Breakfast was provided for the contestants in the big common room on the first floor. Kiyo chose cereal because it felt like home, and he ate slowly, watching the other contestants zip back and forth across the room, clustering, breaking apart, and reforming, sniffing for blood and weakness like sharks in the water.
A hand clapped Kiyo's shoulder, and a boisterous voice said, "We're gonna be on TV, man! You ready?"
Kiyo turned as the other boy claimed the chair next to him. "I guess?"
The boy's smile widened. "You look like crap, man. Did you sleep?"
"Do I know you?"
"Oh, sorry. I'm Diwali." He shoved out a thick hand. "It's a Cherokee name, so you'd think it should mean something cool, right? It doesn't. It means 'bowl.' Like my parents just didn't have the energy to find a cooler word."
Kiyo chuckled and yielded to the handshake. "I'm Kiyo."
"Yeah, awesome. So we're supposed to be in the auditorium by nine, and then they'll assign us our audition numbers for the day. It's gonna be a lot of waiting and warming up, am I right?"
"Uh-huh." Kiyo's eyes latched onto a dark figure moving into the room—long legs, perfect curves that she tried to hide under a hoodie for whatever reason, and black hair falling over half her face, like the ghost girl from The Grudge. She held two cup carriers laden with coffee, which she delivered to a table full of people with nametags—managers and upper staff, most likely.
Another figure blocked his view, and he looked up into the cream-and-roses complexion and liquid blue eyes of Harley, the girl who had rushed him through the room assignment line yesterday.
"Hey," she said, her lips curving in a small smile. "I wanted to apologize for my rudeness last night."
"Oh. Um—it's okay." Kiyo rose, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"Yeah, I was overwhelmed, and tired. I shouldn't have rushed you."
"It's okay, really. You—you want to sit with us?"
"I have people I'm sitting with. But thanks."
"Oh. Sure." Kiyo felt heat crawling up his cheeks.
"Well. Good luck today." Harley flashed him a smile so dazzling he could only stare. And then she walked away.
"I did not expect that," said Diwali through a mouthful of doughnut. "She apologized. Wow."
Kiyo collapsed into his seat, feeling more off-balance than usual. "Yeah, that was cool of her."
Diwali smacked his arm. "Eyes on the prize, man. This isn't about girls. They're our competition."
Kiyo frowned at him. "Dude. You're my competition."
Diwali shrugged. "So you're Korean-American? Japanese-American?"
"My mom's Japanese."
"Cool. I'm half Cherokee and half Puerto-Rican. Let me tell you, those are two cultures that do not mix well. You should see our family gatherings." He rolled his eyes, and Kiyo grinned in spite of himself.
"You like to overshare, huh?" he said.
"It's my brand." Diwali shoved the rest of the doughnut into his mouth. "And your brand is the cool, reserved Asian guy, all zen and stuff. But let me give you some advice, man—the quiet, mysterious thing ain't gonna cut it. The judges on these shows, they like to see personality—the bigger, the better. You gotta let it all hang out there."
Kiyo stood, gathering the remnants of his breakfast. "Thanks for that." He strode away, tension tightening his fingers and his stomach. After dumping everything into the trash can, he left the common room, walked down the hallway to the side door of the building, and slammed through it, sucking in lungfuls of sharp, cold air.
What was he doing here? This wasn't his thing, this reality TV show stuff. He liked privacy, and quiet, and comfort. His life, his family, and his friends. Masayo was the brave one, the one who did things differently, took risks, made unexpected choices. He had been channeling her courage when he auditioned yesterday—a spur-of-the-moment decision, not like him at all. And now he was stuck here.
He could get out of it. Leave now, and avoid today's auditions and the TV cameras. Go back home to normal life, where ghosts didn't serenade him with obscure emo songs at night.
The door creaked and banged behind him.
"You shouldn't be out here." The low, hoarse voice grated on his ears, and he closed his eyes briefly before turning around.
There she was, her face half night-dark hair and half snow-white skin, heavy smudges of liner and shadow turning her eye socket into a black hole. The single black eyebrow he could see slanted sharply in a frown.
"Mel."
"Cold air is bad for your lungs and your throat," she said.
"I know. I just need a minute."
