Phoenix Broken (3 page)

Make it easier for you to ignore him, maybe?

He told that voice to shut the fuck up, too.

"Get the hell down, Tobe. Now."

The voice that drifted down was stubborn and faintly angry. "I thought we didn't talk like that in this family."

Scott inhaled sharply. Fannie had been death on foul language around the kids. He'd slipped since she'd been gone. In every way possible.

"Don't back talk me, Tobias Franklin. Move it."

His son descended. As slowly as possible.

Scott forced himself to open his eyes and watch. Toby leapt the last five feet, landing on his toes in the grass. Scott rippled his fingers and the lacy curtain of willow branches parted.

Toby walked through with a sullen look on his face. His hair was no longer a wild and carefree match for his sister's. Toby's head had been shaved for months after his fall. He'd gotten used to having it short, and now there was only a soft golden brown dusting over his scalp. His big eyes were defiant, dark as the night around them.

Scott resisted the urge to grab his son and swat him senseless. Toby's chin came up at once, his lips tightening. Seven years old and looking at him like
go ahead, man, try it.

Scott felt like someone had gut-punched him.

He'd never hit his kids. Not a swat, not a smack, not once. That didn't mean he wasn't a firm believer in discipline.

Hello, goddamn
Marine
here.

But, having come from a long line of men who liked to hit those smaller than themselves, Scott had promised himself a long time ago that way wasn't ever going to be
his
way. He'd never raised a hand to either of his children. No matter how far he fallen since Fan had died, he'd be keeping
that
promise.

Scott knew he was a bit of an odd duck. A soldier with a decidedly hippie mindset in a lot of ways. He considered himself a staunch pacifist. Someone who believed in change through peace and reason; in open-mindedness, tolerance for other people's choices—even if he didn't agree with them—and in fiercely caring for the environment.

He was also an unapologetic realist. Sometimes peace failed. Sometimes evil needed to be put in its place. That's why he'd made damn sure he had the skills and tools to put it there.

In the end, none of that had mattered. He hadn't been able to stop the terror that'd struck at the heart of his very own family, ripping their old life to pieces. Scott’s hands tightened.

Toby's eyes widened and for a second his little face crumpled.

Jesus Christ.

Scott turned away, disgusted with himself, before he could realize that what shone in his son's face wasn't fear at all, but guilt.

"Get in the d—" Scott caught himself, his voice rough. "Just get in the house, Tobe. No electronics tomorrow. And stay out of that willow. Or I’m gonna cut it down."

Behind him came a choked sound. "You wouldn't!  That was Mama's favorite—"

"I would. And I will, if that's what it takes to protect you." Scott wouldn’t look at his son, his jaw clenched. "So, don’t climb it again. Ever. Now get to bed."

"But—"

"Now!" Scott snapped. "I don't have time for this crap. Memaw's gonna stay with you for a few more hours. I've got a job."

"What else is new?" Toby muttered under his breath, pushing past him to walk into the house. Scott had the urge to grab his son; to hold him tight, to try and make all this brokenness between them right, but Toby was gone. The door closing. The boy wasn't brave enough to slam it, but he shut it hard enough to make the window rattle.

Scott let him get away with the disrespect, because they were alone—and because he knew he deserved it. It almost didn't hurt anymore that Toby blamed him for Fan dying.

He blamed himself more than his son ever could.

Scott waved a hand. The willow branches parted again as he moved under them. He looked up at the tall trunk, its slender supporting braches reaching delicate fingers to stroke the smudged charcoal swirls that were the city sky at night. He sent a touch of power into the tree, making it dance ever so slightly, like a girl with grass skirts sashaying through the night.

That trick used to make Fannie's eyes shine while Toby and Tish would laugh so hard, reaching out their hands to grasp the branches and dance, too.

There sure was a helluva a lot of
used to
in his life.

Scott closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool bark, trying to remember the exact sound of his wife's laughter.

And failing.

He stood there a long time before following his son back into that strange, too-quiet house.

An hour later, Scott walked into Centaries, spoiling for a fight.

Centaries was huge.

Half a dozen gleaming dance floors were tiered at slightly different heights around a central bar in a canted circle. The bar had an old-fashioned brass foot railing that gleamed in the multi-colored lights. The smell of polish was faint over the sharper tang of warm bodies and spilled liquor. Each hardwood dance floor glowed under its own spotlight; green, pink, gold, blue and purple.

Black-and-white checkered tile filled the rest of the room, along with low slung red leather chairs slung around round tables. It was crowded and loud. Mack the Knife was playing.

The familiar music sent a tingle down his spine, along with a rush of memories. Scott shook them off, grateful he’d never been to this particular club with Fannie.

Centaries was new, or rather something old made new again.

It'd been renovated about three years back from an old armory turned warehouse. The owner was rumored to be a major player in the Convenīre, but nobody knew exactly who.

Nobody knew much about the Convenīre at all—except they were basically the shade version of the mafia—and that they weren’t a group you wanted to piss off.

The bulk of its players were supposedly made up of demons from the old world. There were also rumored to be vamps a plenty in the organization, as well as wraiths and a few other of the near immortal shades.

