He had followed her throughout the day, waiting for the opportunity to come to her. She had spoken at length with a woman who clearly disliked her, which was apparently a job interview, and she had left feeling relieved. An odd emotion to follow rejection. Then she’d spoken on the phone to someone called Miss Turner and proceeded to the welfare office—where she had banished a Tempter back into Shade, and redeemed a human woman’s soul with a few words and a single gesture.
He’d felt the power emanating from her. She was so strong, his Logan. More than ready. At any time, she could perform the act that would cement her Prophet manifestation on one side or another. Miracle or unforgivable sin. And if he did not turn her quickly, it would be the miracle.
After Logan had seen to the woman and procured something called emergency assistance, she’d left the area. Now, after an uneventful bus ride, she entered a Thrift Store—and he caught her intentions to spend quite some time here shopping.
Here was the opportunity he sought.
He phased through the building, catching brief glimpses of racks upon racks of clothing, and emerged behind the place. Thankfully, no humans lurked in this alley. He summoned his concentration and shifted up, into the perceptions of the mortal plane, and then beyond. Becoming fully material required a good deal of effort, and sustaining the form would necessitate vigilance. Most demons could not take on flesh at a whim. It would weaken him for hours afterward, leave him vulnerable. But he would expend the effort gladly for her.
Once he reached the desired state, the sensory inputs of the flesh-bound body bombarded him. Sounds and smells sharpened, assailing his ears and nostrils. His skin tightened and prickled in response to the chill in the air. But his sight seemed to be affected oppositely, shortened and narrowed. He could no longer perceive Shade or Citadel, or any indication that planes outside this one existed.
Disconcerting as it was for him, he knew it did not trouble mortals in the least. They could not miss what they never knew was there.
He allowed himself a few moments to adjust—pacing back and forth, feeling the impact of his steps on solid ground and the movements of his limbs restrained by the atmosphere. His clothing had manifested in the style of a Tempter. Simple, unadorned black. That would have to change. After Logan’s encounters with the lesser demons, this appearance might make her uneasy.
Perhaps she would be pleased if he were dressed in a manner similar to the mortals she preferred. The musicians. Recalling an example from those she’d associated with in Philadelphia, he pictured a dark short-sleeved shirt, a jacket with studs and chains, frayed denim pants, heavy boots. Willing the clothing into existence was difficult in this state, but he managed.
As a final touch he added a bandanna, and a few chains on the boots.
Walking around the building to the front entrance took far more time than phasing. He entered the store and nearly recoiled from the odd smells that choked the air. Strong, sweet chemicals overlaid, but did not erase the musty and moldering odor lurking beneath. The other humans inside had to be experiencing the same scents, but it didn’t appear to bother them. So he schooled the distaste from his features and sought Logan.
He located her patiently flicking through a rack of clothing that a sign indicated were Men’s Shirts. Interesting, when across the store were rows labeled Women’s Shirts that obviously featured a wider selection.
The thought of interacting this directly with her invoked a primal pleasure that deepened as he approached. He stopped at the end of the aisle she occupied and watched her, taking in the weary but determined motions, the haunted eyes, the lovely face drawn and sharpened by the trials of the day. So shattered, not yet reformed. Perhaps never to be whole again. A beautiful tragedy.
As though she’d sensed him, she turned and met his gaze. Her lips parted slightly. She did not move for a long moment. Finally, she frowned and said, “Am I in your way or something?”
He smiled and drifted closer. “I was admiring your taste in clothing.”
A visible shudder went through her as he spoke. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed out again slowly. “You mean the god-awful suit?” She rolled her eyes. “Trust me, I’m not walking out of here wearing this thing. In fact, I think I’ll donate it. Let somebody else have the joy of wearing it.” Her gaze traveled down the length of him and back up. “Nice boots.”
“Thank you.”
Another shiver. “You…sound familiar. I know that’s a weird thing to say.”