"You're letting them get to you already? Buddy, the competition has barely started. You gotta get yourself a thicker skin."
"Yeah?" He flicked a lump of snow off the railing. "Got any tips on how to do that?"
"Who the hell cares what they think, or what they say?"
"That's not advice—it's another question."
"Who cares what I think? Come on, say it." She waved her fingers at him, inviting the insult.
Kiyo sighed, squared his shoulders. "Who cares what you think?"
"Too soft. Say it again, from your gut, and really mean it this time."
"Who cares what you think?"
"Good! Now come back inside and I'll make you some tea to warm up those vocal chords."
"You'll make me tea?" He cocked his head, trying to figure out why he could already read her, as if he had known her longer than a few minutes. As if they were lost, distorted echoes of each other.
"Coffee by itself is dehydrating, and milk or creamer will clog up your throat. We need you sounding crystal-clear and warm as summer, okay? Trust me."
He followed her back inside. "Why do you care?"
She laughed, a coarse, grating sound that made his music-loving soul shiver. "I don't. But you have a beautiful voice."
She made him tea, hands flitting over the cups and spoons and teabags. She wore fingerless black gloves, thin cotton, but he noticed that her fingertips were bruised, hairline splits crisscrossing the ends.
"Hey." He caught one of her hands mid-flight and turned it palm up so he could see the wounds. She jerked it away, spitting, "Don't touch me."
"Sorry. I was just—are you okay?"
"Fine," she hissed, shoving the hot cup of tea into his hands. "Break a freakin' leg."
She disappeared through a doorway, and he blew on the tea to cool it, wondering what he'd done wrong.
-5-
Lights
Mel washed off his touch in the bathroom, her bruised fingers trembling under the icy water sputtering out of the spigot. He wasn't supposed to touch her. Not as this person. Not as odd little Mel, coffee-fetcher and backstage assistant to whomever yelled for her. She was supposed to be invisible. If only the stupid boy hadn't gone outside into the freezing air, she wouldn't have had to go after him. Damn his idiocy. Didn't he know anything about caring for his voice on a performance day?
She cursed repeatedly, vilely, smacking the edge of the sink with her palm. And she stared at herself, at the monochromatic monster in the mirror.
He would be out of the common room soon, safely off to the auditorium building to warm up and wait with the others. Thanks to an early morning visit to Archambeau's office, she already knew which performance slot was his. He wouldn't be singing till late morning. Meanwhile, she would have enough time to enact the next phase of her plan.
But first, more coffee.
She drank an entire cup black, then helped one of the stage crew carry some equipment to the auditorium. She had to look busy and helpful occasionally, or risk being fired.
"Thanks," said the stage hand.
"No problem," she responded automatically, gazing around the cavernous room.
The stage glittered, jewel-toned lights rimming its edges. The entire crew must have worked long hours last night. Mel angled her head for a sidelong look at the ceiling, careful not to dislodge her hood. Sure enough, new racks of lights g
limmered along the beams. Not a bad thing, necessarily—the brilliance of the lights would throw anything beyond them into deeper darkness. She could still perch up there to watch performances, but she would have to be wary. If any of those lights rotated, they might catch her in the glare.
But she was more concerned that the workers might have discovered the little surprise she had rigged up for Eddie Carver. She eyed the spot, squinting. Yes, the metal bar was still there, hanging over the judge's dais. And the rope appeared to be intact.
A commotion from the door beside the stage distracted her. Eddie Carver sauntered in, looking rested and caffeinated. Behind him glided Amarynth, her head canted so her makeup artist could apply a last pat of powder. Ferris wandered in behind them, nodding and smiling at nobody in particular, his shirt halfway unbuttoned and his hair glossy with gel.
Swiftly Mel dodged backstage and wound her way through chattering assistants and past busy techs to the spot where she had stowed the rope, and the weight to which it was attached. A quick clip with the sharp shears hidden nearby, and the metal bar hanging near the ceiling would plummet three stories down to the auditorium floor.
She had hoped she wouldn't have to use the trap; there was the risk of someone being hurt. Only humans, of course—but still.
Unfortunately, Eddie had looked much too cheerful today. Not nearly subservient enough. He needed a reminder of who was really in charge of this competition. She only wished she could be out there, watching his face, instead of standing in this drab, gloomy hallway. The water stain on the wall opposite her looked weirdly like one of those creepy, sad-mouthed opera masks.
