Soul Cage

PHAEDRA WELDON

Soul Cage

A Zoë Martinique
Investigation

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Phaedra
Weldon

Soul
Cage

"…nine of the cages still exist in the
world but in varying degrees…"

The voice seemed to be
coming from above—as if speakers were somehow hidden in the ceiling
of the hallway he walked along. The wallpaper was cracked, aged and
torn in large, harsh gashes. He knew this place—he'd walked along
this hall a very long time ago.

"…see the seriousness of events
unfolding…it's my fault really. I never even considered the boy had
magic. He's never used it…and now they say he'll be more powerful
than me…"

What boy was magic? Who
will he be more powerful than?

He should know those
voices—but just couldn't remember. Joe continued walking, listening
to the voice as he slowed his pace. And as he moved, what he used
to call "the hallway nightmare" returned to him. A reoccurring
dream of something that had, or hadn't, happened. In it, he was
twelve…or was it eleven? It didn't matter…even as old as he was
now, he was terrified.

This hall belonged to his
grandmother. He'd found it by accident back then, trying to find a
place to hide from his cousin—the one twice his size with the I.Q.
of a gnat. Marty didn't know a lot about learning, but he did know
how to bash heads.

And he hated
Joe.

And Joe had found a door
in a closet at the top of the stairs. He'd walked down a hallway
just like this one, with a door at the other end—only the door was
in darkness, the hallway lights not quite reaching it.

And as always, the end of
the hallway slowly lit up to reveal details of that door. Wooden
door, aged, with scuff marks around the bottom as if a dog had
pawed at it often.

The voice faded as he
looked down at the old-fashioned knob with the generic keyhole
beneath it. The metal was warm as if a fire burned on the other
side. It'd been the same in his dream.

Warm door. The call of his
cousin's voice, taunting him, calling him Holler'n Halloran. Cause
he was gonna make him yell.

The warmth warned him
against stepping through, but the call of his cousin behind him
frightened him more. Facing the unknown ahead of him, or that of
certain pain behind him, his instinct for self-preservation
screamed at him to go forward, joined by his insatiable
curiosity.

He turned the
knob…

In his dream there had
always been darkness. But in this dream there was…

Nona's kitchen.

Looking back, he held the
door to the basement. A musty smell came from below. It was dark
and he shut it quickly.

Why am I in Nona's
kitchen?
The darkened windows told him it
was night. A small light illuminated a spotless counter top. The
emptiness of the house reminded him Nona was at the Society
House.

But why am I here?

Joe moved out of the
kitchen toward the tea shop. As he passed the counter, now empty of
cakes and deserts, he noticed a light coming from the botanica. He
knew Nathaniel, Nona's new helper, had bought a few night lights
like the one in the kitchen so the house didn't appear completely
dark.

He stepped past the
counter and looked right. A light flickered on the other side of
the mosaic, beaded curtains. Flickering, moving…had someone left a
candle burning?

As he neared the curtain
the hairs on his arms and neck rose as if he were walking into a
magnetic field of some kind. He stopped with his nose touching a
string of beads, the back of his mind telling him to
run.

But he
couldn't.

He had to
know
.

"Sometimes knowing a thing is having
it consume you."

It was the same voice he'd
heard in the hallway—but now it spoke from the other side of the
curtain! He took in a deep breath, reached both hands up to part
the beads as if parting a wave, and shoved them to either
side.

No one was there in the
living room, though a fire burned in the fireplace.
Damnit…didn't Nathaniel know that was a bad
idea?

With a sigh he stepped
through the curtain and the mantel above the fire lit up as if a
spotlight in the ceiling had been turned on.

There…on a pedestal in the
center…sat that damn dragon statue. Nona had called it a Soul Cage.
He called it cheap ceramic.

But…why was it here when
he could also remember it in pieces on the floor of a basement of a
house in north Georgia?

Eyes narrowed, he moved
slowly to it. The fire wasn't warm. It didn't make a sound, either.
No crack or pop of the wood, not even a hiss. In fact, as he stood
in front of it, looking up at the ceramic statue, the fire went
out. The only thing shining in the room was the dragon….

…
it turned its head from
the side and stared down at Joe.

His eyes widened. "What
the—"

"Time to die," the thing
said, just before it opened its maw and swallowed him
whole—

"Sonofafuckingjesusbitchgodallmighty!"
Joe sat up in bed, his hands flat against the sheets. His
heart pounded against his chest. He reached up and wiped at his
face, his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. After taking in a
few gulps of air he turned and put his feet on the
floor.

What the fucking hell was that? He sat
forward, elbows on this knees and ran his hands through his hair a
few times. Three more deep slow breaths before he stood and went to
the bathroom. There he splashed cold water onto his face and
avoided looking at the mirror.

He was pretty sure he'd see a haunted
image staring back at him.

The same nightmare. For most of his
childhood he'd suffered that damn hallway, never really knowing if
were real, or his imagination. And now it was back? Three times now
he'd woke up yelling something, unable to breathe, panicked and
shaken. But this was the first time he'd been able to get to the
botanica and see what the light was.

