Page 12 of The Phoenix

Cadmon, too stoic for Indigo’s tastes, was unaffected by her announcement. He blinked before directing a question to his Firebrands. “Since we have been declared traitors to the realm, what problems are we facing at the strongholds?”

Kole, glancing at the other commanders, took the lead. “We’ve locked down the portals into our headquarters. Only those approved can pass in or out. The warding spells which mask our facilities remain highly effective. Getting supplies is sometimes tricky. So far we’ve been successful. If the situation changes, we may have to hit up our new friends. And Arisen Dawn does not seem interested in launching a direct attack on us. Too much else on their plates. Finding safe shelter for the refugees escaping their clutches can be problematic, but Alarik’s mages are helping facilitate.”

Nace and Jarek nodded their agreement.

After covering the remaining agenda items, Cadmon adjourned the meeting of what was now called the Coalition. “Our best course is to keep in touch. Share intel. Our goal is to protect Aeternal civilians and humans.”

Kole stopped Indigo at the door. “What do you make of your visions?”

“Wish I knew, demon. Oskar tells me to stay sharp. He’s worried, and my gryphon never worries. Farts. Scratches his butt. Forgets to brush his teeth. But he never worries. By the way, I’m moving in.”

Kole appeared to suck on a sour pickle.

Indigo followed him out the door, dragging her suitcase, certain he was happy but didn’t know it.

****

Face first on the concrete floor of a cell, the British Custodes Templii leader Miller Nash awoke kissing the ground, blood dripping from his nostrils, his nose broken. To top it off, his temples beat a heavy metal rhythm, thanks to the fist-pounding.

Yeah. The supes roughed me up a bit. Who knew they wouldn’t take kindly to my Krav Maga skills?

Though the bastards had outnumbered him, his training paid off. Kicks to the groin. Open-hand strikes. Three-sixty spins. Solid punches. Well-placed elbows. The satisfaction of damaging the overgrown sods was worth the pain. Some of the six who tried to subdue him would be icing their twigs and berries.

Splendid. Always hit a bloke where he’s vulnerable.

Miller Nash’s mantra was simple. When going out, take down as many bad guys as possible. Of course, he was a bloody mess with probably a broken rib or two in addition to his other injuries. He wiggled his jaw.

Yeah. It might be cracked, too. What a cock-up.

When Arisen Dawn nabbed him outside Vegas, they tossed him into these fine accommodations. Miller closed his eyes to enjoy a few minutes of peace on the concrete. His stint in British Intelligence had taught him to eat and sleep when he could. This was a good chance to nap.

Since uneasy pain eventually won over rest, he struggled to his feet, glancing around his digs. Two cots, a sink, and a hole in the floor for waste. It wasn’t the Palazzo in Vegas, but he’d seen worse. He had no idea where he was or how much time had passed since his capture. Somebody had laid a whammy on him. The next thing he knew, he was being used as a punching bag. Possibly because he was such a snarky prisoner.

Miller faltered to a cot, easing onto his back. “Holy shite. That hurts.” His hand grasped his rib cage. He closed his lids for a moment, recalling good times, bad times.

He was the spoiled child, son of British royalty, whose parents raised him on an estate in the Cotswold. Schooled at Eton. Excellent grades with a bright future.

Being a member of the House of Lords, his father always traveled. Once when he took along his wife, mixing a little pleasure with business, the plane crashed and Miller’s world changed. Despite being a second son, not heir to the estate or title, he was aristocracy with a bit of money and property. Nothing noteworthy.

Then, with a simple tap on the shoulder, his life spiraled out of control.

He didn’t recall the man’s face, but the guy spun a tale worthy of an M. Night Shyamalan horror movie. Blood Coven. Three realms. Aeternals. Demons. Vampires. Witches. Satyrs. Nymphs. Fantastical myths and legends. His destiny. His bloodline.

“Did my father know about this?” he asked.

“No. He was the wrong sort, old chap.”

Stranger yet, Miller’s gut told him to believe the guy. His gut was never wrong. Having been assured he needed certain skills, he enlisted in the military, eventually training with the Royal Marines, an elite force, aka Bootnecks. Here he learned he had a monster inside, one with an appetite for killing without remorse. It enjoyed hands-on experiences. Strangulation until the victim gasped his last breath. A knife across the throat while it watched blood ooze from the enemy’s neck. After his enlistment in the military ended, he served a stint in MI6 where he again specialized in wet work. When he knew the only way to save his soul, to cage his deadly desires, was to leash the monster, he joined Custodes Templii, the group the man had revealed to him. It was an ancient society formed by the Cambion himself, an organization which kept tabs on fellow Blood Coven descendants.

Since he allowed his family to believe he was an unrepentant playboy, he distanced himself more and more from them.

In AD 452, the thirteen mages of the Blood Coven cast a spell to create the realms of Earth, Scath, and Darque. The Karmic Schism. Afterward, Custodes Templii came into being. Each of the twelve trackers descended from a legendary coven witch or warlock, except from the Cambion. Their job was to monitor others in their bloodlines. One day, according to prophecy, Hades’s hound would hunt them. If found, the countdown to the apocalypse would begin. Your basic doom scenario. Blah-blah-blah.

Eventually, Miller progressed to the top rung of the organization. Somehow he was tagged for capture by Arisen Dawn. Desperate and on the lam, he answered an ad in Strange But True, a paranormal tabloid run by a trustworthy gent named George James. That led to his working with the newspaper owner’s daughter, Braelyn, as well as her vampire mate, Rein, an ornery bloke. Though they’d offered him safety on Scath, Miller was a stubborn twit. Once he got out of the way of his own testosterone, it was too late. Arsehole Aeternals nabbed him. And not because they admired his well-honed body along with his British wit.

“Enough,” he mumbled. “Shuteye. Then a plan.”

A voice jarred him from his nap.

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