The Monsters of Music Page 10

  He reached for her wrist, wrapping his fingers around it. So small, so fragile.

  She didn't speak. Didn't pull away.

  So he reached for her with his left hand, grazing her hip, sliding his knuckles up her waist and ribs, slipping his fingers under her arm, around to her back. He pulled her nearer as he moved forward, closing the space between them. Oh hell. He was touching all of her. She was letting him do this. Releasing her wrist, he felt for her face with his right hand and found her left cheek, smooth and warm. And he leaned in and kissed her.

  -12-

  Feelin' Good

  In the surprising, exhilarating delight of kissing him, Mel almost forgot what she was supposed to do. She closed her eyes and slipped her tongue between his lips, opening the way for the magic—and then she breathed into him, deep, deep, exhaling years of compacted, suppressed magic into his lungs, releasing everything. Well, almost everything. She stopped before it all drained away, terrified that she might have already given him too much.

  The second she broke the kiss, a flood of exquisite bliss and relief washed over her, so intense that she gasped, her fingers tightening on his arms.

  "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

  "No! No—just the opposite."

  He laughed then, a joyful, wondering sound. "I haven't kissed many girls, but as far as first kisses go, I'd say that one was pretty damn legendary."

  "Legendary," she murmured, and she pulled his head forward and kissed him again. No magic this time, except the magic of his mouth and the way it molded to hers.

  When she pulled back, his warm fingers encircled her wrists. "May I look at you now?"

  She twisted her hands free. "Only in the mirror."

  He groaned in frustration, throwing his head back; and she fought the urge to run her fingertips over his crisp jawline.

  "I'll see you tomorrow, Kiyo," she said, and she ran out of the room before he could answer. Changing quickly in the closet, she raced downstairs and out into the courtyard.

  The bright, cold air shocked her eyes and lungs, and she laughed, drinking it in. She felt so good. Refreshed. Renewed. Blessedly empty.

  She had to be alone with this, to get used to her strange new self. She ran to the parking spot where her motorcycle sat, and she swung onto it, roaring down a side street with the cold knife-sharp in her ribs. She laughed again, until tears of joy and relief stained her cheeks and the wind whipped them away.

  Finally she skidded to a halt long enough to put her helmet on. She rode back to Leroux then, shivering but still smiling, and she bounced into the first-floor hallway of the dorm with cheeks tingling and fingers practically numb.

  She almost forgot to rearrange her hood and her hair over the scars. She almost didn't care.

  She danced down the hallway, reveling in the absence of the magic. Instead of a raging ocean, the creative energy was a calm blue tidepool, deep enough to serve her own love of music and art, but not deep enough to drown her.

  It would overflow again, soon. The time it took to refill differed for every Lianhan Sídhe. But the next time it surged to bursting, she could pour it out into Kiyo, feed his talent, satisfy them both. The perfect arrangement.

  A figure blocked her way.

  "Madame Boucher," she said, still smiling.

  "You did it, didn't you?"

  "Did what?"

  "You kissed one of them." The woman's eyes bored into hers. "Tell me which one."

  Mel's smile dropped. "Contestants and show staff aren't allowed to relate in that way," she said warily.

  "That's not what I'm talking about, ma cherie, and you know it. You are a muse, oui?"

  Mel laughed, a panicked, breathy sound. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "I've been watching you, Melanie. I'm a manager extraordinaire, if I say so myself, and when things are out of place, when they are missing, when people come and go where they should not be, I notice. And I have had the pleasure of encountering one of your kind before, a long time ago."

  Speech had fled Mel's brain. She opened her mouth and shut it again.

  "Don't fear, ma petite. I won't give you away. But I want to know which one you've bonded with."

  Mel didn't see any way out of it. "It's—it's Kiyo."

  "Ah, the quiet one. A good choice." Madame Boucher smiled. "And so lucky that he ended up making it into the next round, hein? He'll need a little more luck to stay in the competition."

  "That's the plan," said Mel, her eyes narrowing. Now that the first shock was over, her suspicions had shot sky-high. No human ever offered to keep a Fae's secret without expecting something in return. "And what can I do for you, Madame Boucher, in exchange for your promise not to interfere?"

