MySoultoSave by S W Vaughn Read Free Book Online Page A

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 pressure. 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.
    For better or worse, it was time for a new dream. One that
didn’t involve making a fool of herself.
    * * * * *
    Jaeryth stalked into his office and wished he’d bothered
acquiring some possessions, so he would have something to break.
    The room he’d claimed and had inhabited for a century still
contained nothing but a table, two chairs and a cabinet. Nothing personalized
or decorative—save the marks on the walls. Hash marks scored the surface,
groups of five in small, neat rows from floor to ceiling. They completely
filled three walls, and covered all but the last few square feet of the fourth.
    One mark for every human soul he’d personally sent to Hell.
    Now he had another to add, and he was not troubled in the
least by the human’s death. He could not be, refused to be. He tromped
to the cabinet, drew out a small dagger and moved to the fourth wall, where the
freshest marks were. This one would complete a group. He scored a line through
the last four, the mark made jagged by his trembling hand.
    It had been the Shepherd. He was upset over its ridiculous
claims, its very presence in his district. Nothing more.
    He stepped over to the first wall. Crouching, he ran
fingertips lightly over the lower row, the oldest of the marks, and smiled. These
souls would have been granted new bodies long ago, and