Phoenix Team One: Selected (Mythical Alliance: Phoenix Team Book 1)

by Claire Luana

  “You don’t understand shit!” Oh god, the tears were coming now. My words wavered. “Nagas avenge our dead. It’s my right. I won’t be able to rest until I do. Dad won’t be able to rest until I do.”

  His gaze hardened and certainty flooded me. This man knew something.

  “Stop digging, Zariya. There’s nothing to find.”

  I nodded, letting my shoulders slump. Pretending to be cowed.

  He hesitated, and then stepped in, laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Be well, Zariya. Live your life. It’s what Vizol would have wanted.”

  I tried to hide my shock as I caught sight of a mark on his palm—a mark I recognized. A brand that had graced my own father’s hand. A circle, sliced diagonally by what appeared to be a cross.

  This vampire had a matching one.

  I stood silently as he walked away, disappearing around the bend.

  And then I smiled. I’d gotten what I needed, and more besides.

  Someone had killed my father. And this vampire knew who. Maybe he was protecting the killer, or maybe he wanted his own revenge, but either way, I’d find out whom the murderer was if it was the last thing I did.

  6

  Konstantin strode along the tree-lined path towards the other end of the park, where a wrought-iron fence separated it from the asphalt streets of Roosevelt Island. The base—“Tartarus,” they called it—after one of the realms of the Greek underworld—sprawled beneath much of the island, five levels down at its deepest. You could access Tartarus through an emergency entrance near the UN building on the Manhattan side of the river, but the area was more heavily populated, so they were all commanded to use the island entrances unless absolutely necessary. It never ceased to amaze him that millions of New Yorkers could go about their lives ignorant of the secret military base right beneath their feet. But he supposed the set of highly-advanced magical safeguards protecting Tartarus from discovery had something to do with that.

  Konstantin had been on the clock for over forty-eight hours, burning through intel to track down a group of supe-poaching assholes who called themselves “the Collectors.” He’d been looking forward to heading home to enjoy the wagyu beef steak he had marinating, together with a glass of full-bodied red wine.

  Zariya Chanji had thrown a wrench in those plans.

  Vizol had spoken of his daughter often and with pride. Konstantin had heard about her growing up, winning Krav Maga competitions against kids twice her age. He’d bragged when she’d gone to Columbia, pre-med, and when she’d gotten into Cornell’s medical school, which had one of the nation’s leading supe medicine programs.

  In his mind, Zariya had still been the gangly kid smiling out of the photos on Vizol’s desk.

  He hadn’t been prepared for the reality of her in the flesh.

  She was tall and lithe, with all the sinuous curves of her naga heritage. Her glossy black hair pulled into a thick braid, her smooth caramel skin unmarred but for two streaks of golden scales running up her neck to her temples. She was the picture of an Indian beauty—full lips, delicate cheekbones, thick black eyelashes framing arresting green eyes. Slitted, snake eyes. She’d moved with the same kind of sinuous grace Vizol had, though her moves were perhaps a bit rusty.

  She’d been fierce and beautiful, and clearly falling apart over her father.

  In his six hundred years, he’d lost more people than he could count. He’d seen war and hardship and the worst of human cruelty. He’d developed a thick skin—he’d had to. So he hadn’t been prepared for just how much Zariya’s furious grief would move him.

  Konstantin stepped into the doorway of the vacant building, flashing his ring at the scanner. The portal’s magic picked up the signature of his ring and whisked him down into the elevator bay. He pressed the button for the third floor.

  The doors opened to reveal a utilitarian gray hallway. The base had been costly enough to build, so there hadn’t been a lot left over in the budget to fancy it up.

  He strode down the hallway, hanging a left into the Operations Center, a broad room filled with monitors and computers. Kiki, their technical wizard and resident hacker, was working at one bank of monitors, her noise-canceling headphones shutting out the world. Konstantin knew those headphones dulled more than noise; they were magicked to quiet the mental projections of those in the base, letting Kiki work without having to keep firm mental walls up at all times.