“Not really.” It pleased him that she recognized his voice, even through this clumsy mortal filtering. “Perhaps we’ve known each other in another life.”
She laughed, and the sound coursed through him like sweet fire. “Reincarnation, huh? Not sure I believe in that. But I’ll give you points for the creative pickup line.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Picking you up?”
Her mouth opened, closed. Jaw firming, she turned back to the clothing rack. “No.”
The sudden ferocity stung him. Seducing her might not be a simple task. Still, it was the best option available to him and he intended to pursue it. “Fair enough,” he said. “Could I at least have the pleasure of your name?” As if he did not know every intimate syllable. But humans relied on this introductory courtship ritual, so he’d have to conform.
She smirked without looking at him. “Victoria, Queen of England.”
Ah, she toyed with him. A good sign. It meant she did not loathe or fear him. He searched through memories for a similar notable name, one she would recognize as a jesting return. “And I am Sid Vicious,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Victoria.”
“I didn’t ask for your name. Sid.”
Again the half-smile, the teasing tone. “Yet I’ve given it,” he said. “And now we’re no longer strangers.”
She cocked her head. “And that matters, why?”
“Look—” He nearly said Logan. That would’ve been an unforgivable mistake. “Your Majesty,” he said with a smile. “Since I can’t…pick you up, is there an alternative for connecting with you? I would hate to fall out of favor with royalty.”
Laughter escaped her tight-pressed lips. She faced him again. “You want to be in favor? Okay, then tell me where you got that.” She pointed to his head, to the bandanna tied around his hair. “It’s wicked. I want one.”
It did not escape him that her use of wicked meant something good. “This?” he said, reaching up to remove the bandanna. As he did, he willed it more firmly into this plane, so it would not fade into the ether. He held it out to her. “You may have it. A gift to the Queen.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I have others.”
She reached toward him, bit her lip. “Wait. This isn’t like a promise for sex or something on your planet, is it?”
Confusion knit his brow. “My planet?”
“Yeah. You talk like you just discovered words or something.”
Her uncanny perception heightened his desire to turn her, to ally her soul forever with Hell, bound to him. “It is no promise,” he said. “Merely a gift. No strings attached.”
“All right, then.”
She took the material. As she did, her fingers pressed against his wrist—and his mortal body reacted as though it had been set aflame. Heat hammered through his veins and flooded his groin. His muscles hardened, and he barely managed to suppress a moan.
Her quick breath at the contact indicated she’d felt at least some of the sensation.
She stuffed the bandanna in a pocket. “Thank you. Really. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to look at some unmentionables, and I’d rather not have you hanging over my shoulder.” A smile negated the irritation of her dismissal. She turned, walked a few steps away, then stopped and looked back at him. “I’m in a band,” she said—uneasily, as though she weren’t quite certain of the truth behind those words. “Ruined Soul. We’re playing at the Eight Spot in Philly, Saturday night, ten o’clock. If you come to the show, maybe I’ll see you there.
”
Ruined Soul. At least the name of the band suited her, if the company of the others did not. “I may do that,” he said. “And I’ll look for you there.”
“I won’t be hard to miss. I’ll be the one puking on the stage.” With a hesitant wave, she strode down the aisle, turned and vanished from his sight.
Soon, she would not be able to leave him. He would see to that.
Chapter 8
So far, this day had been seriously fucked up. Hopefully the evening wouldn’t follow the pattern.
Logan glanced out the window. Nothing yet. Tex would be here any minute—since they had so little time before she’d start playing out with them, the band had decided to run practice every night this week. It wasn’t a bad idea, but she couldn’t help suspecting it’d make her even more of a nervous wreck.
She ducked into the bathroom for a glance in the mirror and adjusted the bandanna on her head for the hundredth time. She should’ve burned the thing, thrown it away or something. The encounter with the guy at the thrift store had been weird enough to just about make her forget the rest of the morning.
Especially when he opened his mouth and Fred’s voice came out.
