Darkstone

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Jubal joined her, pausing to pull his long dreads out of the way. “I’m goan miss dis place.”

  “Me too.” The drummer, an adorable little baby dyke named Rand, sprawled in a folding chair. She rubbed her hand across the top of her scalp, artfully mussing the short haircut. “The acoustics are awesome here.”

  Bayani, the lead guitarist, fingered the silver and black rosary he wore as a necklace. “Onward and upward.”

  “Amen,” Joram intoned, raising her beer again.

  Jubal laid his head back. “So, Obeah Man tinks we ready for da big time?”

  “It’s about fucking time,” Jarod said at Joram’s nod. “I was beginning to think he was purposely holding us back.”

  Rand and Bayani both muttered agreement to his sentiment, reminding Joram once again of the differences between Anders’s followers. Her theory that distance from him had everything to do with the strength of their belief had proven correct time and again. She and Jubal were the only two band members that originated within the same compound as Anders, and Jubal considered Anders as all powerful. Bay had come from an Indonesian compound, Rand and Jarod from North America. Though they toned down their criticisms when recording and rehearsing in Jamaica, that didn’t stop them voicing their opinions elsewhere. She speculated that whatever power Anders had over his people was dependent upon proximity. Not that she’d ever bring it up in conversation to him; intermittent contact was the best benefit to have come from her move to California several years ago.

  The door flew open as their stage manager burst into the room. “Awesome! Fucking awesome! They’re still wanting more!” Ivan waved out the door, the sound of the audience a muted racket. His tendency to exaggerate dulled the band’s reaction, but didn’t dent his enthusiasm. “Are you guys ready to party? I’ve got some fans who want autographs.” This too had become standard procedure over the last year. As they had gained in popularity, they’d experienced an increase in complete strangers demanding to meet them. Ivan had taken to selecting ten people to bring backstage while the band unwound from their gigs.

  Joram stretched, gave her face another wipe with the towel and stood. “Ready, guys? Let’s do this.”

  Taking her lead, the band put on their game faces and prepared for the public relations aspect of the job. Ivan clapped his hands together and ducked out of the room. Chloe shooed Jarod off the cooler. As the first of the fans trickled in, she offered them beer, soda and water.

  As expected, Ivan’s guests were predominantly female. Tonight two men had made it through his rigorous selection process, and Joram grinned. Just enough to give the male fans hope, but allowing the band members to enjoy the fringe benefits of their musical notoriety by the introduction of fresh meat. Five band members, the stage manager, Chloe and ten fans crowded the storage room. Joram accepted praise and criticism with equal aplomb, noting that the unfavorable judgments always seemed to come from the men. One spent ten minutes explaining how he’d rearranged one of her songs and that it had dramatically improved its quality.

  “That’s great,” she said. “I’ll take a look at it.” Not that she had any intention of doing so, but one thing that Anders and Hell had pounded into her was that likability went a long way toward gaining the support of people around her. She must have pulled off the sincerity act well since he blushed and grinned. Rather than shut him up, however, her apparent acceptance gave him cause to discuss how to alter their other songs.

  Bored with the conversation and slightly affronted by the man’s audacity, Joram glanced around the packed room, searching for an out. Chloe caught her eye and winked, recognizing faint desperation in Joram’s manner. She said something to the woman beside her and made her way toward Joram. If anything, Chloe created an awesome distraction to the male population with her petite frame and California-girl good looks. She assumed control of the discussion the moment she arrived, attaching herself to the young man’s arm and complimenting him on his leather jacket. Enamored, he allowed her to pull him away from Joram. Chloe looked once over her shoulder, smiling at Joram’s nod of thanks.

  The fellow was immediately replaced by two women. The taller of the two, an African American woman with a mass of dark honey curls arrayed about her triangular face, seemed familiar. “I’m so excited to finally meet you, Ms. Darkstone! I’ve been a fan for a couple of years.”

  Ah, a true fan, someone who’s been to enough shows that I recognize her from the audience. “Thank you, and call me Joram.” She offered her hand.

