanted cat green eyes, it had been far too late. She'd been far from the Quarter and less than an hour away from death.

Rissa had been bleeding out on a concrete slab in Lafeyette Cemetery before midnight.

It was all very Anne Rice, even though Anne Rice hadn't even been born yet. Not until the fall of that very year, as it happened.

He had taken her on a whim, but once Daimen Cross got his fangs in you, he didn't want to let you go. Not a day passed that she didn't fear him popping up in her life again. It had been over twenty years, but what was that to a vampire almost 170 years old?

Born in mid-19th century, along the Louisiana/Mississippi line, Daimen had been a carnival barker, the owner of a traveling freak show, a Confederate soldier, and deserter, among many other things. He had never lost his love for staging a good chilling show, though. And a twisted flair for the dramatic.

Rissa shivered, her eyes popping open to stare at the ceiling.

He was psycho-squared, with periods of charming lucidity. She'd never really gotten over the oily feel he'd left tainting her mind.

But scary as he was, her sire didn't play ball in the same league as Rousseau. From the little Rissa knew of the ancient French vamp, he was as decent as their kind came, though most certainly not the kind you wanted to tick off. There were stories about what happened when Miles de Rousseau got pissed. Stories of mythical and bloody proportions.

She wondered what kind of history Jules had with him. She itched to reach for her laptop again, to do a little more research on the man that drew her so strangely, but decided against it. Jules Gentry was not her problem.

So what if she found him incredibly hot? So what if he pulled at her heartstrings?

So what if she recognized the signs of a vamp on edge, a vamp very close to breaking…

If he couldn't manage to accept his monster, he was better off seeking the sun.

That was the cold, hard truth.

If that twisted her up inside; well, too bad, so sad.

She'd dealt with worse. Rissa watched the ceiling fan whirl until sleep claimed her, down into the old, familiar nightmares where Daimen spun her by the hand, laughing as she danced to screams that never seemed to end.

Jules woke twisted up inside and for a moment he couldn't remember why. The sound of screaming rang in his ears, but that was normal.

For him.

He always woke to that sound. Ever since he was nine years old.  Jules supposed one day the screams would fade. Or maybe not. Maybe now that he was a vampire and the aging process had effectively been cut off, maybe he would never live to hear that pain silenced.

The sounds of his family being ripped apart by monsters — and always the low, taunting drawl of the worst of them.

Come out, Come out, boy! Don't ya all want to play?

If he closed his eyes again, Jules knew he would feel the sheets of Spanish moss tickling his face, the fiery scratches on his knees, the sting of Sim's blood in his eyes, mingling with the tears choking his throat as he ran barefoot through the swamp, water flying up with every sucking step.

Running away. Obeying his mother's last command even though living through that night was the hardest thing he had ever done.

With a snarl, Jules got to his feet, shaking off his past until images from last night started to bleed through the older memories.

Rissa.

Spears. No wonder he had a sick taste in his mouth. His second drink hadn't been any better than his first. Worse, especially after getting the scent of Clarissa Styles in his nose for comparison.

Jesus, that woman!
He kicked open the bathroom door, taking a long piss before washing his hands and splashing quantities of icy water on his aching eyes. Sometimes drinking blood gave him a worse hangover that the most godawful, cotton-mouthed, rolling-gut, morning-after he'd ever had in his hellion days.

Kelsey had never mentioned having such issues. Maybe Rissa had a point, maybe it was time to move on up. The bleeders at Spears were drained on a regular basis, after all. Maybe it did something nasty to their blood. Weakening it or something.

Perhaps he should visit this damn place of Rissa's just to see if…