For a second she thought she’d have a heart attack. And the conversation that followed had been just as bizarre, with the strange way he talked. But he’d been so endearing.
And it didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous.
Mr. Vicious, whoever he was, had actual green eyes. Like emeralds—as if she’d ever seen real emeralds. Okay, like new spring grass. Vibrant green. Chocolate brown hair that fell to his shoulders. A golden tan and a body to die for. When she’d touched him to take his “gift,” her skin had practically fused to his.
Everything about him seemed familiar, intimate. Not just his voice. Maybe she really had known him in another life.
A horn honked outside. She switched the light off, cut through the living room and made her way to Tex’s car idling in the driveway. Opening the passenger door with a smile, she slid in and buckled up. “Try not to kill us tonight, okay?”
“No promises.” Grinning, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Nice headgear. Where’d that come from?”
“Thrift store.” She couldn’t tell him about the mystery man. It was just as crazy as the black-eyed freak and the shadow creature. He’d think she was hallucinating. Which she was—but she wouldn’t confess that to a counselor, even an off-duty one.
Tex shifted the car and backed out, then swung neatly onto the road. “So. Did you ever call your sister the other night?”
So much for the off-duty part. “Save it for my next session, counselor.” She’d managed not to think about Angie or Dad too much, and she wanted to keep it that way.
“I’m not asking as a counselor.” The injured edge in his voice sliced at her. “I’m asking as a friend. We are friends, right?”
Damn it. Why did he have to be so genuinely concerned? “Right,” she said with a sigh.
“Well, don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I won’t.” She stuck her tongue out. When he didn’t react, she grumbled, “Yes, I called her. Okay?”
Tex raised an eyebrow. He didn’t have to say, And…?
“She said I’m dead to her.” She tried to sound blithe, but her shaking voice betrayed her. “So I guess that’s my closure.”
He reached over and patted her leg, then left his hand there, warm and reassuring. After a minute, he said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
No. The automatic denial wouldn’t quite leave her tongue. She started to refuse anyway and shocked herself by saying, “My father died.”
“Oh God, Logan. I’m so sorry.” He actually sounded like he might cry. And he never called her Logan. “What happened?”
“He had a heart attack while I was in rehab. It happened five months ago. I never—” She stopped herself and switched tracks. “I think Angie blames me for it. I know she hates me because I ruined her perfect image of dear old Dad. She doesn’t believe me, but I made her doubt him for a few minutes, anyway.”
A grim expression settled on his face. “We’re talking about the guy who gave you the silent treatment when he wasn’t trying to kill you, right? That dear old Dad?”
“Yeah. Him.” The ghosts of her former life burned through her mind. It had been far beyond not speaking to her. The man had deliberately, systematically denied her existence. He would set out meals for two—him and Angie. Buy mountains of Christmas presents and print Angie’s name in huge block letters on every one of them, all facing out so she could see she wasn’t included. There was an extra bedroom in the house that belonged to no one, because he kept it locked. She’d slept on the couch, or in a chair, or on the floor in the study if he was up watching TV and she couldn’t keep her eyes open any more.
She’d lived for the weekends. Gran picked her up after school every Friday to stay with her until Sunday night. Sometimes Angie had come along, but more often than not, it’d been just her and Gran, who made it a point to never ignore her, or even tell her she was too busy to talk. Or listen. Gran, who encouraged her singing and made her believe things would be good someday.
The real hell had begun when Angie, five years older than her, finished community college and moved out when Logan was sixteen. Dad hadn’t stopped her from taking over her sister’s bedroom. In retrospect, it was the biggest mistake she’d made. Staying on the couch would’ve made it a lot harder for her father to do what he did.
She wasn’t going to remember that. Not now, hopefully not ever.
“Don’t worry about it,” she finally said. “You don’t see me crying, right? I’m fine. He was a bastard.”
