by Molly Harper
I had no idea there was enough local interest in string instruments to merit a whole studio devoted to them. Local kids could sign up for piano lessons or even guitar fairly easily. Or if they couldn’t afford private instruction, they usually joined their school bands for woodwinds and brass. Those bands rarely included a string section. I’d known a girl in high school who had been considered a violin prodigy, thanks to her well-off parents’ early intervention. And she’d had to travel to a youth orchestra in Nashville just for the opportunity to play. But this room was packed with at least twenty kids and their parents, holding everything from a tiny violin to an enormous contrabass. (I could only identify it because of a previous work project involving a regional orchestra.)
The school was basically an open rehearsal space with chairs and music stands arranged on risers in the center. It smelled familiar, a warm woodsy scent that immediately calmed me. Maybe it was the instruments? The owner had painted the walls a crisp white and hung carefully-placed acoustic panels. The floor was an immaculate maple that shone in the bright overhead lights. The only decorations were photos of students performing in various concert halls, interspersed with portraits of famous composers. Little brass nameplates labeled Brahms, Bach, and Beethoven, with a little sign underneath that read, “Learn Your Three B’s!”
Immediately, the space seemed very professional and focused, which was reflected in the kids’ behavior. Yes, they were still kids, talkative and loud, but they weren’t running around or roughhousing. I hoped this was a demonstration of how much they valued the lessons, and not the music teacher being some sort of super-strict ogre.
Most of the students were around the twins’ age, with a few teens who seemed to be in charge of getting the youngest kids into their seats with their instruments intact. It struck me that the crowd here was much more diverse than the average gathering in the Hollow. While most of the region’s occupants were Caucasian, the students here represented a healthy blend of Asian, Latino, Indian, and African American. I couldn’t help but think that was good for the twins, too. Growing up on the McClaine compound, where everybody was exactly like you, could leave you unprepared to deal with the outside world and all its differences. Jolene’s kids wouldn’t have to struggle with that and it made me all the more proud of her as a mom.
Janelyn, always the more social of the two, was greeted with hugs from several of the girls in class, while Joe seemed to have two or three “core friends” who separated from the class to talk very intensely about the instruments they were unpacking.
“Okay, I’ll just wait over here then,” I said awkwardly, joining a row of parents sitting along the wall. Some of them were knitting or reading. I guessed sideline coaching wasn’t a big thing in youth classical music classes—another point for Jolene and her ability to choose activities for her kids. I pulled out my phone to check my emails and two older boys led the twins’ group through breathing exercises and arm stretches.
The older boys, who continued to glance towards a closed office door near the front, stood in front of the seated group and raised their arms. Watching each other carefully to keep time, they lifted their arms and the children raised their bows in response. A chaotic clash of noise—the likes of which I’d only heard that one time a raccoon dared to infiltrate my uncle Eagan’s trailer—knocked me back against my chair. At first, it was just an assault on my eardrums, but eventually, I could hear that some of the notes were perfectly played—the tone whole and soothing. Others sounded like a hacksaw drawn across a chalkboard.
Suddenly, the earplugs made so much sense.
I wondered how Jolene could stand this at all. With our supernatural hearing, sitting through these sessions had to be torture for her. And the kids had private lessons on top of these weekly classes! Never underestimate the tenacity of a devoted werewolf mama.
It took a few moments for my nerves to adjust to the aural anarchy, but eventually, it became background noise. I couldn’t tell whether it was because the students were getting warmed up or I was simply able to block it out. I’d spent years tuning out my relatives nonstop droning. By comparison, the screeching scales were far less annoying.
The noise stopped and the “assistant teachers” called out advice for the kids who were making errors. Joe was asked to demonstrate a proper finger position for a B flat. The sound that filled the room was warm and rich, like honey flooding over a sweet, dense cake.
I chewed my bottom lip. I had food on the brain. Maybe I should have had some of the beef jerky in the car.
“Are you with the twins tonight?” a nearby mom asked kindly. When I nodded, she added, “They’re very talented.”
“Like, suspiciously talented?” I asked, my brow raised.
She stared at me for a long beat because I’d just said something very weird. “No. Some kids are just a little more musically inclined than others.”
I smiled awkwardly. “Oh, well, thank you, that’s very nice of you to say. I’m their cousin, Ty. I’m filling in for Jolene tonight.”
“Namita Singh,” the lady said, shaking my offered hand.
“Which one is yours?”
“Amelia.” She nodded to a tiny form almost entirely hidden behind a youth cello. She didn’t seem to be struggling with its size or playing scales. While not quite as smooth as Joe’s playing, she clearly knew what she was doing.
“Wow,” I marveled. “How old is she?”
“Six. Joe has been helping her since she started here. He’s such a sweet boy, and very patient with the younger kids.”
“That’s our Joe,” I said, grinning proudly. On the other side of the room, Janelyn demonstrated a scale, the notes rippling off of her bow at a hummingbird’s pace.
“Janie’s a little more intense,” I added, making Namita laugh.
