Demon's Song

by Sonya Bateman

  Demon’s Song

  Sonya Bateman

  Copyright © 2014 by Sonya Bateman

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author / publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  DEMON’S SONG

  Lead us into temptation.

  A demon's job is to corrupt as many souls as possible. But for Jaeryth, there's only one soul, one woman he's interested in: Logan Frost. His obsession with her causes his performance to suffer, so the Prince of Hell strips him of his demonic status and sends him to the mortal realm on one last mission -- turn Logan to Hell’s side, or kill her.

  An eternity of torture awaits him if he fails.

  Logan, a struggling singer and recovering meth addict fresh out of rehab, has no idea she's destined to change the world. She only wants to survive. But she's hallucinating black-eyed figures that no one else sees -- and when she meets Jaeryth, who can see them too, her instant attraction deepens. Still, something isn't right about this gorgeous stranger who's never tried chocolate and doesn't seem to know how pants work.

  As the legions of Hell fight harder to destroy Logan before her powerful influence spreads, Jaeryth is called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. Meanwhile, Logan faces an impossible choice: save millions of souls... or the one who matters to her most.

  NOTE: While not highly explicit, this story is a sensual romance and contains a dash of light sexual description.

  Chapter 1

  Friday night wasn’t exactly a strategic time to check out of rehab. The bars were open, and the dealers roamed the streets in full force. Perfect conditions for a relapse.

  Logan Frost lit a cigarette, half-hating herself for still relying on these things, and glanced over at the clinic entrance. No sign of Tex yet. She sighed and leaned against the brick building, eyes closed, wondering for the hundredth time if she was truly ready for this. Meth addicts never recovered. Everybody knew that.

  But she’d beaten it this time, and at the moment she’d rather cut her own fingers off than shoot up again. Cigarettes, on the other hand, weren’t going anywhere for a while. Of course they were terrible, and she really should quit. But she needed something to crave—and this was better than injecting potential death straight into her veins. At least lung cancer took its time.

  She dragged and blew smoke into the halo of light from the security lamp above. “Come on, Tex,” she muttered. The jitters hadn’t set in yet, but the longer she stood here, the greater the temptation would grow. This place was too close to her former neighborhood. A few blocks from here lay a pocket slum where the faucets might as well have dispensed drugs instead of water. Everybody used, everyone was into somebody else for money or favors. Too many times, those favors were repaid in blood.

  She could walk away, right now, and have herself a fix in twenty minutes. Flush six months of agonizing detox and reprogramming down the drain. That was why her caseworker—Miss Turner, if you please, never Mrs. or Miz—had set her up with an apartment in Pottstown. A quiet suburb, worlds away from Philly and its siren song of easy highs and shaking, sweat-drenched lows. She didn’t have a car, and her license was suspended anyway, so she couldn’t just drive into the city whenever the cravings struck.

  Stay.

  The voice in her head, familiar as the sun, sent her stomach into a slow roll. Him again. She didn’t know why her worst thoughts chose to announce themselves in a male voice, but she’d heard it for as long as she could remember. She’d even named it—Fred, the troublemaker, the golem of her subconscious. Her own personal demon. During rehab she’d enjoyed six months of blessed silence in the space between her ears. She thought he was gone for good.

  Stay. You belong here. All your friends miss you.

  “Shut it, Fred,” she said through clenched teeth. No one at the clinic knew about the voice. They already thought she was crazy enough, so she hadn’t told them. “I’m gone, out of here, road dust. My body just hasn’t caught up with me yet.”

  Just one more time. One last party. That won’t hurt, will it?

  Jesus. How many times had she thought that exact thing inside this place, even without Fred’s provocation? Just one more when I get out. One more high, then I’m done. The last blast. But her first “only once” had led to seven years of hell.

  Her hands were shaking.

  Please stay.

  Icy shivers trailed her spine. Fred had never said please before.

  Logan…

  Her own name was a lover’s caress, warm and delicious, gilded in longing. God, what she wouldn’t give for another fix. Sobriety sucked. A clear head let her think too much and remember how hard she’d failed. How far she’d fallen.

  “Go away.” She could only manage a trembling whisper, but it fueled her resolve. Never again. “I’m through,” she said in stronger tones. “Leave me alone, Fred. You can’t have me.”

  Something touched her arm, dry and feather-light. Like fingertips.

  She gasped and bolted erect. There was no one in sight, much less standing next to her. Fred was a voice in her head, damn it. But she’d felt the touch. Real as the smoldering cigarette between her fingers.

