Phoenix Broken (7 page)

Miles jerked his head at the door and without another word, Desdemona left the gym. Her shoulders went back again but her head was bowed, as if she might be hiding tears.

The ache is his chest deepened at the thought of being the cause of those tears. Scott looked after her, his hands clenched at his sides. He was still angry as hell, but feeling uncomfortably like he'd just crumpled a butterfly in his fingers.

Slowly, he turned, reluctant to face the vampire, knowing he—and everyone else in the fucking gym—had heard every word he and the little half-demon had exchanged.

"About this, Miles. Me and her, it wasn't—"

Miles held up a hand, his expression alarmed. "I do not want to know. I'm even afraid to ask why she calls you Johnny. Let’s agree not to discuss the details, Davidson. Ever."

Scott nodded in relief. He'd rather take a couple of punches straight to the face than be interrogated about what'd happened last night.

"Just know this," Miles continued, "whatever happened, or might happen, between you and Desdemona, be careful. Demons in general are treacherous, evil creatures. Incubae and succubae can be the worst of a very nasty bunch. I'd like to believe she is more than her father's legacy, but I don't know, Scott.
I just don't know.
I've never met a demon I didn't want to kill on sight. Watch your step."

Miles left. Scott stared after him, his jaw working. Alcide's voice broke the awkward silence.

“At least I know now," he said, trying gamely to lighten the mood. "Not gay. Confirmed. That was one freaking hot chica, old man.”

No one else said a word. Feet shuffled, throats cleared. Alcide looked around and frowned.

"I mean, come on, I could hear the sizzle from here. Sizzle sizzle siz—“

The look Scott shot him was more effective than a throat punch. Alcide choked on his words as Scott spun around and left the room.

He had a feeling it was going to be another long ass night.

Miles slipped back into the office where Des sat, cross legged on the desk, waiting for him.

She didn't blink as his gaze flickered over her. Her shoes were on the floor where she'd kicked them off and she'd pulled her hair down. She was done trying to impress the damn vampire, or any of his people.

It wasn't as if she'd tried very hard anyway. Des had known that was pretty much pointless from the start.

One look from those electric eyes of his, and the room cleared. With his staff gone, the vampire faced Des, his expression cold.

"Tell me why you went after Scott."

“I didn't 'go after' him.
Dolter nunhept!
I didn't even know his real name until you called him by it.”
Scott.
Des suppressed a shiver. “We met, by chance, at a club last night. We danced. I couldn't help but sense his need, and yes, I was looking for a fix, but that was all. I wasn't trying to hurt him. I told you, I don't
do
that."

Miles waved a hand, effectively cutting her off. “Let's not rehash your oh-so-altruistic nature, Desdemona. Let's stick to you and Scott hooking up. This was at Centaries, I take it?”

She nodded, wondering how he knew that and feeling uneasy.

“Scott was there for a job, not pleasure.” He leaned a hip against the table. “I take it you helped him work in both.”

“A job,” she said, ignored the snideness that seemed almost forced and thinking of her friend Guido instead. It was his club. Well, he managed it anyway. And Des knew damn well who he managed it for. "What does that mean?”

The vampire's eyes shone faintly blue in the dim light. “None of your business.
However…"
His gaze turned speculative. "You're aware of what this foundation's purpose is, are you not?"

“Sort of.” Des shrugged, but she did know Phoenix Inc. was more than just a political powerhouse for
para
advancement. All shades did. Even half ones.

She'd heard the rumors.

Phoenix Inc. was the go-to place if you had a problem with shades that the authorities couldn’t solve. Problems that might require a less than legal
solution.

Or a
permanent
one.

And Phoenix was apparently snooping around Centaries. A club owned by the Convenīre.

Shades.

Demons.

Like her.

Like Guido.

What'd her Johnny been working on when he’d found her? Who
was
he, anyway—this man Miles called Scott?

She knew one thing—he was a
para
if he worked here. That was a given. Des wondered what his gift was. And she wondered what he knew about the Convenīre. Did he know how dangerous they were?

A chill danced down her spine.
She did.

