Emma had to admit: Tyler had done his best to give her a sanctuary; a place of her own. Maybe it was because he was so solitary himself. He’d moved several years’ worth of clutter out of the basement and covered the walls with soundproofing, creating a space where she could amp up the sound—like a bare-bones sound studio.
Her shop was divided into two rooms—the “clean room,” where she glued things up and applied the finishes. Where she kept Sonny Lee’s vintage guitar collection. Where she could plug in and play and sing as loudly as she wanted.
Through a closed door was the “dirty room,” housing the lathe, band saw, jointer, sander, and drill press, where she did the major cutting and shaping, making the sawdust fly. It was lined with racks of seasoned wood—wood that had come from Sonny Lee’s Memphis shop, along with the blanks and plates they’d made together.
A luthier has to know what he needs ten years in advance, Sonny Lee always said. Because it takes that long for the wood to settle and decide what it wants to be.
Maybe me and Tyler are the same way, Emma thought, with a spark of hope. Maybe we just haven’t settled yet.
She’d hoped Tyler would be willing to share stories of her childhood. He didn’t seem eager to go back there, though. In that way, he was nearly as closemouthed as Sonny Lee.
He did give her a five-by-seven photograph of Gwen, one of those black-and-white studio portraits that look like nobody in real life. Emma set the photograph on her bedside table.
How my parents ever got together, I’ll never know, Emma thought. Some stories just don’t have happy endings.
Emma still found it hard to think of Tyler as Daddy or Papa or any of those family kind of names. He was not a family kind of man. And yet, she kept stubbing her toe on ways they were alike. They even dressed a lot alike—in jeans, flannel shirts, and random T-shirts that came their way like T-shirts always do, promoting this show or that club or an up-and-coming band. They had that in common, along with the music. Aside from his aura, she’d seen no sign that her father was magical. If he had it, he didn’t flaunt it. And wouldn’t answer questions about it either.
Tyler pulled around behind the house and parked in the garage. They scuffed through gold, brown, and scarlet leaves to the back door. Leaves spiraled down from the trees overhead like flakes of gold.
“I kind of like Ms. Abraham,” Emma said as Tyler navigated the door-opening routine. “I’m not too fond of the Monts.”
“The Monts?”
“Beaumont and Marmont,” Emma said.
Tyler laughed, his shoulders shaking, and dabbed tears from his eyes. His laugh reminded her of Sonny Lee’s…a mix of whiskey and honey that went right to your heart.
“Are you all right with the plan, Emma?” he asked.
“I don’t have much choice, if I have to stay in school.” She eyed him sideways.
“Don’t give me that look. You know you do.” Tyler threw his keys into the dish on the table. “We both know it’s not that you’re lazy. You work all the time—either you’re at school, or doing homework, or you’re down in the shop. You don’t even sleep that much.”
“It’s not that I can’t focus,” Emma said. “It’s like I hyperfocus, but it’s on things they don’t approve of.” She stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets and lifted her chin. “I’ll tell you right now—I need to work with wood. I just have to. I’m not giving that up.”
“Nobody’s asking you to give it up,” Tyler said, raising both hands.
“People think I don’t have a plan, but I do. I’m going to build guitars and sell them, and save my money, and one day I’ll get enough together to open my own shop.”
“How are you going to go about that, Emma? Selling them, I mean.”
“Well…it was easier when I was in business with Sonny Lee,” Emma said. “Because he had so many connections. I thought I could work for him and ease into it. Now…” She shrugged. “I have some guitars already out there, mostly in Memphis. Now it’s going to be hard for people to find me, though, even if they decided they wanted one. There’s a limited market for the kind of work I do. I need buyers with deep pockets who know quality when they hear it.”
She’d set up a blog page to promote her business while she was still in Memphis: Studio Greenwood—Custom Guitars and Expert Repair. She’d left it up since the move. Surely that wouldn’t hurt. It didn’t list an address or anything, just an e-mail. She’d had a few contacts through the site since she’d moved north.
“Can’t you just—you know—be a kid for a while?” Tyler said.
