MySoultoSave

by S W Vaughn

  They could not see the Tempter demon standing easily beside the suicidal man, urging him to take that final step into oblivion—or rather, the torments of Hell.

  Jaeryth circulated through the crowd, whispering helpful suggestions. Taunt him. Make him jump. Sirens warbled in the distance, the impatient strangled bleats punctuated with horn blasts as the emergency vehicles attempted to maneuver through standstill traffic. Rush hour, the mortals called it. A time when they managed to do everything but actually rush.

  He hoped to incite a few fights, perhaps even a small riot, before the human officials arrived.

  A young man with an upraised phone several feet away caught his attention. The human was large and solid looking, his face flushed as though he’d been drinking. He wore a sneer on his lips and a feral gleam in his eye. Now there was a likely candidate for trouble.

  As he moved toward his target, another figure approached the same man and reached him first. The new arrival was clad in pale, shimmering blue from head to foot and its eyes were solid blue and gleaming.

  Oh, wonderful. A Shepherd.

  Anger roiled through him at the sight of the angelic assistant, the Host’s counterpart to the Tempters. The primary difference between them, aside from the colors, was that Shepherds were homogenized, gender-less beings, which allegedly made them holier or some such nonsense.

  It had been years since he’d seen a Shepherd in his district. Its presence meant that his hold was slipping, the balance shifting. Not possible.

  The Shepherd murmured in the young man’s ear and the human’s features relaxed as he blinked a few times and lowered his phone. Now the mortal looked slightly ashamed.

  “Meddling bastard!” Jaeryth shifted into demon form. The humans nearest him shivered and shrank away in response to his fury, and a small child in a stroller began to wail. He moved toward the Shepherd, baring his teeth. “Get out,” he growled. “This place is mine.”

  “Is it?” The Shepherd faced him with a benevolent smile. “A change is in the winds, demon. And it comes from within.”

  “Really. How fascinating.” He advanced another step, intending to get close enough to tear its throat out and send it crawling back to Citadel, despite the consequences. None stood between them. The bull-necked human had already fled for saner grounds and the crowd had unconsciously parted. “Within what, you riddle-speaking monkey?”

  It kept smiling. “You, demon. You are Heaven-touched.”

  “Lying spawn!” He reared back, talons poised to strike.

  The Shepherd held a hand out calmly toward the steeple. “Behold.”

  He looked. There on the ledge, another Shepherd had appeared and drawn the Tempter away from the suicidal human. While the lesser beings fought, the man gripped the ledge harder, once more aware of his mortality and clinging to it. He would not jump now.

  Jaeryth glared at the Shepherd before him. After a moment, he leveled a cold smile. “I have not changed,” he said. “Heaven has no sway over me. I’ll prove it.”

  Before the Shepherd could respond, he rushed toward the steeple, phasing through the mob and sending all the terror and disgust he could generate through the gathered mortals. One of them cried out, “Jump, you chicken-shit!” Others joined in, taunting the frightened soul huddled above them, screaming for his blood. A few females burst into tears.

  When he reached the closest of the onlookers, he paused and spoke softly to one of them, who’d just shouted, “You can fly!” and chased it with a wild laugh.

  “Throw rocks at him,” Jaeryth said. “Perhaps you’ll hit the priest. Make him bleed. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Blinking, the mortal grinned and bent to the ground, searching for rocks.

  As the crowd’s frenzy grew, feeding on itself now, Jaeryth reached the building. Though both demons and angels had wings, demons could not take flight. However, they had unique abilities of their own. He ran at the outer wall of the steeple, then up it, as though the vertical surface were level as the ground. A slight leap near the end carried him onto the ledge and he strode toward the crouching mortal, radiating blackness.

  “Do it,” he snapped. “Jump.”

  The human cringed and shuddered. His head turned, and though he could not possibly see Jaeryth, his wild, haunted gaze seemed to lock on him.

  “You are a worthless waste of flesh.” He moved closer, heard the mortal whimper. “The world will be better off without you. End your life, now. Why stay in this putrid existence, when you can move on? Jump. They wish you to jump. Don’t you hear them?”

