The Monsters of Music Read online

  THE MONSTERS OF MUSIC

  by Rebecca F. Kenney

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca F. Kenney

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.

  First Edition: October 2019

  Kenney, Rebecca F.

  The Monsters of Music / by Rebecca F. Kenney.—First edition.

  Summary: Mel must share her creative magic or be driven mad by it. But finding her first protégé isn't as easy for her as it is for most Lianhan Sidhe (mythical Gaelic muses). While all the women of her race are naturally beautiful, she bears horrifying scars across one side of her face, inflicted by her mother's obsessive boyfriend. And Mel isn't only interested in pouring her creative energy into a man; she wants to use her musical genius herself, too. But the laws of the Lianhan Sidhe, and her own savage appearance, stand in the way of her ever singing onstage. To relieve the painful pressure of her magic, Mel latches onto Kiyoji, a boy with a beautiful voice, and coaches him through a televised singing competition. But neither of them are prepared for the power of their connection, or for the new kind of magic that happens when the two of them sing together.

  Chapter List / Song List

  1—Budapest (George Ezra)

  2—Superstition (Quincy Jones, Stevie Wonder)

  3—Irreplaceable (Beyoncé)

  4—Lotus Flower (Tearwave)

  5—Lights (Ellie Goulding)

  6—Toxic (Britney Spears)

  7—Mirrors (Justin Timberlake)

  8—Symphony (Clean Bandit feat. Zara Larsson)

  9—Replay (Iyaz)

  10—Sweet But Psycho (Ava Max)

  11—Kryptonite (3 Doors Down)

  12—Feelin' Good (Nina Simone, Michael Bublé)

  13—River from the Sky (The Weepies)

  14—Colors (Flow)

  15—Walking the Wire (Imagine Dragons)

  16—Never Enough (The Greatest Showman)

  17—I Put a Spell on You (Jay Hawkins)

  18—For Your Entertainment (Adam Lambert)

  19—Hello (Lionel Richie)

  20—Wrecking Ball (Miley Cyrus)

  21—Dark Side (Kelly Clarkson)

  22—Natural (Imagine Dragons)

  23—Jenny (Click Five)

  24—Broken and Beautiful (Kelly Clarkson)

  25—Nobody Knows (P!nk)

  26—Early Birdie (Owl City)

  27—Just a Dream (Nelly)

  28—Take a Bow (Rihanna)

  29—Dog Days Are Over (Florence and the Machine)

  30—Stop and Stare (One Republic)

  31—I'm a Mess (Bebe Rexha)

  32—Payphone (Maroon 5)

  33—Clarity (Zedd feat. Foxes)

  34—Long Live (Taylor Swift)

  35—Best Song Ever (One Direction)

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  This novel is a bit of a fan piece for me. It's a modern, gender-swapped retelling of the beautiful, over-the-top, ultra-romantic novel The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux, and you'll see nods to that classic and its musical version here and there throughout the story. But I also pay homage to many other artists who have meant a lot to me. One of those artists is Christina Grimmie, a wonderful singer whose career was tragically cut short.

  There are also a few "Easter eggs" for fans of my first fantasy trilogy. So for those of you who have read Korrigan or its two succeeding books, you'll catch a glimpse of a beloved character.

  This book was meant to be enjoyed with music. I hope you'll enjoy the links I've included throughout and support the amazing musicians and artists by purchasing their songs. Or you can find your own favorite music to savor as you read.

  Ultimately, The Monsters of Music is a love letter to an amazing, iconic tale, and to the magic inherent in the mysterious art form that is music.

  (P.S. Lianhan Sídhe is pronounced "Lee-annan Shee.")

  The Lianhan Sídhe seeks the love of mortals... if they consent, they are hers, and can only escape by finding another to take their place... She is the Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she persecutes. The Gaelic poets die young, for she is restless, and will not let them remain long on earth—this malignant phantom.

