Darkstone

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “You know he’s not going to stop.” The sheets and blanket moved as she stretched. A hand snaked across Joram’s naked waist. “He’s going to blow up your phone.”

  Joram raised her arm to peer at her friend, Chloe Armstrong. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

  Chloe gave her a sleepy smile. “Answer the phone. For me?” Her expression held an earnest appeal while also seeming to brook no argument.

  Grumbling, Joram rolled back toward the phone, bypassing the old Zippo lighter that she carried everywhere. Chloe was right, Anders wouldn’t stop calling until he got through even if it took hours. If Joram wanted to get any sleep, she’d have to find out what the hell he wanted. Behind her, Chloe stroked her back and shoulder.

  In keeping with the theme, the photo on Joram’s phone was that of a devil. Black horns sprouted from red skin, protruding to ring the evil face. Yellow eyes with cat-slit pupils glared at her as she picked up the call. “Yeah?”

  “It’s time.”

  Joram propped herself on one elbow, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The thought of sleep fled as her dulled thoughts began to engage. A dozen years had passed since she’d made her deal with this devil, twelve years of music lessons, recording studios and live performances. Even with Anders’s limitless resources, the struggle had been ongoing. The past year had been the best so far in regard to Invocation’s growing popularity, but the band still hadn’t reached that “overnight success” phase. “Did you talk to Ivan?” she asked, referring to the stage manager Anders had hired.

  “Yes. You’re throwing a farewell concert at the Indigo next week.”

  Farewell concert? One of the first stages Invocation had ever played on was at the Indigo club in downtown Long Beach. When people thought of the band, the club always followed in their minds. “Where are we going?”

  “To ClubPixel in LA.”

  Joram’s mouth dropped open. ClubPixel was five times the size of the Indigo. Granted, Invocation packed the Indigo to the rafters more often than not these days, but she’d had no idea the band’s popularity had risen so high. Chloe’s touch became less a comfort and more a distraction as Joram sat up, swinging her feet out of bed. She picked up her dented lighter, absently flicking the lid up and down in lieu of fidgeting. “You’re kidding.”

  The sound of Anders’s chuckle filled her ear. “Ivan has you set up for a mini tour of the area clubs. You’ll be playing from LA to San Diego and all points between.” He paused. “It’s time to begin playing your special songs.”

  The special songs, the ones she’d written with his input. The songs he refused to allow her to play in public. She’d never understood why he’d selected certain pieces of her music to alter. It wasn’t as if he’d spent a lot of time at band practice or in the studio. He had to be a musician, though; his tweaks always improved the finished product, seeming to bring out the best of everything in the material. After years of experience, Joram had begun picking up the adjustments, integrating them into the music beforehand, always with excellent results. It was Joram’s private opinion that Anders’s special songs might open the mythical door he always prattled about, but hers would be the ones for which the band would forever be known, their steps to worldwide fame.

  She looked at the notepad and pen on the nightstand, tools she kept close at hand when lyrics and music became too demanding to allow her sleep. Dropping the lighter, she picked them up, awkwardly cradling the cell at her ear with one shoulder. “When do we release them and in what order?” She jotted down his instructions, ignoring Chloe climbing from bed to leave the room, focused only on the exultation of finally being allowed off the leash Anders had held for so long.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Naomi, you have to come!”

  Firmly ensconced in the apartment’s only armchair, Naomi shook her head. “No, what I have to do is get this paper written. It’s due in two days.” She shook a pad of paper at her roommate, stopping abruptly when the heavy research book began to slip from her lap. Grabbing at the tome, she ignored the pout that graced Rebecca Vance’s triangular face.

  Rebecca’s hairstyle was more riotous curls than Afro, and she swept it back with both hands before settling her hands on her hips, glaring. “You need to get out more, girl. Life’s too short for this bullshit.” She waved in Naomi’s vicinity, indicating the stack of books on the floor, a backpack with more notebooks peeking out of it and a spray of papers at her feet. “I applaud your grit and determination, I really do, but you haven’t left the house for anything but classes and food for weeks!”