  Still staring as though he could actually see, the human rose slowly to his feet. The color drained from his face as visible terror receded and left abject misery behind. “Worthless,” he whispered.

  He stepped off the ledge.

  Jaeryth watched him fall, oblivious to the uproar generated by the crowd. He could not tear his gaze from the human’s—those stricken eyes refused to leave his, even as the body plummeted and struck the unforgiving ground with a sickening thud, stilled forever.

  A chill stole through him. He had just claimed another soul for Hell. He should have been ecstatic. This particular task had always thrilled him like no other. It was his favorite part of the job, and he was good. Better than most demons. This was the reason his work had come to Samael’s attention.

  But he felt…unhappy. Nearly sickened. Not by the carnage, but by his own actions.

  What in Hell’s flames was wrong with him?

  Shuddering, he turned from the chaotic scene he’d created and leapt into the breezes, using them to control his descent. He had intended to act normal for at least a few days, to give Ronwe time to cool down, and drop beneath his notice again. But he could wait no longer. He had to see Logan, and it had to be tonight.

  Corrupting her would restore whatever imbalance had arisen in him. Then he could return to his work refreshed, and rid his district of these damned interfering Shepherds before Hell or Ronwe discovered his waning control.

  He touched ground—and the Shepherd he’d confronted in the crowd appeared, as though his thoughts had summoned it. “Well, demon,” it said. “You did prove something, didn’t you? I suspect it wasn’t what you wished to prove, though.”

  Jaeryth sneered. “I’ve proven how little Heaven cares for human souls. I didn’t see you trying to stop me.”

  “Sometimes, a sacrifice must be made for the greater good.” Sorrow filtered through the bland features, and then the benevolent smile resurfaced. “Heaven-touched,” it said. “I can sense your remorse, demon.”

  Without thought, Jaeryth lashed out. His talons raked the Shepherd’s stomach and opened ragged wounds. Its blood pattered on his hand and forearm, burning his flesh where it touched him. Jaw clenched against the pain, he launched a kick and connected hard with the gashes. The Shepherd flew back to land on its righteous ass.

  He loomed over it. “I have no remorse, maggot,” he said. “Now leave my district, because our next meeting will be your destruction.”

  Gleaming blue eyes lifted to him. The Shepherd gave a soft laugh. “You are blind. But you will see.” With that, it vanished in a ripple of light.

  Jaeryth remained in place for an instant, glowering at the ground and absently rubbing his burned arm. This intrusion of Shepherds must be halted. He could not afford to fail in his work now. His position granted him freedoms that lower-ranked demons did not enjoy and he needed the ability to work without direct supervision in order to carry out his plans.

  He must remain quartermaster. Without his rank, he would lose everything—and Logan Frost would slip from his grasp forever.

  Chapter Four

  Since last night, Logan had reevaluated her opinion of herself. She was definitely crazy. Not because of the black-eyed hallucination, which she’d decided had never happened, but because she’d agreed to this.

  Tex eased his battered two-door up a narrow, steeply inclined driveway and parked behind a midnight blue SUV with a Grateful Dead
teddy bear bumper sticker and an Avenged Sevenfold decal on the back window. He cut the engine and glanced at her. “You can let go now,” he said. “We lived.”

  “Barely.” She tossed him a smirk. Her fingers ached—thirty minutes clutching the oh-shit handle while Tex flew through crazy traffic-clogged highway merges as if his were the only car on the road. The fact that he made this drive at least twice a week had failed to reassure her.

  But the ride wasn’t the only reason for her iron grip. Terror gave it a considerable boost.

  She finally convinced her hand to relax and lowered it to her lap. Her fingers strayed to a long sleeve and tugged it down past her wrist. At least she possessed enough of her mind to be self-conscious now, though it didn’t make the scars any less humiliating. Or ugly. “So,” she said. “This is…”

  “Cyana’s place.”

  “She plays bass. And likes the Dead?”

  “You know, I’m not sure if she does. The truck is Reid’s.”

  “And he’s guitar.”

  “You’ll do fine.” Tex patted her leg and opened the car door. “Ready?”

