THE PHOENIX CODEX (Knights of Manus Sancti Book 1)

by Bryn Donovan

  “All you told me was not to use the f-word. And not to argue with his political views, which, by the way, are completely fucked up.”

  Jonathan started to smile at that and caught himself.

  “You rolled your eyes at him!”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “You knew when you married me I wasn’t this perfect, polite lady.”

  “I thought you would change.”

  She threw her hands in the air. “You don’t marry people and then try to change them. I’m just being myself!”

  “Well, could you not?” He almost missed the exit, swerved into the right lane, and clipped the car behind them in his blind spot. “Damn it! Look what you made me do!”

  The memory wasn’t showing Jonathan anything helpful, and he cut it off. The image flickered and faded to blue sky. He needed to ask more specific questions, like he usually did, instead of indulging his desire to know more about her.

  “He was nice to me when we were dating,” Cassandra said. “Just the way he’s nice to his coworkers. But it was all fake. And he wanted me to be fake. And meanwhile, I kept thinking maybe he’d get used to me and—love me for who I was.” She looked away. “Shit. Nothing like a good therapy session with a guy who’s going to blow your head off.”

  The words made him wince. “You can’t help but say what you’re thinking in here.”

  “I’m not good at that anyway—not saying what I think. That’s why he didn’t love me.”

  “He was a jerk,” Jonathan acknowledged. “That didn’t give you the right to murder him.”

  “I didn’t!” Her beautiful brown eyes filled with despair.

  Jonathan’s heart twisted in his chest. There’s no way that’s an act. They’d been sure she was a murdering witch. Verifying her guilt had been not much more than a formality. Now he didn’t know what to think.

  She swallowed. “You said yourself I couldn’t lie here.”

  “You shouldn’t be able to. Unless it’s some kind of psychic defense I don’t know about.”

  “The only thing I did the day he died was get mad at him.”

  Focus. Do your job. “Why?”

  “I was mad at him pretty much every day.” That definitely sounded like honesty. “But that day I was especially pissed.”

  He lifted a finger to draw another memory out of her. The screen over the mountains showed a picture of Richard Belton, wearing a suit, with his new fiancée, in a fancy courtyard. “This is a photograph?” he asked. “When did you see it?”

  “Facebook,” she muttered. “We still had friends in common.”

  The photo receded, showing the caption beneath. I asked the beautiful, amazing woman of my dreams to marry me and she said YES!! I’ve finally found “the one”!! It had gotten over two hundred likes.

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “It’s worse than that. Look at the date.” She pointed. “That’s the date we got married. On our last anniversary, I said we could go there. Milagro—it’s the fanciest restaurant in Scottsdale. I didn’t really want to. But we’d been fighting a lot, and I wanted to make things better. He liked fancy places.” She gave a bitter laugh. “And I thought maybe our marriage could use a miracle.” Her file had said she only spoke English, but most people in Phoenix knew some Spanish words here and there, like milagro for miracle.

  Cassandra wrapped her arms around herself despite the desert warmth, as though she needed a hug and she was the only one who would give it to her. “He said he was too busy at work to go out on a weeknight, and we could figure out what to do that weekend. But then we had another fight. We never did anything for that last anniversary.”

  “But he took his new girlfriend there on your anniversary and proposed to her.”

  “On a Tuesday night.” Her cheeks darkened in a humiliated blush. “I found out later from his sister that he had, uh—he started seeing her while we were still married.”

  Jonathan’s blood boiled. “I can’t stand cheaters.”

  Her eyebrows rose, as if he’d said something crazy. “Me neither.” Of course she was confused. A few minutes ago, he’d been declaring his plans to execute her, and now he was angry on her behalf.

  “Were there any incidents with animals while you were still married to him? Things that he knew about?”

  “No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”

  “And you didn’t send a jaguar after him?” He lifted two fingers with a harder psychic tug. The screen in the sky fuzzed, but nothing appeared. He stared at her, sure now of what he’d suspected ever since he’d entered her soulscape. “You’re not causing the attacks on purpose.”