  —W. B. Yeats—

  -1-

  Budapest

  Having a front-row seat at a singing competition wasn't as exciting as Mel had hoped.

  First of all, her seat wasn't exactly in the front row. She perched on a beam high above the stage in the vast, gloomy auditorium of the Leroux School for the Performing Arts. Her ripped black skinny jeans and dark gray Beatles T-shirt blended with the shadows shrouding the ceiling, making her invisible, exactly as she wanted to be. From her perch, Mel could see the judges seated at their table, and she could look down on the heads of the singers who clomped hollowly, one at a time, across the boards beneath her.

  All day, the hopefuls trotted onto the stage, spilled out condensed versions of their favorite songs, endured the judges' quips, and skipped or slouched to the exit door. Some of them took defeat gracefully, with a nod and a forced smile. Others snorted and stamped like agitated horses, fun to watch, but not to wrangle. Mel wished for some popcorn, settling for the smashed fruit bar she had jammed into her pocket before climbing up to the beam.

  The beam was broad enough for her to lie down on her back when her butt grew numb. In this position, she could still hear the voices without seeing the singers, and sometimes that was better. She didn't want to judge a person's potential by their looks, no matter what her aunt said.

  "Choose someone sexy," her aunt had advised. "You can't do much with certain features or figures, darling. It's too bad, but the world works the way it does. We can't change it, much as we may want to." And she'd reached out to touch the right side of Mel's face, where the skin writhed with hard, lumpy scar tissue.

  Mel raised her fingers up to the scars, tweaking the ridges and tracing the grooves. Prodding the sagging right eyelid. Somehow she had retained most of the vision in that eye. A miracle, the doctors said, and her aunt had scoffed. "Some miracle."

  Ten-year-old Mel had endured her treatments in such dogged silence that the nurses praised her constantly. "Such a tough little thing! So strong, so brave!"

  They hadn't known that inside she was screaming. Disconsolate.

  Mel sat up on the beam, swinging her bare feet in midair. That was then. Seven years ago. A time and place not worth thinking of, not now, when she was trying to find her first protégé.

  But everyone who had passed across the stage today lacked the spark—the magic, for lack of a better word. She smirked. Humans threw around the word "magic" like confetti, as if its use made a thing more special. Real magic was raw. Visceral. More primal than ornamental. And it certainly couldn't be used to repair a girl's once-pretty face.

  Her aunt had tried to contact one of the last healers in existence. But the woman had recently died, and so did Mel's hope. Reconstructive surgery might have helped, but Mel didn't want to go through a long lineup of painful surgeries, only to end up with a face that still looked odd and distorted.

  "Next!" barked one of the judges, a tall, bulky man named Eddie Car
ver. He was losing patience faster than the others; Mel had noticed him tapping his pen and sighing deeply each time a potential contestant quavered or squeaked. The judge next to him, a thirty-something pop star called Amarynth, hid her dislike of the candidates behind a fabulous frozen smile, while the third judge slumped in his seat, blinking vaguely and looking as if he'd much rather be drinking or smoking something.

  Mel twisted a piece of shaggy black hair between her fingers. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening. This next candidate would be one of the last for the day.

  She closed her eyes, feeling the pounding and pressure of the magic inside her. For years it had been growing, building, until it burned acidic in her chest, pulsed relentless in her head.

  "Find a protégé," her aunt insisted. "Otherwise you'll go mad, or worse."

  It was so for every Lianhan Sídhe—or at least those of her clan. The original line had split into three prongs—one of muses, who imparted magical energy and inspiration; one of seducers who enslaved harems of human men; and a third rogue group that Mel's aunt rarely mentioned. Once, while giddy-drunk, she'd told Mel that the third clan's magic had somehow reversed. That they sucked energy from humans, rather than giving it.

  "It's what can happen," her aunt had warned, "if you don't follow our traditions and secure a protégé."

  But it wasn't as easy as snagging some rando off the street. There had to be a connection, and so far, the singers Mel had heard today were less than inspiring. Although she supposed, if no one special showed up, she would have to make do with one of them. Perhaps she had overlooked someone.

