Darkstone

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Naomi scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The woman’s expression was both apologetic and firm. “Nope. Not kidding.”

  Playing up her petulance, Naomi rolled her eyes as she raised her arms. “Whatever.”

  * * *

  Naomi used the mirror to freshen up, brushing her hair into place with her fingers. Taking her opponents down had been easier than undressing them had been. She not only wore a brilliant yellow Venue Security shirt now but had a Staff badge on a lanyard about her neck. Behind her, the woman guard glared daggers over the impromptu gag Naomi had created with a wad of tissue paper from the vanity and a strip of the woman’s shirt. She hadn’t felt right leaving her half naked with her male companion, so she’d appropriated the man’s shirt to cover the woman before zip-tying her to the chair. The man lay unconscious on the floor, equally trussed and gagged.

  “Did you ever hear the phrase, ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall?’” Naomi turned to look at the woman. “It’s a proven fact that people with denser musculature structures are easier to take down than people with less brawn.” She tucked the tattered ends of the yellow shirt into her pants, hoping it didn’t look too oversized for her smaller frame.

  The guard refused to attempt a smothered answer, too proud to struggle with her bonds as she stared sourly at Naomi.

  Distant thunder filled the air, indicating that Invocation had just started their second encore. If their schedule continued as expected, there would be a third one before the end of the show. Considering their concerts were elaborately contrived rituals, Naomi could almost guarantee not only a third encore, but that Anders would be in the stage wings to witness it. She had a little time to negotiate the backstage area in search of Joram’s dressing room.

  Naomi retrieved Rebecca’s cell phone, slipping it into her pocket. “I’ll call someone to come get you when I leave, okay?”

  The woman continued to glare, and Naomi shrugged. She’d done what she had to do. At the door, she cracked it open and peered outside. The wide corridor was as active as ever. Without a backward glance, she slipped out into the controlled pandemonium.

  Other than the fact that she didn’t fit the stereotypical appearance of venue security, her camouflage worked wonders. None found her presence suspicious as she wandered through the area. Relieved that her subterfuge seemed to be working, Naomi nevertheless felt helpless. She didn’t want a public meeting with Joram on the off chance that Anders would be with her. Better to find Joram’s dressing room and secrete herself inside before the end of the show. How was she to find out which dressing room was Joram’s?

  Spying an abandoned leather jacket on a rolling crate, she glanced around. No one paid her the slightest attention. She scooped up the jacket and hustled away. Several minutes and several yards later she approached one of the lounging roadies. “Hey, do you know where Joram Darkstone’s dressing room is? I was told to put her jacket there.”

  The crusty man eyeballed her. He looked vaguely familiar and seemed to think the same of her. At his booted feet were cigarette butts, a No Smoking sign prominently displayed on the wall behind him. Naomi recalled her first night backstage at the Indigo. Chloe had smacked this man’s knee as they had passed. “No smoking, Frank.” Great, the one person Naomi had approached was one who could identify her.

  Frank cocked his head in thought. “I think it’s three doors down on the left.” He pointed farther down the corridor.

  Either he didn’t remember her, or Anders didn’t have as strong a hold on the itinerant workers that comprised the band’s roadies. Naomi thanked him with a brilliant smile and hustled away before he came to his senses and notified a security officer.

  The first entrance she passed was a set of double doors, opened wide. She peeked inside, recognizing the battered blue cooler the band used to hydrate their fans at after-hours parties. Fortunately Chloe or Ivan wasn’t in attendance. They were probably in the wings with Anders. A security guard leaned against the doorjamb, quizzical eyes fixed upon her as she passed.

  Shit. Avoiding him was out of the question. If she acted the least bit suspicious, she’d be screwed. The music crashed to a halt, and she heard the distant screams of the audience demanding more. “Sounds like they’re almost done.”

  He nodded noncommittally. “Yeah.”

  “Joram Darkstone’s dressing room?” She held up the jacket. “I’m new. Still haven’t learned my way around yet.”

  Her excuse and the staff badge around her neck seemed to ease his concerns. “You’re almost there. Two more doors down.”

