“Maybe I’d like to.” The other woman smiled. “Let’s get back to practice. And I suppose we can cut Glycerine from the set, if you guys are so bored with it.” She leaned over and stuck her tongue out at Reid. “So, Logan. Got any thoughts on what we should replace it with?”
Some of the weight lifted from her with the question. Blue wanted her input. It made her ridiculously happy. She thought a minute, trying to come up with something good that wasn’t already on the list. “How about ‘No Rain’?”
“Um. Not sure I know that one.”
“Sure you do, Blue.” Reid walked over, grabbed his guitar and plucked out the opening notes of the song—a bright, happy little riff. “Blind Melon, one-hit wonder. The bee girl video.” He grinned. “I love that tune.”
“Oh, right!” A smile spread on the bassist’s face. “Haven’t heard that in forever. I always forget about it. Why haven’t we put it on before?”
“So it’s good?” Logan said.
“Hell, yes. Let’s give it a run.”
“I’m in,” Tex said. “At least I get to play now.”
As Logan moved back to her spot, Tex came over and gave her a quick squeeze. “I’m proud of you, Frost. That took some balls.”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
It was a small hurdle in an endless row, and they got bigger down the line. But she’d take them one at a time. Maybe some day, they’d get easier to clear.
* * * * *
When Jaeryth followed Logan from her house, intending to ride the breeze from the blasted angel’s car and watch her with this band, he felt oddly proud. She had worn his gift. He hoped the angel noticed and realized it had been created by a demon’s hand. He hoped it sickened and infuriated the righteous bastard attempting to steal his Prophet.
He got as far as the sidewalk before a cloud of brimstone whirled into existence and Ronwe’s brutish enforcers materialized, blocking his path.
“There you are, quartermaster.” Lazul grabbed his arm, and Kyr copied his action to snag the other one. “You’re cordially invited to a chat with Ronwe. Now.”
He tried to pull away, but realized it was useless. “I have no time to talk,” he said coldly.
“Isn’t he adorable, Kyr?” Lazul feigned a laugh. “He speaks as though he has a choice.”
Before he could react further, they phased with him directly down, into the earth, through suffocating dirt and rock. The descent seemed endless. At last, they broke into open space—and he found himself in Ronwe’s office, facing a furious, red-eyed demon.
“Bind him,” Ronwe said.
The lieutenants forced him to his knees. He hadn’t seen the shackles bolted to the floor until they were clapped around his wrists.
He lifted his head to glare and tried to remain calm despite his pounding heart. This was not good. “Really, Ronwe. This isn’t necessary.”
“Oh, I think it is.” He paced around the desk, shifting into full demon form as he walked, and stopped in front of him. “You do know why you’re here. Don’t you, Jaeryth?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Well, then. Let me spell it out for you.” Ronwe wrapped his tail around his neck and squeezed, using the tip to force his chin up. “While you’ve been off cavorting with your damned obsession, your own district has become infested with Shepherds.”
“Spare me your theatrics,” he wheezed. “Two Shepherds is hardly an infestation.”
“Two!” The tail clenched harder. “The northeast quarter is crawling with those vermin. The light of Citadel has nearly reached the borders of Crystaltown!”
Impossible. His hold could not have crumbled so fast. The Tempters were not doing their jobs. That had to be it. He moved to pull the crushing tail from his throat and defend himself, forgetting that his wrists were bound. The chains clanked harshly and stopped him short.
Ronwe relaxed the hold just enough to allow him a ragged breath, and he rasped, “I’ll take care of them.”
“Oh, you will. Excellent. Then it seems our problem is solved.” The tail slid free, and Ronwe moved a few steps away. “But I do wonder, Jaeryth, how you’ll find the time to do your job…when you’re so busy manifesting as a mortal in front of human witnesses. Which, as I recall, does not particularly please Samael.”
“Lies!” He lunged against the restraints. A sliver of surprise penetrated him as he felt them give, just a touch. “There were no witnesses.”