“That’s just it: I’m not a kid, and haven’t been for a while,” Emma snapped. “It’s not my fault you weren’t around to see me grow up.”
Tyler flinched, and she knew she’d hit home.
“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize to me, Emma,” Tyler said. “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “It would just be good for you, I think, if you made some friends. If you got out and had some fun.”
Look who’s talking, Emma thought. I’m a loner, just like you. That’s one use for parents—once you know who they are, you can blame things on them.
“I don’t have time for that,” Emma said.
“Listen—I can introduce you to some people,” Tyler said. “Clyde may be looking for something new. Or he could play one of your guitars at some gigs, show it off a little.”
Clyde played lead guitar in Tyler’s rhythm-and-blues band, Old Dogs, New Tricks. Tyler played bass. They worked steadily, every weekend, mostly local gigs, playing covers and some original music.
“Selling one guitar to Clyde isn’t going to help much,” Emma said. “I’ll be in high school at least another year and a half. So, the way I see it, I have two years to raise enough money to start my own business.”
“I can stake you,” Tyler said. “I have some money put aside.”
Emma resisted the urge to point out the shabby furniture, the battered refrigerator, the paint peeling off the walls. “You’re going to need it for yourself,” she said. “I’m guessing you don’t want to work forever, and musicians don’t get pensions.”
“Look,” Tyler said. “We don’t have to settle this now. Dogs has a gig tonight, downtown. Why don’t you come out with me, listen to some music, have a little fun?”
Emma groaned. “Sounds like fun, Tyler. Hanging with my daddy’s band on a Friday night. Meeting the Old Dogs, trying to pitch them a guitar while they try and think of a way to say no.”
Tyler stared at her for a moment, as if to say, What’s wrong with that? Then he burst out laughing. “You’re right, Emma, that sounds like no fun at all.” He dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled flyer. “Okay, I was kidding about the Dogs, but how about this? There’s a place called Club Catastrophe, down on Fourth Street. They’re having a teen night tonight. Show’s at seven. I could drop you off there on my way downtown.”
Emma scanned the flyer.
UNDER 18 NIGHT!
FAULT TOLERANT—LIVE AND IN PERSON
ONE NIGHT ONLY! $10 COVER
“I figured it’d be a good chance for you to get out and meet some people your own age,” Tyler said.
“I don’t have anything in common with people my own age,” Emma said. “All those cliques and who’s mad at who and who’s wearing whose varsity jacket…I don’t need that.”
“That’s why this is a good place for you to meet people,” Tyler said. “They’ll be people like you—people who like music. You might relate to them better than the kids at the high school.”
“Isn’t it a little late for you to start managing my social life?” she said.
“Better late than never,” Tyler said. “You’re not doing so good on your own.”
“You know I don’t like to go to clubs,” Jonah grumbled as they turned onto West Ninth Street.
“Cheer up,” Natalie Diaz said. “You’ll b
e perfectly safe. I’ll be your bodyguard.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Jonah said. “As soon as we walk through the door, you’ll forget all about that plan. You’ll all be up onstage, and I’ll be left to fend for myself.”
“Oh, quit whining, Kinlock,” Alison said, rolling her eyes. “At least you could’ve shown us some skin.” It seemed she’d taken her own advice. She wore a very short tank dress with a blue jean jacket, tights, and boots, feathers pinned into her purple-streaked hair, eyes smoky with kohl. Ready to rock-and-roll.
Jonah hunched his shoulders inside his leather jacket. It was October, three months since his failed rescue of Jeanette, and the weather was getting cooler. Which finally gave him an excuse to cover up.
Natalie laughed. “Maybe you could’ve worn a burka,” she said. “You’re nearly there anyway.”
“Would you quit criticizing my clothes?” As soon as Jonah agreed to go to the club with them, Natalie had showed up at his door, wanting to go through his closet and put his look together. He’d flatly refused. “I’m not the one onstage,” he said. “Forget it.”
“You need to get out more,” Natalie said. “It’s not healthy to stay in your room all the time.”