“It’s good for the kids to get together like this,” she said. “The private lessons are essential, for the kids to get the individual attention they need to grow. But they really need this time together to see how the other students play, the little tricks they use and how they cope with frustration if they’re not getting it right. And of course, it’s good for them to socialize and learn how to play as a group. Mr. Bonfils says music can be lonely pursuit and that can be very bad for the musician.”
“Mr. Bonfils is the teacher?”
Namita blushed, glancing down at her book. “He’s very good.”
In the risers, a boy tried to copy Janelyn’s speed on the scale and failed. Repeatedly. Janelyn tried to calm him down and tell him that she’d worked for weeks to get it right, and he just needed to slow down. But he stood up suddenly, red-faced and frustrated, knocking over a music stand and nearly smacking the boy seated in front of him.
Suddenly, the office door opened, and a blurred blue shape sped toward the falling stand. A tall, dark-haired man caught the stand before it fell. None of the other parents reacted, so I assumed they were used to this sort of vampire speed displayed in class. The kids’ music teacher was a vampire. Interesting.
The teacher knelt in front of the frustrated kid and spoke to him, so quietly that no one else could hear what was said—not even with my hearing. The boy’s shoulders relaxed, and he took deep breaths. The vampire showed him how to place his fingers around the violin’s neck and handed him the bow. The student played through the scale slowly and the notes were far less jarring on the ears. The tension in the classroom immediately eased.
“Welcome, class, sorry about the late start,” he said as he turned. “But what do we know about responsibilities?”
“Responsibilities, like school and chores, are just as important as music,” the kids chorused together as if they’d heard it many times before.
The vampire crossed to the conductor’s stand and I got a good look at his face. Only my werewolf speed kept me from fumbling my phone to the floor. He wasn’t just any vampire. He was the library vampire.
All around me, the moms seemed to straighten in their chairs and suck in their
stomachs simultaneously. I couldn’t even blame them for the unified hair fluffing. If I’d had any idea I was going to see him again, I would worn something besides a t-shirt and jeans tonight... even if he had seen me in t-shirt and jeans before. But I would have at least worn a tinted lip balm or something.
I ran a hand through my thick auburn hair. Yep, it was frizzy; there was nothing I could do about it.
For a moment, it was like a scene from one of those movies, two people making eye contact across a crowded room while time slows and sound makes way to the dramatic swell of a hundred violins…more advanced violins than the ones I was currently hearing. I could see the moment he recognized me, and his face filled with a delight that made me dizzy.
And now that he wasn’t looking directly at me, that dreamy movie feeling faded away and I was full-on panicking. I’d never thought I would see him again. I had no idea what to do. What would I even say to him after class was over? Should I say anything at all? The tone of our last conversation had been decidedly flirty, and I don’t think I’d ever had more than one flirty conversation with a man. At least not one I was interested in, as opposed to some poor blind date I’d been corralled into by my pack—and on the rare occasions I flirted with those guys, I was generally trying to make them uncomfortable enough that they would find a reason to end the date early.
The ease with which I had spoken to him in the library was a fluke brought on by adrenaline and gratitude that I wasn’t suffering a book-related concussion. And was it even worth the risk of talking to him? The kids would be sure to mention to their parents—or God forbid, their grandparents, my Alphas—that I was having flirty conversations with their vampire music instructor.
I slumped back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. What if I was making entirely too much of this? What if I was just imagining this whole thing on my side and he was just a gregarious personality who treated everybody like they were interesting and delightful? What if this was some weird vampire thing where he was just trying to bite me so he could brag to his friends about this time he fed from this gullible, back-country werewolf?
As if he could hear my thoughts, the vampire turned and smiled, like he was relieved to find me still sitting there.
I couldn’t just run away again, right? That was technically child abandonment. Jolene would definitely notice if I dropped her car off at her house without her kids in it.
“Wow, um, I’ve never seen Mr. Bonfils smile at anyone like that before,” Namita said.
“He’s usually pretty reserved,”
“Do you know him?” another mom asked to my left. I glanced around and saw
that several of the mothers were watching me with interest…and resentment. Great, because I needed to level up the difficulty in getting to the car after class.
“Oh, I just met him once at the library,” I said, shaking my head. “No big deal. We barely spoke.”
“He was at the library?” a third mom murmured, chewing her lip. Somehow, I got the feeling she was planning her own excursion to the local book depository.
I hummed in a non-committal tone. It was official. I could never go back to the library. I’d just infested it with aggressive music moms. I checked my phone again and pretended to stare at the screen for the next hour, instead of the library vampire and the way his jeans clung to his rear.
The class ended and Mr. Bonfils spoke to the students about an upcoming performance at a community meeting. I hurriedly packed my belongings into my backpack. I wondered if I could get away with scooting across the floor to the kids’ cases and packing their stuff up as quickly as possible. But none of the other parents moved, so I just sat there, watching. He was so…careful with the kids. He spoke to them gently, never getting too close. I understood the instinct. I tended to be overcautious about contact with humans, even the ones I liked. With super-strength, all it would take would be an ill-timed movement of my hand to result in broken bones. And he had bloodlust and insane noise levels to deal with on top of that. Why would he put himself through all this?