“I see that you know enough. Well, to further that purpose, sometimes we need information about places like Centaries. I believe the demon who runs that club is your friend. Calimente.” Miles' tone was considering, but it wasn't a question. It gave her a chill that he knew Guido's true surname. Not many outside the Saandon would.

Of course, it was to be expected that Miles knew
all
about her. She was sitting on a dossier with her name stamped on it right now. He'd intended that to intimidate her—which it had.

Des had purposely planted her ass on it to show him what she thought of
that.

She wondered how detailed his information was, because 'friend' didn’t really encompass the breadth of her relationship with Guido Calimente.

She'd known the demon since the cradle. Hers, not his. Guido had told her many times how when he'd first laid eyes on her, he'd pinched her, just to make the little half-breed cry. When she had, her tears had made him feel bad, an emotion he was totally unfamiliar with. So he'd promptly made silly faces until he had her smiling and laughing again. Guido claimed he'd became enamored, rocking her to sleep, then standing by her cradle to ensure nothing and no one disturbed her.

Not much had changed in their relationship since.

Guido was many things to her; part adored first crush, part tormenting and exasperating big brother, and part self-imposed protector, guardian and teacher. Des loved him more than anyone left on this earth.

If Miles thought she would betray him, even to secure her life, the vampire was sorely mistaken.

The vampire must've read some of this in her eyes, because his look sharpened. For a second, Des thought she saw the ghost of a smile, then it was gone. Probably a trick of the light.

“I'm not going to ask you to spy on Calimente, Desdemona. I care nothing for his personal affairs. We don't need intel on your friend."

She let out a slow breath of relief she hoped he didn't notice, but Miles wasn't finished.

"However, I do need to find someone his bosses may be hiding. You having an in with him could prove very beneficial.”

Des was confused. The Convenīre didn't hide people. If they wanted to get rid of someone, they did so; by either killing them…or making them wish they were dead. It took a minute before another possibility occurred to her.

“Someone the Convenīre is protecting?”

“Perhaps. That is what I want you to find out. As soon as possible. I need to know you are more than just demon.”

“I am not my father.”

“Nor are you Marie.”

The sound of her mother’s name had Des straightening. Miles watched her every move.

“I need proof of loyalty before I can trust you,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, before it hardened abruptly. “If you agree to be my eyes and ears in Centaries, telling me all that you observe, it would go a fair ways to proving that.”

Des snorted. “You won’t ever trust me. No matter what I do. Your prejudice runs too deep.”

“If you believe that, why come to me?”

She sighed, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself. “You know why. I had no choice.”

“We always have a choice.” Miles’ words were soft, almost a whisper, and for a moment Des got the strangest feeling he wasn’t talking to her.

Then he blinked. His voice returned to its former brusque tone.

“In any case, you're here. You want my help. This is the price I require. Are you willing or no?”

“Who would I be looking for?”

Miles shook his head. “You will get that information only when, and if, you agree. And should you betray me, Desdemona …Rest assured, Alain’s blood or no, you’ll have no need to worry about assassins, because
I
will kill you.” His eyes flashed blue again. A shiver worked its icy way down her spine.

As if she would expect anything less. Des’ hands tightened into fists as she stared at Miles.

This man had been the best friend of the grandfather she'd never known and her mother's first love. But above all, her father's bitter, blood-sworn enemy. She’d known going to Miles wouldn’t be easy, but
this
…the spying and threats and secrecy. It felt a whole lot like everything she was trying to escape.

Unfortunately, the vampire was right. She’d already made her choice by coming to him. The only way out was through. If she didn't enlist his help, she was dead anyway.

Sighing, Des looked into those cold blue eyes. “Of course, you will. Just remember there's quite a queue for that. Fine. I agree, with the stipulation that I'll only give you information as it pertains to the person you seek,
not
Guido.
Haeptav epa.
This is my oath.”

Later that night, having trouble falling asleep in her crappy hotel room above the river, Des wondered what Miles would say if he knew her father's last words to her just one short week ago.

"Go to Rousseau when I am gone—but do not trust him. Never trust him. He could easily kill you outright merely for what you are. He's killed hundreds of us in his time, after all. But you… I think the bastard will help
you.