“I do get out,” Jonah said. “I’ve been in—what?—four countries this month.”
“I don’t mean working. I mean playing.”
She paused and, when Jonah didn’t respond, said, “It wouldn’t hurt you to get to know some girls, Jonah. Nobody’s asking you to sign anything.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Or touch anybody was the subtext.
“No.”
“It’s not like they’re going to attack you.”
That’s what you think.
“You might even have fun.”
“Let it go, Nat.”
So Natalie Diaz let it go. She always knew just how far she could push him.
Alison, Natalie, Mose, and Rudy were in a band together—Alison on bass, Mose on guitar and vocals, Nat on drums, and Rudy on keyboards and backup vocals. They called themselves Fault Tolerant. The name was Rudy’s idea. It was geek-speak for a system that continues to operate even if one element fails.
Given the arts focus of the school, bands came and went at the Anchorage like mushrooms after a rain. Fault Tolerant was different. Natalie didn’t suffer fools, and she didn’t put up with laziness. Neither did Rudy. And that made for a great band. They should call it Fault Intolerant, Jonah thought.
“I know!” Alison said. “Join the band. Then you won’t be sitting alone.”
Jonah snorted. “To do what? Play the tambourine?”
“We could always use more sex appeal,” Alison said, smirking at him.
“Hey!” Rudy Severino called out, raking back his hair and delivering a smoldering pout. “Sex appeal right here.”
“You don’t need another split in those big paychecks,” Jonah said.
“If you refuse to play your music in public, you should at least let us play it for you,” Natalie said. “Somebody ought to hear it.”
“I hear it,” Jonah said. “And Kenzie. And you. That’s enough.” He had agreed to come after weeks of badgering from Natalie. She’d taken him on as a project ever since his meltdown in Gabriel’s office. He’d been missing a lot of classes since Jeanette died, and when he came to a class, he often slept through it. Natalie suspected depression. Jonah suspected she was right, although, in his opinion, depression was a perfectly reasonable reaction to their situation.
They cut across the street, dodging traffic. They were coming up on Club Catastrophe. Music poured from the front door, and an easel out front displayed a sign: TEEN NIGHT TONIGHT FEATURING FAULT TOLERANT—LIVE AND IN PERSON.
They entered through the rear door, threading their way through a clutter of cleaning supplies, extra furniture, and paper products. They found Mose having a smoke amid the flammables. He’d driven the equipment van over, because he never would have made it on foot.
Mose was prone to self-medicating and looked the part—he was as gaunt as an end-stage addict, pierced to the max, every inch of exposed flesh covered in Gabriel’s ink therapy. Like a prayer to the gods that had gone unanswered.
Jonah couldn’t blame Mose for wanting to blunt the edge. A seer savant, Mose had the gift of seeing death coming before it arrived. He’d become a key asset to Safe Passage, the hospice program at the Anchorage. He and Jonah were a team. Like Dr. Death and his front man.
These days, Mose sat during their sets, and his voice had weakened considerably, but he was still the best singer in the band and he was a demon on guitar.
Maybe “Last Legs” would be a better name for this band, Jonah thought.
Mose lit up a little when he saw Jonah. He sat up a little straighter, finger-combing his hair. “Hey, Jonah! If I’d known you were coming, I’d of worn the good clothes.”
“Hey, Mose,” Jonah said, doing the old fist bump. “What’s up?”
“I’ve been meaning to mention this—I’ve been sorting through some stuff, need to simplify, know what I mean? I wondered if you had room in that palace of yours for my vinyl collection.” Mose had a stellar collection of vintage vinyl, and a sweet turntable to play it on.
“Your vinyl? No way,” Jonah said. “That is not what you get rid of. If you’re short on room, put your bed on the curb.”
“I don’t play them much anymore,” Mose said. “Can you at least come have a look, maybe pick out some tunes?”
“Sure,” Jonah said. “If you want. We’ll call it a loan.”
“How about tonight, right after the gig?” Mose persisted. Adopting a throaty, seductive voice, he added, “Wanna come to my place and listen to some records?”