He either truly loved teaching, or he was charging a lot more for these lessons than Jolene would admit. The kids clapped, marking the end of the teacher’s speech. I tried to bolt towards their bags as subtly as possible, but I was sure it still looked like bolting. The twins scampered across the floor to me, their hair plastered across their foreheads.
“Okay, kids, let’s go get in the car,” I said, handing their cases to each of them. I eyed the vampire from across the room as he talked to students, glancing up at me every few seconds.
“We have to pack up our instruments carefully,” Joe told me, his expression solemn. “Dad says if they get damaged, he’ll have to sell a kidney to replace them.”
“I still say he could get more for a lobe of his liver,” Janelyn said, sliding her bow into its compartment.
“Janelyn, that is creepy,” Joe told her. Janelyn shrugged.
“Okay, great, be responsible and respectful of your belongings, but let’s get out of here as quickly as possible. All right?” I said. “First one back gets extra fries!”
I looked back over my shoulder, but couldn’t see the vampire. I’d lost him in the shifting sea of parents and kids.
“Hello, you must be the McClaine twins’ cousin,” that same smooth voice sounded over my other shoulder and it was all I could do to not shriek. It pricked my pride as a predator that he’d been able to sneak up on me. I was having a really off night. “They were very excited you were coming to see them tonight.”
“Tylene McClaine. Just call me Ty. Everybody does,” I said, laughing in a breathless way that made me want to facepalm.
“Alexandre Bonfils,” he said, glancing down at my hand. I remembered something from an old movie my aunt Maybelline loved, some corseted historical romance where the heroine was highly offended that a man reached for her hand, instead of waiting for her to extend it for a kiss across the knuckles. “But you should call me ‘Alex.’”
“Nice to meet you.” Smiling, I extended my right hand and was grateful that he stuck with shaking it. If he’d kissed my knuckles, I’d probably get tackled by a jealous mom in the parking lot. Parking lots could be very dangerous places in the Hollow.
“Truly, I’m glad to see you again,” he said. “I was afraid I might never have the opportunity.”
If he was this charming towards everyone…he was really good at it. I probably deserved to be bitten at this point and I didn’t even care. I was so used to guys my age behaving like, well, guys my age. He didn’t accuse me of running off on him or trying to dodge him. And then, that put me on edge, because that was just not what I was used to from guys I’d interacted with.
“I had to get home, and you seemed determined to finish your conversation with Mrs. Stubblefield,” I said.
He pressed those full lips together into a frown. “Yes, those boys didn’t seem to understand that they’d done anything wrong, or that they should apologize…or at least try not to do it again.”
I scoffed. “Kids today. I blame the video games that should be parenting them.”
He didn’t laugh. Oh, no. How was I making this situation more awkward with stupid dad jokes? That shouldn’t be possible!
“How old are you?” he asked. I lifted an eyebrow and he winced. “That sounded less sinister in my head. I’m asking for ethical reasons, not legal. I can’t tell human ages anymore.”
“Does it matter?” I asked, tilting my head.
He nodded emphatically. “Well, yes, if you’re a teenager, I’m going to have to change the way I speak to you and look at you, not to mention my thoughts around you. I don’t want to be…what do my students call it? A creepster.”
“I can appreciate that, I think. But it’s “creeper,’ if you don’t want the kids to make fun of you,” I told him. “And I’m twenty-four. How old are you?”
“Much older than twenty-four,” he said. “Hmmm, still sounds sinister. Maybe we should avoid age, as a topic?”
“I could do that.” I snickered. “So, what were you doing in the library? It’s not exactly a hot spot for the vampire underworld.”
“The library has a remarkable selection of classical sheet music, believe it or not. Some donation from a music enthusiast’s estate. I like reading them over in person.” He shrugged. “I have to maintain an online presence for my business, but in all other ways, I try to live life as what you might call a ‘beta-version.’”
“How dare you!” I mock-gasped, making his eyes widen in alarm.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his brow furrowed.
“No, that was a bad joke. I’m sorry. I meant it as ‘how dare you reject the Internet’ in an over-the-top, meant-to-be-funny way. I spend a lot of time on the Internet,” I said. “Wait, that sounds sad—why is this conversation going so badly? I can’t even tell if it’s your fault or mine! I work in digital promotions for clients I meet over the Internet…there are no explicit images involved. I should stop talking.”
“I would be very sad if you did,” he replied, his lips quirked into a smile that made my stomach do this weird flippy-thing.
Over his shoulder, I could see the twins packed and ready to go…and about a dozen music moms giving me the evil eye. “I should get my cousins home. It was nice to see you again, without the books raining down from the sky.”
“Would you like to meet me sometime for…coffee?” he asked, as if searching for a food group that might appeal to both of us.
“You paused before coffee,” I noted.
“I almost said drinks, but I don’t know if you drink,” he said, nodding.
“Is ‘drinks’ some sort of euphemism?” I asked.
“Why? Do beverages make you uncomfortable?” he replied.