Authors: Heather R. Blair
Tags: #Romance, #Multicultural, #Paranormal, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban, #Romantic, #Multicultural & Interracial, #Psychics
Phoenix Fallen
Phoenix Fallen is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2015 Heather R. Blair
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Cover Credits, background image of Chicago
Julia Folsom
Other images courtesy of iStock.
DEDICATION:
This one is for all the writers, the famous ones that fed my imagination when I was young, my soul as I grew up and my heart at every age.
And
also for the not-so-famous, or not-YET-famous ones, my circle of friends and fellow scribblers at Goodreads and elsewhere. Here's to you...and the stories we can't keep inside even when we try to.
(¯`v´¯)
`·.¸.·´
¸.·´¸.·¨) ¸.·¨)
(¸.·´ (¸.·´ (¸.·¨¯`♥
In the original short story version of Phoenix Rising, the first in the Phoenix Inc. series, Jules Gentry didn’t survive. When I re-wrote the story as a novella, Jules was adamant that he was not going out that way. I wasn’t convinced, but eventually I gave in.
And now he has his own story.
Here’s to characters with minds of their own.
Table of Contents
Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me;
if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory;
let me become as nought;
but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness.
~Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
He was back.
The big, black guy with the sad eyes and the hand-tailored suits.
Rissa rolled the mic between her gloved palms consideringly, the black lace buttoned snugly around her delicate wrists. She smiled at Benny as he brought up her stool from the wings. He set it dead center on the tiny stage, then took his own seat and picked up his sax. Her ice-blue gaze went back to the man who was rapidly becoming a regular.
Dressed in a suit the color of sable, with a silky maroon shirt and a wide tie in a frigid blue that matched her own eyes, he had no visible tattoos, piercings or jewelry. She'd particularly noticed the absence of a ring of any sort. Yet despite being free of ink, holes or bling, he was rough-looking. Too rough-looking to be truly gorgeous.
Rissa liked her men with rough edges. Just the way she liked her music. His dark brown hair was cut ruthlessly short. Rissa found herself wondering how it would feel under her palms, or maybe against the skin of her inner thigh. She dipped her chin, sending a tiny smile at her toes in the peek-a-boo high heels. He'd really put her in quite the mood.
Something about the man gave her shivers, the good kind.
The
really
good kind.
The lights were a dull, golden glow in the lounge, as per usual. Even in the dimness she could see him nursing that glass of Hennessy. The same one he’d ordered over an hour ago.
It had to be the third night this week he’d shown up. Third time was the charm, right? Especially if she softened him up a little. Not that softness was what she was looking for. Rissa's lips twitched. She was in need of some relaxation and he looked like her ticket to ride.
He had a weakness for Billie Holiday. She’d noticed that right off. He would lean back in his seat whenever she would pick a Lady Day song and his eyes would half-close as he soaked in the music. So, she had her first point of attack.
Clarissa Joan Styles couldn't say she
always
got what she wanted, but she did come damn close most of the time. Especially when she bothered to put together a plan. Hopefully he would be worth it, but one way or the other, she wanted him. At least for tonight.
Okay, maybe tonight
and
tomorrow morning.
Perching herself gracefully on the stool, Rissa shimmied just a little, letting the black satin and lace of the vintage dress mold to her curves. Crossing her legs in their lined stockings, she looked over at Benny.
“Lover Man.”
He shook his dirty-blonde dreads, smirking, but turned to the others, signaling her song choice.
She let the seductive moan of the intro work its way through the room. Most of the tables were occupied, despite its being a Thursday night. Chicago loved her so far, and she loved it right back. Brushing her thick, scarlet waves over one shoulder, she moved into the song.
It was plaintive and lush, the odd combo that made all of Billie's songs so compelling. Lonely and longing with a touch of anger.
Rissa pulled the emotion from her gut and sent it into every note.
The big guy leaned back, as per usual, but his eyes didn't close. Not this time.
Nope.
This time he was looking straight at her.
Gotcha.
Jules watched the sexy singer, almost mesmerized, the thud of his undead heart hard and slow. What was she playing at?
He'd been coming to this lounge for the past couple weeks. Her voice had lured him in one rainy night and now he was hooked. Ever since coming back from Paris, since that night full of blood and death when his life had been wrenched from him, Jules had been trying desperately to get something back. Something that he suspected was lost forever.
He
was lost. Spinning more and more out of control with each passing night. The only thing that stopped the vertigo so far was the music. Her music. Her voice. She sure as hell wasn't hard on the eyes either. Though she did make other places hard.
From the look in her eyes, she damn well knew it, too.
Jules frowned and shifted in his seat. He didn't need this shit on top of everything else.
When the set finished, she left the stage and came straight at him, signaling the bartender as she passed. Jules sighed. He'd been propositioned before, he knew what it looked like.
He also didn't care for it, as a general rule, even if the woman was as hot as this one.