“Tonight?” Jonah hesitated. Mose always flirted with him shamelessly, but there was a desperate undercurrent in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
“Don’t you think you’ll be tired, after the show?” Alison said, over Jonah’s shoulder. Jonah jumped. He’d forgotten she was there. “Who knows how late it’ll go.”
“Please,” Mose said, looking Jonah in the eyes.
“Sure,” Jonah said. “After the gig.”
“You good, Mose?” Natalie put a hand on his shoulder and leaned down to look into his face.
“Me?” He grinned wickedly. “I’m always good.”
Natalie chewed her lower lip. She wasn’t buying it.
“I’ll start setting up,” Jonah said.
Music was blasting from the overhead speakers and the dance floor was crowded an hour before the official showtime. For Club Catastrophe, Teen Night was an add-on, a way to bring in customers on slow nights. They’d filled the rear of the room with billiards tables, dartboards, and vintage pinball machines to give younger patrons something to do.
As soon as Jonah appeared onstage to set up, a faint cheer went up. Fault Tolerant had a following around town. They even sometimes opened for national touring bands that Gabriel booked into the Keep.
Scanning the crowd, Jonah saw some familiar faces. Being walking distance from school, the club was a popular hangout for savants. The rest of the crowd was a mingle of Anaweir and mainliners. There was lots of Weir action in town, due to Cleveland’s proximity to the seat of Weir government in Trinity.
Jonah had learned to ignore the whispers, nudges, and pointed fingers from guildlings. Still, he couldn’t help picking out a faint chant of “Labrats!” from a crowd of mainliners at two tables next to the stage.
The Anaweir were, as always, oblivious.
Jonah began hauling amplifiers onstage, taping down power cords, testing mikes, and generally making himself useful. When he’d finished the setup, he collected a soda from the bar and carried it backstage. He found a viewing spot from stage right as the club manager ran through the usual announcements about restrooms, smoking, drugs, wristbands, and warnings that Teen Nights were a privilege that could be revoked if there were any more problems.
“And now, without further ado, Club Catastrophe wel
comes Fault Tolerant!”
Lusty shouts and foot stomping ushered Jonah’s friends onto the stage. Natalie strode back to the drums, Severino took his place behind his Roland, and Alison and Mose carried their guitars out from backstage and plugged in.
All of the songs were familiar. Natalie had written most of them, some in partnership with Severino, and she and Jonah usually jammed on them before she ever brought them to the band. “Never Say Die.” “Straw Man.” “Caliente.” “No Way Home.” It was all original music. Natalie believed in controlling the whole package.
Jonah breathed in the usual crowd funk of sweat, perfume, and raging hormones. Then caught a whiff of mischief mixed in. That was his term for the nose-prickling mingle of shade magic and rotting flesh. Shades? This close to the Anchorage?
He leaned forward and peered out from the wings, scanning the crowd. Blinded as he was by the stage lights, all he could see was a murk of dark moving bodies, studded with the patches of light that denoted the gifted.
Turning up the collar of his jacket, hunching his shoulders, Jonah slipped offstage and walked down the aisle, turning his head from side to side. But he couldn’t pinpoint the source, and then he lost the scent.
Ditching his sanctuary backstage, Jonah found a table in the corner closest to the door where he could keep a better watch on comings and goings. There was a price to pay, now that he was out in the open. He kept having to snarl at those who wandered over, thinking he looked lonely, sitting there by himself.
Every so often he breathed in the stench of decay or the burned-insulation scent of shade magic, but could never figure out exactly where it was coming from.
When the first set was over, the club sound track came on, and Natalie and Rudy waded into the crowd on the dance floor. Mose shuffled back outside to smoke, and Alison joined Jonah at his table.
“’Sup, Jonah?” Alison asked, tucking her hair behind her ears. She’d peeled off her jacket during the set, revealing her muscled arms. “How come you’re sitting out here?”
“Do you smell anything unusual?” Jonah asked, trying not to ask a leading question.
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