  “Thanks!” She continued onward.

  “Yeah.” She was several feet away when he called out to her, her heart bursting with abrupt fear. “And don’t worry. I was still getting lost six months after I started here.”

  She turned, gifting him with a bright smile as she walked backward. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

  He waved at her with a grin.

  At the second door beyond his, she stopped and looked back. He gave her a thumbs-up. Damn. She’d hoped he’d have been distracted by something. Returning the gesture, she politely knocked on the door. It suddenly occurred to her that Chloe might be inside rather than backstage. Heart thumping, Naomi prepared to force her way past the blonde, but no one answered. Glancing back down the corridor, she saw the guard had looked away. Huffing out a breath to calm her nerves, she slipped inside.

  The room was similar to the one she’d escaped. The same nondescript furniture, the same vanity mirror showed her reflection as she dropped the borrowed jacket onto the couch. Joram’s jacket hung from the back of a chair and a guitar case leaned against the couch. A small cooler sat on the table next to a half-eaten plate of vegetable crudités and dip.

  The rapid-fire sound of drums crackled loud over the in-room speaker. “Hey, Swift Waters! Wah gwaan?” Naomi turned, staring at the ceiling as she listened to Joram flirting with the crowd. Closing her eyes, she saw Joram strutting across the stage, confident and cocky, reveling in the music and the audience’s regard, weaving their emotions into a spell of epic proportions.

  Naomi’s eyes popped open. Overhead, Joram introduced the band’s final song of the night. It wasn’t the ballad from last night. Naomi wondered why. Instead the band began another new tune, one filled with fiery rage.

  Slowly sinking onto the couch, Naomi listened to the music, feeling the gloom and despair, the desire for violent retribution as Joram sang. She’d called the song “Justice,” and the music filled Naomi with frustrated hopelessness as she fell sway to Joram’s voice.

  “It’s over now.

  “No more suffering, no more pain.

  “I have so much to say,

  “But I’m going down

  “Alone.

  “Oh, no.”

  As the last strains of the song died out, a deafening roar erupted from the audience. Naomi felt the power of the music deep in her heart. She fought the adrenalized desire to surge to her feet and scream defiance at the world and circumstances that had caused such pain. This wasn’t her pain or her defiance. It was Joram’s. Anders had raised her to feel this anger and helplessness. He’d carefully contrived to ruin a child with a special gift and set her loose upon the world, to blast open the doors that forever separated him from unending power.

  Her imaginary friend had occasionally suffered from cheerless fugues. It had helped Naomi to focus on the emotional needs of someone else rather than endure her homesickness. Now she knew why Joram’s depressions had developed. Anders had purposely created an environment that created Joram’s unhappiness. That pissed Naomi off. She wished she had the strength and ability to kill him. She would suffer life imprisonment and even a death sentence for the honor.

  Somewhere in the constant bellow from the crowd, she heard Joram’s voice. “Now go out, do good!”

  Do good? How was that possible with the violent emotions overflowing from her audience? Joram couldn’t possibly comprehen
d what she was doing,

  The crowd had fallen into chanting the band’s name. A thousand throats called for Invocation to return to the stage. Naomi looked at Rebecca’s cell phone, not seeing any messages. Considering how easily Naomi had been caught up in the artificial emotional maelstrom, even with her knowledge and advanced meditative training, she knew Rebecca had succumbed. Her roommate was in the VIP balcony seating, screaming for the band to return, burning with anger at the injustice of the world.

  The door burst open, and Joram blew into the room, slamming it behind her. An aura of vitality snapped around her, a not quite electrical current that emitted a low-level psychic buzz. Startled, Naomi jumped to her feet, phone in hand. The crowd still called for their idols on the overhead speakers. She hadn’t realized the band had left the stage.

  Staring at Naomi, Joram froze. Her hair was limp with sweat, a thin sheen of it gracing her overheated skin. “You’re here.” Her voice was rougher than usual, a temporary after-effect of her stage performance.

