Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2) by Lori Handeland
CHAPTER 1
A month ago I put a stake through the heart of the only man I've ever loved. Luckily, or not, depending on the day and my mood, that wasn't enough to kill him.
I found myself the leader of a band of seers and demon killers at the dawn of the Apocalypse. Turns out a lot of that biblical prophesy crap is true.
I consider it both strange and frightening that I was chosen to lead the final battle between the forces of good and evil. Until last month I'd been nothing more than a former cop turned bartender.
Oh, and I was psychic. Always had been.
Not that being psychic had done anything for me except lose me the only job I wanted—being a cop—and the only man, too: the aforementioned extremely hard-to-kill Jimmy Sanducci. It had also gotten my partner killed, something I had yet to get over despite his wife's insistence that it hadn't been my fault.
In an attempt to pay a debt I could never truly pay, I'd taken a job as the first-shift bartender in a tavern owned by my partner's widow. I also found myself best friends with the woman. I'm not quite sure how.
After last month's free-for-all of death and destruction, I'd come home to Milwaukee to try and figure out what to do next. The army of darkness was winning. Their former leader had taken me prisoner, turned Jimmy evil, then nearly wiped out my whole troop before I managed to kill the creep and escape with Jimmy in tow.
Now three-quarters of my Doomsday soldiers were dead and the rest were in hiding. I had no way of finding them, no way of even knowing who in hell they were. Unless I found Jimmy. That was proving more difficult than I'd thought.
So while I hung out and waited for the psychic flash that would make all things clear, I went back to work at Murphy's. A girl had to eat and pay the mortgage. Amazingly, being the leader of the supernatural forces of sunshine—I'm kidding, we're actually called the federation—didn't pay jack shit.
On the night all hell broke loose—again—I was working a double shift. The evening bartender had come down with a case of the "I'd rather be at Summerfest" blues, and I couldn't walk out at the end of my scheduled hours and leave Megan alone to deal with the dinner rush.
Not that there was much of one. Summerfest. Milwaukee's famous music festival on the lake, drew most of the party crowd. A few off-duty cops drifted in now and then—they were the mainstay of Megan's business—but in truth, Murphy's was the deadest I'd ever seen it. Hell, the place was empty. Which made it easy for the woman who appeared at dusk to draw my attention.
Tall and slim and dark, she strolled in on dangerously high heels. Her hair was up in a fancy twist I never could have managed, even if my own hair were longer than the nape of my neck. Her white suit made her bronze skin and the copper pendant revealed by the plunging neckline of her jacket gleam in the half-light.
Megan took one look, rolled her eyes and retreated to the kitchen. She had no patience for lawyers. Did anyone? This woman's clothes, heels, carriage screamed bloodsucker. In my world, there was always great concern that the term was literal. I nearly laughed out loud when she ordered cabernet.
"With that suit?" I asked.
Her lips curved; her perfectly plucked eyebrows lifted past the rims of her self-regulating sunglasses, which had yet to lighten even though she'd stepped indoors. I could see only the shadow of her eyes beyond the lenses. Brown, perhaps black. Definitely not blue like mine.
The cheekbones and nose hinted at Indian blood somewhere in her past, as did the dusky shade of her skin. Mine was the same hue. I'd been told I was mixed race, but I had no idea what that mix was. Who I'd been before I'd become Elizabeth Phoenix was as much a mystery to me as the identity of my parents.
"You think I'd spill a single drop?" she murmured in a smoky voice.
How could something sound like smoke? I'd never understood that term. But as soon as she spoke, it suddenly became clear to me. She sounded like a gray, hot mist that could kill you.
"You from around here?" I asked.
Murphy's, located in the middle of a residential area, wasn't exactly a tourist attraction. The place was as old as the city and had been a tavern all of its life. Back in the day, fathers would finish their shifts at the factories, then stop by for a brew before heading home. They'd come in after dinner and watch the game, or retreat here if they'd fought with the wife or had enough of the screaming kids.
Such establishments could be found all over Milwaukee, hell, all over Wisconsin. Bar, house, bar, house, house, house, another bar. In Friedenberg, where I lived, about twenty miles north of the city, there were five bars in the one-mile-square village. Walking more than a block for a beer? It just wasn't done.