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 Prophets 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 those paths. 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 Prophet 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 we choose to believe. But you must understand this, Jaeryth.” Something close to sorrow filled his eyes. “Love does not care who or what you are,” he said. “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.<
br />
Chapter 5
Logan made it to Tex’s car, but she 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, which was locked. 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 furious.”
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. Kitten’s got 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. And her only “public” singing experience had ended in a screaming match and a bruised throat, courtesy of her dear sister.
What if she hated performing? The thought made her sick all over again. Maybe she’d never had a chance, even if she’d gotten her shit together in the first place.
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
Cyana lit a cigarette 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 do 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 choruses.
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.
“Hot damn,” Reid drawled. “Where’ve you been all my life? Ain’t nothin’ sexier than an angel with a voice to match.”
“Keep your pants closed, Reid.” Tex stood with a broad smile that hadn’t quite made it into the warning. “You know what my vote is, so I guess that makes two. Blue?”
Cyana blinked, hesitated. And grinned. “You’re in.”
Her throat clenched and she had to close her eyes again. At least this time she wasn’t about to toss anything. Except maybe her last hopes.
* * * * *
Since it would have taken the better part of the night to ride the currents to Pottstown, and Jaeryth needed to waste as little time as possible, he was forced to resort to the train.
Of course, demon trains had very little in common with the mortal vehicles of the same name. They were constructed not of metal, but bone—blood-animated, twisted conglomerations of skeletal remains from both human and animal. There were no wheels or tracks. The bottom of the trains resembled a great, long misshapen spine, and the sides, curving ribs of various lengths and thickness. Nothing enclosed the tops. Lower-level demons conducted them, and damned souls served as tenders, fueling the trains not with coal, but their own blood.
Most souls considered themselves fortunate to serve their sentences between reincarnations on the trains. It was better than Hell.
The bone spar Jaeryth currently held onto while the train roared and rattled through the tunnel was thick and beveled, not yet yellowed with age. A few scraps of leathered muscle tissue still clung to it. Fortunately—depending on how one defined fortunate—he could not smell the rotting flesh through the overpowering stench of the Underground. This network of tunnels deep in Shade was the closest to Hell any being could get without actually descending into the nether realm.
When the train finally s
huddered to a stop beneath Pottstown, he dismounted quickly and stood on solid ground for a moment, until his bones stopped jarring against one another. He didn’t dare breathe deeply, not even in relief. At least the rancid air had moved on the train.
Every station in the Underground looked the same. There was the tunnel, carved through stone-hard earth with deep twin grooves cut into the floor to slot the spines of the trains. Eternal flame torches were mounted on the opposite wall, ten feet apart along the length of the station. Pitch-black holes marked the end of the light’s reach on either side. On the platform, supporting columns of blasted stone stretched from floor to shadow-dappled ceiling twelve feet above. Beyond them, a wall, more torches and a single set of earthen stairs leading to the surface.
No benches. No posters. The only sign was a carved wooden plaque on the center column that read Pottstown—in English, not some ancient demonic sigil or forgotten tongue. There was no need for pretension in the Underground.
At last, he felt stable enough to walk, if only to escape the stench. No others had dismounted here, and he’d seen no one he knew when he boarded at Philadelphia. It was a stroke of luck. The longer his whereabouts remained unknown, the better.
He waited until the train pulled out and the earth stopped shaking, then walked across the platform and mounted the stairs—which, in defiance of typical cool, hushed stairwells around the world, were as blazing hot as the station. He drew shallow sips of air and tried not to pant.
After nearly five minutes and no sign of an end to the climb, his clothing was soaked through and the taste of sulfur blanketed his mouth and throat. Hell’s flames. No wonder he never took the blasted train.
At last, the temperature seemed to cool a few degrees and approach the merely stifling heat of Shade. The stench lessened a bit, its overtones morphing from charcoal to rotting garbage. Ahead, the stairwell widened as it approached black wrought-iron gates. A handful of demons and Tempters milled about beyond them, passing through flickering suggestions of mortal shapes outside Shade. The surface.
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