  “Nope.”

  He paused. “You coming anyway?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sure you’ve got enough words in there for a whole song?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  Before he could launch a depressing clichéd diatribe about how she didn’t have to do this and they’d still be friends and Rome wasn’t built in a day, she popped the door, climbed out and stretched. Not a bad night, really. A few clouds, a warm breeze. The house, a brick split-level snugged into a hill, featured a garage on the ground level with a platform porch hanging above the entrance. A gated wooden fence crossed the narrow strip of yard to the right of the place.

  Tex led the way—not into the house, but to the gate. She followed him through. A murmur of conversation dribbled from the backyard and clarified as they approached.

  “Like it’s the fucking Armageddon.” A male voice, low and mildly annoyed, edged with a sexy trace of Southern drawl.

  “We’ve only got a week,” a female voice responded. “Besides, she’s a chick.”

  “Pretty sure you are too, Blue. Mostly.”

  “Suck my cock, Reid.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Tex froze. Logan slowed and stopped just behind him, still in the deeper shadow of the house. The bad idea suddenly seemed terrible. Abysmally stupid. She should’ve stayed with the dust bunnies and cheesy cat decor, puttered around, took a nap, maybe prepared for her ever-so-thrilling interview on Monday at the Greenleaf Senior Residence. This was not meant to be. Not now, probably not ever.

  Gran would’ve told her to suck it up and go for it. But Gran wasn’t here any more.

  Without a word, Tex turned and put a hand on her shoulder. She knew exactly what the look he gave her meant. Apology and question. Sorry my bandmate’s a jerk. Stay or go, the choice is yours.

  She nodded. Might as well get this over with.

  Tex squeezed briefly and led her into a good-sized backyard with a stone fire pit and a picnic table, bleached with age, under a blue-white floodlight. She assumed the two people at the table were Reid and Cyana, the former on the opposite bench and the latter perched on the table, facing away. Apparently, her colorful name wasn’t the only reason they called her Blue. Glossy black hair with streaks of bright aqua tumbled halfway down her back.

  Reid—blond-haired, amber-eyed and built like a bricklayer—sent a lazy grin at their approach and nudged Cyana. “Hey, Blue,” he said. “You want some salt?”

  She half-turned toward him. “Do you ever make sense?”

  “Just thought it’d make your foot taste better.” He lifted his chin in their direction.

  Cyana jerked stiff. She hopped down from the table and pivoted, settling narrowed hazel eyes on Logan. “You’re short,” she said. “I suppose that means you’ve got spunk or something. I hate spunk.”

  Despite feeling like the other woman had bitch-slapped her, Logan smirked. “Good thing I left all my spunk in the car, then.”

  “See what I mean? Shit.” Cyana’s lip curled. “You just better not sound like Miley fucking Cyrus. I’m going in.” She strode down a slight slope at the end of the yard, opened a ground-level door that looked like a back entrance to the garage and slammed it shut behind her.

  “Well,” Logan said. “I think she likes me.”

  Tex looked as floored as she felt. “Damn. I didn’t know she was that pissed.”

  “Course you don’t. You never did speak woman, Tex.” Still grinning, Reid rose and ambled across the yard with his gaze fixed on her. “Don’t take it to heart, Spunky. It’s not you. It’s him.”

  Her nose wrinkled at the tag. She didn’t do pet names any more. “It’s Logan,” she said. “And what did Tex do to her?”

  “Not a thing. I meant the illustrious Jacob, deserter of bandmates and childhood sweethearts.”

  “Jesus. Her and your singer were involved?” She whirled on Tex. “You could’ve warned me about that, counselor.”

  Tex held up a placating hand. “Hey, I kind of got the impression she didn’t have feelings for him any more, after the voodoo doll thing.”

  Logan arched an eyebrow. “Voodoo doll?”

  “Yeah. She gouged its eyes, yanked all the stuffing out, set the mess on fire and flushed the ashes. Seemed like closure to me.”

  “Nope,” Reid said. “Only a woman in love can get that violent. Closure would’ve been runnin’ to me for comfort.”

