Darkstone

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “It does, thanks.” Joram leaned a hip against the counter, crossing her arm across her chest, staring off in the middle distance. “I mean, it’s only been a couple of months since you first came to a show, but our gigs have…changed a lot in that time.”

  “I look forward to seeing another.”

  Naomi’s voice held a depth of meaning, something questionable with a slightly wary flavor to it. Joram concentrated on the sensation but couldn’t quite grasp the hidden meaning. She gnawed on the concept for a brief moment. This notion that she felt other people’s emotions was crazy, a byproduct of tonight’s performance experience and nothing else. She gave a slight headshake, pushing away the suspicion. Despite not being a fan of the type of music Invocation played, Naomi had never been less than enthusiastic on those times she had attended their gigs.

  Anders had spent the majority of Joram’s life instilling misgiving in her heart. This sudden distrust was an example of old training coming to the fore, nothing else. Forcibly setting aside her doubt, Joram continued the conversation. “You’re always on the VIP guest list.” Sudden anxiousness bloomed in her chest, concern that she’d revealed too much of her affection for Naomi in that simple statement. She hastily added, “Rebecca too!”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell her. She’ll be ecstatic.”

  Joram gauged Naomi’s reception, breathing a sigh that her friend might not have read as much into her tone as she’d unwittingly revealed. She slumped against the counter, relieved at dodging the social bullet. “What were you going to say earlier?”

  Naomi sounded as distracted as herself, bolstering Joram’s confidence. “Hmm?”

  “When we both started talking a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh! Um…” Naomi paused. “I was saying that maybe we can meet up when I get back.”

  “I’d love that.” A flash of memory crossed Joram’s mind—a gentle kiss turning to molten fire. “You still need to educate me, you know.”

  “What?”

  Joram imagined the confused expression on Naomi’s impish face. “Kisses. You told me you’d tutor me and I’m sore in need of the taste of your lips.”

  “Is that so?” Naomi said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

  Suddenly breathless, Joram licked her lips. “Very much so, mi empress.” She heard movement on the line, the soft sound of a door closing.

  “Where are you?”

  Joram’s eyes automatically flickered around the restroom. “Radio station. We have an interview in…” She paused to check the time on her phone. “In ten minutes.”

  “Are you alone?”

  She blinked, briefly wondering why it mattered. “Yes.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  Naomi’s voice had dropped a register, its huskiness igniting a fire in Joram’s abdomen. She smiled, playing along. “Tight black leather pants, a gray shirt.” Her hand slid down the curve of her waist and across her body, fingers lightly rubbing the cloth at her hip. “What about you? What are you wearing, mi empress?”

  “Nothing.”

  Any playfulness fled Joram’s mind as she imagined Naomi without a stitch of clothing. She attempted to speak but nothing came out. As she cleared her throat, her mental image expanded to include a roaring fireplace and a four-poster bed. “Uhhhh.”

  Naomi’s sexy laughter both eased Joram’s stupor and increased her desire. “I have you at an unfair advantage,” Naomi said. “I know.”

  Joram’s eyes darted to the door. Above her, Wayne and Bash bantered back and forth, reminding their audience that in just a few minutes they’d be interviewing Invocation. “You’re a bad girl. A bashy bad girl.”

  “I can be.”

  A sharp stab of desire pierced Joram at the wealth of meaning from that simple statement. Her fingers dug into her thigh and she closed her eyes, her breath hitching at the intensity. “If you don’t watch it, mi empress, I’ll be giving you lessons beyond those kisses.”

  Naomi didn’t answer for several seconds. When she did, it was with a breathy whisper. “I look forward to it.”

  Stunned and aroused at the unspoken promise, Joram swallowed. Before she could adequately respond, someone burst into the restroom. Joram’s eyes flew open.

  Chloe stood in the doorway. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. Everybody’s heading into the studio.” She cocked her head and peered at Joram. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine! I’m fine!” Joram spun around, seeing the flush of arousal gracing her skin in the mirror. “I’ve got to go,” she said into the phone.