  “I’m Rebecca Vance.” She shook Joram’s hand and gestured to the smaller woman standing beside her. “This is my college roommate, Naomi Kostopoulos.”

  Joram stared at the redhead from the audience, mouth dry. The world around her held its breath as she met those black eyes up close. Whatever confidence she’d exuded fled. If anything, the sense of familiarity grew exponentially with the woman’s nearness. Naomi. Her name’s Naomi. Something clicked in her mind, but she couldn’t follow the sensation. She only knew that the name fitted this impish woman staring back at her.

  Evidently the frozen moment in time lasted entirely too long. Rebecca glanced back and forth between them. She nudged Naomi’s shoulder with her own. “Wake up, girl! Say something.”

  Naomi started, gaze darting to Rebecca then down to Joram’s outstretched hand. After a slight hesitation, she took it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Joram tilted her head, the sound of Naomi’s voice striking a chord within her. It sounded exactly as she thought it should, complete with exotic speech patterns. Naomi’s hand was warm and Joram didn’t want to release it. “That’s an intriguing accent. Where are you from?”

  “Eastern Europe, Romania.”

  “Wow. That’s a long ways from here.” Joram affected surprise, still holding Naomi’s hand. “What brought you to the States?”

  A playful grin flickered over Naomi’s lips. “College,” she said with a wry glance at Rebecca.

  Joram blinked, abruptly realizing that these two had introduced themselves as college roommates. She mentally floundered a moment, chastising herself for not paying closer attention as much as for allowing this strange situation to disrupt it. Dropping Naomi’s hand, she felt heat crawl up from her neck but refused to acknowledge the blush. She looked back and forth between them, resisting the urge to stuff her hand into her pocket. “U of C?”

  Rebecca chuckled. “Cal State, Long Beach campus.”

  Relieved at the distraction, Joram grinned. “Ah! That’s why I’ve seen you.” She gestured at Rebecca with the neck of her beer bottle. “You’ve been here before.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Rebecca preened, a satisfied smile upon her face. “I’ve got both of your EPs too. In fact, could I get you to autograph one?” She didn’t await an answer as she began digging into her purse.

  “Of course. I’d be happy to.” Joram snuck a look at Naomi, fascinated by the fond expression on her face as she watched her friend. More than friends? A pang of envy stabbed through Joram at the thought, surprising her. No, Rebecca said “roommates.” Friends with benefits, if anything.

  Naomi glanced up and pinned her with those dark eyes. “She is a huge fan of yours. She’s talked about nothing else for three days.”

  “Naomi!” Rebecca paused to pierce her friend with an embarrassed expression.

  “What? You haven’t!”

  Rebecca muttered under her breath and continued digging in her purse.

  “What about you? Are you a fan?” Only when Naomi’s mouth moved soundlessly for an astonished instant did Joram register that she’d asked her question with the heavy burr of seduction. Before she could apologize—Why apologize?—Naomi collected herself.

  “I am now,” she responded in a similar tone, arching an eyebrow.

  Joram felt a slow smile grow on her face.

  “Here it is!” Rebecca produced the CD cover and a Sharpie marker. Thrusting it toward Joram, she grinned widely.

  The alluring
moment broken, Joram gathered her polished confidence and took the items. “Rebecca you said?” At the confirmation, she scribbled something suitable onto the cover and added her signature. “Don’t forget to have the rest of the band sign too.” She gestured to her bandmates scattered around the room.

  Rebecca clutched the CD case to her chest, bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. “Thank you! Thank you!” She shared a glance with Naomi who exuded affection and looped their arms together. “Where are you going to be playing next?”

  Joram refrained from expressing a frown, their proximity and physical familiarity suggesting they were more than just friends. “Our next gig is at ClubPixel. You should come. We shell dung da place.” They stared blankly at her and she chuckled. “We’ll kick ass, take the place by storm,” she translated. “Sorry, I still slip into Jamaican patois sometimes.”

  “That’s all right.” Naomi briefly touched Joram’s forearm. “I’ve always found the Jamaican accent striking.”

