Authors: S W Vaughn
MySoultoSave (2 page)
Forcing thoughts of angels aside, particularly black-clad
prophet-stealing ones, he rounded a corner into an alley leading to his office.
There, a handful of Tempter demons crouched around a barrel threw sullen gazes
at him and quickly lowered their glistening black eyes. One of them snatched something
from the top of the barrel and thrust it behind his back with a faint flurry of
clicking.
He stopped. Glared at them. “What is that?”
The Tempter nearest him bowed. “It is nothing, Master
Jaeryth,” she said. “Only a game.”
“A game.” His lip curled in a reflexive sneer. “Show me.”
“We were just leaving for our shift—”
“Show the game, or spend tonight nailed in the square.”
A collective shudder rippled through the Tempters. The one
who’d made the grab extended an arm and dropped a canvas bag on the wooden
surface of the barrel. Insectile chittering sounded from within. The material
shivered and lumped, and something crawled from the opening. A bone-white
scorpion, moving in ungraceful jerks. It stumbled to the edge of the barrel.
Another scorpion, this one the dull red of dried blood, followed with the same
abnormal motions. Both assumed a fighting stance—pincers raised, tails curled
in threatening arcs—and faced each other, waiting for a command.
Jaeryth stared at the creatures. Their shells were withered
and cracked. Drizzles of spent fluid dried along their segmented bodies. The
white one had a broken leg. There was only one explanation for their appearance
and awkward movements. “They’re dead.”
“Er. Yes, Master Jaeryth,” the female Tempter stammered.
“They’re blood animated.”
“Whose blood?”
Silence answered him.
He extended his talons and slashed at the female, slicing
the front of her garment to ribbons. She cringed back from him. “It’s your
flesh next time,” he snarled. “Whose blood?”
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 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 Two
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 alive.” 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 the 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. 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 as if 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 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
and modern. 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.”