It was flattering, sure, but Jules liked to be the pursuer. Both Kelsey and his other best friend, Fannie, had given him endless crap for what they called his unenlightened attitude, but he didn't give a damn. He was the way he was. It wasn't that sexually-aggressive women emasculated him, as Fannie had teased many times.
It was just that they took all the fun out of things.
He mumbled under his breath as she dropped into the seat with a graceful bounce, curves popping out everywhere. It was a shame, too. This one looked like she'd be a helluva lot of fun.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine..." Her growly imitation of Bogie was spot on.
Despite himself, Jules' lips curved. "You know that line isn't meant for strangers."
Her head tilted; all that lush, fiery hair falling in waves to one side, caressing the soft cream of her skin…baring her throat. Jules swallowed as the hunger inside him growled once to make its presence known. As if he could forget what he had become. His grip tightened on his drink.
Fuck, not
that.
Not here.
Oblivious to his internal struggle, the redhead with the voice straight out of blues heaven smiled at him.
"So don't be a stranger. I'm Clarissa…Rissa…"
"Styles. I can read a damn marquee." His voice was harsher than he meant it to be. She did a slow blink with those big blue eyes.
"There a problem, big guy?"
"Nah." He took a sip of his drink. "Just in a bit of a mood." He wasn't going to encourage her, but he supposed there was no need to be a dick about it. Jules wanted to come back and hurting her feelings would make that uncomfortable. Listening to her sing was one of the only things he looked forward to anymore. Hell, sometimes it was the only thing that got him through the endless nights.
"I was hoping the song choice might help with your ‘mood’." Her tone was teasing, like the soft stroke of her fingers now on his arm. He stiffened, realizing something for the first time as she touched him, as her smell reached out to him…
How the fuck had he missed that?
Rage made the bar darken as his vision was suddenly shot with red.
“It's a great song." Jules raised his eyes to hers, no longer concerned in the least about her feelings. "Tad obvious, though, don’t you think?” His voice was cutting, but she didn't seem to notice.
“Why waste time being coy? I want company and you look like you could use some.” The pressure of those trailing fingers increased.
Jules looked her up, down. Then up again. His gaze sharp enough to rip the clothes right off her.
“I’m not looking for company," he didn't bother to hide his derision. "Especially not your kind.”
Stung at last, Rissa drew back, her tone cooling. “What’s the problem, not into white girls?”
His disdain deepened as he got to his feet. “Not into vampires.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped her. “But, sweetie…
you’re
a vampire!”
His lip curled. “Believe me, I know.”
Without another word he left her there, staring after him.
The white girl comment had pissed him off. Skin was skin to Jules. The colors it came in were far less important than what was underneath. He did have a certain weakness for redheads, though. Especially ones built like that one. All lush curves and long lines. Then there was that goddamn voice. He thought he'd walk through hell itself to hear that smoky, soulful voice.
And yeah, he'd wanted her; for a minute there he'd been really tempted, despite her being the aggressor.
Had
wanted her. Past tense. Because Jules sure as hell wasn't going to let himself have her after what he'd just found out.
It was bad enough he had to be a fucking vampire, without him
fucking
a fucking vampire.
The bartender set Rissa's drink on the table, next to the man's still unfinished Hennessy.
That had not gone well.
She frowned before tossing back the double shot of whiskey. What was his problem? She knew he was a vamp, had known it from the first time he'd stepped over the threshold of the bar weeks ago. Virgin vamp, yeah. Barely more than a babe and no smell of a kill darkened his aura.
Yet.
There was an undercurrent to his scent, though. Something rich and very, very old. Whoever had turned him was ancient, at least five hundred years old, if not more.
There were maybe twenty vampires in the world that old. Rissa wondered who it had been. Her own sire wasn't nearly that 'mature'. She shivered and signaled the bartender for another round.
Best not to think of Daimen just now. Rissa was superstitious enough to suspect that thinking of someone could sometimes conjure them up. She had no wish to
ever
see her sire again.
Rissa's own first birth had been way back in 1913. She'd been twenty-eight when she'd had her second. It hadn't been pleasant, to say the least.
She was over it, though.
Mostly.
The big guy clearly was no where near over his change. Possibly he was not fond of his sire, too. She could sympathize, but he'd have to accept he was a vampire soon. One way or the other.
Nearly a third of newly made vamps walked into the sun within the first month of being turned. Another half in the first year.
Rissa stared down into the brimming amber liquid, wondering if she'd ever see him again and trying to pretend she didn't give a damn either way.
She'd always been too soft for her own good. What did it matter to her if some fresh vamp meat decided getting seared to a crisp by the sun was their only out?
Not her circus, not her monkeys.
She needed to learn to just sit back and enjoy the show. Daimen had told her that too many times to count. He was a sick son of a bitch, but in this case, he was probably right.
She slammed down the shot before saluting the door with the empty glass. A bitter smile on her lips, Rissa repeated her cursed sire's favorite phrase with a sick feeling in her stomach.
"Laissez les bons temps rouler."