  She threw her hands in the air. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, you fucking psycho!”

  “But you are doing it,” he said, more to himself than to her. The stricken look on her face made it clear that she believed him.

  Christ help me. This mission was a mess. He’d taken it too soon after the last, disastrous one—to distract himself from it and to begin to atone for it with a job well done. Not that he would ever be able to atone for it, as long as he lived…

  And now he’d attacked an innocent woman. She was courageous, with the most breathtaking soulscape he’d ever visited—pure, wild, and free. Life hadn’t treated her well lately, and then he’d come along to make everything truly terrible. He’d tied her up, threatened to kill her, and crashed into her psyche. Yes, he’d done what he’d been sent to do, but that didn’t matter. She’d needed his help.

  The best thing he could do for her was stay calm and solve the problem. Even if it wasn’t her fault, they could hardly allow animals to keep attacking anyone who crossed her. If it wasn’t fixed soon, who knew what Capitán Renaud would suggest as a solution, but it might not be good. Jonathan wasn’t sure how he’d convince her to work with him, but he had to try.

  “Cassandra,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cassie didn’t let down her guard. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Jonathan West. Listen, I know I scared you—”

  “You fucking assaulted me!”

  He held up a hand. “We need to figure this out. Your coworker, Tiffany Daly. Did you get mad at her, too?”

  Even though she didn’t trust him in the least, she couldn’t avoid telling him whatever he wanted to know. “I got mad at her that morning. She was bullying Ana again. Tiffany made her cry, and it was totally uncalled for.”

  “This is Ana Quintero you’re talking about.”

  She stiffened at the mention of her best friend’s name. “What are you? FBI, freak division?”

  “Something like that.” He took a step toward her. “And you got angry with your uncle.”

  “He wanted another handout from my mom. And he got her all upset.”

  Jonathan West nodded. His thoughtful, steady gaze should have disturbed her less than the cold glare it had replaced. Instead, it registered as a different kind of danger, one she couldn’t name. “The attack on Charles Warner was the mildest of the three. The javelina slashed him in the legs, and he got a few stitches. Would you say you were less angry with him than with your ex?”

  “Probably.” Uncle Charlie had been nice to her when she was a kid. “I mean, he is family, even if he can be a dick.”

  “And you were angrier at Tiffany Daly than your uncle?”

  She could see what he was thinking. Tiffany’s attack had been worse than Uncle Charlie’s, though not fatal, thank God. “Yeah. I never have to work with her myself, but she pulls that kind of shit with her staff all the time.” She looked down at the ground. A tiny lizard scuttled from one rock to another.

  “And in each case, there was some time between when you got really mad and when something happened.”

  “I guess so,” she said.

  His forehead puckered. “I’m surprised nothing happened to your ex-boss.”

  Shame prickled along her scalp. It was stupid. There were more embarrassing things than losing your job. G
oing around attacking innocent people, for instance. “You know everything about me.”

  His rueful laugh surprised her. “I wish. Why were you fired?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like some people blamed me for the coyote attack on Tiffany.” She shoved her hands in the front pockets of her jeans. How strange that she’d be wearing the same clothes here as in the real world. “Someone mentioned that it was weird, after what happened to Rick.”

  “So your boss fired you for hexing someone?”

  Cassie could just imagine the HR people putting that down in their paperwork. “He said I wasn’t a good fit with the corporate culture.” Her shoulders sagged. “Which was probably true.” She cursed too much. She wore cowboy boots.

  “Your ex-husband’s new fiancée… You must have been mad at her, too. Why didn’t anything happen to her?” His eyes flicked up at the sky, maybe expecting it to reveal a lesser attack on her—a hornet sting or a Chihuahua bite.

  “She’s not the one who made wedding vows to me.”