  Naomi conceded the point, surveying the mess. Lack of responsibility wasn’t one of her failings, however. Unlike Rebecca, Naomi didn’t receive a scholarship or financial aid funds. Her mother footed the outrageous bill, and the least Naomi could do was utilize every educational opportunity upon which she could lay her hands. “It’s graduate school, not grade school.”

  Rebecca thrust her left hip to the side. Her neck tilted sideways, she cocked her head and waggled a finger at Naomi. “Don’t test me, girl.”

  If a company existed that packaged and processed attitude, Naomi knew Rebecca would own majority stock. An impish grin crossed her lips. “Why? Do you need to study too?” The exasperation that met her jibe made her laugh. “Come on, Rebecca! I don’t even like the same music you do. And I really have to finish this paper.”

  “I can’t help it if you European hillbillies don’t have good taste in music,” Rebecca shot back. “Try as I might to educate you, you always bow out. Your mama should be ashamed, letting you only listen to opera and classical. Ashamed.” She stood tall, crossing her arms over her chest. “Normally I’d let you beg off, but not today. Today you trot your ass to your room, change into some comfortable shoes and we’re going out!”

  “Rebecca…” she whined.

  “Naomi…” came the wheedling response.

  Chuckling, Naomi slumped in the armchair. It had been a while since she’d gone out with Rebecca. When was the last time? She couldn’t remember, which meant it had probably been several months. Staring at her book, she weighed the idea of having a beer against obstinate refusal. The paper wasn’t that tough an assignment; she could probably get it done by tomorrow afternoon if she didn’t stay out too long. And considering Rebecca’s choice of music, I’ll be back in a flash. She tossed the notepad onto the floor with an exaggerated groan. “Oh, all right! Jeez! You’re such a pest.”

  A smile lit Rebecca’s face, transforming generally pretty features into deep beauty. “Really? You’re not yanking my chain?”

  Naomi stood, laying the book in her chair. “No, you’re right. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything but schoolwork.”

  Rebecca burbled with joy, looping her arm through Naomi’s. “Trust me! You’ll love this band! They’re hot!”

  Allowing herself to be dragged away, Naomi listened to her roommate chatter about the band playing tonight. It didn’t matter how much Rebecca gushed, Naomi knew better. Rebecca’s musical tastes were eclectic, but the majority of her collection was what she called nu or rap metal with a little old-fashioned heavy metal thrown into the mix. The songs all had heavy, driving beats and bass, lots of electric guitars and singers who either rapped or alternately screamed their lyrics.

  Naomi briefly glanced over her shoulder, eyeing her stodgy boring report with wistful longing before Rebecca pulled her into her room.

  * * *

  “What?” Naomi yelled. She barely heard her own voice. It was a wonder Rebecca understood her.

  Rebecca bellowed into her ear. “Let’s get a couple of drinks and head to the stage.”

  Naomi nodded. The stage. Peachy. Rebecca tugged her hand, forging her way forward. Naomi followed in her wake, buffeted on both sides by the crush of people dancing to the canned music playing over the monstrous speakers at the other end of the club. Watching Rebecca dive into the boi
ling mass of humanity at the bar, she shook her head. Naomi studied the efficiency amid the chaos as multiple bartenders miraculously registered the drinks shouted at them, dashing back and forth behind the bar and producing said alcohol with a minimum of error. With an anthropological focus on religion, she passed the time considering the sociological implications of a faith-based music club.

  The crowd parted, and Rebecca emerged unscathed, carrying two beer bottles in each hand. She handed a pair to Naomi. “Here. This should keep us lubricated for now. Come on!” She grabbed Naomi’s wrist and off they went, back through the mob as she aimed in the direction of the stage.

  Naomi held the beers close against her chest to avoid dropping them, feeling very much like the last person in a game of crack the whip. This was a mistake. Rebecca had regaled her about the band, saying that tonight was their last gig before moving on to bigger and better things. If the crowd was any indication, the band had already progressed beyond this club’s ability to comfortably accommodate their fans. Despite her knowledge of Rebecca’s musical interest, Naomi had envisioned a small jazz club, tiny little tables with lit candles and a haze of cigarette smoke overhead—not this bedlam. She coughed. There was smoke all right but not cigarettes, nothing legal at any rate. Rebecca finally came to a halt, pulling Naomi to stand beside her. “When you said ‘let’s go to the stage,’ you meant it!”