  Footsteps echoed across the stage. "Hey, I'm Kiyo Darcy."

  "Hello, Kiyo Darcy." Eddie Carver gave the words such a vicious twist that Amarynth cut in quickly.

  "Hey there, sweetie," she said, smiling. "Tell us something about yourself."

  "Please don't," mumbled Eddie. Mel stifled a chuckle, liking this tired, grumpy, late-evening Eddie much better than the arrogant, coffee-fueled version of the morning.

  "Well, I'm eighteen, and I've been singing for as long as I can remember—"

  "They all have, kid," said Eddie. "What else?"

  The boy hesitated. "I'm doing this for my sister. She always told me I had a beautiful voice."

  "I'm sensing a sob story here," said Eddie. "Let me guess—she's dead? Dead sister?"

  "Eddie!" snapped Amarynth.

  "She's not dead," said the boy. "She's deployed, overseas. I haven't heard from her in a while, but I know she'd be proud of me for giving this a shot."

  Good for him, not letting Eddie faze him. Mel bent forward a little, but all she could see of the boy was a shock of dark hair, a pair of wide, thin shoulders, and a guitar clutched in slim, pale hands.

  The slouching judge, Ferris Manson, appeared to shake himself out of his stupor. "Well, go on then," he said, pulling a British accent out of absolutely nowhere. Mel rolled her eyes at the affectation.

  "All right." The boy began to strum softly on the guitar—not astonishing, because most of the candidates could pluck a few chords or plunk the melody on a keyboard. Mel relaxed and lay down again, staring at the crisscrossing pipes and beams clustered against the dark ceiling. Wondering if she should slip away after this one, or stay to see if any surprises came in before eight.

  And then the boy began to sing.

  She stiffened and sat up. Leaned so far forward she nearly lost her balance.

  He sang "Budapest," by George Ezra. Not a conventional audition song—pleasantly unexpected. His graceful baritone made easy work of the first few lines, and he took the leaps to the high notes effortlessly, hitting each one with a clear, sparkling falsetto that sent shivers over Mel's skin.

  Where, where did he get that blend of strength and fragility in his voice? She squinted at the judges, sure that they would be listening with a rapt attention rivaling hers. But Ferris looked half-asleep, Amarynth was unwrapping a piece of gum, and Eddie was tapping his damn pen again.

  Mel ground her teeth. All the crap on legs that had traversed the stage, and they had the gall to ignore this one? Sure, he swayed slightly flat on a note or two, and his phrasing could be better—but he had it. The magic.

  They had to be listening. They would pass him through immediately to the next round, of course.

  But when the boy's last note faded, Eddie and Amarynth leaned together, consulting in whispers. Gnawing her lip, Mel switched on the Bluetooth earpiece in her left ear, the one connected to the tiny mike she had planted under the judges' table yesterday. Their whispers grated through the earpiece.

  "We've already passed enough good ones through. The director said we need a couple more duds."

  "For the first episode. Yes."

  Mel scrunched her other hand into a fist, driving her nails into her palm to keep from screaming at them. You idiots! He's the best singer we've had today!

  Their reasoning made a kind of sense. The audition episodes were carefully planned and balanced to give the viewers what they wanted—plenty of chances to cringe and laugh over poor deluded saps who believed in themselves so hard they couldn't hear their own croaks, flat notes, or screeching. Those idiots only made the real talent shine brighter, like freshly discovered planets in a galaxy of lumpy asteroids. Take on too many good singers, and the impact of the first episode wouldn't be as dramatic. Wouldn't keep people watching. And as Mel knew from slinking around the sets and stages and back rooms, nothing was more important to the competition's backers than viewer numbers.

  Mel could read the tension in the boy's shoulders, the confusion in the tilt of his head as he stared at the judges. The unspoken question: "Why are they taking so long to decide? Do I suck?"