  "Rien," said the woman. "Nothing at all. Knowing I was right is enough for me."

  Liar. The word rang out in Mel's mind, so loud she wouldn't have been surprised if Madame Boucher heard it.

  They stared each other down for a long moment. Mel refused to break eye contact first. At last, her patience paid off, and with a shrug, Boucher returned to her office.

  Mel kept walking, spine straight and shoulders back. She passed the office, her fingers curling into fists.

  "Oh, Melanie," called Madame Boucher as she passed. "If I think of any tasks for you, I will let you know."

  "Like hell you will," whispered Mel through gritted teeth. Her fists tightened painfully. Leave it to the Fates to screw things up for her, right when she finally got a break. What do you want from me? she screamed at them in her mind. Why can't you just let me be happy?

  She ran through scenarios in her mind, most of them involving Madame Boucher and a lethal dose of arsenic. She had inched toward that line once already, when she pushed Kiyo's original voice coach down the stairs. For several long minutes after she did it, she had frozen, terrified that he had broken his neck. And then he came to, moved jerkily, and turned to look up at her. She was masked, of course. She had darted away the next second, leaving him to call 911 with his undamaged hand.

  Taking out the freckled woman had been easier, emotionally anyway. She'd overheard the woman's cruel comments to Kiyo, obviously aimed at distressing him right before his performance.

  Halfway through Kiyo's song, Mel knew that he was going to be kicked off. And so she crept into the bathroom after the freckled woman, wrapped an arm around her neck, and jerked her into one of the empty stalls. Mel's rage gave her the frenzied strength to crush the woman's throat until she stopped fighting.

  After the woman passed out, Mel had tied her to the toilet, stuffed her mouth with a cloth, and duct-taped her lips. That was a few hours ago. The freckled woman might still be in the stall, or she might be at the police station by now, filing a report on the assault. The police wouldn't find anything. That bathroom was a cesspool of DNA, and the other contestants were bound to be the prime suspects. Kiyo had been on-stage at the time, so he was in the clear. Not a suspect.

  No clues, no proof, no consequences. And no permanent harm done. Now that she had secured the bond with Kiyo, she wouldn't have to do anything like that again—as long as Madame Boucher stayed in line.

  ***

  That night, while the contestants and show staff were gathered for a catered barbecue dinner, Gils Archambeau himself showed up. Mel had never seen him in person, but she had noticed his photo in the first press release about the singing contest. Back then, as she lay baking by her aunt's pool in L.A., the idea of coming here, of inserting herself into the competition, had seemed intriguing and exciting. The prosaic reality of salt-gray snow, drafty old buildings, and afternoons of errands and paperwork was much less romantic.

  But Archambeau's arrival sparked a little thrill, because she knew why he was there. Her antics had finally caught his attention.

  "Excuse me, everyone," he said theatrically, lifting a microphone to his lips. "I wish I were here merely to congratulate our seventeen first-round winners. But I have a serious announcement, and a warning."

&nbs
p; Conversations died one at a time across the room, until every throat was silenced, every eye fixed on him. Archambeau drew a deep breath, stroking his short gray-and-sable beard before continuing.

  "This afternoon, one of our contestants was brutally assaulted and confined in a bathroom stall for two hours."

  A panicked murmur rippled across the hall.

  "She's all right," said Archambeau. "She's recovering, and the police will be investigating the incident. However, the violent nature of this attack is cause for concern. There will be officers on the premises this evening to question all of you, so please make yourselves available to them. And please remember that no practical jokes, threatening messages, or personal assaults against the contestants, judges, or other show personnel will be tolerated. Any such activities will result in immediate dismissal and criminal prosecution."

  Harley's hand shot up, and when Archambeau ignored it, she spoke anyway. "Will the victim be coming back to perform?"

  "Unfortunately, no," said Archambeau. "She has a bruised larynx, in addition to severe emotional trauma, so she will not be returning to the competition."