  This time Rebecca must have recognized the inviting tone. She studied Naomi in speculation. Joram didn’t know whether the calculating expression was one of concern or not. You don’t have time for this. You have a lot of work on your plate. You’re almost free from that bastard. Despite her mental chastisement, Joram couldn’t help herself. “Naomi Kostopoulos and Rebecca…?”

  “Vance.”

  “Vance, got it.” Joram stepped away to grab the notebook she always had on hand for inspiration. She wrote down their names. “I tell you what, I’ll put you guys on the guest list for our next performance.”

  Rebecca’s mouth dropped open. “Really?”

  “Yah mon.” Joram confirmed the spelling of Naomi’s last name, refraining from asking for her phone number. You don’t have time for this. “We play next Friday at ClubPixel. Just go to the gate and show your IDs. They’ll give you VIP passes there.”

  If anything, Rebecca vibrated with exhilaration, any qualms regarding the titillating atmosphere between Naomi and Joram vanishing. “That is so awesome! I’ve never been on a guest list before!”

  Naomi mouthed “thank you” to Joram.

  Chloe chose that moment to return. “How are things going?”

  Annoyed at the interruption, Joram glossed over it. There were others waiting, and these two had garnered too much of her attention. She reminded herself that this was a public relations meet and greet, not a house party. “Great!” She indicated Rebecca. “I think Rebecca wants to get the others to sign her CD.”

  Smiling, Chloe took Rebecca’s other arm. “Then let’s go! I’m sure Rand would love to sign.” She urged the women away.

  “Thank you!” Rebecca called.

  Joram nodded acknowledgment, hardly hearing her as Naomi waved goodbye. She chewed her upper lip, watching the redhead walk away. No time, ooman. Keep your mind inna da game. Her view was blocked by another woman, a chunky blonde who gurgled excitement. With an iron will, Joram focused her concentration on finishing the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “So…what was that between you and Joram Darkstone?”

  Naomi rolled her eyes and kept walking toward the car. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” When Rebecca didn’t respond, Naomi snuck a peek at her. The knowing grin dashed any hope that she’d dissuaded her roommate. “What?”

  “Oh, come on! It’s me, girl! I know you’re interested in her.”

  Shrugging, Naomi appreciated the darkness. Her embarrassed blush would be less evident under the yellowed streetlights. “I’ve got a paper due.”

  Rebecca tsked under her breath. “That’s a load of crap, and you know it.” She paused. “When’s the last time you went out on a date?”

  Naomi laughed. “Hey, I came out with you tonight.”

  “This ain’t a date, girl.” Rebecca waved a finger back and forth in front of her. “This is me dragging your skinny white ass out of the house, kicking and screaming. I’m talking about a date—you remember those? You’ve had a couple in the past.”

  “Rebecca…”

  “Naomi…” she echoed in the same exasperated tone.

  Despite her aggravation, Naomi smiled at the familiar interplay. “I don’t have time for dating, not if I want to get through graduate school. You know that.”

  Rebecca shook her head, faint disgust curling her lips. “I know you feel obligated to give your mother your all, but you’re a big girl now. You’ve got to cut those apron strings before they strangle you.”

  Naomi knew Rebecca meant well, but she had no understanding of the situation. Somewhere in the world lived a man who planned to open a dimensional door to another realm, a breach that could bring about the destruction of mankind. According to Inanna and Nathan, the portents indicated that the time was coming soon. Sooner than Naomi wanted, certainly. She had to remain focused on the upcoming crisis and her role within it. Extreme diligence on her part might be enough. She hoped to stop the tragedy without resorting to the violence in which she’d been drilled. Internally, she cringed. Killing a person went against every fiber of her being regardless of the extensive training she’d undertaken. She didn’t feel particularly lovable and she couldn’t allow herself to fall in love with someone, not with so much responsibility riding upon her shoulders. Fall in love? Where’d that come from?

  Rebecca had taken her silence as the final word on their tired disagreement. Changing the topic, she radiated excitement as she patted her purse and the autographed CD within. “We’re on the VIP list at ClubPixel! That is so awesome!”