  Rebecca grinned, cinnamon-brown skin glowing in the low lights at the edge of the platform. “Best seat in the house!” She held up a beer bottle, tapping it against one of Naomi’s. “Perfect timing too! The opening band just finished as we walked in.”

  Peering at the activity onstage, Naomi watched two grungy-looking men hustling back and forth as they lay cables or adjusted an overlarge drum kit. She stared, realizing that the drums sat on a wheeled platform that they rolled into place. How efficient! Two more men came from backstage with four guitars. They placed them in various stands around the stage, and one played a few chords to check the tuning. Naomi found the activity fascinating. She didn’t have a lot of experience with live bands, so she gaped at everything. When the lights dimmed dramatically she frowned, wishing she could continue watching the crew. The crowd began chanting, and it took a few moments for Naomi to understand the words.

  “Invocation! Invocation! Invocation! Invocation!”

  Glancing at Rebecca she saw her friend doing the same, laughing. Naomi smiled.

  A piano began to play, a simple string of notes that repeated over and over. The audience cheered in apparent recognition before becoming hushed in anticipation. Naomi studied the darkness of the stage. She hadn’t seen a piano brought in, but then she could have missed it if they’d wheeled it in too. A snare drum began an upbeat tempo, indicating the percussionist had snuck into his drum kit.

  Lights suddenly lit the forestage, revealing three men strolling in from the wings. The crowd cheered again as the men retrieved their instruments, strapping guitars over their shoulders. A black man with dreadlocks to his waist began playing bass counterpoint to the piano, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting the stage lights. The other two, an Asian man wearing a black shirt unbuttoned to the waist, and the second bearing the dark attractiveness of a Middle Eastern background, added their instruments to the harmony.

  The people around Naomi jumped with the beat. She felt the bass drum in her sternum, the vibration of hundreds of feet stomping. Despite not knowing the song, she sensed the audience’s high spirits, felt their unrestrained joy permeate through her. For the first time she realized the appeal of cramming into a claustrophobic club with a mob of total strangers to listen to a band. Before she could mentally grasp the revelation with her analytical mind, the lights came up to reveal the pianist and drummer.

  The crowd screamed approval as the pianist stood, her action so sudden and violent that her stool crashed backward. She scooped up a microphone and strutted toward her audience, confident arrogance in every step as she grinned. “Yuh nuh ready, Long Beach?” A roar answered her and she shared a grin with the bass player. “Let’s get this dance started!”

  “Witness death and destruction,

  “Homicidal blood on my hands and soul.

  “My wicked crime.

  “Time to delete myself,

  “To remove myself

  “From what I’ve Chosen.”

  As the singer belted out the first of her lyrics, Naomi stood rooted, frozen as everyone around her moved to the music. She recognized that accent, that voice, though she hadn’t heard it in a dozen years or more, not since she’d left Nathan and the monastery. My god, what are the chances? Of all the places to meet her ethereal friend, the last would be a rock concert on the western coast of the United States. Completely enamored, she didn’t even mind the unfamiliar music—the occasionally harsh guitar strains, the heavy drums, the moments when the singer’s voice faded into rap or screams. Naomi knew she was staring, but couldn’t help herself.

  “Giving the Devil his due.

  “No baptismal mercy to wash away

  “My wicked crime.

  “Time to erase myself,

  “To cross out my mistakes

  “From what I’ve Chosen.”

  She’d expected her friend to be of Jamaican descent. Of course, with her accent it seemed logical. Naomi castigated herself for falling into the trap of equating language with race. The singer was light-skinned with long, black hair flowing straight to her shoulders. Bangs covered expressive eyebrows which in turn protected sea-green eyes. She wore tight black leather pants and a long-sleeved white shirt that repelled the overhead lights, causing her to glow as she moved about the stage.

