MySoultoSave (12 page)

She lit up and tried to tune out the noise. Maybe if she
didn’t think about the crowd, it wouldn’t freak her out.

Coming back into Philly again wasn’t as hard as she’d
feared. She didn’t feel the same frantic urgency that she had when she’d
checked out—to bolt down the street, hitch a ride to Crystaltown and fry the
last six months from her veins with a needle. It might have something to do
with the lack of hallucinations since the weirdness at the welfare office and
not hearing from Fred since Sunday. Monday, if she counted meeting Sid Vicious.

Now she wished she’d found out his real name. Maybe he’d
show up tonight. But if he did, she’d have a hell of a time finding him in the
mob. She’d worn the bandanna hoping it’d be a signal that she wanted to talk to
him. That, and it looked cool.

“Dollar for your thoughts,” Blue said.

“I thought it was a penny.”

“Inflation.” Grinning, the bassist dragged on her cigarette.
An orange glow flashed up her face and faded, casting carnival-show shadows.
“Seriously, what’s on your mind? You look kinda dreamy.”

She snorted. “Yeah, that’s the word. Or petrified.
Whatever.”

“They’re going to love you.” Blue put a hand on her
shoulder. “Say it.”

“They’re going to love me.”

“Wow. My turtle has more enthusiasm.”

A laugh eased out of her. “I didn’t know you had a turtle.”

“Well, I do. His name is Squishy.”

They smoked in silence for a minute. Then Logan said, “Do
you guys always draw crowds like this?”

Blue shrugged. “Sure. We’re local big-time, and we cater to
the audience. Keep the set list fresh, play what they want to hear. We even
have groupies.” She paused for a smirk. “Reid’s banged most of them already.”

“I gotta tell you, that doesn’t surprise me.”

Laughing, Blue pitched her smoke and drew a deep lungful of
air. “It’s quarter to go-time. You ready?”

“Not even close.” She dropped her cigarette and ground it
out with the toe of her boot. “And away we go.”

They walked in to thundering, throbbing chaos. Somehow the
crowd seemed thicker than before, animated with anticipation. She followed Blue
onto the stage, where Tex adjusted something on his set and Reid perched on a
stool, guitar slung around his neck, drinking a draft.

Blue led her to the soundboard and the tall stranger who
stood behind it. “Sound Guy, this is Logan. Logan, Sound Guy.”

He stuck a hand out. “Brad,” he shouted over the crowd
noise.

“Nice to meet you.” She took it.

“Pleasure. ’Scuse me.” Withdrawing his hand, he bent back to
the board.

Blue laughed at her puzzled expression. “Don’t mind him.
Sound Guy isn’t very social.”

“Cool,” she said absently. Sound Guy could’ve been a
green-skinned, two-headed elephant and she wouldn’t have noticed. It took every
bit of concentration she had to not run off the stage, out the back door, in any
direction away from here. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the audience. It had
been intimidating enough at ground level.

From up here, it looked as if the entire population of
Philly had packed into the room.

Hundreds of eyes watched her, waited to hear her and judge
her. Was she good enough for this? She could carry a tune, but Amy Lee she
wasn’t. She had no signature sound or signature look. She was just Logan Frost,
drug-scarred nobody. These people came for Ruined Soul—but not for her. She
wasn’t part of what they’d come to expect. And she would disappoint them. How
could she not?

Something warm and solid thumped her back. It took a few
seconds to realize she’d slumped and almost fainted. Against Tex.

“Easy, Frost,” he murmured in her ear. “Don’t slip out on me
now.”

“There’s a million of them,” she said bleakly.

He laughed. The vibration of it moved through her,
comforting as a favorite blanket. “Only a few hundred,” he said. “And they’re
all just people. Not scary monsters. I promise they won’t eat you.”

“They might throw fruit at me or something, though. I’d
rather let them eat me.”

“They won’t.” He squeezed an arm around her and stepped
back. “You can do this, Frost. You know your stuff. You’re ready.”

“I hope so,” she whispered.

Reid moved up beside them, sultry smile in place. “We’re
green, y’all,” he said. “Let’s kick it to ’em.”

She nodded, more for Tex than the guitarist. They took their
places. The house lights dimmed, the stage lights poured over them—and she
could barely see the crowd. Now it was just a massive, undulating shadow beyond
the brightness.

