MySoultoSave (10 page)

She shrugged. “I guess.”

It was a small hurdle in an endless row, and they got bigger
down the line. But she’d take them one at a time. Maybe someday, they’d get
easier to clear.

* * * * *

When Jaeryth followed Logan from her house, intending to
ride the breeze from the blasted angel’s car and watch her with this band, he
felt oddly proud. She had worn his gift. He hoped the angel noticed and
realized it had been created by a demon’s hand. He hoped it sickened and
infuriated the righteous bastard attempting to steal his Nabi.

He got as far as the sidewalk before a cloud of brimstone
whirled into existence and Ronwe’s brutish enforcers materialized, blocking his
path.

“There you are, quartermaster.” Lazul grabbed his arm and
Kyr copied his action to snag the other one. “You’re cordially invited to a
chat with Ronwe. Now.”

He tried to pull away, but realized it was useless. “I have
no time to talk,” he said coldly.

“Isn’t he adorable, Kyr?” Lazul feigned a laugh. “He speaks
as though he has a choice.”

Before he could react further, they phased with him directly
down, into the earth, through suffocating dirt and rock. The descent seemed
endless. At last, they broke into open space—and he found himself in Ronwe’s
office, facing a furious, red-eyed demon.

“Bind him,” Ronwe said.

The lieutenants forced him to his knees. He hadn’t seen the
shackles bolted to the floor until they were clapped around his wrists.

He lifted his head to glare and tried to remain calm despite
his pounding heart. This was not good. “Really, Ronwe. This isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, I think it is.” He paced around the desk, shifting into
full demon form as he walked, and stopped in front of him. “You do know why
you’re here. Don’t you, Jaeryth?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Well, then. Let me spell it out for you.” Ronwe wrapped his
tail around his neck and squeezed, using the tip to force his chin up. “While
you’ve been off cavorting with your damned obsession, your own district has
become infested with Shepherds.”

“Spare me your theatrics,” he wheezed. “Two Shepherds is
hardly an infestation.”

“Two!” The tail clenched harder. “The northeast quarter is
crawling with those vermin. The light of Citadel has nearly reached the borders
of Crystaltown!”

Impossible.
His hold could not have crumbled so fast.
The Tempters were not doing their jobs. That had to be it. He moved to pull the
crushing tail from his throat and defend himself, forgetting that his wrists
were bound. The chains clanked harshly and stopped him short.

Ronwe relaxed the hold just enough to allow him a ragged
breath, and he rasped, “I’ll take care of them.”

“Oh, you will. Excellent. Then it seems our problem is
solved.” The tail slid free, and Ronwe moved a few steps away. “But I do
wonder, Jaeryth, how you’ll find the time to do your job…when you’re so busy
manifesting as a mortal in front of human witnesses. Which, as I recall, does
not particularly please Samael.”

“Lies!” He lunged against the restraints. A sliver of
surprise penetrated him as he felt them give, just a touch. “There were no
witnesses.”

“Have you never heard of windows?” Ronwe shook his head.
“One of my Tempters heard a mortal woman raving about a man appearing from thin
air in an alley below her apartment, whose clothing changed magically. Sound
familiar?”

He glared, though a tremor of apprehension passed through
him. Perhaps he hadn’t been as careful as he could have. His eagerness to reach
Logan may have compromised his vigilance. “One mad human cannot shift the
balance,” he said at last. “These charges of yours are unfounded.”

“That was not the only one!” Ronwe’s eyes burned crimson.
“No less than five mortals watched you shift into their plane. And they have
talked to others. Some believe they have witnessed an angel. The belief
spreads, a plague of hope and wonder blighting my corruption. And as if that
were not enough.” He paused and let out a snarl. “This obsession of yours, this
woman. She radiates goodwill like a torch—and your contact with her has
increased her happiness.”

He bristled. “She is Nabi. And I will have her turned.”

“You will
not
.” A skeletal grin spread on Ronwe’s
face like a cancer. “She is my problem now, and I will deal with her. I will
influence a mortal to kill this woman. And she will plague my city no more.”

