MySoultoSave (3 page)

She understood instantly what he was going to ask. A tangle
of emotions clogged her gut, rose to her throat, and she pushed them
desperately down. Too much to sort out right now. Jokes were safer. “How’d you
manage that, check him through airport luggage?”

“Actually, he joined the Peace Corps.” A half-smile played
on his lips. “Said the next time he sang, he’d be on a riverboat in Brazil.”

“Nice.”

“Something like that. Only he left us hanging, because we’ve
got gigs booked for the next two weekends and more to come.” He stepped toward
her and stopped. “I think you know where I’m going with this. Correct me if I’m
wrong.”

Logan sat down hard on the bed. “Yeah,” she whispered.

“Don’t feel like you have to agree.” He ran a hand through
his hair and glanced at the ceiling. “We know a bunch of other local bands and
we can borrow a singer. Most of ‘em would be glad to pick up a few extra bucks,
a little more exposure. But we do want somebody permanent. And if you’re
interested, we’d love to have you try out.”

She cast a slanted grin. “You mean I’m not automatically
in?”

“It’d be a formality.”

“I don’t know, Tex. This is…” She laced her fingers together
and squeezed. “I already quit. A long time ago.”

He moved in front of her, waited until she looked up and
covered her hands with his. “You can’t quit something you never tried,” he said
gently. “Look, if you decide not to, I’ll understand. This changes nothing
between us. But I hope you’ll consider it. You’ve got pipes, Frost. You just
never had the chance to show them off.”

“How do you know that?”

“Heard you in the shower.”

“Creeper.” She bumped his hand, not hard enough to knock it
away. “I’ll think about it, okay? Best I can do for now.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

She maneuvered the conversation back to mundane things—job
interviews, shopping trips, mandatory outpatient meetings. Being out of rehab
was just the beginning of a long slog toward the possibility of recovery. Her
life wouldn’t be stable for years. The idea of singing even
semi-professionally, once a driving force, now seemed about as likely as her
being elected President tomorrow.

At least she could be happy about one thing. For the moment,
Fred had nothing to say. But she’d almost prefer his taunting and prodding to
the conversation she’d have to have when Tex left, one that would only get
harder the longer she put it off.

She had to call home.

* * * * *

Tex had offered to sleep on the couch tonight so she
wouldn’t be alone. Logan had almost agreed, but he couldn’t stay forever. She
had to get used to this sometime. Might as well be now. Besides, she really
didn’t want him to hear what was bound to be a very unpleasant exchange of
words between her and her sister.

The last time she’d seen Angie, her sister had tried to kill
her. Like father, like daughter.

She sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, trying to
figure out what she’d say. There was the humorous approach—hey, sis, I’m not
asking for money this time, aren’t you glad to hear from me? She could be
serious. Hi, Angie, just calling to tell you that I forgive you for being an
utter bitch, because I need the closure for my therapy.

Or she could say what she really wanted to. I’m not high any
more, so now will you believe me about Dad?

Yeah, that probably wasn’t going to come out. She could do
without the screaming.

Angie’s number was in the phone’s memory, under Bitchzilla.
She’d programmed that in during a brief fit of lucidity, on the heels of a
crying jag that started when she’d called Gran, actually dialed the phone and
listened in stunned silence to a message saying the number was no longer in
service. And finally remembered that Gran had been dead for a few years.

Time to lay her sister with the rest of the ghosts. She opened
the address book, scrolled down to Bitchzilla and hit send.

Four rings. There was a click, and then a
recording—answering machine, not voicemail. Angie was probably the last person
in Philly with a landline, other than their father. But she’d changed her
greeting. Instead of the casual
Hi, it’s Angie, you know what to do
,
there was,
You’ve reached Angela Frost. If this is a client with an
emergency situation, please call two-one—”

“This is Angela.”

For a second she couldn’t say anything. The brisk, professional
voice on the phone was as cold as the real Angie, someone Logan knew well and
the rest of the world rarely met.

“Hello?” Irritated now.

She made herself breathe. “Hi, Angie,” she said. “It’s
Logan.”

There was a long pause. Too long. Then, “This isn’t funny.
I’ve got a trace on this line. Whoever you are, I can have the police there in
five minutes.”