"His friend is dead, and you are the last of Alain's blood on this earth. And all that remains of Marie." Her father's voice thickened, before turning to that cruel amusement she'd begun to see clearly only after her mother had died. "It will hurt him, to see you. Very much. You have no idea how that pleases me. I relish my small revenges, especially now…

"Rest assured, Miles Rousseau is your only hope, Desdemona. He is the only one powerful enough to stop them."

"Guido—"

Her father made an impatient sound, silencing her at once. "I know what a hero you have made of Valencio's pup. It is true he has become strong—and far wilier than you give him credit for,
fiila la haepta iincahe
. Yet, Guido is still no more than a child amongst our kind. He does not have the power to free you of our world. Though for you, I believe he would try. Rest assured, daughter of mine, it would kill him.

"You are a half-blood. You can leave the Saandon and thrive, but Guido is one of us to his very bones. He might be convinced to choose you over us, indeed that was what I…" her father's eyes went blank for a moment, then he shook his head.

"Omno, I wager he would. He clearly adores you. But at what cost to himself? Is that what you want? To see your friend destroyed?"

She shook her head, trying desperately not to sob, knowing how much her tears would disgust her father.

Augustine didn't spare her a comforting word. After her mother died, every bit of warmth had leeched out of him bit by bit. She barely knew him anymore.

"Then get a message to Rousseau. Tell no one, not even your precious Guido. And when it's over and your safety is assured, give the vampire my warmest regards." Her father laughed hollowly. "And tell him…tell that French bastard he was right. She
did
best me. Tell him—Jehanne won in the end."

Desdemona had no idea what those words meant, then or now. But she didn't look forward to seeing the look on Miles Rousseau's face when the time came to repeat them.

Daimen Cross strolled down the hallway of the safe house they'd shuffled his little problem to.

Docie May had always been something of a pain in the ass, he reflected, as he met the eyes of the demon guarding her door. But she was a
loyal
pain in the ass.  Daimen had always found her to be worth the aggravation, unlike the rest of the quim in his life.

The guard was obviously bored, lounging against the wall half asleep. He straightened with a yawn, reaching for the key around his neck.

"You gonna rile her up again? Last time you visited her, I had to listen to that bitch go apeshit for half the night."

Daimen gave him a commiserating smile, while thinking,
I bet that 'apeshit bitch' is worth more to me than you are to your boss, you bell-fired lickfinger.

Outwardly, he shrugged, "Who can tell with a woman?"

The demon grumbled assent at this, but whined as he put the key in the lock. "I thought she volunteered for this shit, why we got to lock her up?"

Daimen doubted the lackey could appreciate the importance of careful staging, so he only shrugged again. Docie May wasn't going anywhere, but it was very important it appear she didn't have a choice in the matter.

In reality, she'd do anything for him. Anything at all. It'd been that way since the first night they'd laid eyes on each other.

Daimen had found her in the burned out shell of a wagon train one star strewn night in Colorado Territory sometime during the 1880s, almost two decades after he'd become a vamp. Her party had been wiped out by Indians.

Only it hadn't been Indians so much as monsters in human form. Half breeds with no tribe, and other outcasts banished for far more serious crimes. A few white men had been in that gang, too. Likely leftovers from the War Between the States who'd gotten a taste for cruelty and blood that they'd found other ways to feed. The refuse of both races.

Docie May had been raped repeatedly while watching various members of her family die in increasingly horrible ways. Once they had killed everyone—and used Docie May in every way a woman could be used—boredom had set in. After a day and night of passing her from man to man, they'd turned to torture to liven things up. They burned the soles of her feet with hot coals, took knives to her breasts and beat her senseless.

Then they raped her some more.

By the time Daimen came along, she was barely human. They'd left her broken body in the wagon, and then set fire to it.

She'd been crawling from the ashes when he'd come riding in under a crescent moon. It was fate he was on a pale dapple-grey gelding. Docie May had gotten to her knees and stared up at him. Then asked hopefully if he was death.

With a smile and a tilt of his hat, Daimen had said, "Yes, ma'am."

He given Docie May death that night and they'd been together ever since.