“Have you never heard of windows?” Ronwe shook his head. “One of my Tempters heard a mortal woman raving about a man appearing from thin air in an alley below her apartment, whose clothing changed magically. Sound familiar?”
He glared, though a tremor of apprehension passed through him. Perhaps he hadn’t been as careful as he could have. His eagerness to reach Logan may have compromised his vigilance. “One mad human cannot shift the balance,” he said at last. “These charges of yours are unfounded.”
“That was not the only one!” Ronwe’s eyes burned crimson. “No less than four mortals watched you shift into their plane. And they have talked to others. Some believe they have witnessed an angel. The belief spreads, a plague of hope and wonder blighting my perfect corruption. And as if that were not enough.” He paused and let out a snarl. “This obsession of yours, this woman. She radiates goodwill like a torch—and your contact with her has increased her happiness.”
He bristled. “She is a Prophet. And I will have her turned.”
“You will not.” A skeletal grin spread on Ronwe’s face like a cancer. “She is my problem now, and I will deal with her. I will influence a mortal to kill this woman. And she will plague my city no more.”
Rage did not creep over him. It swallowed him whole, reflexively pushing him into full demon state. With an earth-shaking roar, he ripped the bolted ends of the manacles from the floor and attacked. Anything that moved, he struck with fists, feet, talons and tail. He barely noticed the white-hot lance of agony that pierced his stomach—until he found that he could not move.
He had been staked to the ground, a long iron rod run through his middle and plunged deep into the floor. Blood poured from the exit wound at his back, draining his anger-fueled strength along with it. His wings folded and sank into his back, his tail and talons retracted.
At least he had damaged them in return. Not one of the others had escaped the scuffle unscathed. Ronwe sustained the greatest damage—his impeccable suit shredded, bloodied furrows carved across his chest, his arms, both sides of his face. Even the hulking Kyr bore the beginnings of a black eye.
Jaeryth gave a weak laugh. “Cowards,” he said. “Face me alone, and see who winds up flat on his back.”
Beneath him, the ground warmed rapidly and climbed to searing heat. The rock-hard dirt floor began to bubble, as though it were boiling water. Cracks rent the surface. Smoke rose from the fissures and curled around his body in wispy tendrils that thickened, solidified, and bound him tight.
Ronwe loomed over him. “You have an appointment with Samael,” he said. “Go to Hell, Jaeryth.”
An unseen force yanked his body down through blood-saturated earth, into blackness.
Chapter 9
The Tuesday morning home visit from her caseworker took place at the kitchen table, where every trace of cat had been replaced or removed. It hadn’t gone too badly—at least until now.
Miss Turner leaned back, folded her arms across her ample chest, and shot lightning bolts from her eyes. “A band.” In her mouth, band sounded just like depraved orgy of pill-popping, Satan-worshipping meatbags.
It was a milder reaction than Logan had expected.
“Hey, they’re paying me.” She fidgeted with the ring she’d picked up yesterday, an unadorned silver triple band. “So it’s a job, right?” Wrong in three, two…
“Wrong.”
Called it. “Come on, Miss Turner. They’re professionals. They’ve been gigging regularly for two years.” That probably didn’t help her out any, judging from the so
-what lift of the caseworker’s eyebrow. “Besides, I won’t be able to get myself in trouble. Tex will be there all the time.”
“Mr. Hanson is skating very close to the line with you.”
“Hanson?” She couldn’t help a laugh. For some reason she’d never known his last name. He was just Tex. The idea that he shared a name with an infamously awful pop band would provide her with fodder for weeks. That was probably why he hadn’t told her.
The caseworker’s thunderous expression eased into the closest that she could get to concern. “Miss Frost, try to stand in my shoes for a minute.”
She resisted making a joke about trying to stand in size-ten shitkickers. Miss Turner would not be amused. “Okay. What am I getting from your shoes?”