  Naomi swallowed and nodded, suddenly unsteady, her sense of purpose flailing. Casting around for words, she broke the mutual stare, looking around the room, unable to find them. She pocketed the phone and circled the table, picking up one of the towels neatly placed on the vanity. “Here. You look like you could use this.” She stepped closer, feeling the crackle of energy radiating from Joram.

  Joram took the offering, immediately burying her face in the terry cloth before peeking over it at Naomi. She finished wiping the excess moisture from her skin, running the towel across her hair and over the back of her neck.

  Watching her, Naomi cleared her throat. “Your own dressing room. That’s new.”

  Joram shot her a grim look, apparently not expecting the remark. “Yeah.” She tossed the towel aside and opened the small cooler, taking out a bottle of water. After a slight hesitation she handed a second one to Naomi. “Seemed about time.”

  Naomi took the bottle but didn’t open it. “Is it because the others didn’t like the ballad last night?”

  Her question received another sharp glance. Reluctant, Joram said, “They like it fine enough. We’re just not going to play it anymore.” She took a long drink.

  “Why not?”

  Joram slammed the bottle down, splashing half the remaining water over her hand and sleeve, and startling Naomi. “Does it matter?” Joram reached past Naomi for another towel, drying her hands with sharp, jerky movements.

  Naomi watched, mentally holding her breath at Joram’s uneasiness. In the past, Joram had ended her concerts wired but exhilarated. Tension oozed out of her pores along with perspiration now, changing her from a normally confident woman into one of brittle edges. “Yes. It matters to me. I thought it was beautiful.”

  Joram stared at her, despair and hope warring on her face. “Where did you go last night? I know you were here; Ivan told me. I looked for you.”

  “I—” Naomi dropped her gaze. She’d spent several hours getting here, had envisioned laying her soul bare but hadn’t gone beyond the intellectual exercise of the process. Here she stood at the pinnacle of truth and she floundered for words that wouldn’t come.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Joram said, filling the conversational gap. She tossed the second towel after the first and turned away from Naomi, fleeing to the couch. “I shouldn’t have performed the ballad. It’s stupid and juvenile, not up to Invocation standards.” Rather than look at Naomi, she stared at her guitar case. “I presumed too much.”

  Heart soaring, Naomi followed. “No you didn’t. I’m glad you played it. You played it for me. It might not be up to Invocation standards, but it’s certainly not stupid or juvenile. It was exquisite.”

  Joram turned, expression pained. “Then why did you leave? Where did you go? You’ve been avoiding me all day. I’ve been trying to get hold of you since last night.” She lowered her head, staring at the floor as she ran fingers through her damp hair.

  Naomi tamped down the urge to jump into Joram’s arms and kiss her senseless, to ease her doubts and cares. Joram had never lied to her, not even as a disembodied voice at the monastery. She’d avoid answering and changed the topic but she’d never lied. Anders had to have done more than just block Joram’s phone. Somehow he’d used whatever power he still held to also intercept Joram’s attempts to contact her. Naomi frowned, eyes narrowing. “Anders.”

  “Anders?” Joram blinked, agitation overcoming her dismay. She shuffled backward until her boot heels hit the couch. Suspicion filled her tone. “How do you know him?”

  Naomi hadn’t wanted to start the conversation with Joram on the defensive. “Can we sit?”

  Joram studied her a moment before answering with a curt nod. She sank down as Naomi sat beside her.

  Naomi chose her words with care. “Last night I had an urgent and unplanned meeting with my mother. That’s why I had to leave.”

  Joram cocked her head. “Your mother came back with you?”

  “Not with me, no, but she’s here.” Naomi gazed about the room. “Somewhere.”

  Nodding, Joram studied her hands. “When did you leave?”

  Naomi focused on Joram, tentatively reaching for her hands. “Long after the butterflies dissipated.” She was heartened that Joram accepted the contact and squeezed them. “They were beautiful.”

  The mention of butterflies caused Joram’s hands to twitch, and her lips curled into a grimace. “And Anders? You know who he is?”