  Konstantin tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned, pulling them down around her neck. “Thought you were heading home.”

  “I came back after I had an unexpected meeting in the park.” Konstantin let down his own mental shields, letting Kiki see what had happened.

  Her dark eyes went wide and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Ohmygod, Konstantin, I’m so sorry. How…” She trailed off. “She had my phone. To call an Uber. It must have been when you texted… Damn it!” She slouched on the desk for a moment, her head in her hands.

  Konstantin waited.

  Kiki pushed herself back up. “What are you going to do? Maybe we should just tell her. This whole thing has me feeling like shit.”

  “You know the rules,” Konstantin said, though he saw her point.

  “Rules are made to be broken.” Kiki waggled her pierced eyebrows. “Maybe she could help us with the investigation. Help us see something we haven’t. She knew Vizol better than anyone.”

  Konstantin shook his head. “We need to respect her father’s wishes. He didn’t want her to know about this place. What we do here. I’m sure that would extend to investigating his own murder.”

  “But that was back when she was all happy and going to be a doctor. Now she’s washed out and miserable and…I think she needs this, K.”

  “No daughter needs to know that her father was lying to her for half her life. I doubt that would help the grieving process,” he said. Kiki started to open her mouth to object and he held up a hand. “Besides. It’s not my call. The Director has to decide whether anyone’s brought into the fold. I’m going to talk to him now. I’ll let you know what he decides. Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case Zariya contacts you.”

  Kiki pouted. “Roger that, boss.”

  Konstantin headed down the hallway towards the Director’s office. He passed a set of wide windows that looked into the gym and sparring room. The valkyrie Alviya was sparring with Strongroot, a sequoia dryad and her team leader. He towered over her, but she was fiercely maneuverable and darted around him like a hornet.

  Konstantin frowned. He knew Alviya lived with Kiki and Zariya—marking yet another person in Zariya’s life who was lying to her. He wasn’t so sure that Kiki was right. Instead of giving the woman something to live for, revealing the truth of their operation to her might just be the thing that would break her.

  Konstantin knocked on the thick door at the end of the hallway.

  “Come in,” came the muffled reply.

  Konstantin found Cyriaque Broussard sitting behind his desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked out of place, his slacks and blue button-down incongruous against his thick beard and wild shock of dark curls. Like he’d been domesticated.

  “Konstantin,” the werewolf said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. “Thought you headed home.”

  “Was going to. But we’ve got a bit of a problem.” Konstantin quickly brought Director Broussard up to speed.

  Broussard took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That girl always was too inquisitive for her own good. I remember at one of her birthday parties—maybe she was nine? She rifled around her aunt’s purse and swiped a scrying crystal so she could see through the wrapping of all her presents.” He chuckled. “Vizol could barely keep a straight face while he was scolding her.”

  Konstantin sank into the chair. “I guess I didn’t realize you were so close with the family.”

  “Well, Vizol didn’t like to talk about it, make anyone else feel uncomfortable or like I got special treatment. But I th
ink I was one of the first friendly faces he met when he moved to the States. I convinced him to join the Marines.”

  Konstantin nodded woodenly. Yet another person in Zariya’s life whom wasn’t who she thought he was.

  “I wish he were still here. Then he’d be sitting behind this desk instead of me. If I’d known how much goddamn paperwork came with this job…” He growled. “Don’t let them put you behind this desk someday when I’m gone.”

  “You’ve only had the job for six weeks. You’re going to be sitting in that chair for a good long while, sir,” Konstantin said. “Now, what would you like to do about Zariya? I’ve spoken to Kimiko, and she expressed an interest in bringing Zariya in. She had the interesting thought that she might be able to help us with our investigation—”

  “That’s a non-starter, Konstantin,” Broussard said. “You know that.”

  He sighed. “Wasn’t sure it was a good idea myself. I just thought it was worth mentioning.”