  Mel wondered what kind of insurance the show was carrying, and what costs their liability would cover for the injured woman. But the potential lawsuit they might face wasn't her problem. Her sole focus must be Kiyo and his musical success.

  She thought she had crushed any vestiges of her conscience, but when she returned to her attic that night, after a short Q&A session with a police officer, she found herself picturing the freckled woman, her pudgy body propped on the toilet, her head lolling, purplish bruises blooming across her throat. Helpless. Injured.

  A vision of Shane, dribbling the last drops of acid over her face, blinded Mel. She shuddered, nearly dropping the can of cat food she was opening. Then came the accusing voice of her conscience, rising like a zombie from the grave where she had buried it—How are you any better than him? You are a monster, inside and out.

  "I'm not," she whispered ferociously. "I'm not a monster."

  She blinked, trying to clear the image of a long, dark stairway, and a crumpled male figure at the bottom.

  "I don't know those people," she said aloud. "They don't matter to me. They don't matter to anyone."

  They were a means to an end. Obstacles on the path to her own survival, her sanity, her independence.

  Maybe with the draining of her swollen magic, she'd gained back something she didn't know she had lost. Clarity, maybe? Compassion?

  She groaned, chucking the cat food into the dish with a wet slop. Prince partook daintily, slowly, as if he hadn't been waiting for hours to eat. Too proud to gobble his portion. She smiled down at him. "You don't think I'm a monster, do you, baby?"

  He ignored her, of course. But later, when she had curled up on the bed, deliciously relaxed, without any tornado of magic whirling out of her, he leaped up the pillows and settled in beside her; and she fell asleep to the low burring of satisfaction in his chest.

  -13-

  River from the Sky

  Madame Lisette Boucher poured herself a full glass of red wine. It seemed appropriate, given the delicious nature of what she had discovered today—a Lianhan Sídhe, here, at Voices Rising. One of the old race of Celtic muses, showing up in this isolated northern town. Most of them clustered around the big cities like L.A., New Orleans, and New York, where gifted humans traveled, hoping to make it big.

  This Lianhan Sídhe was different. Beautiful, of course—but with a soul as knotted and tortured as the scarred side of her face. Dangerous. The girl had already hurt people, in the madness of her magic—but she was young. Bonding with the boy would relieve that pressure, making her less cruel and reckless. Without the right outlet for their energy, Lianhan Sídhe were among the most vicious and deadly of the Fae races.

  Lisette hadn't encountered any of the Fae in so long. The first time, she was sixteen. Separated from her group while on a hiking trip, she had met a handsome man on the shores of a mountain lake, and by charm or magic he convinced her to come swimming with him. But the moment she was out in the deep, her legs thrashing through dark lake water, he had transformed into a mighty black horse with teeth the size of her fist. He screamed, snapping his jaws, ready to tear through her flesh—and then someone stopped him. A dark-haired man in a red jacket stood by the edge of the lake, and he spoke to the water horse in a strange language. The horse submerged, and the red-clad man led young Lisette back to her friends before vanishing into thin air.

  She found out later that the water horse was called a kelpie, but though she met several other Fae in the succeeding decades—including a horned puca, a Lianhan Sídhe, and a few pixies—none of them would tell her the true name of the dark-haired man in the red jacket. But he, and the others, and the girl Melanie all had the same faint aura of Otherness about them—an alien flavor to their beauty, an inhuman grace in their movements. She could recognize that aura now, and it had alerted her to Mel's true nature. It only took a little investigation and a late-night listening session outside the attic door to determine to which Fae race the girl belonged. None but the Lianhan Sídhe could produce music so magical, so fluid and passionate. Lisette had listened, ensorcelled, unable to move for over an hour while the girl's music washed over her.

  Even now, she could remember haunting strains of it, and the notes echoed in her dreams.

  Lisette sipped the wine, letting its full-bodied taste roll across her tongue. She used to hate wine—nothing but rotted grapes in a glass—but over a lifetime she had managed to cultivate a taste for it. She was French, after all—expected to appreciate wine and bread, chocolates and cheese. Such a painfully absurd generalization. As if people from a particular country must all love and understand the same things. Ridicule.

