MySoultoSave (6 page)

For better or worse, it was time for a new dream. One that
didn’t involve making a fool of herself.

* * * * *

Jaeryth stalked into his office and wished he’d bothered
acquiring some possessions, so he would have something to break.

The room he’d claimed and had inhabited for a century still
contained nothing but a table, two chairs and a cabinet. Nothing personalized
or decorative—save the marks on the walls. Hash marks scored the surface,
groups of five in small, neat rows from floor to ceiling. They completely
filled three walls, and covered all but the last few square feet of the fourth.

One mark for every human soul he’d personally sent to Hell.

Now he had another to add, and he was not troubled in the
least by the human’s death. He could not be,
refused
to be. He tromped
to the cabinet, drew out a small dagger and moved to the fourth wall, where the
freshest marks were. This one would complete a group. He scored a line through
the last four, the mark made jagged by his trembling hand.

It had been the Shepherd. He was upset over its ridiculous
claims, its very presence in his district. Nothing more.

He stepped over to the first wall. Crouching, he ran
fingertips lightly over the lower row, the oldest of the marks, and smiled. These
souls would have been granted new bodies long ago, and it was entirely possible
he’d sent some of them back again. Human reincarnation was rarely tracked—there
were just too many souls to bother. Only the Nabi were sought, preyed upon,
competed for. Like his Logan.

She is not yours. She belongs to Hell.

Yes, yes, he told his thoughts. Hell’s, his—in the end, it
was all the same.

Is it?

Scowling, he concentrated on the marks again. Similar ones
covered the walls of Kobol’s office. Over the years, the two of them had kept
score against each other, usually staying within five or ten marks. Once,
Jaeryth had been ahead by nearly a hundred—but then Kobol had managed to push a
cult into mass suicide and drawn even again. Lucky bastard.

But he’d be satisfied with just one more mark on his walls.
For Logan.

“Reminiscing? Jaeryth, I never knew you cared.”

Speak of the devil.
He lowered his arm and grinned at
Kobol, who stood in his doorway. “You’re slacking, you know,” he said. “I’ve
still got six on you. Seven, now.” Guilt curdled in his stomach. He ignored it.

Kobol snorted. “Only because you insist on counting that
prison bus crash. Which was, in fact, an accident.”

“Yes, and they lived. They stabbed each other to death in
the wreckage, attempting to escape.”

“As you say, quartermaster.”

Jaeryth straightened, cast another glance at the marks and
sighed. “You know, our jobs would be so much easier if we simply killed the
mortals instead of influencing them.”

“Mind what you say, young one.” Kobol frowned sharply. “With
my luck, I’ll find myself guilty by association if so you much as consider it.
You know the penalty for killing humans.”

“Soul mortar.” Merely speaking the words sent a shiver
through him.

The realm of Hell had not been carved from the bowels of the
earth, but built with forged souls. An entire class of demons had been assigned
as blacksmiths—they were sent the most useless souls, those who offered nothing
good or evil and would never evolve, to be hammered into permanently twisted
and tortured shapes that were placed in the ever-expanding walls of Hell. The
souls remained aware, unable to move, in constant agony from their positions
and the immense pressure of the world that crushed them.

Demons were not permitted to kill humans. They could
influence them, alter their paths through existence—but they could not end
them. The consequences of such drastic, unnatural changes in the universe were
invariably disastrous for all of creation, including Hell. Therefore, any demon
who committed this crime was sentenced to become soul mortar. And since demons
had no souls and could not die, their bodies were literally warped and pounded
into the solid mass of wailing anguish, never to be released. The loudest cries
in Hell came from the few demons who’d been foolish enough to kill.

The constant screams of the truly damned were just as
torturous as any of the agonies in Tartarus. And they never stopped.

Kobol offered a half-smile that faded like a guttering
candle as his gaze found the scorch marks on Jaeryth’s arm. “What have you
done?”

“How supportive of you to assume I’ve done something.” He
turned away and muttered, “There was a Shepherd. I attacked it.”