  Jonathan tilted his head, conceding the point. He paced a few steps. A jackrabbit bounded out of his path, narrowly escaping the bottom of his boot, and he froze. As he watched, it scampered maybe fifty yards and then hid behind a lone palo verde tree. Frowning, he turned back to Cassie. “I’m going to get out of your head now. But you have to keep answering my questions.”

  “I’ll call the police.” Shit. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. And how the hell could she do that, anyway? In the real world, she was tied to a chair.

  “Calling the police wouldn’t help. I’m not easy to catch.” He sounded sympathetic. “You need to work with me, or you’ll be in trouble with people who are a lot scarier than the cops.”

  “Whoever sent you to kill me could send someone else.” Dread trickled down her spine.

  “They won’t.” Reassurance warmed his voice, and she wanted to believe him. “It’s going to be fine as long as you cooperate.” He flicked into transparency. “When we’re back on the other side, stay calm.”

  Black clouds rolled in from the low blue mountains. Darkness ate up the landscape from all directions. The breeze ceased, and Cassie felt the chair under her. She opened her eyes.

  They sat in her kitchen again. Jonathan’s hands still enveloped her fist where he’d bound it to the chair back.

  He raised his head. “Your hand is freezing.”

  A wave of nausea roiled through her. He eased the duct tape off her mouth, although it hadn’t been on long enough to really stick. She tried to wipe her wet mouth on her shoulder. He grabbed a bandana out of his pocket and blotted off her lips. The overly intimate gesture made her uncomfortable, and she wanted to say something smartass but couldn’t come up with anything.

  He unfolded a large black knife, and she recoiled. He held up his empty hand. “I’m just cutting the ties.”

  She had pulled against them as hard as she could. When she inspected her freed hands, she saw red streaks marking her wrists, front and back, with a few thin smears of blood.

  “You’re a fighter,” he muttered, sounding angry. He took a metal box out of his backpack and she stared at it. What the hell was he planning now? He flipped it open to reveal bandages, vials, needles, and gauze.

  “You have all kinds of things in that bag,” she said. “You’re like a…scary Mary Poppins.” The room tilted and spun, making her dizzy.

  He rubbed some kind of salve on the flayed skin of her wrists. She winced at the sting, and he mumbled, “Sorry.”

  Did he think she’d forget about the fact that he’d done this? She would have punched him, except her feet were still tied to the chair legs. Gently but quickly, he wrapped one wrist and then the other with gauze. Then he kneeled down and cut through the ties around her legs. This time he didn’t take care to stay out of the range of her boots. She aimed a vicious kick at his face.

  He jerked back and to the side, and her toe barely connected with his ear. She jumped to her feet and hoisted up the chair, intending to swing it into his head. He caught one of the chair legs and yanked it away from her with little effort, tossing it over his shoulder. Even as it clattered to the floor, she was darting toward the gun on the table.

  She almost made it. From behind, he pinned her arms to her sides, hauling her in against him. She struggled, stomping the heel of her cowboy boot down onto his toes as hard as she could. It hit something hard—steel-toed boots, she guessed. Why did she even try? Maybe she’d seen one too many action flicks. His chest pressed hard against her back. Her ass was shoved right up against his crotch.

  He adjusted his stance, putting a little space between them there without loosening his grip. “I’m not going to hurt you. Even if you keep trying to hurt me.”

  She stilled. He hadn’t retaliated when she’d tried to kick him in the face. Hell, he’d just taken care of her skinned wrists.

  He spoke into her right ear, a distracting imitation of tenderness. “You need our help. What if you got mad at your parents? Or Ana?”

  Terrible images flashed through her head. Her mom and dad, lying on their living room floor, their throats ripped out like Rick’s had been in the graphic pictures leaked to the internet. Ana opening a sock drawer and finding it full of scorpions, the small, most dangerous kind. She had managed not to cry before, but now tears sprang to her eyes.

  He relaxed his iron grip and turned her around to face him, still holding her upper arms. When he saw she was near tears, his controlled expression melted into concern. “Hey. You’re going to be okay.”