A cautious smile surfaced on her lips. Maybe she really
could do this.

They’d already agreed beforehand that Reid would handle the
intro. Now he stepped up, grabbed one of the backup mics and threw his free
hand in the air. “Hello, Philly!”

As loud as his amplified greeting had been, the mob cheered
louder.

Reid threw a wink and waited for the noise to ebb a few
decibels. “In case you didn’t know, we are Ruined Soul.”

The cheers went to deafening. There was a slight drop, and a
female voice screamed, “I love you, Reid!”

He leaned forward, grinning. “I love you too, darlin’.”

Laughter rippled through the cries. The sound was
intoxicating.

“All right, all right.” He motioned down, and the noise
subsided a bit. “We’ve got somethin’ special for y’all tonight. You are the
very first fortunate souls to hear our new singer—and she’s gonna knock you
outta your boots.”

There was a definite decline in volume and her stomach
dipped along with it. Of course they didn’t want new and different. Especially
this different. If she was a guy, they would’ve been happier. She could feel
the resistance out there, the downright disbelief.

“We’re proud to introduce the rockin’ powerhouse, the queen
of the Philly scene…Logan Frost!”

She’d heard louder crickets.

Reid scowled. “C’mon, y’all. Where’s the love?”

She wanted to tell him to stop, even as the crowd roared.
The false appreciation only made her feel worse. She could’ve crawled under
Tex’s drum set and died.

“That’s better.” Beaming again, Reid returned the mike to
the stand and leaned over to her. “Don’t let ‘em choke you, short stuff,” he
said. “You’re goin’ Susie Boyle on them. Just watch.”

She gave a curt nod and grabbed her new mic, mentally
dubbing it an official good-luck charm. Resolution kept her head high. She’d
give this everything she had, and if she failed, nobody could say she didn’t
try. One spectacular flop had to be better than forever waiting on the
sidelines.

They were starting with a new song, a popular rock tune the
band had never performed before. It made sense—they wanted the crowd to really
hear her, instead of comparing her to the absent Jacob.

Drums banged out a rhythm. Guitar and bass jumped in with a
hungry melody.

She closed her eyes.

Nothing but the music. She let it bury the crowd, soothe
away the bilious ache in her gut. She could sing for anyone. For no one, if she
chose. For the sake of music and the incredible high it brought her, sweeter
than any drug.

Her voice thundered through the microphone. She poured it
out, wringing every drop of emotion she possessed from the words. God, this
felt good—with or without the approval of the crowd.

After the first few lines, a thread of worry penetrated her
concentration. She could barely hear what she sang. Was there something wrong
with the mic? Maybe she should switch to one of the backups. She risked opening
her eyes and stepped left, intending to change out at the next pause.

Finally, she realized the crowd was screaming louder than
the PA system. For her.

Her throat tightened and she almost faltered. Intoxicating
as singing itself was, this was a thousand times more potent—to move this many
people into a frenzied joy of abandon. In that instant, she could have been
born for this moment. She felt, for the first time, alive.

Good thing the stage lights were so hot. Maybe the crowd
would mistake her elated tears for sweat.

* * * * *

Time mattered little in Hell.

Jaeryth huddled in a filthy cage that stank of blood and
fire, suspended over a vast stone floor. Ancient bones littered the bottom of
the cage, and barbed wire wrapped the bars. He had reverted to his demon form
the instant he arrived in this prison and could not change back, though he’d
tried repeatedly. He was scarcely able to move without snagging his wings on
the razor-sharp tines.

He might have been here hours, days. Weeks. And here he’d
remain, until Samael decided to deal with him.

Likely Tartarus awaited him. Or oblivion—but he doubted the
Prince would be so kind as to end his existence. He had failed in his duties.
Samael did not tolerate failure.

Everywhere around him, the sounds of torment churned an
endless choir of anguish. Human souls screamed and begged for mercy. Their
wailing and weeping echoed from the walls, reverberated through scalding air
that held no suggestion of a breeze. And still their cries paled in comparison
to the jagged howls of the damned demons sentenced to soul mortar.

Those sounds assaulted his ears like knives. He could not
even imagine pain great enough to cause them. At least he would be spared that
horrible fate. He hadn’t killed any humans.

