Page 112 of The Music Demon

Once safely in the passes, Quicksilver traveled quickly, power and a dancer’s grace married into motion. Nothing is more delightful to a demon than getting the upper hand of a deal.

He was empowered in the way of a person who sees his dream within reach and wearing the victorious, self-satisfied smile of a person who has already laid hands on their heart’s desire. It didn’t occur to him that self-congratulations were premature. If there had ever been a time when he wanted something and didn’t get it, the event was buried so far in the distant past that it didn’t come to mind.

Rosie looked up when Glen came through the door saying, “What a day I had!” He closed the door, turned around, took in her expression and said, “I have a feeling your day’s been even more interesting.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I’m not trying to one-up you. But a demon told me the Order’s program of transitioning hunters is beyond insane and that it has the potential to create chaos beyond description.”

“Well. That’s…”

“Not all.”

“Okay.”

“Had a talk with Lally. He says he’s been hanging around me all my life waiting to see if I go psycho and destroy the world.”

Glen blinked slowly then wordlessly headed toward the drawer that held the wine opener.

CHAPTER SIXTEENMonterey

Doo’s time was split between dual pursuits. One was classic rock music. The other was Cassidy Power. He fell more in love with her every day.

The old record guy had indeed suggested some musicians who were either hoping to join a promising band or unhappy with their present situation. The latter might be persuaded to jump ship for the right opportunity.

Cass set up meetings and auditions at the house Doo had dubbed Record House. And Doo was beyond pleased with the harvest of musicians. He and Cass were up until the wee hours discussing the pros and cons of those whose names still appeared on the A List.

After initial solo auditions, they’d put together three possible mix and match bands. Then auditioned as a unit. That, of course, was therealtest.

This one might be the best bass player in town, but something about his demeanor said future problems. He was the sort who wanted to playandbe in charge.

Another had everything a guy like Doo might want in a drummer, except a tendency to pay more attention to himself and his drumming than to the music being made by potential bandmates.Andhe secretly wanted to be in charge.

The thing that had Doo pulling his hair out at choice time was the fact that Cass was suggesting he go with the people who just wanted to make music and not massage egos, even if they were not the virtuosos.

“I feel like I’m hoggin’ your time.”

She smiled. “That’s because you are. You’re my project.” That wasn’t the first time he’d heard that. “But back to this list. It’s rare to have more than one star in a band, Doo. So many wayward dynamics… You spend all the time dealing with snitty fits instead of making music. You have to have people who are more into music than personal ambitions.”

“But…” He tapped a name on the list with his forefinger. “This guy’s good enough to bring tears to my eyes. And I’m not exaggeratin’.”

“I know.” She nodded. “That’s because you’re a big baby.”

He rolled his eyes.

“No. Seriously.” She went on. “Here’s the thing. You’re gonna make it. Big. When that happens, it lays people bare. People become more of who they really are at the core. You’re really a nice guy. So you’ll probably adopt a village in Africa or some such.” Her eyes lowered to the list. “This guy,” she placed her finger where Doo’s had been a moment before, “he’s borderline asshole now because he thinks so much of himself. When the success begins rolling in, he’ll show you trouble walking.”

Doo stared at her for a few beats, clearly thinking it over. “Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s go to bed.”

She smiled and shoved the list away.

Cass lived on the second story of Record House. It was luxurious for the neighborhood and private considering the revolving door crowd downstairs. Anybody who wandered up the stairs was banned from Record House forever. The children of the fifties who’d congregated in San Francisco in 1967 weren’t the sort who were overly fond of rules, but they respected Cass, her place, and her rules. Possibly because there were so few. Rules, that is.

They fell into Cass’s bed and listened to a soft rain falling.

“I am so tired,” she said.

Doo chuckled. “If that’s your way of sayin’ no nookie tonight, I’m okay with that. Half asleep here.”

“You know.”

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