Demon's Song Read online

The one who’d hidden the bag stepped forward. Protecting the female. How touching. He pointed to the red scorpion. “Demon,” he said. His finger moved to indicate the white, and though he trembled in place, his black gaze met Jaeryth’s eyes unblinking. “Angel.”

  Fury disproportionate to the ridiculous game coursed through him. Without thought, he allowed his wings to erupt and unfurl, his tail to fully extend. A chorus of fearful breaths stippled the air at the display.

  He pivoted and lashed out. The whip-crack of his tail carved a bloody gash across the chest of the Tempter who’d offered the explanation.

  The lesser demon dropped silently to his knees. Jaeryth loomed over him, glaring thunder at the rest. “You dare to bring the blood of the Host into Shade?” He drew back and pointed a taloned finger at the barrel. Both scorpions burst into flames. He curled his tail around the neck of the kneeling Tempter and hauled him to his feet. “It’s the square for you,” he said. “The rest of you, get to work. You know what awaits you if this happens again.”

  The Tempters fled the alley, save the one he still held, who offered no resistance to the choking grasp of his tail. He stared unseeing at the ruddy face for a moment—and someone tapped his back.

  He whirled, lips peeled back from pointed teeth, and met a familiar, smirking countenance.

  “Oh my. A demon. I’m so frightened. Jesus save me.” Kobol shook his head. “You might want to drop that, quartermaster. They aren’t so easy to replace.”

  He glanced at the Tempter, whose face was now dark purple and slack. Reluctantly, he released his grip and the Tempter collapsed with a gasp. “They play with angel blood,” he said. “I’m taking this one to the square.”

  “Ah, the scorpion game.” Kobol offered a one-shouldered shrug. “Not that you’d have noticed, Jaeryth, but that particular entertainment has been in Shade for weeks.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Only that you’ve been distracted.”

  His wings beat, and a scathing reply rose to his tongue. He held it back. Kobol ran the southwest quarter of the city and was the closest approximation of a friend he had. Demons made alliances, not friends—and even those were broken with alarming frequency. At the moment, Kobol was the only other demon who believed Logan was a Prophet. “I suppose I am guilty of that,” he said with a sigh. “She was released tonight, and she’s left the city. With a damned angel.”

  A slight frown turned Kobol’s mouth. He didn’t have to ask who she was. “Obsession leads to mistakes.”

  “Yes, and mistakes lead to punishment. Suffering and torment, a sentence in Tartarus, blah, blah, fire and blood. I know, Kobol. But she is—”

  “Not your concern any more.”

  “She’s mine!”

  “Let her go, Jaeryth.”

  The firm command in the voice pierced his anger, deflating it like a balloon. He met Kobol’s stern gaze. “I can’t.”

  “You no longer have a choice.” Some of the stiffness left the elder demon. He nodded at the Tempter, who was struggling to rise. “I’ll take him down for you,” he said. “I’m sure you have reports to write, or some such thing.”

  He almost refused. Kobol had gone a bit soft lately and would probably let the Tempter go with a warning. But at once, he wanted nothing more than to be alone in his office. To think. “Fine. Take him,” he said. “I’ll write reports. Or some such thing.”

  “Of course you will. And tomorrow, the sun will rise in Shade.” Something close to concern filled Kobol’s eyes and vanished. “Perhaps you should dress for the office?”

  He snorted, folded his wings and retracted tail and talons. The smoke-weave fabric of his clothing sealed itself across the tears left by their eruption. “Happy?”

  “My very existence is complete.” Kobol reached down and helped the weakened Tempter to his feet. “Come along, you naughty black soul. Hell frowns upon those who play with dead insects. Next time, think larger.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “When there are dead horses galloping about Shade, I’ll lay the blame at your feet, Kobol.”

  “Do that. I’ve always wanted to visit Tartarus.” Kobol offered a curt nod. “Keep your wits about you, my friend. I’d hate to see them spilled from your skull. Unless, of course, it’s me that does the spilling.”

