Demon's Song Read online

  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 ever, 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 a Prophet.”

  “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 a Prophet, 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 Jaeryth’s 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.”

  “Ah, Jaeryth.” Samael advanced with the dagger upraised. “You will not be a demon for long.”

  At once, the purpose of the enchanted blade became clear. “Sire, please,” he rasped, even as Samael circled behind him and gripped his tail with a hand like iron. “Don’t do this.”

  The blade severed his tail in a single pass, and he knew nothing but pain.

  He could not even beg. The Prince sliced his wings from his back, one by one. Hot blood sluiced over his flesh and blackness edged his vision. Samael whispered something—and fire seared the wounds, sealed them closed and left a deep-seated ache that would not ease.

  If it weren’t for the spell that forced him to remain on his feet, he’d have collapsed to the ground.

  “You should be pleased, Jaeryth.” Samael came around him, wearing an awful grin. “I’ve given you what you wanted. A mortal body to seduce your precious Prophet. Now thank me.”

  He pressed his lips together and glared. Even if he’d possessed strength enough to speak, he would not thank the Prince for his monstrous “gift.”

  “How fortunate for you that you amuse me. It is the only thing preventing me from sending you immediately to the depths of Tartarus.” Samael leaned down and spoke in his ear. “Be a
ssured, Jaeryth, that Tartarus will be your ultimate destination should you disappoint me again. Succeed, and I will restore you as a demon. Fail, and I will take great pleasure in tormenting you for the rest of eternity.” He drew back. “And if this Prophet of yours should manifest on Heaven’s side, I will come for you personally. Just to make sure you serve your sentence.”

  Jaeryth closed his eyes. Something deep in his gut knotted and churned, and the heat of Hell flared to an unbearable level. Just when he believed his skin would boil from his bones, a cool breeze engulfed him and drove away all sensation.

  Sound returned first. A distant droning rose and fell, followed by another. The gentle buzz of something electrical. He felt cold, gritty stone beneath his shuddering body. A groan escaped him, and he wrenched his eyes open to dull sidewalk and darkened grass. The buzzing emanated from a light somewhere above him.

  And before him, a familiar structure. Logan’s home. There were no humans in sight on the quiet street. Perhaps it was a kindness to deliver him so close to his target, without witnesses.

  Jaeryth pushed himself up to his knees. It took him another moment to realize the Prince had not been so kind after all. He was powerless, bruised from the fall, nearly crippled by the long imprisonment and the transformation to this frail mortal body, without a single possession—and naked as a newborn.

  He glared at the ground as though he could see back into Hell. “You bastard,” he said aloud. “At the least, you could have clothed me.”

  He could almost hear Samael’s derisive laughter riding on a hot, dry breeze.

  Pushing aside a swell of hungry vengeance, he struggled to his feet. He managed three steps before dropping to the ground. Even with every drop of willpower he possessed, he could not stand again.

  He crawled to the darkened porch, up the three steps. Though he’d been stripped of his demonic abilities, he sensed she was not here. But she would return. Until then, he would attempt to regain enough strength to speak.

  He dragged himself into a corner of the porch and succumbed to oblivion.

  Chapter 11

  On the ride home with Tex, Logan had to consciously keep from pinching herself. Her reality had never been this amazing—and she was convinced that any minute now she’d wake up back in rehab, drenched in cold sweat and trying not to cry.

  The show had been a huge success.

  Record crowds, the manager of the Eight Spot told them during the dizzying post-show celebration. Didn’t even pull in that many for Pearl Jam, he said. He’d paid them double the promised rate and booked them for the following weekend.

  Tex had to tell her all of this after they left the club. She’d been accosted by so many fans wanting to congratulate her, she hadn’t known up from down.

  Unfortunately, Sid Vicious hadn’t been among them. She was surprised to be so bummed about that—but the absence of the gorgeous mystery man didn’t diminish the thrill. She’d done it. She’d actually performed with a real band, in front of a live audience, and she hadn’t fainted or vomited or run away screaming.

  And the best part was, she’d get to do it again.

  When they pulled off the highway and entered her neighborhood, Tex flashed her a grin. “So. This is where I get to say I told you so, right?”

  She made a face. “Told me what?”

  “That they’d love you.”

  “Us,” she said. “They loved us.”

  “No way, darlin’. Ruined Soul never pulled in a crowd that big, or that loud. They were on…and it was you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Drop me off at the Wawa, will you? I need smokes.”

  “Sure.”

  He didn’t say anything else, but he wore a knowing little smile all the way to the convenience store. He pulled into a parking spot near the doors, threw the car in park and shifted to face her. “You want me to wait for you?”

  “Nah. I’m only a few blocks away. I could use the fresh air.”

  “You sure? It could be dangerous out there.”

  “I’m fine, counselor.”

  “Okay.” He held up a hand in surrender. “Just promise you’ll remember me when you’re rich and famous.”