Rage did not creep over him. It swallowed him whole,
reflexively pushing him into full demon state. With an earth-shaking roar, he
ripped the bolted ends of the manacles from the wall and attacked. Anything
that moved, he struck with fists, feet, talons and tail. He barely noticed the
white-hot lance of agony that pierced his belly—until he found that he could
not move.

He had been staked to the ground, a long iron rod run
through his middle and plunged deep into the floor. Blood poured from the exit
wound at his back, draining his anger-fueled strength along with it. His wings
folded and sank into him, his tail and talons retracted.

At least he had damaged them in return. Not one of the
others had escaped the scuffle unscathed. Ronwe sustained the greatest
damage—his impeccable suit shredded, bloodied furrows carved across his chest,
his arms, both sides of his face. Even the hulking Kyr bore the beginnings of a
black eye.

Jaeryth gave a weak laugh. “Cowards,” he said. “Face me
alone, and see who winds up flat on his back.”

Beneath him, the ground warmed rapidly and climbed to
searing heat. The rock-hard dirt floor began to bubble, as though it were
boiling water. Cracks rent the surface. Smoke rose from the fissures and curled
around his body in wispy tendrils that thickened, solidified, bound him tight.

“You have an appointment with Samael.” Ronwe loomed over
him. “Go to Hell, Jaeryth.”

An unseen force yanked his body down through blood-saturated
earth, into blackness.

Chapter Nine

The Tuesday morning home visit from her caseworker took
place at the kitchen table, where every trace of cat had been replaced or
removed. It hadn’t gone too badly—until now.

Miss Turner leaned back, folded her arms across her ample
chest and shot lightning bolts from her eyes. “A band.” In her mouth,
band
sounded just like
depraved orgy of pill-popping, Satan-worshipping meatbags.

It was a milder reaction than Logan had expected.

“Hey, they’re paying me.” She fidgeted with the ring she’d
picked up yesterday, an unadorned silver triple band. “So it’s a job, right?”
Wrong
in three, two…

“Wrong.”

Called it. “Come on, Miss Turner. They’re professionals.
They’ve been gigging regularly for two years.” That probably didn’t help her
out any, judging from the so-what lift of the caseworker’s eyebrow. “Besides, I
won’t be able to get myself in trouble. Tex will be there all the time.”

“Mr. Hanson is skating very close to the line with you.”

“Hanson?” She couldn’t help a laugh. For some reason she’d
never known his last name. He was just Tex. The idea that he shared a name with
an infamously awful pop band would provide her with fodder for weeks. That was
probably why he hadn’t told her.

The caseworker’s thunderous expression eased into the
closest that she could get to concern. “Miss Frost, try to stand in my shoes
for a minute.”

She resisted making a joke about trying to stand in size-ten
shitkickers. Miss Turner would not be amused. “Okay. What am I getting from
your shoes?”

Miss Turner sighed deeply. “You’ve been out of the clinic’s
care for exactly four days. In that time, you’ve developed a social
relationship with a counselor, botched a job interview and had contact with a
negative influence. And now you’re telling me that you’re going to a nightclub,
in the middle of the city you’re supposed to avoid, to perform in a rock band.”
Thunder-brows returned in full force. “You are a high-risk addict, Miss Frost,
and this band…thing is too dangerous for you. I can’t condone this course of
action.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re still under the probationary terms of
release from the clinic. It means if you go through with this, I’ll consider
you in violation of those terms and you will be placed back in rehabilitation.”

At first she was too angry to speak. Damn it, she was
working her ass off to stay clean, to improve herself and take charge of her
life. She’d fought tremors, night sweats, massive hallucinations that should’ve
driven her screaming into a straitjacket somewhere. She’d clawed her way out of
a broken life and earned the chance to try for her dreams. She opened her mouth
to let all that out and blurted, “I cooked last night.”

Miss Turner stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“Dinner. I cooked
dinner.
” She breathed carefully and
tried to organize her thoughts. “That doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it is
to me. I haven’t made a meal since high school.”

“And your point is?”

“I’m responsible for myself. I take that seriously.” A
cigarette would’ve been great for her nerves, but lighting up right now would
be the ultimate bonehead move. “Singing’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted for
me. Meth fucked up my chance at it last time. I know that. And I’m not going to
let it happen again.”