As he attempted to move a leg and stretch his cramped body a
bit, he sensed a change in the air. A shifting, perhaps even a slight wind.

Then the bottom of the cage dropped away.

He fell after it and landed on bleached stone, hard enough
to force the breath from him. His vision blurred and he squinted at the
billowing cloud of smoke before him that brought a deepening stench of
brimstone. He tried to focus on the demon materializing from it. Great leathery
wings, immense horns curling from a massive, shaggy head, bronze talons tipping
his fingers and toes.

Samael.

“Rise, Jaeryth.”

Coughing, he tried to comply with the command. His stiffened
body fought his efforts. It took several attempts to struggle to his knees, and
another few from there to his feet. When he stood at last, he found himself
unable to move further, as though he was held in place by invisible chains.

“Sire.” He bowed his head in deference. At least he could
still do that. “I don’t suppose I’ll be granted the opportunity to explain
myself.”

Samael laughed.

The sound chilled Jaeryth’s blood. No demon possessed a
pleasant laugh, but Samael’s was a layered chorus of deep-throated screams
feigning amusement. “You are a bold one,” the prince said. “It is indeed a
shame that you’ve made such grievous mistakes. I might have had use for you.
But please, explain yourself.” The smile that surfaced was colder than his
laugh. “And then I’ll sentence you anyway.”

Jaeryth swallowed, though his throat had gone dry. “The
mortal woman, Logan Frost. She is Nabi.”

“So I’ve heard.” Samael stepped closer. Flames flickered in
the depths of his great golden eyes. “And how is it, Jaeryth, that you are the
only demon in all of Shade who can recognize this alleged prophet?”

“I know her, sire.” A bleak feeling swept through him. If he
could not even convince Ronwe that he was right, he had no chance of persuading
the Prince of Hell. Still, he had to try. “And I witnessed her banish a Tempter
with only a gesture.”

“Did you, now?”

There was a vague interest beneath the words. Jaeryth opened
his mouth to affirm it—and Samael reached out and clamped his head between
massive hands.

A white flash of pain filled his skull. The memory of what
he’d seen hammered him, playing out with such crystal clarity that he might
have been there again. He saw the Tempter emerge from Shade and cling to the
sickly mortal female, whispering sin. Watched Logan’s features freeze into a
mask of horror as she reached for the apparition. Heard her cry
no!
,
then felt the power pouring from her, filling the female and sending the
startled Tempter back to Shade.

The vision vanished abruptly. He gasped, shook his head and
tried to meet Samael’s gaze.

“Interesting.” The Prince stepped back and stared at him, as
though he were a pet who’d just performed a new trick. “Perhaps there is
something to your claims. But I am still not convinced that your actions were
warranted. Explain this to me, Jaeryth. Why did you take a mortal form and risk
discovery to walk among those maggots? What did you hope to accomplish?”

A faint sliver of hope moved through him. He spoke
carefully, aware that a misunderstanding now would damn him. “I had intended to
seduce her and win her to our side, as I’d nearly accomplished before the angel
interfered. For your glory, my lord.”

Samael’s brow lifted. “Angel?”

“Yes, sire. He calls himself…Tex.” His jaw tightened
unconsciously around the name. “She was nearly turned before the angel removed
her from my influence. I can bring her back.”

“Tex,” Samael repeated thoughtfully, folding his massive
arms. He fell silent for a long moment. At last he said, “I have decided.”

Jaeryth waited, hardly daring to breathe.

“I will grant you the opportunity to rectify this situation
with the…prophet.”

He made an unsuccessful attempt to stop the shudder that
gripped him. “Thank you, sire.”

“You will seduce this Logan and blacken her soul. You will
lead her to commit unforgivable sin and remove the possibility that if she is truly
Nabi, she will end up serving Heaven.” The Prince made a gesture, and a dagger
appeared in his hand as though he’d plucked it from the air. The blade crackled
with blue-black lines of magic. The sight of the weapon sent fresh shivers
through his blood. “And if you cannot turn her, you will end her mortal life.”

“M-my lord,” Jaeryth stammered. “Kill her? I can’t—I
will
not
do this. Begging your pardon, sire, but I will not volunteer to become
soul mortar. Demons are forbidden to kill mortals.”