Miss Turner sighed deeply. “You’ve been out of the clinic’s care for exactly four days. In that time, you’ve developed a social relationship with a counselor, botched a job interview, and had contact with a negative influence. And now you’re telling me that you’re going to a nightclub, in the middle of the city you’re supposed to avoid, to perform in a rock band.” Thunder-brows returned in full force. “You are a high-risk addict, Miss Frost, and this band…thing is too dangerous for you. I can’t condone this course of action.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’re still under the probationary terms of release from the clinic. It means if you go through with this, I’ll consider you in violation of those terms and you will be placed back in rehabilitation.”
At first she was too angry to speak. Damn it, she was working her ass off to stay clean, to improve herself and take charge of her life. She’d fought tremors, night sweats, massive hallucinations that should’ve driven her screaming into a straitjacket somewhere. She’d clawed her way out of a broken life and earned the chance to try for her dreams. She opened her mouth to let all that out, and instead blurted, “I cooked last night.”
Miss Turner stared at her. “Excuse me?”
“Dinner. I cooked dinner.” She breathed carefully and tried to organize her thoughts. “That doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it is to me. I haven’t made a meal since high school.”
“And your point is?”
“I’m responsible for myself. I take that seriously.” A cigarette would’ve been great for her nerves, but lighting up right now would be the ultimate bonehead move. “Singing’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted for me. Meth fucked up my chance at it last time. I know that. And I’m not going to let it happen again.”
The eyebrows went up further. She scrambled to think of something else, some totally convincing iron-clad guarantee that she had this under control. Then Miss Turner said, “Maybe I should place you in politics instead of service.”
She fought a smile. “Does that mean I can go?”
“It means I’m downgrading my opinion.” The caseworker eased the chair back, stood and gathered her files from the table. “I’ll agree conditionally, with strong reservations. The conditions are that you’ll submit a urine sample for testing immediately and Mr. Hanson will file a report, which will be taken with several large grains of salt. And if anything goes wrong, Miss Frost, you won’t have a repeat performance. You will not pass go or collect two hundred dollars. Understand?”
Logan shot to her feet and threw her arms impulsively around the imposing woman, who stiffened on contact. “Thank you.”
“I don’t hug.”
“Yeah, I gathered.” She couldn’t hold back a grin any longer. “So you do have a heart somewhere under all that stone.”
“Actually, I keep it in my fridge at home.” Something that resembled a smile graced her wide mouth. “I suppose you’re not a complete wash. Just make sure you stay that way. We’ve already got someone in your bed at the clinic. Someone you know, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Deenie.” A whisper of relief stole through her. The girl hadn’t run. “How is she?”
Miss Turner imitated a shrug. “As well as any of them in the beginning. Sleepless and struggling. But she’s fairly determined.”
“What about the baby?”
“Miss Frost. You know I can’t give out confidential information about our patients.” The caseworker’s gaze softened a little. “She’ll make it, thanks to you. Now stop asking questions.”
She nodded. “It’s a deal.”
After she saw Miss Turner out, Logan dropped onto the couch and lit a smoke. One more hurdle behind her. She’d convinced the band, and her caseworker, that she could handle this.
Now she just had to convince herself.
* * * * *
By noon, Logan decided a celebratory chocolate something was in order. She didn’t have anything around the house, so she headed out to her favorite Wawa.
Well, her only Wawa. Being within walking distance automatically put it in the favorite category.
Lunchtime meant big crowds for this place. When she entered the store, there were at least ten people inside. She found herself checking out every one of them for all-black clothes and eyes to match, in case it was nine people and a hallucination. But they all looked normal enough. One even seemed familiar—a guy in a navy blue tracksuit, medium height, stocky build, with a faint crooked scar under his left eye. She’d seen him around before. Probably at this store a few times.
Tracksuit Guy caught her looking. He smiled and offered a brief wave. Must’ve noticed her around too.