  Jaeryth grinned. “Go on.”

  He watched them leave the alley and stood for a moment before heading again to his office. Yes, he would think carefully. There had to be a way. He could not let his prize escape.

  Logan Frost belonged to the damned. To him. And no angel would stand in his way.

  Especially one named Tex.

  Chapter 2

  Logan accepted the key from Tex and frowned at the red door in front of her. This was home now—the lower floor of a sagging, skinny two-family house, indistinguishable from its neighbors in both directions, except for the door. All the others were brown. Row houses lined the opposite side of the residential street, set so close you could barely squeeze a sheet of paper between them.

  But it was quiet. No sirens or gunshots, no blaring music, no sobbing screams through thin walls. Not even crickets.

  Kinda creepy, actually.

  Tex nodded at the door. “You gonna go in, or sleep on the porch?”

  “I’m going.” Holding back a sigh, she slid the key into the lock and turned. Miss Turner had assured her the place was completely furnished. A good thing, since the duffel bag Tex carried held all her possessions besides the clothes on her back and the cell phone in her pocket—three shirts, two pairs of jeans, a god-awful pants suit for the zillion job interviews her caseworker was setting her up with, and five notebooks full of shattered dreams in lyrical form. She should have burned them years ago.

  She pushed the door open and found a light switch. “Wow. Kittens.”

  “There’s kittens in there?”

  “I don’t think any of them are real. At least, I hope not.” She moved inside and cast a wry smile at the living room. Welcome to Crazy Cat Lady Central. They were everywhere. Kitten clock, kitten calendar, framed kitten pictures. Two lamps with resin kittens at the bases, playing with resin yarn. A glass shelf crowded with kitten figurines above a worn, carpet-covered column that could only be a scratching post. Kitten pillows on a couch patterned with kitty footprints. The chair and the curtains matched the couch. A canvas rag-stitched stuffed kitty with freakishly long legs and a vacant grin stretched along the top of an old, hulking tube television, hugging it as if to say mine.

  The faint, distinct odor of old cat urine stained the air. Maybe she would sleep on the porch after all.

  Tex slung an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I think they left ‘must love cats’ out of the ad for this place.”

  “Could be worse, I guess.” She walked to the television and picked up the stuffed cat. A thin film of dust coated the surface where the cat hadn’t been, and its absence left an elongated X on the brown wood-grain plastic. She carried it to the abandoned scratching post and deposited it on top. “That’s yours,” she said. “The TV’s mine.”

  Tex smirked. “Fighting with your roommate already?”

  “Actually, I kinda like him. I think I’ll name him—” Fred, she almost said, and shivered. The voice had been silent since they left Philly. She didn’t even want to think about him. He might view it as an invitation and come back. “Barney.”

  “Like the dinosaur?”

  “No. Like the caveman.” She patted Barney’s rough head and let out a breath. “Guess it’s time for the rest of the tour.”

  Tex followed her into the kitchen, where there were cats on the table, kitten magnets on the fridge and paw print dishes in the cabinets. The cabinet inventory also included three assorted cans of vegetables, two of chicken noodle soup and, shockingly, a dozen of cat food. At least the chairs were normal, though one of them bore marks that looked suspiciously like they’d been made with claws. The bathroom was wallpapered in kittens and featured a shaggy
cat toilet seat cover.

  “I’m sensing a theme here,” Logan said to the cat quilt in the bedroom.

  Tex eased past her and deposited the duffel on the bed. “Cute.”

  “Adorable.” She crossed to the dresser—thankfully kitten-free—and opened each of the three drawers. Empty. And she’d expected cat doilies or something. “Let me unpack. This might take a while.”

  “Want some help?”

  “Sure.” She unzipped the bag and yanked out the god-awful suit. Navy blue nylon. She looked like a military secretary from the fifties in this thing. Thank you, Miss Turner. “Stow that in the closet. Feel free to fold, spindle and mutilate. You can’t make it any worse.”