If Cross or one of Cross's people was hooked into the Convenīre, that would be bad. Real,
real
bad. They'd had no hint of such a link existing.

Not that Scott was aware of, anyway. And after after his conversation with Jules, he'd triple-checked every file they had on the Iron Hand Society.
Nada.

Still, if Docie May was hanging out here, in a Convenīre club, it was unlikely to be some innocent coincidence. Docie May had been Cross's right hand woman for the past century. Everyone in the shade world was well aware Miles Rousseau and Phoenix Inc. were hunting Cross, and anyone associated with him.

The Convenīre would know the conclusions that would be made if they were harboring the woman. Demons in general were smart; the most controlled of the shade races. They didn't court unwanted attention.

Especially from Miles de Rousseau. No one with half a brain did, but demons in particular feared the French vamp.

Scott didn't know all the details. Phoenix's files were mysteriously fucking sketchy on the subject, but Miles had a serious reputation with demons.

Rousseau had a reputation with damn near everyone, but this was different. There were horror stories about Miles taking out whole clans of demons back in the day.

Scorched earth type shit.

It was supposed to be because of Miles that the demons had created the Saandon; their own little pocket world accessible only by demon magic hidden somewhere in the Caribbean.

It seemed the Convenīre being involved with Cross or the Society was unlikely, knowing Miles' position on both, but it was definitely something to keep in mind.

Scott bellied up to the bar, checking out the crowd, scoping for a skinny blonde with a big nose.

He'd touched base with Rissa; Jules' wife, earlier about Docie May. The red-headed vampire had run down her history for him several times in the past, but he'd wanted a refresher course.

Rissa had been turned by Cross back in the 1940s. She'd stayed with him for years and years; partially because of the fear the sicko vamp inspired, but mostly due to the watchful eyes of her jailer, Miss Docie May Cantrell.

"What can I say that I haven’t already, Scott? She's a bitch; a deceitful, cruel one. If she ever did anything that wasn't self-serving in her life, it was for Daimen. For him, she'd do anything. And trust me when I say
anything.
He ruled her; heart, mind and body. He ruled us all, but Docie May …she enjoyed it."

Scott knew Cross had abused Rissa, in ways he wanted to know nothing about.

Daimen Cross wasn't just a powerful vamp and a sadistic murderer; the sick son of a bitch was also gifted with unusually strong
para
powers. Mainly psychokinesis, the ability to control others' emotions. The talent itself was a fairly common one among
paras
, but never to the degree seen in Cross, especially since he’d been born well over a hundred years before the explosion of
para
powers that occurred prior to the Reveal.

Cross had the ability to take complete mental control of nearly anyone within his physical proximity. His powers did have limits, though. He could only take control of one person at a time. Empaths and telepaths could shut him out, if they were sufficiently powerful. As an elemental, Scott was also safe, as long as he could merge sufficiently with his element around the vamp. Anyone else was toast, unless they'd been rigorously trained to mentally shield themselves.

And even the best training would only buy a person
time;
exactly how much depended on the individual. Eventually, Cross would worm his way in, using fear, intimidation or pain, to batter those defenses until he could slip through.

When the vampire had kidnapped her not long before Cross had taken Fannie, Rissa had kept him at bay due to such training. However, if it had taken Jules and Scott much longer to free her, Rissa freely admitted she'd have been groveling at his feet.

Jules himself had succumbed to the sicko's powers during their fight on the grounds of Phoenix the night Cross had murdered Fannie.

Jules wasn’t a true empath. His gift was psychometry, but he did have a touch of empath power, which had shielded him in his previous encounters with Cross. Jules speculated that the shock of seeing Fannie murdered that night, along with blind rage had lowered his defenses, allowing the vamp to breach them.

Both Jules and Rissa had tried to describe the sensation of being under the vampire's control to Scott, but ended up just staring into space, voices trailing off into an uncomfortable silence.

Scott had contemplated it. Complete and utter loss of self. Nothing more than a puppet whose strings were held by a demented monster.
Total madness.

If fact, Rissa believed that it was repeated exposure to Cross's dark gift that’d driven Docie May round the bend. From all accounts, this was one crazy-ass bitch. Cross seemed to get off on them. He'd had the same type in Rissa's baby sister, Laureen. Until he'd sent that doomed woman after Miles de Rousseau's wife, Kelsey; the CEO of Phoenix Inc.

Rousseau had killed Laureen, but Rissa didn't seem to hold it against him.
Much
. In her mind, no doubt, her sister had died long ago.

Scott ran his thumbs down his checkered green suspenders and leaned back to survey the crowd again. He'd dressed for the atmosphere. Fitted black button-up, black pants and dark green wingtips. His hair was an artful mess of tousled blond spikes.

1940s cool with a modern edge. Scott knew how to dress well, not that he bothered with it much anymore. He didn't give a damn how he looked. Here, though, the proper camouflage was important.

More than one woman was eyeing him speculatively. He ignored them, for now. He also ignored the list of classic drink specials on the retro chalkboard and ordered a beer. No matter how unappealing the idea was, Scott knew he was going to have to grab one of those women and hit the dance floor. Eventually.