  Just as she was deciding whether to scream, run or both, the clinic door opened and a man in black denim strolled out. Tex—long, lanky, adorable. Currently her only friend in the world. Also currently on her shit list for leaving her out here alone so long.

  Don’t trust him.

  She didn’t bother telling Fred to shut up. Instead, she glared at Tex and said, “Interesting definition of a minute. The rest of the world counted fifteen of them.”

  “Sorry, Frost. Last-minute paperwork.”

  “Since when do volunteers have to fill out paperwork?”

  “Always. Reams of it.” He took the five stairs in two steps, grinned and scooped her into a hug. “You look fantastic.”

  “I look like an anorexic.” It was a step up from the skeletal freak she’d been when she came in, but she wouldn’t mention that. She’d turned twenty-six during her stint here, but she looked thirty on her best days and far older most of the time. At least her cheekbones had filled out. And somehow she’d managed to avoid meth-mouth. “Stop smothering me. Trying to smoke here.”

  He moved back, and his smile flattened. “How do you feel?”

  “Oh no you don’t, counselor. We’re outside the walls now. I forbid you to mention feelings.”

  He smirked. “Emotions?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fine. But if we’re redefining our relationship, you don’t get to call me counselor any more.”

  She smiled and relented. “I’m okay,” she said. “Really. And I’m ready to get out of here.”

  “Your chariot awaits.” He crooked an arm, and she slipped a hand through. “It’ll be a long drive,” he said. “Do you want to stop and get anything before we leave the city?”

  Yes. More drugs.

  The second Fred spoke in her head, Tex stiffened. His eyes narrowed and focused on an empty spot next to her. “We’d better hurry,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

  She looked from him to the place he’d stared at. Nothing there. But it sure as hell seemed like he’d reacted to the voice—and she could still feel the ghostly touch on her arm, a cold and fading brand. “Tex,” she said slowly. “Did you hear something just now?”

  He blinked, and his expression knit itself into bemused conce
rn. “No. You cracking up on me already, Frost?”

  “Not me. Solid as a rock.” Somehow she kept the words from trembling in sync with her gut, where a swarm of moths had taken up residence. If she couldn’t get rid of Fred, she’d never make it out here. She’d be back in the gutter—and there would be no second recovery. She didn’t know why, but she was positive if she started using again, this time she’d die.

  “Good.” Tex patted her hand and steered her toward the parking lot. “Let’s get you home.”

  She gave a weak nod. “Can’t wait.”

  “What’s wrong?” He stopped and stared at her. “You’re just about green. Are you coming down with something?”

  “No. It’s just…” Home. The last place she’d called that had been anything but. Before her seven-year run as Junkie Queen of Other People’s Couches, her family had consisted of a father who’d pretended she didn’t exist and a sister who’d cared when it was convenient for her. Which wasn’t often. Only Gran had kept her sane—so when Gran died, she’d run straight into the memory-destroying solace of drugs. Now that she was clean, she’d have to confront all that again, even if it was just to close that chapter of her life forever. “I’ll have to call Angie,” she finally said. “Tell her I’m out. In case she cares or something.” She hadn’t even told her sister she was going into rehab. Hadn’t spoken to her in over a year.

  Tex sucked in a breath. He knew most of the story, though there had been a few things she’d left out. Stuff she’d rather not remember. “Are you sure?” he said. “You don’t have to put yourself through that yet. You’re still healing.”

  “I’m sure. I need to get it over with.”

  “All right,” he said. “If you want me to be there, I will.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got to do this on my own.”

  “I understand.” He gave her a quick hug. “Ready to go?”

  She looked back at the clinic. Leaving this place was supposed to feel good. It had been hell inside, especially the first few months when she’d existed in a black pit of alternating rage and despair. In the beginning, no amount of antidepressants or counseling sessions or group therapy could stop the cravings, or the nightmares. Now she should’ve been happy, downright ecstatic to walk through those doors for the last time.

  But inside represented order, and safety. Anything could happen out here. The ghosts she’d struggled to banish—Dad, Angie, the endless string of junkies and pushers—were flesh and blood once more, just waiting for her to drop her guard and let them in again.

  “Frost?”

  She blinked. “Yeah,” she said, and gave Tex a smile she didn’t feel. “I’m ready.”

  Fresh reluctance filled her as they moved toward the parking lot, and she almost balked. The notion of a home was no longer comforting. Even if it was one she didn’t have to share with her so-called family. Once Tex left, she’d be alone with her addiction, the ravenous beast that knew she had the means to sate its desires if she chose.

  She’d be alone with Fred.