  “Okay. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  Joram turned on the cold water, using one hand to splash her face. “Good. I can’t wait.”

  Naomi lightly laughed. “Neither can I. Break a leg, okay?”

  Turning off the water, Joram grinned at her reflection. “I will.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Bye.” She set the phone on the counter long enough to dab at her face with paper towels.

  Behind her Chloe leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, bearing a smug expression. “And who was that?” she asked in a voice of sweet innocence.

  Joram tossed the used paper towels into the trash with a shrug. “Nobody.”

  “Liar.” Chloe grinned. She held out her hand for the cell phone. “How’s Naomi?”

  A wide smile crept across Joram’s lips as she handed it over. “Well. She’ll be home in a few days.” She exited the restroom while Chloe held the door for her and then followed.

  “Come on, gyalis,” Chloe said, speaking the Jamaican patois with a flat American accent. “Your audience awaits.”

  Joram followed, wanting to argue Chloe’s choice of words but repressing the urge. In the past Joram had been a player of epic proportions. Chloe couldn’t know that something had changed within Joram’s heart, something that Naomi had triggered when she’d shown up backstage a couple of months ago.

  No, Joram wasn’t a player, a gyalis, anymore. Naomi was more important than that.

  * * *

  Naomi sobered as she disconnected the call. Fully dressed, she’d lied to Joram, perversely enjoying the discomfort she’d caused. Her humor faded as she stared unseeing out her bedroom window, watching the deep green pine and fir trees casually shift with the wind. The aromatic breeze caressed her face, the quality of it so different from the cities of California, rich with the scent of life and growth. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the fragrance of home. The trees whispered secrets to one another as they rustled with movement, their sounds interspersed with birdsong and the tock tock tock of a woodpecker. If she could just bottle this scent, this feeling.

  Inanna and Nathan had to be wrong. Naomi squinted out at her world, attempting to reconcile the exciting young singer she’d come to know with the exaggerated evil caricature responsible for destroying the world. It didn’t work. It wasn’t right. Joram wasn’t a spiritual person—and if Naomi’s childhood monastic experience had been real, Joram never had been one. Even as a disembodied voice keeping a lonely thirteen-year-old girl company Joram had kept up a skeptical tirade on the metaphysical training Naomi had endured. Naomi’s experience argued that Joram was incapable of gathering and focusing the eldritch powers from a single otherworld vortex, let alone weaving three of them into one massive sorcerous maelstrom. Such a deed would take extensive and devout training and an iron will.

  But what do I know about her? How much of my vision has been blinded by my—our past? Naomi turned and tossed the phone onto her bed, following it as she threw herself on her back. She stared up at the four-poster canopy, fingers interlaced across her belly as she mentally ticked off a list of facts.

  Joram was about the same age as her, raised in Jamaica by a man who obviously had plenty of money. She was wealthy, musically inclined and knew what she wanted in life. And gorgeous. Don’t forget the gorgeous part. Naomi shoved aside the non sequitur, feeling her lip curl in sour perplexity. Whoever her patron was, Joram d
idn’t like him. Naomi recalled the telephone conversation that had interrupted their first date. The signals Joram had sent out during that call had indicated a lot of water beneath that bridge. Even if she had been fully indoctrinated into the phantasmal arts, Naomi doubted Joram would follow through for a man for which she held such palpable hatred.

  Could Joram’s patron be Inanna’s former protégé?

  Ice trickled along Naomi’s spine, causing her to shiver. She shifted in discomfort, grabbing a pillow to clutch to her chest. It was possible. Anything’s possible. She shied away from the hypothesis that Joram, by extension of being raised by Inanna’s ancient enemy, was Naomi’s target. Naomi had spent years researching anthropological and historical texts, delving into supernatural and spiritual tomes and holding long conversations with her mother on the subject. Whoever had trained to open the door between dimensions had to have had rigorous instruction and a willpower of iron. From what Naomi could gather from their admittedly few conversations, Joram’s education was inconsistent. She’d told Naomi that she’d dropped out of school early, around thirteen or fourteen. The last dozen years had been formally studying music, alone and with the band. Joram certainly hadn’t wasted time on ancient magical theories or practices.