  “We’ve got better resources than every government in the world put together. We’ll find the bastards who took down Vizol.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But Zariya is bound to keep digging. If she’s anything like her father—and she is—she’ll be a dog with a bone. We have to wipe the slate clean.”

  He frowned. “Wipe the—wipe her memory? But that can be dangerous—”

  “Revne’s been working on a way to make it more targeted. It won’t take more than a few days of her memory. She’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I. I’m telling you, it’s shit sitting behind this desk. But it’s what needs to be done.”

  Konstantin ran his tongue over the tips of his fangs. It didn’t sit well with him, but Broussard was right. “Fine. I’ll get the potion from Revne. I’ll administer it myself.”

  Broussard waved a hand. “Don’t Alviya and Kimiko live with her? Have one of them do it. It’ll be easy for them to slip the potion to her.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little…personal? Asking them to wipe their friend’s memory?”

  “No one ever said this job was easy, Bauer. They can draw straws, but one of those two is dosing Zariya Chanji, and it happens tonight.”

  Konstantin stood. “Consider it done.”

  “Close the door on the way out,” Broussard said, and Konstantin obliged, thinking all the while that Cyriaque Broussard was turning out to be a very different director than Vizol Chanji had been.

  7

  I sank to the ground under the tree where Konstantin had left me. I decided to stay here until I was sure my wobbly legs would cooperate.

  A maelstrom of emotions threatened to overwhelm me. Anger. Fear. Desire. Resolve. They warred within me, leaving me sucking in deep breaths to ground myself. As overwhelming as it all was, after six weeks of nothing but numbness, it felt good to feel alive again.

  My phone rang. I startled and let out a little squeal of surprise before pulling it from my back pocket.

  It was my Aunt Temsula, Dad’s sister. She’d called me every day since Dad had died, though I had gone for weeks without picking up. Finally, she’d stormed into the apartment for an intervention when it had gone on too long—bringing incense to dispel the bad spirits and homemade lamb curry to fill my belly. I’d started taking her calls after that.

  “Hi, Auntie,” I answered.

  “Hello, my little curlicue,” she replied, using the pet name she’d used since I’d been a girl. Snake joke. “You sound good today.”

  “I’m out,” I admitted.

  “Praise Manasa,” Auntie trilled into the phone. “Tell me about your day.”

  Not likely. I cleared my throat, leaning my head back against the tree. “I ran some errands. Went to the park with Kiki.” That was sort of true, right?

  “Oh, Zariya, I am so pleased. I know you grieve, but it is a beautiful world. Life has so much in store for you.” Auntie hadn’t really raised me, but close enough. Every time Dad had been traveling for work, which was a lot, I’d stay with her. She believed that over-mothering and over-dramatics were her auntie birthright.

  I swallowed. Auntie’s unbridled optimism always made me want to cry. Sometimes I wished I could see the world the way she did. “Do you remember that mark on Dad’s hand? The brand?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Tell me again how he got it?” I wanted to hear her version, to see if it matched my own memory. I remembered being cuddled up next to Dad on the couch while he’d read to me from Grimm’s Fairy Tales. He’d always read the gruesome, old-timey versions of the stories, not the pretty, glossed-over Disney versions. My cheek was pressed against his bare chest, and I’d kept asking about his scars. Those were the stories I wanted to hear—our stories—not some stories from a world I barely recognized.

  “Our clan consisted of renowned warriors around the continent,” he’d said. “But before we were allowed to become full warriors, we were required to perform a feat of great bravery. To prove our worthiness. I was young and foolish and was determined to perform the most memorable feat in the history of our clan. There was a rumor of a dragon deep in the mountains, who protected the burial site of the great Naga King Vasuki. The tomb was supposedly filled with treasure. I knew if I brought back a piece of that treasure and bested the dragon that my name would go down in history. I found the tomb, but it fought me, even before I found the dragon. It was rigged with booby traps and terrible magics.”