  * * * * *

  Jaeryth could do nothing but watch as years of careful, patient preparation walked away, climbed in a car, and rode out of his reach. Fury sizzled his blood. If anyone had been standing near enough, they probably would have caught a whiff of brimstone. Little Logan had made herself a friend and she had no idea what the so-called counselor really was.

  Of course, she didn’t know what she really was either. But she would soon. The signs were there.

  Tex. What a ridiculous name. Jaeryth bared his teeth at the retreating taillights and snarled under his breath. He’d almost had the woman completely turned before that bastard had interfered. She’d been away from his influence for six months, since he couldn’t get inside the damned clinic.

  No demon could. The angels had fortified the place too well.

  Logan looked good. Healthy. She had been physically decimated before she came here, not much more than skin stretched over bones, though even emaciation couldn’t erase her beauty. Now she was ethereal, and the shadows of hard living only served to enhance her attraction. He hadn’t been able to resist touching her.

  She’d felt his touch. Her awakening would not be far off now—and he had to bring her back before that happened, or she would be lost to them forever.

  He rode the night breeze away from the clinic, phasing through buildings and vehicles as he went. The unease his presence generated from nearby mortals failed to comfort him. He lingered a few moments near the center of the crown jewel of his dominion. Ten square blocks of corruption and madness, reeking of desperation, forever stained in blood. Here, even humans could see the edges of Shade oozing into their narrow plane of perception.

  Its denizens called it Crystaltown. He called it progress.

  It was here he’d found Logan Frost, who dreamed of singing and drowned her mortal pain in chemical happiness. He had seen her potential and nurtured her decline. But she’d left him for that thing who called himself Tex.

  The sweet discordant music of decay in Crystaltown did not improve his mood. He swept from the area, leaving a dazed crack whore and her grunting, clumsy customer trembling and impotent in his wake. Time to leave the mortal level for a while—with Logan gone, he just didn’t feel like spreading sin to the masses.

  Jaeryth controlled the corruption in the northeast quarter of Philadelphia. His district’s performance had far surpassed the other three, and he’d earned the respect of Hell itself. There had been mention of promotion, whispers of Samael’s interest in his work. The Prince of Hell was pleased with him. Huzzah. Not that he cared what Samael thought.

  Losing Logan wouldn’t disrupt his advancement, since he hadn’t been able to convince any of his superiors that she was a Prophet. The fools. But it mattered to him—and they’d change their tune when Logan manifested. He would be vindicated.

  However, if she remained on the side of the angels at her awakening, he might be blamed even though he’d warned them. And likely punished. The twisted politics of Hell made no allowances for reason.

  He stopped at the center of Old City, the epicenter of the demon population in Philadelphia. Sixty full demons, and five times that in lessers, patrolled the area—more than enough for full twenty-four-hour rotations of assaults on the city’s mortals. Of course, the demons all looked human enough here. There was always a slim chance that some perceptive mortal would catch a glimpse into Shade. If they walked about with wings and tails and talons, they would spread madness instead of sin. Lunatic humans were usually lost to both sides.

  He had an office of sorts nearby where he would be afforded privacy. But he would have to shift fully into Shade to reach it. Oh, bliss.

  With a bracing breath, he closed his eyes and let himself slip from the mortal plane. Heat consumed him, stifling and oppressive. The smell hit next—rancid decay, the stench of things burnt and dying. Shade, sweet Shade. A demon’s natural state of existence. How he loathed it. At the moment, though, he couldn’t concentrate enough to sustain himself further up.

  He opened his eyes and watched the rippling, ghostly suggestions of a few oblivious humans pass in front of him. The nearly clean sidewalk he’d been standing on a moment before was now cracked and blasted, stained black with untold fluids. Dried blood smeared the wall of the crumbled structure beside him in a path to the savaged carcass of a rat crumpled on the ground. Ahead, an eternal flame pot blazed, casting a constant haze of heat shimmer and flickering light over the settled darkness.

  This was a demon’s paradise. The rest of them reveled in the filth and stench of Shade. By rights, Jaeryth should have been comfortable, even happy, in this state. But he despised every foul corner, every breath of reeking air he was forced to draw.

  As always, his gaze was drawn irresistibly up, past the edges of Shade to the pristine towers and the great golden rays of Citadel that loomed over the human realm. Another aspect of the world mortals would not see. He caught sight of a winged figure streaking a
cross a chasm of light high above, and scowled. Damned angels. Too good to let their precious Citadel mingle with humanity. No wonder they were losing.

  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 crouching 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?”