He wasn't sure if it was because of what happened to her or not, but she was the cruelest person he'd ever met. Excepting himself, of course. It was one of the reasons they'd been together so long. If he could be said to care about anyone, Daimen mused, he cared about Docie May. At the very least, she amused him to no end. Except for the whining.

He braced himself as soon as he walked through the door.

The demons were half-
starving
her, they refused to bring bleeders into the safe house more than once or twice a week.

They told her it was because it would attract too much attention, but she
knew
it was because they were just being assholes.

They'd paraded her at that stupid club again last night, and she
hated
it. Goddamn happy, go-lucky swing music made her want to puke, and the house music nights weren't any better.

On and on, it went.

Well, Docie May did hate modern music of all sorts. She eschewed most things of this time period, except the vernacular. She'd become annoyingly adept at swearing. Daimen was a product of his times, a woman cussing put his teeth on edge.

He let her wind herself down, staring coldly until she ran out of breath.

"Have you seen any of them yet?" The rumors were out. He'd baited the hook carefully and was anxious to see if there had been any nibbles from the fish he was dying to land.

Phoenix Inc.
Come to papa, you bastards.

"I think so."

"Who?"

"The plant guy. The one who freaks you out." Her brown eyes held a sly satisfaction that had his temper rising. Docie May was the kind who loved to poke a dog with a stick, the bigger and sharper the better. Daimen knew her tricks, and he refused to be baited tonight.

"You
think
?"

She shrugged, pouting slightly. "He looks way different from the picture you gave me. All clean cut and shit, but his eyes..."

"Was it
him,
Docie May?"

"Probably…yeah. He was staring at me. He tried to hide it, and he's pretty damn good, but I'm sure he recognized me."

Daimen leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, savoring the satisfaction.
Davidson.
  He'd really hoped it would be Gentry. But Davidson had been more likely, and just as good.

Perfect in fact.

"Do I have to play this game?" The whining started up again in full force. "Can't I just wait in a hotel somewhere? Why does it have to be here, with these stuck-up demon asshats watching me night after night?"

“You know why, it's part of the deal we made. And you'll do as you’re told.”

“Don’t I always?" She slumped back in her cot, pouting. "Even if you've replaced me with that snotty little whore? She's the one who wanted me here, isn't she? Fucking Preshea."

Daimen looked down to flick an imaginary speck of dirt off his coat to hide his eyes. He relished playing women off each other; making them scrap and claw to win his favors.

It'd long been a favored game. He'd done the same with Docie May and Rissa’s crazy baby sister, Laureen. Before he'd sent poor Laureen to her death.

Daimen sighed.

Oh well, there were always more women. Losing Rissa
again
, though… That had stung. He ached to punish her, preferably with her nigger husband's head on a mantelpiece, looking on.

“Preshea has her uses,
cher
,” he said at last, avoiding the real question, hiding a smile as her lips tightened. It had been Daimen himself who'd handpicked Docie May for this job. Mostly because he knew he could trust her.

“I really hope Abbey is stupid enough to believe that you care about her.”

There was a bitterness to her tone that had Daimen bringing his head up sharply. Docie May might whine and bitch regularly, but she had always been his most loyal creature. For a second there it had sounded as if she…despised him.

Or herself for caring about him.

The suspicion unsettled him enough to snap, “Of course she’s that thick.
Aren’t you all?”

Docie May choked.

Let her stew on that
, Daimen thought savagely as he yanked open the door. Let it eat at her, let her think he saw her the same as all the others. He didn't, not really, but when he saw her again she’d be so desperate to get back in his good graces—so ready not to not be lumped in with Preshea and the others that she'd do any—

“Except Rissa.”

Daimen froze at the whispered words.

"Rissa wasn't stupid or
thick.
" Docie May's voice had taken on a hint of hysteria, but that didn't stop her from continuing.

"Hell, that one never gave two shits about pleasing you. I used to wonder what the hell was wrong with her. Oh, she knew enough to be scared of you alright. And anytime she forgot, you always reminded her to be, didn't you? I used to laugh so hard watching you punish her." There was no regret in her voice, but that disturbing self-awareness was back again.

"All she ever wanted was to be free of that control, free of you. And now she is. Guess Rissa's the one laughing now. At both of us."