The eyebrows went up further. She scrambled to think of
something else, some totally convincing iron-clad guarantee that she had this
under control. Then Miss Turner said, “Maybe I should place you in politics
instead of service.”

She fought a smile. “Does that mean I can go?”

“It means I’m downgrading my opinion.” The caseworker eased
the chair back, stood and gathered her files from the table. “I’ll agree
conditionally, with strong reservations. The conditions are that you’ll submit
a urine sample for testing immediately and Mr. Hanson will file a report, which
will be taken with several large grains of salt. And if anything goes wrong,
Miss Frost, you won’t have a repeat performance. You will not pass go or
collect two hundred dollars. Understand?”

Logan shot to her feet and threw her arms impulsively around
the imposing woman, who stiffened on contact. “Thank you.”

“I don’t hug.”

“Yeah, I gathered.” She couldn’t hold back a grin any
longer. “So you do have a heart somewhere under all that stone.”

“Actually, I keep it in my fridge at home.” Something that
resembled a smile graced her wide mouth. “I suppose you’re not a complete wash.
Just make sure you stay that way. We’ve already got someone in your bed at the
clinic. Someone you know, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Deenie.” A whisper of relief stole through her. The girl
hadn’t run. “How is she?”

Miss Turner imitated a shrug. “As well as any of them in the
beginning. Sleepless and struggling. But she’s fairly determined.”

“What about the baby?”

“Miss Frost. You know I can’t give out confidential
information about our patients.” The caseworker’s gaze softened a little.
“She’ll make it, thanks to you. Now stop asking questions.”

She nodded. “It’s a deal.”

After she saw Miss Turner out, Logan dropped onto the couch
and lit a smoke. One more hurdle behind her. She’d convinced the band, and her
caseworker, that she could handle this.

Now she just had to convince herself.

* * * * *

By noon, Logan decided a celebratory chocolate something was
in order. She didn’t have anything around the house, so she headed out to her
favorite Wawa.

Well, her only Wawa. Being within walking distance
automatically put it in the favorite category.

Lunchtime meant big crowds for this place. When she entered
the store, there were at least ten people inside. She found herself checking
out every one of them for all-black clothes and eyes to match, in case it was
nine people and a hallucination. But they all looked normal enough. One even
seemed familiar—a guy in a navy blue tracksuit, medium height, stocky build,
with a faint crooked scar under his left eye. She’d seen him around before.
Probably at this store a few times.

Tracksuit Guy caught her looking. He smiled and offered a
brief wave. Must’ve noticed her around too.

Shrugging, she waved back and turned, intending to head for
the snack aisle. As she did, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was probably
Tex, or maybe Miss Turner with another thrilling exercise in humiliation,
otherwise known as a job interview, to put on her schedule. She pulled the
phone out and glanced at the screen. The ID said Cell Phone. She didn’t
recognize the number, but it was a Philly area code. Maybe Velma at Greenleaf
had decided she liked ex-junkies after all.

She flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Hey. Why aren’t you home?”

It was a woman’s voice, familiar, but she couldn’t quite
place it. And she didn’t think she knew anyone who’d be this casual. “I give
up,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Oh. Um, it’s me. Blue.”

A tentative smile crept up on her. “Thank God. Because for a
minute there, I thought you were a stalker. How do you know I’m not home?”

Blue laughed. “Because I’m at your house, and you’re not.”

“You got me there.” Her initial reaction was to be
suspicious. This was one of the last people she’d expect to drop by for a
visit. “So…what’s up?”

“I was in the neighborhood.” She paused. “All right, I’m
lying. I wanted to—where are you, anyway?”

“I’m at the Wawa, five blocks down.”

“Cool. I know where that is. Be right there, okay?”

Before she could answer, Blue hung up.

Shaking her head, she pocketed the phone and headed out to
the parking lot. The bassist had sounded nervous as hell. She couldn’t imagine
why. From what she’d seen of Blue, the woman had more balls than most of the
guys she knew. Well, whatever this was, it had to have something to do with the
band.