“A Shepherd in your district? That means you—”

“I know!” He whirled and fought to keep his temper under
control. “Damn it. I am aware that I’m slipping. I just can’t concentrate
when…” He moved toward the cabinet to replace the dagger and to keep Kobol from
seeing his face. “I believe I’ll pay a visit to Pottstown,” he said, attempting
to sound casual. “Haven’t had a day off in decades.”

“Jaeryth.”

The rebuke in the tone sliced at him. “I’m right, Kobol,” he
said without facing him. “I’m going to bring her back.”

“You mean you’re going to neglect your duties and get
yourself tortured. Or worse.”

“I don’t fear Ronwe.” He wouldn’t mention that he’d been
forbidden from contact with her. That would only enflame Kobol further.

“What about Samael?”

He turned slowly. “How could this possibly concern Samael?
Other than the fact that I’m winning a Nabi to our side—which, last I recall,
pleases him quite a bit.”

“Listen carefully, Jaeryth, because I only intend to explain
this once.” Kobol folded his arms. “If you go on this fool’s errand, on top of
your own control slipping, Ronwe will blast you to Hell in chains faster than
you can say Tartarus.”

“That’s ridiculous. Turning a prophet will only increase our
hold.”

“You are not doing this for the cause!” The words exploded
from gritted teeth, and Kobol closed his eyes. “You do not pursue her for evil,
for corruption, for the glory of Lucifer. Damn it, Jaeryth,
you
want
her. And you cannot understand why, because you are what you are.”

An unseen fist closed on his gut at the uncanny accuracy of
the words—as if Kobol had heard his thoughts, clear as glass. “What am I, that
I can’t understand?”

“A demon.”

He sneered. “As you are not?”

“I am. But…” With a weary sigh, Kobol moved into the room
and took a seat at the table. “Have you never wondered why I’ve been here, in
this district, for three centuries without promotion or transfer?”

“I have. But I decided it was because you have a distinct
lack of ambition.”

“Well, there is that. However, if I did possess ambition, I
would still be here. This is my sentence, which I’m to serve indefinitely.”

Jaeryth’s blood ran cold. “Sentence for what?”

“I was in love with a mortal. Specifically, with a Prophet.”

“Love! Demons—”

“—do not love. So we’ve all been told, and choose to
believe. But you must understand this, Jaeryth. Love does not care who or what
you are. It simply is. And in any form it takes, it does not bend to evil. If
you pursue this woman intending to darken her soul, you will fail… because of
love.”

For a moment he couldn’t speak. The idea that Kobol had
loved, that
any
demon could love, was inconceivable. It was as though
he’d been asked to believe the earth was made of bread dough, and Hell of
cotton candy.

This on the heels of the Shepherd’s insistence that he was
Heaven-touched. Love? Impossible.

Finally, anger won out over amazement. He yanked the cabinet
open, tossed the dagger inside and sent Kobol a fierce glare. “You lie,” he
said evenly. “I can’t imagine why you’d spin such a tale, but this story of
yours reeks like a putrid corpse. I am a demon, and I do
not
love
anyone. Particularly Logan Frost.”

He strode from the room and didn’t look back.

Chapter Five

Logan made it to Tex’s car, but couldn’t summon enough
energy to open the door. She leaned against the side and slid down to huddle on
the ground, knees drawn in to her chest. Maybe this way she wouldn’t puke
again.

She wasn’t going to cry. No way in hell.

Her cigarettes were still in the car. Damn. At least it
probably wouldn’t be long before Tex came out to give her the feel-good speech
about baby steps and one day at a time and don’t be too hard on yourself. She
decided she wouldn’t even remind him whose dumb idea it’d been to have her come
out here in the first place. As long as he took her home. Nothing he said could
make her go back in there.

When she heard footsteps approaching, she didn’t even look
up. “Yes, I’m all right, and no, I’m not mad at you.”

“I guess you are better than me, then. I’d be pissed.”

Okay, that wasn’t Tex. Unless he’d had a sex-change
operation in the past five minutes. And now she definitely didn’t want to make
eye contact—because Cyana had probably laughed her ass off at her
oh-so-impressive tryout. “Sorry about the mess,” she muttered.

“Don’t sweat it. You’re not the first person to spew in my
yard. Besides, I hear it makes good fertilizer.”

She couldn’t help a short laugh. “Right. So does motor oil.”