  The panes of the window creaked as the night wind howled outside. Lisette turned on the TV and dragged a chenille throw from the back of the sofa over herself.

  She thumbed through the channels, finding nothing interesting as usual, and switched over to Netflix instead. Two months ago, in a fit of cost-cutting, she had canceled her cable service. That was before she secured the job with Voices Rising—a silly name, in her opinion. But at least the show ensured her a few months' work.

  Her eyes snapped to the TV as an ad began to play automatically—a sappy, balmy preview for one of the slushy rom-coms that the streaming service seemed to produce with disturbing frequency. She watched the couple in the video smile, nose-to-nose, glowing with happiness.

  Did Mel feel that way about the boy Kiyo, or was she only using him as a vessel for her excess magic?

  A memory prodded the back of Lisette's mind. She drank deeply of the wine, trying to wash it away again. But it wouldn't go, and with a sigh she let it flood over her.

  She was nineteen and full of dreams, studying art at the Rhode Island School of Design. She sat on a sun-warmed concrete barrier by the canal, sketching the lines of the bridge and buildings, lightly coloring the red-orange and creamy tan of the bricks, the bunches of lush green bushes along the brink, and the scattering of ripples in the water.

  And then Lisette saw the girl, walking barefoot along the very edge of the canal, her hair a sheet of gold whipping in the wind. The girl spread her arms for balance, her delicate fingers outstretched, and she seemed to float toward Lisette, like an angel who might take flight any minute.

  When she came to the spot where Lisette sat mute and frozen with her sketchpad, the girl stopped. And smiled.

  And it was over.

  Lisette's fascination with Shannon had less to do with anything romantic or sexual and more to do with her own obsession with beauty. Lisette wanted to capture Shannon in some form, and she tried it all—sculpture, painting, photography, video—nothing did her justice. Once, after a particularly frustrating day, Lisette drank until she was hazy and liquid inside—and Shannon was there, and they kissed. Just once—but it was enough time, as she later discovered, for the passing of the magic.

&nb
sp; Over the next week, Lisette created an ethereal sculpture—all gold foil and silky material, exquisitely formed and balanced. When she finished, her instructor spent a full ten minutes examining it from every angle and advised her to enter it into a contest.

  She won, of course, because people who looked at the piece sensed true magic in the delicate shape of it and felt their spirits lift.

  Lisette kept working in a frenzy of inspiration. She had never fully processed the terror of her experience with the kelpie, and her next series of sculptures were a lesson in horror and beauty, following a gorgeous, naked man through the throes of transition into a magnificent black horse with savage jaws.

  When Shannon saw the sculptures, she threw Lisette a startled look. "Where did you get the idea for this?"

  And Lisette told her, in her beginner's broken English strung with French phrases. "Do you know who that might have been, the one who saved me, l'homme en rouge?" Lisette asked.

  Shannon gazed at her. "Perhaps. But the Fae do not tell each other's secrets."

  The significant way she said it—if Lisette hadn't already suspected, she would have known then. "You are one of them."

  "Not a kelpie. I am something else—Lianhan Sídhe." She seemed to regret those two words the instant she spoke them.

  Lisette eagerly pushed for details, but Shannon recoiled. "I'm tired," she said. "I need to rest. We'll talk in the morning."

  The next morning, Lisette showed up at Shannon's place with coffee and pastries. Shannon's roommate explained that Shannon had moved out in the night. No letter left behind. No phone number.

  Hurt and confused, Lisette threw herself into her creations with the ferocity of a hurricane—but when the borrowed magic was spent, she lost interest in art of any form. Her work the rest of the year was so dull, so uninspired, that she decided to leave art altogether and find a new career. She'd had talent, yes—but her inner fire was gone, replaced with a new fire for discovering everything she could learn about the Fae races. She collected volumes of Irish myth, browsed old texts in back-alley bookstores, combed the burgeoning internet for information. Over time she grew skilled at finding the trickles of truth amid the fluff of old stories.