“Angie, it’s me.” Terrific. If her sister decided this was a
prank call, or whatever insane idea had taken root in her mind, she might have
to see her in person to close things out. She really didn’t want to do that.
With a sigh, she dredged up their last conversation. “The lying little cunt.
Remember?”

Another pause. She could just about hear Angie’s jaw clench.
Finally, her sister said, “I thought you were dead. Now I’m disappointed.”

She actually felt the punch in those words. It landed right
in her gut and knocked the wind from her. She’d anticipated fury and shouting.
This flat dismissal was much worse. She couldn’t even come up with a response.

“What do you want? Money? A place to crash? Fuck you. Crawl
back in your hole.”

“Rehab,” she blurted, and some of the pain cleared. “I’ve
been in rehab. Six months. I’m clean, Angie. I’m getting my life back
together.”

“Well, good for you.” Sarcasm twisted through the phone.
“Dad’s dead.”

“What—”

“Five months ago. Heart attack. Gone.” Angie clipped out the
words with machine precision. “So were you.”

The bubble of grief welling in her chest was a shock. She
hadn’t expected to feel anything for the man who’d delivered a command
performance at having only one daughter, who blamed her for the death of a
mother she’d never known, the woman who died giving birth to her. Who’d get
drunk and chase her around the house with a butcher knife, screaming
it
should’ve been you! You should have died! Not her!

The man who’d suddenly decided, around her sixteenth
birthday, that Invisible Girl should take over the bedroom duties of his
deceased wife.

Angie filled the silence she left. “I tried to find you. I
even went to Crystaltown. God, that place. Nobody knew who I was talking about,
or else they were too fucking stoned to care.”

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure whether she was saying it about
Dad or because Angie had gone looking for her. Either way it didn’t matter.
“Where was he—”

“Don’t pretend you give a shit, Logan. If you did, you
wouldn’t have…” For just an instant, her sister’s cold front wavered. There was
a muffled sound that was almost a sob. Then the bitch returned full force.
“Don’t call me again. Far as I’m concerned, you’re dead too.”

It took a minute to realize Angie had hung up. When it
penetrated, she dropped the phone on the table as if it were diseased. Some
closure. Well, at least now she could try to work through whatever she felt on
her own, without trying to factor in her sister’s thoughts. Or her father’s.

She told herself she wouldn’t cry about it, even while the
tears rolled down her face.

* * * * *

It had taken Jaeryth nearly a full day, but he’d worked out
how to get Logan back. Unfortunately, his superior was not going to be pleased
with his plan.

When night fell, he made his way to Independence Hall and
took the stairs to the basement, then a second set of stairs leading further
down. These stairs existed only in Shade. The first room in the sub-level contained
a few dilapidated chairs, a desk not in much better shape than the chairs and a
door at the far end that was always locked. Behind the desk sat a female
Tempter who didn’t so much as look at him when he entered. Not surprising. He
took a seat and the Tempter said without glancing up, “Are you expected?”

“Likely not.”

“Wait, then.”

“I’d planned on it.”

He settled back and folded his arms. Already the increased
heat pressed against his skin and formed beads of sweat on the back of his
neck. By the time the DIC deigned to see him, his clothing would be soaked
through.

For a time he studied the scorched walls, and occasionally
felt the rumble of a train blasting through the Underground below. The demonic
transportation system left something to be desired. He rarely used the trains
himself, preferring to navigate air currents through mortal space. It took
longer—but it smelled better.

After nearly an hour, the Tempter behind the desk
acknowledged Jaeryth’s existence. Reacting to nothing apparent, she looked up
with a bored frown and said, “Ronwe will see you now.”

“Excuse me while I leap for joy.” He stood and stretched the
stiffness from his spine, thinking once again what a bad idea this was. Ronwe,
demon-in-charge of Philadelphia and its suburbs, did not like him. Thought he
was after the job. And definitely didn’t believe Logan was a prophet. Still, he
hadn’t been able to come up with a better plan.

He crossed to the massive red doors leading to Ronwe’s
office. “Shall I bow or curtsy?”

The Tempter waved a hand and the doors opened.