And why…why that damned ugly
statue?

Why did it try and take his
soul?

Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuck
… He shut off the light and
shuffled into the kitchen. There he turned on the one-cup coffee
maker and grabbed a mug while the water heated up. Two packets of
sweetener, milk from the fridge and the machine was ready. He chose
a dark roast this time, popped the packet in and pushed the
button.

As it finished he reached above the
fridge and pulled down a bottle of Bailey's Irish Creme. When the
coffee was done and stirred, he poured in a healthy amount and took
the mug to the sliding glass door. Tim's rock sat on the desk next
to the glass door, but the ghost didn't appear. Maybe he was
sleeping. Either way, Joe wasn't much up for company.

The cold December air chilled the
dampness on his body as he stepped out. He was dressed in a pair of
loungers and no shirt. The coffee was good and burned his throat.
And even though he shivered, the cold cleared his head.

He listened to the Atlanta night…the
hiss of traffic nearby on Moreland Avenue. And beyond that was
Ponce de Leon. But those weren't the sounds he was listening
for.

Joe wanted to hear Zoë moving in her
apartment above him. She was up a lot at night, out on her own
terrace just above his. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes he joined
her, or she him.

But not tonight. Not for a
while.

Zoë'd gone to Canada with
Daniel.

Always…with Daniel.

Or Dags.

But never with Joe. He knew something,
like the voice said. He knew he loved her. And from the moment his
lips touched hers, he'd never be able to love another. And that
knowledge…well…

He sipped his coffee and leaned his
elbows on the railing. "I know a thing…" He said to the voice he
remembered in his dreams. The voice of his grandmother. "And it
consumes me."

-1-

Jason Lawrence crossed his arms over
his chest and rested his right elbow on his left forearm. He rubbed
at his chin with his right index finger as his gaze narrowed on the
small brunette in the room through the door. He stood in a room
full of filing cabinets and a computer on a small table. This was
one of the new holding areas, where files brought from the Society
of Ishmael's old location were scanned, catalogued and entered into
a database. Industrial gray walls, a blue tiled floor, and the
smell of off-the-shelf cleanser permeated the room.

Jason
.

"Mmmm?"

What are you
doing?

"I'm spying."

The voice in his head
belonged to his First Born, Mephistopheles, an Abysmal Symbiont
bonded with him over eighty years. Such a joining turned him into a
Revenant. Some would call Mephistopheles a demon, and Jason, a
vampire. And in a way, they were right.
Spying? On Miss Orly?

"Mmmhmmm."

Another pause.
Why?

"Because she keeps talking to her
herself and I find that odd."

Soft laughter echoed
inside his mind.
Jason, might I remind you
if anyone watched you and didn't know you had me inside of you,
they would think you were talking to yourself as well.

"I know that. But she doesn't have a
First Born."

True.

"So who is she talking to?" He nodded
to the door and the woman behind. "Look at her. It's like she's
fighting with someone."

Jason felt a slight shift
of perspective as the First Born peered out through his
eyes.
You're right. Has she done that
often?

"I don't know." Jason shrugged. "I can
honestly say I've never paid much attention to her
habits."

"Jason?"

He turned at the sound of his name in
a voice that wasn't Mephistopheles. Dags McConnell stood just
inside the door. Dressed in worn jeans, black tee shirt and leather
jacket, he looked more like a college student than the most
dangerous magical weapon alive today. His hair fell into his face
and he had a day's stubble beneath slate gray eyes. "Dags—you okay?
You look a little confused."

"Oh—yeah. I just," a crease formed
between his eyebrows. "I thought I heard another voice in
here."

"Oh?" Jason sent a silent
question to Mephistopheles.
You think he
heard you?

I doubt it. He hasn't
heard any of us since Zoë attacked Rhonda.

Two months ago Zoë, Geist,
and Joe Halloran had gone into the Abysmal Plane to retrieve the
last page of the
Grimoire
fused to Dags' soul. This page was needed so he
could once again access the magic inside the old tome of spells.
But when Azrael, the last of the First Borns, took Zoë's place
inside of the Abysmal Throne and sent all of them back with the
page, Rhonda had slipped in her own page instead, replacing the one
that held all of Dags' memories of his love for Zoë.

It was as if the two had never been in
love. At least for Dags. But for Zoë, it was a heartbreak she
didn't deserve. The man she fought for was gone. The man in his
place couldn't remember her. His memories of his lover were now
sealed in the Throne with Azrael, aka, TC.

Dags stepped forward. "There—I heard
it again."

Jason pursed his lips. "What did it
sound like?"

"Well…it was deep and it has an
accent. Sounded a bit like Stephen Fry."

Darren…he's made that
comparison before. You think he
can
hear me?

Jason watched Dags' expression
brighten. Kid probably thought he was hearing things—but now he was
justified. "That's him. I heard him again." He looked around the
room. "Yes, yes I can hear you." He looked at Jason. "And you can
hear him too because he said your name."