  It caught her completely off guard. A connection flared between them, as though she’d known him very well, long ago, and just now recalled it again.

  No. None of this made any sense, and she shoved the feelings aside. Who the hell was he, even?

  He closed his eyes briefly. “I haven’t given you any reason to trust me. I’m asking you to trust me a little anyway.”

  Cassie had never heard a less sensible proposition, not even in biker bars, but the sincerity in his deep voice swayed her. “I won’t hit you again.” She felt too weak anyway, and for some reason, very cold.

  He let go of her and inclined his head toward the couch. “Go lie down.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.” And she wanted to change her shirt. She stank, with that awful, panicky stench one only got in truly terrifying situations, like when one was about to be murdered or about to speak in public. Her thoughts darted to her gun, still waiting in the nightstand drawer.

  Maybe she didn’t need to protect herself from him anymore. He hadn’t picked up his own gun again, and she vaguely wondered why. Anyway, he wasn’t stupid. He followed her into the bedroom, and when she reached for the dresser drawer, he put his hand up against it.

  “I just want a fresh shirt,” she snapped.

  He paused and then let go of the drawer, watching her as she opened it and grabbed one. As soon as she did, he pushed the drawer shut again. His gaze flicked to the adjoining bathroom and back to her in what must have been a rapid risk assessment: one high window over the shower too small for a person to squeeze through, one door that locked but that he could probably kick in if necessary, and one freaked-out woman. He nodded.

  She locked the door behind her and took the opportunity to pee. It was a wonder she hadn’t peed her pants already, considering. She raked a comb through her hair, wanting to feel less disheveled, more in control, and then scrubbed under her arms. Maybe she could call the police now. But her phone was in the living room. She put on the plaid Western-style shirt and fastened the snaps up the front.

  Nausea still swirled through her. She emerged from the bathroom and wanted to collapse on the bed, but she didn’t like him being in such a personal space. “My head hurts. I’m going to lie on the couch.” Exactly as he’d suggested—no, ordered—a minute before. He followed her, like her horse, Layla, when she knew Cassie had a granola bar in her pocket.

  She tossed the purse and newspapers from the couch o
nto the floor. Since she’d moved out on her own, she hadn’t kept up as much with the cleaning. She stretched her body out and appreciated the softness of the cushions.

  Jonathan picked up the quilt wadded at the end of the couch. Her great-grandma had made it out of scraps. It was ugly, to be honest, but she liked having something that had belonged to an ancestor. He spread it out on top of her. One minute, he was going to blow her head off, and the next minute, he was doing this? The contradiction disturbed her—and allured her, which was all the more disturbing.

  “I’m going to check your pulse.” He lifted her hair, damp with sweat, away from the side of her neck and rested two fingers beneath her jaw. The light touch made her quiver. “Still strong,” he said, as though to himself.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, just to get him to leave her alone. He ignored her, holding his fingertips there for several seconds. Then he looked straight into her eyes, maybe checking for some other kind of symptom. His scrutiny embarrassed her, and she looked away.

  He withdrew his touch. “Heart rate’s not bad. Considering.” Anger edged his tone again—why? She peered up at his face. Was he mad at himself?

  She resisted the urge to pull back when he picked up her hand, studied her rough, short fingernails, and then set it down exactly in the same place as before. He grabbed a pillow from the other end of the couch, lifted her feet, and tucked it beneath them. “If you’re in shock, it’s mild.”

  “No thanks to you. You scared the shit out of me!”

  With an enormous crash and explosion of shattering glass, something huge barreled through the sliding door off the kitchen.

  They both leaped up. Jonathan stepped in front of her, planting his feet wide.

  A black bear snarled at them. A fucking bear, in her house. Huge and pissed off.

  A rancid locker-room smell filled her nostrils. So that’s what bears smell like. Cassie stood frozen.

  “That didn’t take long,” Jonathan muttered.