  For the briefest of moments their eyes met. Naomi gasped at the contact. It seemed that light flashed behind those gorgeous greens, a flare revealing the soul behind them. The singer blinked as time stood still for a split second. Then her gaze moved on as the show continued. It is her! Does she remember me? Rebecca jostled her and she turned away from the puzzle.

  Faint concern blanketed Rebecca’s face. “You okay?” she mouthed.

  Naomi’s mind returned to the present, a rush of sound and motion assailing her as she once again registered her surroundings and circumstances. She smiled reassurance. “I’m fine!”

  Rebecca studied her. Naomi wondered if she’d turned pale. Finding whatever she searched for, Rebecca nodded and smiled back. She waved at the band. “Aren’t they great?”

  Looking back as the singer capered across the stage, Naomi nodded. “Yes, she is!” she yelled back, not realizing her roommate couldn’t hear a word. It didn’t matter, this was no time for conversation. I have to meet her. She focused on the singer’s voice, letting it wash over her as it once had so many years ago, the sound of it counteracting the homesickness that had rooted in her heart when she’d left Inanna’s complex. Her mind began taking apart the problem of getting backstage when the night was finished.

  Chapter Twelve

  Joram fed off the audience’s emotions, allowing their exuberance to neutralize the unease that had struck her during the first set. Years of experience under Anders’s tutelage had kept her focused on the gig, on the music as she fought the urge to jump into the crowd and talk to that redhead staring at her. The woman seemed familiar, triggering a warmth and comfort in Joram’s heart that she couldn’t remember experiencing before. As she performed, she took clandestine glances at her.

  Small-boned and delicate, the woman’s red hair was styled in a short and sassy cut. She didn’t have the typical ginger complexion though. No mass of freckles or wan skin tone. And her eyes! They were such a deep brown that they seemed black, drinking in the lights around her, drinking in the vision of Joram prancing about the stage. As a result Joram played up her antics, showing off. For some reason, she thought the woman should have hair as dark and as long as her own.

  During a pause between songs, Jubal dropped his sunglasses to peer at her over the rims. She grinned and gave a slight shrug. Chloe was watchin
g offstage, but that didn’t stop Joram from flirting with the crowd. Sometimes it became more than flirting, but then she and Chloe weren’t exactly a couple. She’d saved Joram’s life in Hell and Joram kept her close and protected from Anders’s influence in repayment. Their arrangement was less about love and monogamy and more about mutual respect and shared pleasure.

  Joram pushed away an edge of apprehension as she considered the redhead. Something told her this woman was more dangerous than the others she’d picked up over the years. Best to stay away. I don’t have time for this, not with things gearing up. Besides, the sense of deep friendship radiating through her was overwhelming. Joram didn’t give trust to complete strangers and she shouldn’t start now.

  Setting aside the instant attraction, she dived back into the fray that was Invocation’s stage performance, letting the music and natural high distract her from the alien sensations warming her calculating heart.

  * * *

  Joram swaggered offstage with the band after their second encore, riding the high created with their audience, drunk and cocksure. Sweat clung to her skin, sticking her bangs to her forehead. She flapped the front of her Henley shirt in a vain attempt to cool off.

  Chloe leapt into her arms, kissing her. “That was great! You killed out there.”

  “We badass.” Jubal removed his sunglasses for the first time, hooking them over his T-shirt collar. “Woo!”

  The others cheered with him, releasing some of their pent-up exhilaration as they entered the space they’d been given as a dressing room. In actuality a storage room, chairs and a couch had been brought in to serve its secondary purpose. Chloe closed the door, giving the band a moment respite. Jarod, the rhythm guitarist, opened a large cooler, retrieving an icy beer. He tossed bottles to each of his bandmates before slamming the lid and dropping to sit upon it.

  Grateful, Joram held the bottle to her forehead a moment before popping the cap. “Here’s to our final performance at the Indigo, the best damned beginning a band could have.” She held out her bottle as the others added their voices to her sentiment, tapping glass against glass before drinking deep. Chloe grabbed a stack of towels and doled them out. Mopping her face, Joram collapsed onto the couch.