With no control of her body, Skye turned and walked out of the throne room.
The door slammed shut behind her, and her body loosened as the Devil’s compulsion over her faded, though the threat of it lingered as a burning ache in the center of her wrist, the birthmark a permanent reminder of his control over her—over all demons born in Hell.
She held the jar up to her eyes.The swirls condensed into a potent darkness, dancing this way and that.
The power inside didn’t feel like a soul.
She’d never felt magic like this before, but something about it felt familiar.It tugged at her, whispered at her to remember something she’d never known, something she wasn’t conscious of.
Skye unscrewed the lid, releasing the darkness.It hovered like a cloud around her.
Shadows.
The swirling mist gave her a shadow in Hell.
She smiled as the darkness skated over her skin.Tapping the diamond on her choker necklace, she asked, “Stay in here?”
The shadows complied.They filled the gem and turned it into a black diamond, cool against her throat.She had absolutely no clue what was going on.
Guess I really am going to the Whisky a Go Go tonight.
She had a rock star to see.
Chapter Eight
“Thereareabunchof people at the door claiming to be journalists, but they aren’t on the list,” a young woman with a clipboard said.Remi recognized her as one of the runners at the Whisky a Go Go, but he’d already forgotten her name with the amount of shit he was dealing with.
“Fuck,” he said, dropping the microphone stand he’d been setting up on the stage.It was his stage manager’s job, but he was missing—again.
Remi pulled his phone out of his back pocket and scrolled through his millions of unread emails, trying to find the one that the label had sent to him, whichshouldhave also been sent to the Whisky.
After what felt like a century, he found it and gave his phone to the woman.She started writing the names on her clipboard.
“Just take my phone,” Remi said.“It’ll be quicker, and I don’t want to piss off the journalists any more than I already have.”
She nodded and took the phone.“Looks like they misspelled our manager’s name in the email address.That’s why we didn’t get it.”
Remi nodded, unsurprised.It was only the billionth tiny thing that had gone wrong in the last few weeks.
The girl sprinted off with his phone, and he idly wondered if he’d ever see it again.
With his luck, he wouldn’t.
Remi ran his hands through his hair and tugged at the roots as his frustration grew.The last two months had been a whirlwind.His band signed a record deal and recorded an album faster than he thought possible.He was getting laid every night.He’d done so many designer drugs he was convinced a drug dog would be able to sniff them out in his blood.
He was a motherfucking rock star.
He was living his dream.
And it was a fucking nightmare.
It started off as a couple of misunderstandings, a few organization issues, growing pains.Their producer called them three weeks ago to rerecord a few of their songs.The files had gotten corrupted while they were finalizing the album.Not a huge deal.Remi and his bandmates had been practicing nonstop in preparation for their first tour.They went to the studio and knocked it out in a few days.Crisis averted.
But it only got worse from there.
Remi and West were booked to do a few interviews, and they’d been headed to one when he’d gotten a call from a disgruntled man who told him he was two hours late.Remi apologized and said he was on his way, pissed at himself for getting the time wrong.He respected the press.He wasn’t one of those guys who’d miss an interview or forget to put a journalist’s name on the guest list.Well, at least, he thought he wasn’t.
When they finally got to the interview, Remi started apologizing profusely to the host for being late, but the host had only furrowed his brow and assured him he was on time.A sickening dread landed heavy in his gut.Remi redialed the phone number of the angry interviewer and found out that the label had double-booked them.They were somehow supposed to be in two places at once.