  Shifting on the beam, she tugged her phone out of her pocket and pounded out a swift text to Eddie Carver.

  Pressed "Send." And waited.

  His personal number hadn't been hard to find; she'd entered the contact earlier in the day, during a painful audition from a tone-deaf single mom. Mel had numbers for the other judges, too—but Eddie seemed like the best choice for what she had in mind.

  After a second, Eddie took out his phone and stared at the screen. Mel whispered the message to herself, her eyes boring into Eddie's forehead as if she could burn the words into his brain.

  "This boy goes through, or else. Love, Your Resident Poltergeist."

  "What the—" Eddie's fingers floated to the open collar of his shirt, where a fine silver chain disappeared under the fabric. Mel grinned. Yesterday she had seen the pendant at the end of that chain—a silver pentagram set with an amethyst, a talisman of protection. Completely useless against real magic, of course. But maybe Eddie's superstitious nature would be enough to tip the balance in this boy's favor.

  She sent another text. "Last warning, or I'll be coming through your TV tonight." She added a skull and ghost emoji for effect.

  "I think we should send him through," said Eddie hoarsely, tucking his phone away. "It's a 'yes' from me, kid," he repeated, louder.

  "Thank you!" The boy sounded relieved.

  Amarynth sighed, throwing down her pen. "Fine. A 'yes' from me too. How about you, Ferris?" She elbowed him.

  "What?" Ferris blinked, pulling himself upright. "Oh, yes. Yes, put him through! Is he the last? Can we go?"

  Eddie gave the boy a congratulatory grimace. "You're going to the next round, Kiyo Darcy! Congratulations. Walk out that way and they'll take you through the next step, okay? Okay."

  "Thank you. Thank you so much! You won't regret this." The boy strode off the stage, pumping a fist at his side.

  Another potential contestant waddled in from the opposite door, but Mel barely glanced at him. She sprang to her feet, walking lightly across the beam and swinging from a secondary support to a narrow ledge. From there, she leaped to the catwalk, landing with precision and perfect silence.

  Her protégé was here. In the competition. Step one, accomplished.

  Aunt Lotta would be thrilled. Mel imagine
d her aunt in the usual spot, stretched out on a snow-white lounge chair, the nearby pool shining transparent sapphire, like blue carnival glass. "You've found someone already?" her aunt would say. "Oh darling, I'm so pleased. What is he? Actor, radio personality, TV producer? Novelist?"

  None of the above. Just a boy with a guitar.

  Mel lowered herself into a dingy back hallway. Folding tables, old pieces of badly painted scenery, and moth-eaten stage curtains left barely enough space for even a skinny seventeen-year-old to sidle along. She jammed her feet into her beat-up black ankle boots and pulled on the thin black hoodie she had left with them. She liked the outfit, but it served more as a useful costume than as a statement of her personal taste in fashion. With her black hair cascading over the right side of her face, and the hood pulled forward, no one could see the scars. She added a pair of sunglasses for effect—they gave her a bit of a grungy Britney Spears vibe.

  She shimmied through the gaps between sets and took a sharp left which brought her, as she knew it would, into the main passage leading from the stage.

  A bored-looking stage aide was handing a sheaf of papers to the boy with the guitar.

  "And where do I turn these in?" the boy said.

  "Go down the hall and someone will help you," said the aide, turning back toward the stage and pressing on his Bluetooth earpiece, obviously trying to look important. Mel almost snorted, but she took a quick backstep, waited a second, and then charged out of the passage at the exact moment the boy with the guitar passed by, his eyes fixed on the papers in his hand. He bumped into Mel's left shoulder, the guitar strings scratching her fingers.

  "Hey, watch it." She pitched her voice lower than usual, adding an abrasive layer. Then, pretending to notice the papers, she nodded. "So you're one of the lucky ones. I think I heard you out there. Kiyo, was it?"

  "It's Kiyoji, actually," he said, with an apologetic twitch of his shoulders. "I use Kiyo because it's easier for people."