  Tex snorted. “In your dreams, man.”

  “The day I dream about Blue’s the day I hang up my strings and become a priest. Or an accountant.” The smile he flashed could’ve made a gaggle of groupies faint dead. “Well, Logan, let’s head in and hear what you got. ‘Less you’d rather stand out here and feed mosquitoes all night.”

  “Sure.” At least her voice wasn’t shaking. Yet.

  Reid led the way through the door Cyana had used. Vague memories of a long-ago practice space decorated in Early Struggling Musician assaulted Logan—dim lighting, crumbling walls splashed with spray-painted epithets, the occasional stained mattress propped against them, jumbled heaps of equipment in various stages of repair that were always going to be awesome gear when they got around to fixing them, discarded needles and condoms and bottles and other assorted trash, the occasional audience of rats. At the time, she’d thought it was cool.

  But Cyana’s garage was amazing.

  Strong, solid light filled the room. Carpeted floor, acoustic ceiling tile, padded walls to trap sound. Amp stacks with headers. Instruments stored on racks instead of leaned on walls or dropped on floors. A massive sound board. Drum kit on a raised platform. Everything clean and whole and organized. If the place was ever used to actually park cars, it didn’t show.

  The setup intimidated the hell out of her. These guys weren’t fucking around. None of the drugged-out punks she’d hung around with since high school had ever come close to this level of professionalism. Including herself.

  She almost turned around and walked out.

  “You okay, Frost?”

  Tex’s voice startled a breath from her, and she realized she’d been holding it. “Fine,” she murmured. Cyana, seated on a stool with an Ibanez bass in her lap, hadn’t so much as glanced up when they came in. Reid was making adjustments to the board. She felt like the kid at the party who’d only come because the birthday kid’s mom made him invite her. Hell, she’d been that kid more than once. Invisible Girl hadn’t been very good at making friends. The more things changed, and all that bullshit. “What should I be doing?”

  “Here.” He handed her a sheaf of papers. “Pick one.”

  She took the typed pages. Across the top was Ruined Soul—Set List. Song titles followed. There were probably two dozen songs listed on the first page, and at least five pages. Over a hundred songs. And they needed someone to start performing in less than a week.

  No p
ressure. Right.

  With a bare glance at Tex, she made her way to a folding chair and scanned the list. At least she knew most of these songs. This was her type of music—grunge and medium rock with a sprinkling of pop-leaning stuff and a little angst. Okay, a lot of angst.

  It wasn’t a stretch to figure out who she needed to impress, if she wanted in. Miss But-She’s-A-Chick. That left out all the Evanescence and Lacuna Coil tunes for this little audition—she’d have to prove she could step up for an original male vocalist part. Should probably scratch all the ballads too. She needed something ballsy, with some power behind it.

  She finally settled on a Stone Temple Pilots song, a little slow, but clear of ballad territory. When she informed the rest of them, Tex nodded, Reid grinned and Cyana snorted. But the guitarist showed her to the mic and everyone took positions with their respective instruments.

  Tex tapped out four beats and the band jumped in. Damn, they were good. Not a note slipping or out of place. She let the sounds fill her, caught a breath and waited for her beat. Her lips parted. The cue came.

  Her throat closed, a violent convulsion that let no sound escape.

  They kept playing for a few measures before they tapered off, but Logan barely noticed. Jesus, I can’t do it. I’ve got nothing. The convulsion rippled its way down to her gut, ricocheted and started up again. She was going to puke on Cyana’s clean, carpeted floor.

  She bolted for the door. Fumbled endlessly with the handle, and finally popped it open and stumbled outside. Somewhere behind her, Tex shouted her name. A pounding rush of blood in her ears obliterated all but the sound of her own retching. Eyes and throat burning, she dropped to her knees and emptied everything into the grass—nerves, humiliation, stupid little dreams. Stupid wasted life.

  A warm hand touched her shoulder. She scrambled away from the contact, knowing it was Tex. She couldn’t take his sympathy right now. Without looking back, she strode across the yard on shaking legs toward the gate. He could take her back home or not—but she couldn’t face this any more. She’d blown it.