Rage spilled into him like a dirty river, deep and dark and icy. Taunting
bitch.
Where was her respect?

Apparently, he'd have to find it for her.

Docie May shrank back as Daimen turned, closing the door carefully behind him. Taking his time, he crossed the room, relishing the sight of her cringing. He longed to rush forward, to slam her into the wall and rip her fingers off one by one with his fangs. But, no, he had a plan to implement. And this mouthy skirt was part of that plan.

That didn't mean he couldn't punish her. Docie May's lips were trembling when he reached for her, but instead of bowing her head—as he’d expected—her chin lifted. Daimen felt a tendril of unease under his rage.

Docie May was the one person he'd always been able to count on. The one constant in his long life. He was her drug and she was one hell of a junkie. Pathetic, yes— but his. That she would dare say such things to him? It almost…

Hurt.

A disbelieving laugh bubbled up and spilled over his lips. Docie May stared, her brown eyes wide. His teeth snapped together hard, putting a stop to the disturbing sound.

His fingertips brushed over her cheek, tracing the delicate bones under soft skin. He knew her body as well as his own. The strength and fragility of women had always fascinated Daimen. It was endlessly amusing to bend them to his will, forcing them to his pleasure, in any way he chose. Tonight he chose Docie May’s pain.

Her tears. Her blood.

Complete subjugation.

She gave a pitiful whimper as his power snaked out, unwinding deep into her mind.

Daimen wasn't fooled. Docie May was the only one who’d ever appreciated his gift.

Most people, after experiencing what he could do, would do anything—anything at all—to avoid a repeat. Being a slave in one's own body was a nightmare few could tolerate.

Docie May did more than tolerate it. She
loved
being under his control; craved it like a heroin addict craves the needle.

In his more contemplative moments, Daimen theorized that her mind was such an awful place to be that having him take over was a blissful relief, a slate wiped clean of self. He’d ensure she got none of that peace tonight.

He plunged into her psyche; wrapping his control around every neuron, making her no more than a marionette with him coiled about every string. Her pretty face went blank. Daimen pinched one cheek hard enough to leave an ugly bruise. Docie May didn’t flinch, he didn't allow her that, but her eyes rolled like glass marbles.

Nearly two centuries of life and a vicious streak had given Daimen plenty of practice. He could control his gift with exquisite subtlety. He allowed Docie May keep enough of herself to fully experience the fear and pain he was about to give her—but only just.

She would be aware, but utterly helpless. It was easy to wipe away everything; turn pain into pleasure, fear into joy, disgust into desire…but not for her.

Not this time.

Daimen leaned down until they were nose to nose.

“You'll never be free of me,
cher
, you love your chains too well,” he whispered, sending a suggestion down the pulsing tendrils of his power. She whipped her head sideways into the concrete wall. Blood flew.

Again.

His vicious purpose ruled her mind. By fourth hit, her blonde hair was streaked with red. Daimen twirled a finger lazily. Docie May shifted so that the growing crimson stain on the wall was directly in front of her, then slammed herself face first into the cinder block. There was a quiet snap as her nose broke.

He kept her at it for another ten minutes.

She was vampire. Docie May didn't have the luxury of passing out. There was no way of escaping the pain. Even when all her facial bones had been reduced to so many marbles in a fleshy, blood-soaked bag.

Daimen only stopped because he sensed her skull weakening. It wouldn’t do to give the bitch injuries that would take more than a couple nights to heal.

She must be presentable for her role, after all.

He withdrew from her mind, relishing the agony that surged in his wake. He could almost taste her pain on his tongue, but
almost
wasn’t enough.

Wrapping his fingers in the heavy tendrils of blonde hair dripping with blood and gore, he wrenched her head back. Her eyes were swollen shut, her face an unrecognizable mask. Docie May couldn’t see him smile, but Daimen knew she could feel it when he pressed his mouth to her burst lips.

The kiss was hard, cruel. He drew it out before pulling away, licking his lips clean of her blood. Then he walked out, satisfied that his point had been made.

The guard lifted an eyebrow as Daimen shut the door. "Well?"

“Leave her be for awhile. She needs to get her face together." He held back a maniac giggle with supreme effort. "I’m afraid I upset her again.”