PHAEDRA WELDON
Soul Cage
A Zoë Martinique Investigation
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 by Phaedra Weldon
Soul Cage
"…nine of the cages still exist in the world but in varying degrees…"
The voice seemed to be coming from above—as if speakers were somehow hidden in the ceiling of the hallway he walked along. The wallpaper was cracked, aged and torn in large, harsh gashes. He knew this place—he'd walked along this hall a very long time ago.
"…see the seriousness of events unfolding…it's my fault really. I never even considered the boy had magic. He's never used it…and now they say he'll be more powerful than me…"
What boy was magic? Who will he be more powerful than?
He should know those voices—but just couldn't remember. Joe continued walking, listening to the voice as he slowed his pace. And as he moved, what he used to call "the hallway nightmare" returned to him. A reoccurring dream of something that had, or hadn't, happened. In it, he was twelve…or was it eleven? It didn't matter…even as old as he was now, he was terrified.
This hall belonged to his grandmother. He'd found it by accident back then, trying to find a place to hide from his cousin—the one twice his size with the I.Q. of a gnat. Marty didn't know a lot about learning, but he did know how to bash heads.
And he hated Joe.
And Joe had found a door in a closet at the top of the stairs. He'd walked down a hallway just like this one, with a door at the other end—only the door was in darkness, the hallway lights not quite reaching it.
And as always, the end of the hallway slowly lit up to reveal details of that door. Wooden door, aged, with scuff marks around the bottom as if a dog had pawed at it often.
The voice faded as he looked down at the old-fashioned knob with the generic keyhole beneath it. The metal was warm as if a fire burned on the other side. It'd been the same in his dream.
Warm door. The call of his cousin's voice, taunting him, calling him Holler'n Halloran. Cause he was gonna make him yell.
The warmth warned him against stepping through, but the call of his cousin behind him frightened him more. Facing the unknown ahead of him, or that of certain pain behind him, his instinct for self-preservation screamed at him to go forward, joined by his insatiable curiosity.
He turned the knob…
In his dream there had always been darkness. But in this dream there was…
Nona's kitchen.
Looking back, he held the door to the basement. A musty smell came from below. It was dark and he shut it quickly.
Why am I in Nona's kitchen? The darkened windows told him it was night. A small light illuminated a spotless counter top. The emptiness of the house reminded him Nona was at the Society House.
But why am I here?
Joe moved out of the kitchen toward the tea shop. As he passed the counter, now empty of cakes and deserts, he noticed a light coming from the botanica. He knew Nathaniel, Nona's new helper, had bought a few night lights like the one in the kitchen so the house didn't appear completely dark.
He stepped past the counter and looked right. A light flickered on the other side of the mosaic, beaded curtains. Flickering, moving…had someone left a candle burning?
As he neared the curtain the hairs on his arms and neck rose as if he were walking into a magnetic field of some kind. He stopped with his nose touching a string of beads, the back of his mind telling him to run.
But he couldn't.
He had to know.
"Sometimes knowing a thing is having it consume you."
It was the same voice he'd heard in the hallway—but now it spoke from the other side of the curtain! He took in a deep breath, reached both hands up to part the beads as if parting a wave, and shoved them to either side.
No one was there in the living room, though a fire burned in the fireplace. Damnit…didn't Nathaniel know that was a bad idea?
With a sigh he stepped through the curtain and the mantel above the fire lit up as if a spotlight in the ceiling had been turned on.
There…on a pedestal in the center…sat that damn dragon statue. Nona had called it a Soul Cage. He called it cheap ceramic.
But…why was it here when he could also remember it in pieces on the floor of a basement of a house in north Georgia?
Eyes narrowed, he moved slowly to it. The fire wasn't warm. It didn't make a sound, either. No crack or pop of the wood, not even a hiss. In fact, as he stood in front of it, looking up at the ceramic statue, the fire went out. The only thing shining in the room was the dragon….
…it turned its head from the side and stared down at Joe.
His eyes widened. "What the—"
"Time to die," the thing said, just before it opened its maw and swallowed him whole—
"Sonofafuckingjesusbitchgodallmighty!" Joe sat up in bed, his hands flat against the sheets. His heart pounded against his chest. He reached up and wiped at his face, his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. After taking in a few gulps of air he turned and put his feet on the floor.
What the fucking hell was that? He sat forward, elbows on this knees and ran his hands through his hair a few times. Three more deep slow breaths before he stood and went to the bathroom. There he splashed cold water onto his face and avoided looking at the mirror.
He was pretty sure he'd see a haunted image staring back at him.
The same nightmare. For most of his childhood he'd suffered that damn hallway, never really knowing if were real, or his imagination. And now it was back? Three times now he'd woke up yelling something, unable to breathe, panicked and shaken. But this was the first time he'd been able to get to the botanica and see what the light was.
And why…why that damned ugly statue?
Why did it try and take his soul?
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck… He shut off the light and shuffled into the kitchen. There he turned on the one-cup coffee maker and grabbed a mug while the water heated up. Two packets of sweetener, milk from the fridge and the machine was ready. He chose a dark roast this time, popped the packet in and pushed the button.