  “Come on, Tex—”

  “I’m serious, Logan.” And at once, he did look serious—a wild-eyed prophet illuminated by the glare of a sodium lot light, spouting convenience store truths. A regular Wawa mystic. “You’ve got something special, and it’s too big for a souped-up cover band. You’re not going to be grubbing for bar gigs much longer.”

  Logan stared at him. “You’re kinda scaring me, you know.”

  “You shouldn’t be scared. You’re destined for greatness.” For a moment he retained an aura of certainty, like he’d been channeling Nostradamus. Then he laughed and shifted back to perpetual Tex. “Stay sane, Frost.”

  “I’m grounded as a corpse.” She climbed out, shut the door and watched Tex pull from the lot while she tried to banish the chill his little fortune-telling episode had produced. Finally, she crossed her arms and headed inside the store.

  She was the only customer. She bought a pack of lights and headed out, but decided not to smoke one just yet. She’d wait until she got home.

  The walk settled her nerves a little, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever come down from the massive high of tonight. For the first time since Gran died, she felt good. Like there might be something in her future other than poverty, desperation, and an early grave.

  Just not what Tex thought. She definitely wasn’t destined for greatness.

  As she neared her place, a whisper of anxiety shaded her fragile happiness. The feeling wasn’t anything specific—but it slowed her steps and drew an involuntary frown. For some reason, she didn’t want to go inside.

  She considered turning around and heading to the convenience store again, or calling Tex and asking him to come back. But that was ridiculous. She’d finally learned to stand on her own, and she wasn’t going back on that now. Besides, this was her home. There was nothing scary waiting inside for her, unless she counted the endearingly ugly stuffed cat.

  Resolute, she squared her shoulders and marched up the walk to the porch steps.

  She’d forgotten to turn the outside light on again. A pale, slanted square of light from the sidewalk street lamp formed a corridor to the door, but didn’t reach the corners of the porch. With no idea why that worried her, she went through her pockets for the door key, then took the steps fast and fumbled with the lock.

  Before she could get the door open, something shuffled and scraped in the shadows to her left.

  She jumped and held down a scream. It was probably nothing. The wind, maybe, or old wood creaking in the cooling night air. She’d just ignore it. Finally, she managed to insert the key in the lock.

  A brief moan rose from the darkness.

  Logan stumbled back toward the steps. “Who’s there?” she demanded, and then lied, “I have a gun. Stay put.”

  “Your majesty.”

  Even at a whisper, the too-familiar voice send ripples through her soul. She almost called him Fred, but managed to blurt, “Sid?”

  He didn’t answer—if it was actually him, the mystery man with the voice of her personal demon. Just when she decided to get her phone out and call 911, the voice came again.

  “Help me…”

  Oh, God. There was so much pain in that voice. Though her instincts demanded that she call for the cops anyway, she decided to find out what was wrong first. She moved cautiously for the door, where she’d left the key dangling from the lock. “I’m just going to turn the light on out here,” she said. “Don’t move.”

  No response. If he’d passed out, she was definitely calling.

  With shaking hands, she managed to get the door open, then reached in and flipped the switch. Light flooded the porch, and the figure in the far corner flinched away from the brightness. It was him—scraped, battered and bruised, huddled on the balls of his feet and hugging his knees.

  And completel
y naked.

  “Jesus. You’re tweaking, aren’t you?” She couldn’t imagine someone as banged up as him running around naked for any reason other than drugs. “I’ll get an ambulance here. You need to be in a hospital.”

  “No! Please…no hospital.” He raised his head slowly and focused those amazing green eyes on her. They were completely lucid—no trace of clouding or bloodshot. “They’ll find me there.”

  Her brow furrowed. “They?”

  “They’ll kill me.”

  Shit. “Is this a gang thing?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, what is it, then? Who’s they?”

  “I need to…hide. And rest. Please.”

  Dear Lord, she was actually considering bringing him inside. The last thing she needed was to take in some strung-out junkie on a bender. But he didn’t show any signs of using—and he was naked, so she would’ve seen track marks. And if there really was some mysterious “they” after him, her conscience wouldn’t let her turn him over to the authorities and maybe get him killed. Obviously, someone had worked him over hard.

  She let out a breath. “Don’t you have anybody you can go to? Family, friends…”

  “They are…far away.”

  “How far?”

  He made a sound that was almost a laugh. “Too far to walk.”

  You’re out of your mind, Frost. “Okay,” she heard herself say, as though someone else had seized control of her vocal cords. “You can crash on the couch. Just for tonight. In the morning, you’ll have to make arrangements with your friends to come and get you.”

  He shuddered. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.” She frowned at the open door, then looked back at him. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.”

  She watched him struggle to his feet. When he moved his arms, she averted her gaze from between his legs. He took three steps, and then dropped to his knees with a groan.

  Damn. She was going to have to touch him. Still pointedly not looking at what was hanging out, she moved to his side and crouched next to him. “Come on,” she said, slipping an arm around his waist and trying to ignore the sensation of all that hard muscle against her skin. “Up we go.”