  Naomi’s target wasn’t necessarily Joram. Nothing said Inanna’s enemy couldn’t rear other children, people he’d taught the required metaphysical arts for the task at hand. For that matter, was it possible to do something like this by committee? Train several people, each attentive to one task during the ritual, leading them from afar. She dismissed the idea. There were too many things that could go wrong with that scenario. Though her information on the mysterious protégé wasn’t complete, she’d gotten the impression from Inanna that he’d been quite the control freak when she’d known him. There was no reason that would have changed over the centuries, especially in light of what he’d done in the interim.

  Could it be someone else? She sat upright. “What if it’s someone else in the band?”

  “Nuh vex yuh, mi empress,” Joram’s voice whispered in the room. “You’ll figure it out.

  A lump formed in Naomi’s throat as she fell back onto the bed in despair. Nathan’s environment hadn’t become stronger. Hearing Joram indicated that Naomi’s theory was correct, and the Los Angeles area had become inundated with ethereal might. The distance also put lie to the hope of Joram’s innocence. Only someone with an inherent magical ability could utilize the fey powers near the vortexes. Inanna had been right. Naomi had never heard anyone else’s voice.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Joram followed Chloe into the control booth, looking through the glass wall between it and the studio proper. It didn’t look much different than the music studio she had at home or the compound. A massive sound board and monitoring equipment crouched here in the control room with a technician hovering over the switches and dials. The view beyond the glass was different. Rather than an assortment of musical instruments scattered across the soundproofed area, a long counter bisected the room with additional controls and equipment imbedded into its surface. Microphones dangled from the ceiling and cables snaked everywhere. The rest of her bandmates were already inside the cramped compartment, crowding into their seats on the side of the counter closest to the door. A pair of assistants helped them make sense of the slew of microphones and headphones. Bayani flirted outrageously with the woman assigned to help him. Jubal chuckled at Bay’s display, taking the opportunity to rib him. Naturally reticent at the best of times, Jarod settled into his chair with a minimum of fuss, closing his eyes for a brief moment to either battle a case of nerves or simply center himself. On the far side, Rand draped her metal-coated leather jacket over the back of her chair, laughing at something the male assistant said. The radio hosts were on the other side of the counter, speaking quietly to one another in preparation for the interview.

  Ivan bustled out of the pandemonium, raising his hands in exasperation when he spotted Joram. “There you are! Come on.” He turned sideways and allowed her to squeeze past him, glancing at the digital clock on the far wall. “You’re on the air in six minutes.”

  Familiar apprehension filled Joram’s abdomen as she eased into the cramped room. Her stage fright appeared no matter how often she put herself in front of an audience, even as small an audience as the two men whose radio show this was. Chloe followed and hustled her into the nearest chair, handing her a set of headphones that had been hooked over a large microphone dangling from the ceiling.

  One of the interviewers, a long-haired ginger with a flowing beard worthy of a fantasy movie, reached across the table to shake her hand. “Welcome to KRAK. I’m Bash.” He jerked a thumb at the bald young man seated beside him. “That’s Wayne. Glad to have you in the studio.”

  Wayne looked up from his controls, revealing dark brown eyes sparkling with wit. His well-trimmed goatee didn’t quite hide a weak chin. Though not much to look at, his expressive face indicated he had charm in spades. “How’s it going?” His resonate voice demonstrating that he was in the perfect occupation despite his less-than-glamorous appearance.

  “Still high from the concert. Thanks for having us.” Joram leaned to one side to allow an assistant to pull the microphone closer toward her.

  Wayne laughed, a rich tone that made Joram smile in automatic response. “We heard you had a tough time turning them away tonight.”

  “Dey sick inna dey head,” Jubal said.

  Joram recalled the intensity of the audience even after the third encore. “Yeah, they were pretty crazy all right.”

  “A good kind of crazy,” Ivan insisted from the open doorway. “The kind that sells.”