As it finished he reached above the fridge and pulled down a bottle of Bailey's Irish Creme. When the coffee was done and stirred, he poured in a healthy amount and took the mug to the sliding glass door. Tim's rock sat on the desk next to the glass door, but the ghost didn't appear. Maybe he was sleeping. Either way, Joe wasn't much up for company.
The cold December air chilled the dampness on his body as he stepped out. He was dressed in a pair of loungers and no shirt. The coffee was good and burned his throat. And even though he shivered, the cold cleared his head.
He listened to the Atlanta night…the hiss of traffic nearby on Moreland Avenue. And beyond that was Ponce de Leon. But those weren't the sounds he was listening for.
Joe wanted to hear Zoë moving in her apartment above him. She was up a lot at night, out on her own terrace just above his. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes he joined her, or she him.
But not tonight. Not for a while.
Zoë'd gone to Canada with Daniel.
Always…with Daniel.
Or Dags.
But never with Joe. He knew something, like the voice said. He knew he loved her. And from the moment his lips touched hers, he'd never be able to love another. And that knowledge…well…
He sipped his coffee and leaned his elbows on the railing. "I know a thing…" He said to the voice he remembered in his dreams. The voice of his grandmother. "And it consumes me."
-1-
Jason Lawrence crossed his arms over his chest and rested his right elbow on his left forearm. He rubbed at his chin with his right index finger as his gaze narrowed on the small brunette in the room thro
ugh the door. He stood in a room full of filing cabinets and a computer on a small table. This was one of the new holding areas, where files brought from the Society of Ishmael's old location were scanned, catalogued and entered into a database. Industrial gray walls, a blue tiled floor, and the smell of off-the-shelf cleanser permeated the room.
Jason.
"Mmmm?"
What are you doing?
"I'm spying."
The voice in his head belonged to his First Born, Mephistopheles, an Abysmal Symbiont bonded with him over eighty years. Such a joining turned him into a Revenant. Some would call Mephistopheles a demon, and Jason, a vampire. And in a way, they were right. Spying? On Miss Orly?
"Mmmhmmm."
Another pause. Why?
"Because she keeps talking to her herself and I find that odd."
Soft laughter echoed inside his mind. Jason, might I remind you if anyone watched you and didn't know you had me inside of you, they would think you were talking to yourself as well.
"I know that. But she doesn't have a First Born."
True.
"So who is she talking to?" He nodded to the door and the woman behind. "Look at her. It's like she's fighting with someone."
Jason felt a slight shift of perspective as the First Born peered out through his eyes. You're right. Has she done that often?
"I don't know." Jason shrugged. "I can honestly say I've never paid much attention to her habits."
"Jason?"
He turned at the sound of his name in a voice that wasn't Mephistopheles. Dags McConnell stood just inside the door. Dressed in worn jeans, black tee shirt and leather jacket, he looked more like a college student than the most dangerous magical weapon alive today. His hair fell into his face and he had a day's stubble beneath slate gray eyes. "Dags—you okay? You look a little confused."
"Oh—yeah. I just," a crease formed between his eyebrows. "I thought I heard another voice in here."
"Oh?" Jason sent a silent question to Mephistopheles. You think he heard you?
I doubt it. He hasn't heard any of us since Zoë attacked Rhonda.
Two months ago Zoë, Geist, and Joe Halloran had gone into the Abysmal Plane to retrieve the last page of the Grimoire fused to Dags' soul. This page was needed so he could once again access the magic inside the old tome of spells. But when Azrael, the last of the First Borns, took Zoë's place inside of the Abysmal Throne and sent all of them back with the page, Rhonda had slipped in her own page instead, replacing the one that held all of Dags' memories of his love for Zoë.
It was as if the two had never been in love. At least for Dags. But for Zoë, it was a heartbreak she didn't deserve. The man she fought for was gone. The man in his place couldn't remember her. His memories of his lover were now sealed in the Throne with Azrael, aka, TC.
Dags stepped forward. "There—I heard it again."
Jason pursed his lips. "What did it sound like?"
"Well…it was deep and it has an accent. Sounded a bit like Stephen Fry."
Darren…he's made that comparison before. You think he can hear me?
Jason watched Dags' expression brighten. Kid probably thought he was hearing things—but now he was justified. "That's him. I heard him again." He looked around the room. "Yes, yes I can hear you." He looked at Jason. "And you can hear him too because he said your name."
"Yes." Jason neared Dags. This was the closest he'd dared come to the Guardian since he'd lost his memories of Zoë. It wasn't because he was afraid of Dags, or the power he possessed in the Grimoire, including a spell that would completely annihilate a Revenant, but because he and Mephistopheles sometimes preferred to just watch and learn.
And Rhonda annoyed him. She also annoyed Mephistopheles, but for different reasons. Dags smelled of car oil and cleanser. Apparently he'd been in the Society's garage again working on his motorcycle. "You're hearing my First Born."
Dags' eyes widened. "I am? That's good isn't it? I mean…" his expression fell much like a child's would when told what they thought was a good deed was actually causing a problem. "I know I used it be able to talk to them. I could hear all of them."