First, he scanned the bodies to see if anyone stood out. Docie May definitely would. He'd committed every known photo of her to memory, and she had a distinctive face. Just a touch long, almost horsey with a larger nose, though the vampire was attractive in her own way.

Louis Armstrong and Mack the Knife made way for Cab Calloway. Scott got his beer, unwittingly tapping the toe of one wingtip to the beat.

A few songs went by. Two women approached him. One batted her eyes, trying every trick in the book to get him to hit on her. She dropped an earring. Fixed the strap of her shoe no less than three times, taking pains to flash cleavage enhanced by a lethal looking push-up bra.

In red.

Of course.

Scott yawned pointedly.

Shooting him a dirty look, she left for greener pastures. Next up was a redhead—who looked about nineteen—and asked him straight out if he was looking to hook up. Scott was shaking his head when he caught the gleam of dark blonde hair and a pale face across the room. His eyes widened. He hadn't expected it to be nearly this easy.

"Ain't happening," he dismissed the redhead with a wave of his hand. Her jaw dropped.

She said something nasty, but Scott didn't catch the details. He ignored her she stomped away, his eyes locked on the blonde.

That
was
Docie May. Fuck if it wasn't.

She was moving along the far wall through the crowd. And she wasn't alone. Two big guys in black flanked her as the trio moved behind the bar opposite him. They looked like they could be demons.

Shit.

Protecting her or guarding her? It was impossible to tell.

The vampire was wearing a sable fur, wrapped up clear to her throat. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and she looked almost ill.
Scared, maybe?

Wasn't that interesting?

Her eyes caught his and held. The vampire's gaze narrowed, the dull fear he'd thought he'd seen clearing into crystal sharp awareness. Rather than look away and show nerves that would be remembered, he held her gaze for a beat longer, then allowed his eyes to move past her naturally.

In The Mood
hit the speakers. The crowd's roar of approval shook the building like a vocal earthquake. Scott turned his back on Docie May, his muscles taut.

She was here
. He'd confirmed Jules' intel. Scott wondered how close Daimen might be, but didn't allow himself to speculate. Time to fucking blend.

He had to make Docie May forget the human who'd been staring at her so intently.

Looking around, ready to body press the first woman he saw onto the floor, Scott realized every female within sight was partnered up.
Goddamn it.
He almost regretted pissing off the redhead.

Scott's hands tightened on the lip of the bar as he tried not to look at where Docie May had been, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye.

Was she looking his way?

If she was in contact with Cross, he might've given her Scott's description. Hadn't Jules thought of that shit? Of course, Scott looked so different than he had the last time Cross had seen him…

There was a light tap on his shoulder. Scott froze, then forced himself to go loose, breathing deep, ready for—

"Hey there, handsome, wanna dance?"

The sweet husky lilt that hinted at Jamaica had him letting out a breath. He turned and sucked it back in at the vision before him.

It wasn't likely
this
one had anything to do with Docie May or Cross.

The woman in front of him was drop-dead gorgeous. He'd put her in her mid-twenties. Far too young and fresh looking to be a vamp—the eyes always gave that away. Hers were a clear, guileless grey. Not quite innocent, but nowhere near immortal.

A golden brown cloud of curls was pinned back over one shoulder, baring silky caramel skin that claimed a mixed race heritage. It went perfectly with that island accent that had him thinking of wind-swept beaches. She was wearing a scrap of a dress. Some floaty sea-green material that hit at mid-thigh and clung to curves that had undoubtedly made many a grown man cry.

But not him. Scott didn't give a damn how beautiful she was.

All that mattered was that she was just what he needed, the perfect foil. No one, seeing him with her, would think he had anything on his mind but the obvious.

Apparently deciding he was a little slow, the woman snapped her fingers playfully in front of his face. Short nails. Dark violet polish.

"Hel-lo?
Johnny-come-lately? You want to dance or what? This song isn't going to last for—"

Without a word, he put a hand around her waist, practically tossing her onto the nearest dance floor—the rose spotlighted one. He spun her around hard to get in a quick glance at the bar. Docie May was leaning on the bar, talking to—

His new dance partner put her small hand against Scott's chest and shoved him back. Hard. He stumbled. She sure was stronger than she looked.

"What's your problem
, man?"
In her soft accent, 'man' came off sounding like
mon
. Kind of cute, if you ignored the fact she had her hands on her hips and was glaring at him. Drawing attention.
Fuuu-uck.

"I said I wanted to dance, not be manhandled."

He went for a sheepish smile, but her eyes only narrowed. "Come on, angel, it is swing. It's not fun if you're not being thrown around a little."

People were starting to stare. Standing still on a swing dance floor was not
done.
He reached for her again, but she batted his hands away.

"Sorry to break it to you, Johnny, but swing does not double as freaking ring toss. How long has it been since you danced anyway?" That Jamaican purr was stuck halfway between teasing and annoyed. She looked him up and down, her expression far too perceptive. "Maybe you forgot how this is done, eh?"