Shrugging, she waved back and turned, intending to head for the snack aisle. As she did, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was probably Tex, or maybe Miss Turner with another thrilling exercise in humiliation, otherwise known as a job interview, to put on her schedule. She pulled the phone out and glanced at the screen. The ID said Cell Phone. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was a Philly area code. Maybe Velma at Greenleaf had decided she liked ex-junkies after all.
She flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Hey. Why aren’t you home?”
It was a woman’s voice, familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. And she didn’t think she knew anyone who’d be this casual. “I give up,” she said. “Who are you?”
“Oh. Um, it’s me. Blue.”
A tentative smile crept up on her. “Thank God. Because for a minute there, I thought you were a stalker. How do you know I’m not home?”
Blue laughed. “Because I’m at your house, and you’re not.”
“You got me there.” Her initial reaction was to be suspicious. This was one of the last people she’d expect to drop by for a visit. “So…what’s up?”
“I was in the neighborhood.” She paused. “All right, I’m lying. I wanted to—where are you, anyway?”
“I’m at the Wawa, five blocks down.”
“Cool. I know where that is. Be right there, okay?”
Before she could answer, Blue hung up.
Shaking her head, she pocketed the phone and headed out to the parking lot. The bassist had sounded nervous as hell. She couldn’t imagine why. From what she’d seen of Blue, the woman had more balls than most of the guys she knew. Well, whatever this was, it had to have something to do with the band.
Maybe she was being fired.
Once the idea occurred, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. They could’ve found someone better, easy. Maybe another band they knew had broken up, and they were taking the opportunity to grab an experienced performer. Hell, their ex-vocalist might’ve decided the Peace Corps wasn’t for him and come back.
And they would’ve sent Blue to tell her, so Tex could still be the apologetic, consoling friend after the fact.
By the time Blue’s maroon sedan swung into the lot, she’d convinced herself bad news was on the way and tried to prepare herself for the blow. It wasn’t working. Her nerves twinged and sizzled, and her stomach had soured to the point of nausea.
Blue pulled into the space in front of the bench she’d been sitting on, then rolled the driver’s side window down and beckoned wit
h a wave.
She went like a convict approaching the electric chair.
“Hey.” Blue gave her a sheepish smile. “You wanna go for a ride with me?”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
She almost refused. If she was going to be fired, she’d rather get it over with here, so she could go straight home and lick her wounds. But the whole surprise thing cast some doubt on the firing theory she’d developed. Blue was cranky and opinionated, but the woman didn’t strike her as cruel. Surprise, you’re fired just wasn’t her style. “Okay,” she said slowly. “As long as there won’t be anything jumping out of a cake. That stuff scares the crap out of me.”
The smile grew. “No cake. Promise.”
She nodded, circled the car and climbed into the passenger side. “I can smoke, right?”
“Go for it.”
While she lit up, Blue drove out of the lot and headed east, away from her house. “So, you’re probably really confused right now.”
“Nope.” Logan pushed the window switch and lowered her side a few inches to let the smoke out. “And by nope, I mean yes. Extremely. But hey, I’ll go with it.”
The other woman grimaced. “I’m not very good at this.”
“Confusing people?”
“Being friends.”
She stared at Blue. Relief wiped everything out for a minute, and then she laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Friends,” she said. “This is how you make friends.”
“See what I mean?”
“Damn. I’m no good at this, either.” She stared at the floor, flashing a crooked smile. “Maybe we should fill out friendship applications or something.”
The dour look on Blue’s face eased toward a grin. “And exchange secret decoder rings.”
“Have a trial slumber party.”
“Hire friend stunt doubles.”
“Get matching temporary tattoos.”
Laughter bubbled from Blue’s lips. “I like you,” she said. “Maybe spunk isn’t such a bad thing after all.”
“As long as it’s fresh.” Most of the remaining tension dissipated and she smiled. “I like you too. I’m glad we’re auditioning for being friends.”
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