Yes. But if he remembered that, then he should have recognized Mephistopheles' voice. Jason didn't voice this but he was sure his First Born was thinking the same thing. "Dags…you remember talking to them?"
He shook his head. "No. I can't." Dags sighed and rubbed at his face. "But that's what people have told me. Seems I can't remember a lot of things. And what sucks is it's just getting worse."
What do you mean?
"I mean," and he held out his arms. "It's happening a lot. Someone says something and is weirded out because I have no recollection of it. Rhonda keeps reassuring me that they're the ones remembering it wrong. But see, I pay attention, because so few people actually talk to me. So when they do talk to me or make eye-contact, I savor every moment. It's like…being alone in a sea of people. Or being invisible."
"What do you mean?" Jason echoed Mephistopheles.
"You both sound very similar sometimes." Dags moved past him into the room and looked through the door where Rhonda had been standing minutes before. "It's hard for me to get people to talk to me. After the Grimoire procedure, that's what Rhonda calls it, I found myself alone a lot. Or with Rhonda. I tried talking to Daniel, but he won't even look at me. And if hate was something tangible, he's going to give birth to it. Even Azrael has sort of left me out of things. Rhonda's the only one that'll even work with me."
Jason had been at the Society House off and on over the past week, and he'd been listening. That and the First Borns gossiped in their own way. He'd heard a few things himself. "Dags—I think anyone would work with you. It's just that no one is allowed to work with you."
He looked puzzled. "Rhonda said everyone's afraid of me."
More afraid of Miss Orly.
"What did he mean by that?"
If Jason could have kicked his First Born he would. But there was no tangent essence to him. Just a feeling. "Don't worry about that for now, Dags. What I am picking up is a need to talk—"
She's coming.
"—somewhere else. Would you like to go to my place?"
"Really? God I'd love to get out of this house and on my own. I mean…I love Rhonda but I need other contact."
She's going to stop you.
No she's not. Is another Revenant nearby?
A pause. Yes. Morgan is here. Morgan was Manuel's First Born.
Then have Manuel run interference.
Manuel hates her.
Does Morgan?
Morgan doesn't care.
Please?
Fine.
Jason gestured for Dags to come with him. He maneuvered through the Society's new labyrinth, depending on Morgan/Manuel to waylay Rhonda. Jason as aware she would find any way possible to prevent Dags from going anywhere with him. Nona had already informed him Rhonda thought of Jason and Mephistopheles as a lose cannon. A pair that couldn't be controlled. Truth was, they were a pair she couldn't control.
Status? He was curious of Manuel was having success with Rhonda.
They're arguing. Manuel brought up his last assignment with legitimate concerns. Apparently he was partnered with a green member who couldn't identify a Power, much less kill one. She nearly died and he wants to be partnered with Zoë again.
Gesturing to the stairs leading to the front door, Jason glanced behind him even though he knew Rhonda was busy. He didn't want a scene. Didn't need one. He wasn't afraid of her magic—he had some tricks of his own. But what he worried about most was the Grimoire and the fact no one had seen Alice or Maureen at all since then. A Guardian needed their Familiars. Jason didn't know if there were consequences to not having them. Or what Rhonda had done to them.
Where is Zoë now?
She and Daniel finally left for Canada yesterday for a break. I'm sure Rhonda had a lot to do with putting the two of them together.
Jason was positive she had everything to do with
getting Zoë away from Dags. Once they made it through the front door, his Mercedes was parked in a handicap spot—of which he offered to pay extra for if needed—and he was more than happy to bustle Dags inside. Once in the driver's seat, he wasted no time in pulling out of the parking lot. He continued glancing in the rear view mirror as he moved down the driveway. But for what? Did he expect to see Rhonda flying out of the House at him on a broom or a horned devil?
Charming, but not accurate. Mephistopheles sounded tired. She and Manuel are fully engaged. It might be some time before she realizes Dags isn't in the house.
Jason pushed the car into fifth gear as they merged into traffic on 85 South. Just let me know when she does discover it. She'll be determined to find him.
I will. She can track him through GPS.
"Dags," he said as he pushed the car visor down. "Turn off your phone. We don't want to be disturbed."
-2-
Rhonda Orly, former head of the Society of Ishmael, the community started by her Uncle and Zoë Martinique's great-great uncle, glared at the damned, irritating little prick in front of her. She didn't care if he was a Revenant. She didn't care if he housed inside of him one of the oldest of the First Born. She didn't care that he was a thousand times stronger than her.
She carried the knowledge and confidence in herself that she possessed an arsenal of spells that could be used to defend herself in an instant.
Really? I don't remember you using any of that magic on Zoë when she damned near killed you. No… you lay there choking and grasping for air, a weak kitten at her feet.
Damn she hated that voice. Hated it because it was right. And hated it because she had no idea where it came from. Hated it because….because it reminded her how powerless she really was.
Powerless to have anything she wanted.
Before she met Dags McConnell that fateful Saturday morning, Rhonda believed she had everything she could possibly want. She had money, though she rarely touched it. She had a career of a sorts—one that she enjoyed. She had friends—and a wonderful magical mentor in Nona Martinique.
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