  “He’s the man who raised you, right? Your patron?” At Joram’s nod of agreement, Naomi pursed her lips. “He showed up at my apartment late this morning to warn me off you.”

  Fury flared in Joram’s eyes, the banked flames roaring up to bonfire levels. She attempted to pull away, moving to stand, but Naomi held her tight, tugging her back down. “I told him to leave you alone.”

  Smiling, Naomi cupped Joram’s cheek. “It’s okay. He told me to back off and never darken your door again. That’s all.”

  “Bullshit. I know him. He threatened you.” Joram’s mouth twisted into an unforgiving line at her words. “He went to your apartment and threatened you. Damn it! I thought I had you under better wraps.”

  Naomi recalled Chloe’s words just before setting security on her. “I don’t think it was you who tipped him off about me.”

  “No. It was probably Chloe or Ivan.”

  Surprised that Joram already suspected someone in her circle as untrustworthy, Naomi considered her next words. Chloe was certainly running a few marbles short, but her utter devotion to Joram was faultless if a bit misguided. “Most likely Ivan. Chloe wouldn’t have said anything.”

  Joram raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

  Naomi gave her a lopsided grin. “Because she’s the reason I’m backstage at all.”

  After a long examination of her, Joram nodded. “She’s always been there for me.”

  Hearing Chloe’s words in her head, Naomi repeated them. “Even in Hell.”

  Her comment galvanized Joram. This time Joram got away, standing and taking a tight step to put some distance between them. “What do you know about Hell?” she demanded.

  Shocked at the response, Naomi held up her hands in surrender as she stood. What in the world is Hell to these people? “Only that Chloe mentioned it, that she’d been there for you even then.”

  Befuddled, Joram squinted and shook her head. “We don’t talk about Hell. None of us do. Why would she mention it to you?”

  “I don’t know. She was explaining that she’d always been there for you, even in Hell.” Naomi debated mentioning Christina, but decided against the idea. Joram was already unsettled and Naomi remembered the lyrics to “Christina,” a song full of righteous anger and sorrow. Whoever Christina had been, now was not the time to bring her up in conversation.

  Joram rubbed her forehead. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  Naomi reminded herself of her purpose. It wouldn’t be long before Chloe or Ivan—maybe even Anders—came to chec
k on Joram. Time was finite and, if Inanna and Nathan were right, she was living in the final days. “I asked you once before if you’d had an imaginary friend, remember?”

  The apparent non sequitur recaptured Joram’s attention. “Not really.”

  Naomi inwardly sighed. “It was at the observatory. I told you that I’d had one and that she was very much like you. I was thirteen years old, and she helped me through a very lonely time.”

  Despite their conversation to this point, Joram snorted. “Thirteen? That’s a little old for an imaginary friend.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Naomi sat back down, patting the couch beside her. “We probably don’t have much time before I’m discovered. I need to tell you this story.”

  Joram hesitated, glancing at the door. She strode across the room and locked it before regaining her seat.

  Relieved, Naomi took Joram’s hand again. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “When I was thirteen, I was sent to a nearby monastery for one year to train. It was winter and I made the trip into the mountains alone.” She spent the next several minutes explaining her dream upon the mountain saddle and arrival at the monastery, glossing over Nathan’s heritage as she regaled Joram with the story of her imaginary friend. “I so missed her when I left.”

  Uncertain what this had to do with her, Joram shrugged. “It makes sense. You had to have been lonely up there with only the one monk.”

  “He was hardly a monk, but yes, he wasn’t the greatest of friends.” Naomi smiled, an image of the alien Nathan in full Western regalia filling her mind. She banished the thought. “I didn’t hear her voice again until recently.”

  Joram’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve heard your imaginary friend again? As an adult? Like…last week or something?”

  Naomi’s smile widened, and she gripped Joram’s fingers. “When I saw you at the Indigo that first time.”

  “What?”

  Here it was, the moment she’d been dreading and anticipating since she’d first realized who Joram was. She forced herself to take even breaths to combat the urge to hyperventilate. This was worse than revealing everything to Rebecca. “It’s your voice.”