  Naomi chuckled. “Is it that big a deal?”

  “Oh, my God! You didn’t just ask that!” She rounded on Naomi, turning to walk backward as she waved her arms. “ClubPixel is about five times the size of the Indigo. It’s a real auditorium, not a music club. Invocation is definitely moving up in the music world. I bet they’ll be selling a new album by the end of the month.” She capered in glee. “I can’t wait!”

  “Why do you like them?” Naomi recalled the music she’d heard this evening. “Sometimes it’s nothing but screaming.”

  Rebecca did an about-face, continuing at Naomi’s side. “It’s not the screaming so much as the emotion within the vocals. If you tune into it, you’ll understand.”

  They arrived at the car, and Naomi circled around to the passenger door. “I don’t know. I admit I’ve never understood your choice in music. Some of it is just noise.” Once Rebecca unlocked the door, she clambered inside.

  Tossing her purse into the backseat, Rebecca settled behind the steering wheel. She pulled her seat belt on and shoved the key into the ignition. “I guess. Some bands are nothing but the growl and scream, true. But Invocation has harmony, awesome bass and beats and really cutting lyrics.” She started the car, and peered behind her to gauge traffic.

  Naomi pulled Rebecca’s purse forward, easily finding the ink-covered CD case. She studied the song list as they merged into a long line of vehicles. Doan fret, mi lova. A smile crossed her face. Joram Darkstone was definitely her imaginary friend from the monastery. Naomi wasn’t certain that the recognition was reciprocated. The last thing she’d wanted to do was spill her story to the beautiful woman upon their first meeting. No doubt Joram would decide she was insane and put a healthy distance between them. But isn’t that what I want to do anyway—keep people away? Keep her away? I don’t have time for this.

  “Put it on,” Rebecca said, indicating the CD.

  Popping open the cover, Naomi removed the CD and inserted it into the player. Rebecca jacked the volume up to not quite ear-splitting levels. They drove home in mutual silence while Joram’s voice teased Naomi with dark, seductive thoughts.

  * * *

  The last of the fans made their departures, all but two older women who had attached themselves to Bayani. Enamored of his youthful good looks, they hadn’t yet realized that despite his appearance he was much older than seventeen. Jarod seemed disgruntled at striking out but didn’t press. Nabbing female compa
nionship was the luck of the draw, even on the uphill climb to rock stardom. It could easily have been him surrounded by feminine companionship and Bayani on the outs. He consoled himself with an acoustic guitar, practicing a riff he’d created.

  Mindful of the strangers in their midst, Joram didn’t unwind entirely. Sprawled once again on the couch, this time with Chloe cuddled at her side, she wished that the redhead she’d met tonight had remained. What was it about her? Every time she opened her mouth, Joram drank in the sound of her voice, her accent, enjoying the playful spark in the depth of those black eyes. If she concentrated even now, she could hear Naomi speaking to her. Joram didn’t know if she should accept the alien sense of long-term intimacy in her soul or fight it.

  Jubal dropped the lid on the cooler. “We outta beer.”

  Mind back inna da game, ooman. She disengaged from Chloe and climbed to her feet. “They’re probably done loading up the gear too.” Raising her voice to be heard over Bayani’s companions and Jarod’s guitar, she said, “Let’s blow.”

  “Where to?” Rand donned a biker jacket sporting more spikes than leather. It was a wonder she had the upper body strength to carry the weight. Joram had always thought it was Rand’s version of medieval armor.

  “My place.” She took Chloe’s hand, pulling her up and into her arms. Smiling, she kissed her, liking the fingers stroking through her hair, secretly wishing they were Naomi Kostopoulos’s. “I had the bar stocked.”

  Jarod’s ears perked. “Can I call some people?”

  Though she’d much rather have sent them all home, Anders had taught Joram that appearance was everything. Tonight was a night to celebrate, whether she wanted to loll about daydreaming about the enticing redhead or not. She released Chloe, searching for her jacket. “Sure, why not? Let’s make an impression on my neighbors.”