“Want a cigarette?”

She lifted her head. The other woman looked almost
concerned. “You don’t have to make nice with me,” she said. “It’s not like
you’ll be seeing me around. Soon as Tex gets his ass in gear, I’m gone.”

“Whoa. Claws.” With a slanted grin, Cyana crouched in front
of her, produced a pack of generic lights and offered one. “Look, I was a
world-class bitch, and I’m sorry. Can we start over?”

She shrugged and took the cigarette. Cyana popped a light
and she dragged deep, then let her head fall back against the car to exhale.
“Doesn’t matter to me. Besides, you weren’t the reason I freaked.”

“Stage fright, huh?”

“No, I—” She sucked in a breath. Jesus, was that really it?
She’d never actually performed. Not without a little help from her buddy
Crystal, and never in front of strangers. Mostly she’d sung for herself, and
for Gran, since she was the only one who seemed to want to hear her. She hadn’t
even done bar karaoke. What if she hated performing? The thought made her sick
all over again. Maybe she never had a chance, even if she’d gotten her shit
together in the first place.

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

Cyana lit a smoke and smiled. “Not now. While you’re
singing. The fucktard prick—sorry, Jacob—did it for the first two months we
played out. He said that way, he could sing to whoever he wanted.” Her voice
wavered, and she scowled at the ground. “Guess I’m not as over him as I
thought.”

“Reid mentioned something like that.”

“He would.” A hesitant smile returned. “So, how about that
whole starting over thing? I know it didn’t sound like it before, but I really
want to hear you sing. Tex thinks you’re the next Madonna or something.”

She gave a forced shudder. “No, thanks. Can I be the next
Joan Jett?”

“Now you’re talking.” Cyana straightened and offered a hand.

After a second’s hesitation, she took it.

They walked into the garage together, through the side door
next to the main entrance. Tex raised an eyebrow and Reid groaned. “Oh, great.
They’re BFFs. We’re so outnumbered, man.” The guitarist gave a thousand-watt
grin. “Hey, Logan. How many of your relatives did Blue threaten to sacrifice if
you didn’t come back inside?”

“Stuff it, Reid.”

“That’s what she said.”

“All right, children. Play nice.” Tex came around the set
and stopped in front of her, eyes searching for the answer to an unspoken
question. She nodded. “I would’ve been out there with you,” he said. “But Blue
wanted to eat her crow in front of a private audience. She’s not good with
sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Cyana called from halfway back to her
position. “Sorry you’re about as persuasive as a rock.”

Tex smiled, shook his head. “I imagine you could use some
water about now.” He held up a plastic bottle.

“Yeah. Thanks.” She took it and suppressed a snort. The
label said Crystal Valley. How appropriate. She swished the first mouthful
around for a few seconds and managed to cut some of the lingering bitterness.
The next few swallows were cool and sweet, and her racing heart calmed a
little. “So…take two?”

His brow lifted. “You sure?”

“Tex, if you ask me that one more time, I’m going to insert
this bottle in an orifice of my choice that you’re not going to like.”

“You’re the boss.” Grinning, he walked back to the drums.

She made her way to the microphone, trying to think about
nothing in particular. Especially stage fright. Or the way her hands shook when
she took the mic from the stand. She held it, cool metal against clammy palms,
and drew in a long breath. “Ready when you are.”

Drumsticks clicked a timing beat. Logan closed her eyes.

The music pounced like a cat, solid and sure. For the first
few measures she rattled off a silent count—then she eased back and let herself
feel the rhythm, the shape of the sounds. Sing to whoever she wanted…she wanted
to sing to herself, to the terrified, worthless Invisible Girl she’d been. To
the world, to prove that the girl had survived.

Her cue came. This time, she didn’t miss it.

There was nothing but the song. She could relate to this one
and she let her heart bleed into her voice, put her own stamp on the familiar
lyrics. It was a short one—two verses, two chorus refrains.

When she hit the last line, she realized the band had
stopped playing before she finished.

Her eyes opened slowly. Things were so quiet, for a second
she thought they’d all walked out. Then someone whistled.

She turned. Three sets of eyes stared at her. “Well?” she
asked.