Tex seemed less than convinced. But he didn’t ask any more questions. After a moment of silence, she leaned forward and switched the radio on. Music helped chase the ghosts away.
For now, it’d have to be enough.
* * * * *
Practice went smoothly for the first five songs or so. Blue seemed, if not happy to have Logan around, at least cool with it. Tex and Reid didn’t have any complaints. And Logan started to believe things might actually work out, for once in her life.
But when they started running through Bush’s “Glycerine,” a few minor problems developed.
Just before they hit the first chorus, Blue deliberately twanged a bunch of random notes and accompanied the outburst with a snarl. The amp let out a frustrated squawk. “Reid! What the hell are you playing over there, church music?”
“Ah, shit.” Reid ran a hand through his hair. “This tune bores the fuck outta me. Same four chords, over and over.”
Tex snorted. “You’re bored? I’ll trade you, man.” The song didn’t have a drum part, so Tex had moved off to the side to watch.
“It’s a crowd-pleaser,” Blue said. “They love it.”
“You love it. Christ, Blue, it ain’t like they’re gonna stone us if we take it off the list. We’ve got other Bush tunes.” Standing, Reid unslung his guitar and headed for the mini-fridge. “I need a drink. Anybody else, while I’m up?”
Blue scowled. “Fine. Toss me a Bud lime—and those aren’t for you, Reid. Drink your own.”
“What, that fuckin’ cactus juice?” Reid made a face. “I only drink beer-flavored beer.”
“Same here,” Tex said. “So grab me one.”
“Two manly beers, one wannabe.” Grinning, Reid pulled the bottles out and looked at Logan. “And what’s your poison, short stuff?”
She managed a smile. “Just water, thanks.”
Blue made a dismissive noise. “Too good to drink with us, Frost? Oh, wait. I bet you’re protecting your voice. Don’t want it to get all scratchy and shit.”
“Shut it, Blue.” Reid stalked over and thrust a bottle at her, then turned an apologetic smirk on Logan. “She’s just pissed about the song. Doesn’t like it when people point out the obvious.”
“Yeah. You nailed it,” Blue muttered. She cracked the bottle open and took a long swig
.
With a sigh, Logan accepted the water bottle Reid offered. She could explain why she wasn’t drinking—obviously, Tex hadn’t mentioned the drug thing to the rest of the band. He probably figured it wasn’t his place to talk about it. And he was right about that. But if she confessed, it wouldn’t necessarily ease the tension between her and Blue. Hell, it might make things worse.
She decided to come clean anyway. Better to know now if her past was going to be a problem. If it came out later, there’d be even more complications.
She swallowed some of the water and approached the cranky bassist. “I’d love to drink with you sometime,” she said. “Unfortunately, I can’t for a while.”
Blue snorted. “Why’s that? Your mommy won’t let you?”
“My caseworker, actually.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m an addict.”
Something in Blue’s face softened, even while her eyes narrowed. “You’re an alcoholic?”
“No.” Drawing a breath, she pushed a sleeve up. “Crystal meth.”
“Jesus Christ,” Blue whispered.
Logan tugged the material back over the scars. Tex and Reid’s shocked silence pounded the room behind her, but she didn’t look away from Blue. “I’m not going for sympathy here,” she said. “I just thought you should know. Meth addicts aren’t exactly known for recovering. Usually they just die. I’m clean now, but I could relapse. I’ll understand if you don’t want to work with me.”
“No, I…” Blue blinked a few times. “Holy shit, dude. You’re hardcore.”
Logan laughed before she could stop herself. “Not really. I was stupid, but I got over it. Mostly.”
“You’re a goddamn inspiration is what you are,” Reid called across the room. “Hell, you almost make me wanna give up drinking. Way to go, short stuff.”
“Yeah, right.” She smirked and raised the water bottle. “Cheers.”
Blue thunked her beer into it. “Listen, I’m sorry about that. I overreacted. Again.”
“Don’t worry about it. You don’t know me, really.”
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