He walked inside with murmured thanks that were also
ignored. Calling this cavernous room an office was an insult to working demons.
It was a damned temple. Took up most of the entire floor and it had been
difficult to transport the furnishings into Shade. He knew—he’d been ordered to
help when Ronwe claimed Independence Hall for a dominion.

To the left was a massive conference table flanked by chairs
with skull headrests. Real skulls, of course, designed to make sure everyone was
as uncomfortable as possible in Ronwe’s presence. Shelves of ancient tomes
lined the right. Several hundred candles lit the room, connected by thick and
blackened cobwebs. A cauldron-sized eternal flame pot marked the halfway point
between the door and Ronwe’s desk.

The doors slammed behind him. Candles flickered. “Jaeryth.
How unexpected.”

“You’ve had an hour to expect me, Ronwe.” He moved down the
room, skirted the flame pot and stopped several feet before the desk. “Funny.
You don’t look busy.”

Ronwe stared at him. The head demon appeared every inch a
businessman, from his sharply tailored suit to the ruthlessness carved into his
lean features and radiating from his focused brown eyes—which had a tendency to
flare blood-red on occasion. Often that flash of color was all the warning
Ronwe gave before pain was caused, either by him or his lieutenants, who seemed
conspicuously absent.

As though reading Jaeryth’s mind, Ronwe raised a hand and
gestured, and two bulky shapes materialized from the shadows behind his chair.
Kyr and Lazul, in full demon form, came forward with steps like thunder.
Ronwe’s lieutenants were powerful, fiercely loyal—and Lazul, at least,
possessed as much intelligence as brawn.

Kyr didn’t need intelligence. He carried a massive spiked club.

“I assume you’ve come here with something important to say,
Jaeryth.” Ronwe leaned back casually in his chair, as though he’d already
dismissed the conversation without ever having it. “Because if you haven’t, I’d
suggest that you leave now, before I decide to let Kyr use you for target
practice.”

Kyr bared his fangs in something that resembled a grin.
“Don’t go, Jaeryth. Stick around.”

Jaeryth bit back an acid response. “I want to take a few
days off,” he said. “Perhaps a week—”

“No. Anything else?”

He forced himself to stay calm. He’d anticipated this. “My
district is in excellent shape,” he said. “It would take a miracle to reverse
the damage we’ve done. Xanu can handle maintaining things for a few days.”

“Xanu would fail to corrupt a lawyer, given half the
chance.” Ronwe straightened slowly, his cold gaze never leaving Jaeryth. “We’re
stretched thin as it is. There are barely enough demons to cover this city and
I won’t risk losing ground.”

“You mean you won’t risk having Samael discover that you can’t
cut it without me and offering me your job.”

Kyr growled and lunged forward.

A single gesture from Ronwe halted the brutish lieutenant.
“Fortunately for you, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said.
“Punishing you formally would require too much paperwork. It would also cause
the same problem as giving you time off, which is removing you from your
duties. Much as I loathe admitting it, you are very good at being bad.” He
frowned and folded his hands on the desk. “The answer is still no. Lazul,
Kyr…please escort the quartermaster out.”

“With pleasure.” Lazul offered a cold smile and both
lieutenants started around the desk.

Though Jaeryth knew it was an exercise in futility, he had
to try. “Logan’s left the city,” he said. “I want her back.”

“Stop.”

The lieutenants froze—Kyr with obvious reluctance. Ronwe
rose from his seat with a glare that could have boiled an iceberg. “Jaeryth.
Are you telling me that you came to me with a disruptive, pointless and
potentially damaging request, just to fuel your ridiculous obsession with this
mortal woman?”

“She’s a prophet, Ronwe.”

Ronwe’s eyes flashed red. “Out.”

Before he could blink, Kyr and Lazul were flanking him, each
with a taloned hand gripping an arm and digging into his flesh. Then Kyr spun
the club and rammed the butt end into his stomach.

His knees buckled and he sagged breathlessly in their grip.

“Oh, and Jaeryth,” Ronwe called as the lieutenants dragged
him toward the doors. “If I find out you’ve gone after this mortal, which I am
now officially forbidding you from doing, I will flay you open front to back
and leave you hanging in the square for a week. With the proper paperwork, of
course.”