  Jubal rolled his eyes. “Yah, mon. Dat’s what I meant.”

  “Um…” Rand stared at the microphone in front of her with distaste. “What exactly did Dr. Q do to the microphone anyway? And which microphone was it?”

  Bash wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Our little secret.” When Rand reached out to carefully push the microphone away with a single finger, he guffawed. “Don’t worry. We threw it out.”

  Wayne snickered. “Yeah. Can’t sterilize a microphone without fucking up the wiring.”

  Rand looked unconvinced but didn’t argue the point as the assistant squeezed back down to her end of the console and repositioned the mic.

  “So here’s what’ll happen,” Bash said, getting back to the business at hand. “Wayne will open the interview segment, we’ll have a bit of back-and-forth and then get into the questions.” He waved at papers being handed out to the band. “Here are the basic questions we’ll be asking. We’ll stick to them for the most part, but be prepared to swing slightly off-topic.”

  “We don’t run a tight ship on this show.” Wayne grinned. “But we’ll try not to put you guys in too much of a bind.”

  Joram received her list and scanned them while Ivan peered over her shoulder. They were standard questions regarding their music, their inspirations and the techniques they used to create their songs. At the bottom was a list of six songs on which they planned to focus their attention. She wasn’t pleased to see “Christina” there, but there was little she could do about the matter. As the band rose in prominence, the song about her childhood nemesis had become one of their most popular. It hadn’t helped that it was one of Anders’s “special” songs.

  Bash laughed. “Investigative journalists, we’re not. But the flow of the interview can bring us to all sorts of places. We’ve got four commercial breaks and will play two of your songs over the next half hour, as well.”

  Wayne nodded. “We don’t want to leave too much in the way of dead air, so we’ll direct our questions as best as possible. Feel free to cut in if you think someone else is more qualified to respond. Everybody good?”

  The band looked back and forth at one another, nodding agreement. This wasn’t their first dog and pony show. Even Jarod, their most laconic member, had learned to force himself to speak in promotional situations such as
this. The two assistants and Chloe filed out of the room, closing the door behind them. Joram saw Ivan and Chloe take up places in the control room beyond.

  “Great! In just a minute, our controller will run you through a quick sound check. But right now…” Bash held his finger up to his lips, instructing them to silence as he flipped a switch. “All right, folks, that was the L.A. Tulips with ‘Target Rich Environment.’ Next up will be a live interview with Invocation, so stay tuned!” He hit another switch and the strains of their song, “Christina” began to play.

  “Giving the Devil his due.

  “No baptismal mercy to wash away

  “My wicked crime.

  “Time to erase myself,

  “To cross out my mistakes,

  “What I’ve Chosen.”

  * * *

  “Welcome back from the commercial break. That was ‘Homicide’ by Invocation,” Bash said.

  Wayne cut in. “Who we actually have sitting across from us in the studio.” He paused, winking at Joram across the console. “So this song. It’s pretty intense. Joram, what were you thinking of when you wrote it?”

  Joram pushed away the memory of Christina’s blood splashing hot across her hand so many years ago. “A horror movie.” She forced a laugh, pleased that it even sounded natural. “I can’t remember the title of it, but it was a movie that I saw when I was a child.”

  Bash raised bushy eyebrows. “You were allowed to watch horror movies when you were a kid? My parents would have killed me.”

  “Well…I was a bit of a handful when I was young.”

  “Truss me,” Jubal interrupted, his accent uncharacteristically thick with patois. “Mi gyal was nevah balanced. One hataclaps afta anudda.”

  The radio hosts blinked a brief second at the unfamiliar words.

  “Crisis,” Joram supplied with a false smile, glad of Jubal’s distraction. Of her circle of friends, only Chloe had been present in Hell when she’d put an end to Christina’s abuse, but Jubal had arrived less than a week later and knew the truth. The rest of the band had only heard of it via rumor mill during their stays in Hell. “One crisis after another. I think I was in trouble the majority of my childhood. Seeing an R-rated movie was the least of my transgressions.”