  Grinning, Tex snapped off a salute. He accepted the suit, assumed a solemn expression and paced slowly to the closet—humming ‘Taps’ as he walked.

  “Zip it, counselor.”

  “Sorry, Sarge.”

  She bit back a smile and returned to her pathetic little task. Organization didn’t take much thought. Shirts in the top drawer, jeans in the middle. That left the notebooks, a sad stack of rumpled, dog-eared pages bound in tattered covers and scribbled with meaningless ink. So small in the otherwise empty bag. Once they’d been bigger. Her whole life.

  But the so-called band she’d hooked up with in Philly after she left home for good had hooked her instead. They sometimes practiced, never played out. Talked about gigs, but never actually performed one. Then the guitarist, who was her boyfriend for a while before she stopped caring about everything, had introduced her to his good friend Crystal. Have a little ice with your drink, Logan. It makes the music better.

  Meth made everything better, because nothing mattered except the next hit. Especially failed singing careers that never even got started. It erased the past and consumed the future.

  “That looks pretty heavy.”

  The soft voice ripped her back to the present. She slammed the bag shut, flattened it fiercely and shoved it in the bottom drawer, notebooks and all. “There. Finished,” she said. “I’d invite you to stay for dinner, but I’m not sure how well the corn will go with the chicken hearts and liver feast.”

  “We’ll hit the grocery store tomorrow.” Tex sighed, leaned against a wall and folded his arms. “Listen, Frost. I know you just got out and you’re going to need time to settle in. But I have…well, call it a proposal.”

  “If you’re asking me out, forget it. You know too much about me.”

  He gave a sad smile. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Actually, this is probably worse.”

  “Want me to be your love slave?”

  “Yes. Would you?”

  She laughed. “Get to the point, counselor.”

  “That’s better.” He closed his eyes, as if he had to gather strength for what he wanted to say. “Here’s the thing. I’m in this band—”

  “No way.”

  He flinched like she’d kicked him. “You haven’t heard my proposal yet.”

  “Oh. You thought…” She shook her head and smirked. “I meant no way, you in a band. What do you play, the cowbell?”

  “Close enough. Drums.”

  She flashed him a curious look. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Can’t you guess?” He scowled. “The ‘real’ counselors thought talking to you about bands would be a trigger. I mention it, you melt down and try to smoke Drano.”

  “Oh, right. Them.” At the clinic, she’d had sessions with no less than eight people with strings of letters longer than the alphabet tacked onto their names, and she’d connected with precisely none of them. They talked textbook at her and waited for the next opportunity to use big words. She doubted any of them had ever seen a pipe or a needle, or been wasted beyond the annual fancy wine binge on New Years Eve. “Okay, you’re in a band. So?”

  Tex lowered his arms. “We do rock covers, mostly nineties through now. No metal or thrash. Bush, Seether, Three Doors Down, stuff like that. Play bars, a few festivals. We occasionally get paid. And a couple weeks ago, we…lost our singer.”

  She understood instantly what he was going to ask. A tangle of emotions clogged her gut and 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 at chapel services.”

  “Ugh.” Chapel had definitely not been her favorite part of rehab. They were all required to attend—two hours of listening to the droning, uninspired minister between singing the most depressing hymns anyone could dig up. She’d generally gone along with it, singing as far under her breath as she could manage, but the service always ended with ‘Amazing Grace.’ And she was never going to sing that song again. She refused to even move her lips to it.

  Finally, she sighed and bumped Tex’s hand, not quite 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, at Gran’s funeral, 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.

  That damned song had been Gran’s favorite. She’d sung it with her all the time—and she sang it at the funeral, though she’d barely been able to get the words out. That was when Angie decided she was using Gran’s death to show off…and tried to strangle her. She’d almost succeeded, too.

  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.