  “Like Indiana Jones,” I’d said. Those were some of my favorite movies.

  “Exactly. But I found my way to the center—the tomb of the ancient king himself. But the dragon was not just a legend. He was there, in the flesh, and he was strong. I was in over my head, and before long, eager flames licked up around me, and I knew I needed to slay the beast if I had any hope of escaping with my life. So I seized a sword from the great king’s treasure trove and plunged it into the creature’s chest.”

  “But the sword was burning hot from the fire, and a symbol from the scabbard branded you,” I’d finished for him. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the story.

  “Exactly. I wear this brand with honor. It reminds me of that brave beast, which laid down its life guarding that which it had been charged to protect.”

  “A bunch of stuff?” I’d wrinkled my nose. “Did you at least keep the sword?”

  “As the dragon fell, the temple began to collapse. I knew that I had meddled with something great, something beyond my understanding. I left the sword, taking only my brand as proof of my worthiness. Some things are best left undiscovered, hatchling. Some magics are too much for the world.”

  Auntie’s answer interrupted my memory. “He got it battling that dragon.”

  “Do you remember when he went for his quest?”

  Another pause. “Yes, but I don’t see why this—”

  “And he said he lost the sword, right? That it was destroyed.”

  “Yes. He brought nothing back but that mark on his hand. Why do you ask?”

  I chewed my lip. “No reason. I was just thinking about Dad’s stories. Wondering how many of them were really true.”

  “They were all true, my darling. Your father was a great warrior. And a great naga.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I need to go, Auntie. Talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, curlicue. I love you. And eat something!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Love you too.”

  I hung up the phone and stared at it.

  It didn’t add up. The story—the identical brand on Konstantin’s palm. How could a European vampire have been branded by a lost sword deep in the Indian jungle? I couldn’t escape the unwelcome conclusion. Either Dad had been lying to me, or Auntie was.

  I didn’t know which was worse.

  I walked off Roosevelt Island to dispel my nervous energy, but it still pinged about my veins like fireflies in a bottle. I wasn’t ready to go home yet, to face Kiki w
hen she returned.

  Would Konstantin tell her I’d followed him? Would she say something? Or would she say nothing at all, pretending like there wasn’t a huge fat lie between us?

  An hour later, I found myself at the sparring gym, a large brick building where Dad and I had spent many nights. Even though I hadn’t grown up among our clan, Dad had said all nagas were warriors and needed to learn to fight.

  I’d loved those times when it had been just the two of us, Dad gently correcting my footing or the angles of my strikes. Even when he’d worked me until I’d wanted to vomit, I’d relished every minute with him. Here, I’d never felt like I was trapped between worlds. Here, we were nagas.

  “Chanji!” the owner, Sal, a shaggy-haired cougar shifter, jogged over and wrapped me in a hug.

  He rocked me back and forth, and I let myself relax against his muscled form. Sal had been like an uncle to me, overseeing my training when Dad had been traveling or working. “We’ve missed you around here, Cobra Kai.” Another nickname. Another snake joke.

  I pulled back, hastily wiping a tear that had gathered on my lashes. “I just…I haven’t been getting out much.”

  He wrapped an arm around me and walked me towards one of the sparring rings. “Moving the body is good for the soul, Zariya. Emotions get stored in the body—stagnate there. I think coming back here more regularly could help, in its own small way.”

  Everyone had their advice, and I found most of it unwelcome. But Sal’s carried a simplicity that resonated with me.

  He continued. “But what do I know? I’m just a shaggy old cat a bit too long in the tooth.”

  “Hardly.” I smiled wistfully. Sal was still muscled like a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, with neat sandy hair and a trim beard. “You’re probably right. Sleeping my life away certainly hasn’t helped much.”

  “What do you want to work on today?” he asked, all business. I appreciated that about Sal. Here, it was simple.

  “Actually, I came across a vamp today who pulled some moves on me I couldn’t get out of.”