Pulling out her phone, she typed a quick text.
"Good morning, Eddie. Did you sleep well? —R.P. "
After a minute, his reply appeared. "Who are you? Leave me the hell alone!"
"But Eddie darling, we're just starting to be friends. Listen, I need you to do me a favor."
"Like hell. I'm calling the cops and they'll trace this number and throw your ass in jail for harassment."
She typed back quickly. "The number is protected. You can't trace it. And if you try to call anyone, tell anyone, or block me, you'll regret it. Don't believe me? Three, two, one—"
She snapped the shears through the rope. The next second, a muffled crash echoed through the auditorium, followed by screams. The thick metal bar she had hung from the ceiling must have smashed to the floor right behind Eddie's chair, as she intended. Hopefully no one had been standing beneath it.
Shouts sounded from the stage, coming closer to her position. Mel raced away from the spot, burying herself deep in the shadowed passages backstage. She crouched in the triangle of darkness behind a huge folding table leaned against the wall and pulled out her phone again. No messages. Eddie might have peed his pants. She smiled and typed, "Vote through #14, #19, and #22. I have an interest in their success."
Of course she cared nothing for #19 or #22. They were decoys so Eddie's full attention wouldn't be focused on Kiyo. And now that the toughest judge was in her pocket, it was up to Kiyo's voice to convince the other two.
She wouldn't blackmail Kiyo's way through a round again after this. She vowed it to herself. Once she became his voice coach, his muse, he would soar through every challenge on his own. She just had to persuade him to kiss her—and that was the sticky point. He'd never kiss Mel—strange, hoodie-wearing Mel who ran errands and talked with gravel in her throat. To get that kiss, she would have to become someone else.
It would be possible as soon as UPS delivered a very special package to her—today, hopefully.
Mel waited another ten minutes, then returned to the more populated backstage areas. The flurry of activity and panic was dying down.
"What's happened?" she asked a stage hand innocently.
"A piece of the ceiling fell down, right behind the judges," said the man.
"A piece of the ceiling?" She raised her brows.
"No," interrupted another aide. "It was some kind of tool. Probably something the workers left behind after they remodeled the place."
The first man scoffed. "Some remodel. Building's fallin' apart."
"Darn right. Mel, get Eddie some more ice water, okay? He seemed pretty shaken up."
"Right." Mel hurried to the refreshment table and filled a glass. She crossed the stage steps and mounted the narrow dais where the judges' chairs sat.
Eddie's skin shone skeleton-pale under his scruffy beard.
"Calm down, sugar," Amarynth said, patting his arm. "Ain't nobody tryin' to hurt you, okay? Just a little accident."
"Could have been any of us, mate." Ferris Manson was apparently doing an Aussie accent today.
"Here, Mr. Carver," Mel muttered, handing him the glass of water.
"Thanks." He gripped the glass, wavering a little as he brought it to his lips. Scared, but not so terrified that he couldn't function.
Perfect.
"Can I get you anything else, sir?" Mel asked. "I heard what happened. Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Eddie Carver cleared his throat. "Nothing else, but thanks, dear. Go on now—we have an episode to film."
That patronizing "dear" set her teeth on edge. She spun, forcing herself to walk meekly back across the boards instead of stomping like she wanted to.
The camera crew, the audio techs, the producer, and a horde of other people she didn't know swarmed along the edges of the stage and through the front rows of the auditorium. Mel tucked herself into a nook in the wall, at the right side of the stage, resolved to wait in the shadows until someone dislodged her.
A few moments later, the doors at the back of the auditorium opened, and people poured in—young adults a few years older than Mel, every one of them attractive—handpicked to be the faces that the cameras caught most frequently. Next came a throng of people in their thirties or forties, and then a mix of ages, shapes, and sizes filling in the back rows. Volunteers, all of them, aching for a chance to be part of something special, to experience beauty. Or maybe they just wanted a change. A smidge of sparkle in their monotonous lives.
"Hey, you! You can't stand there!" a harried-looking man yelled at her. Mel gave him the finger and slunk off-stage, cutting through the prep rooms and warm-up spaces. She glimpsed Kiyoji, standing alone in the corner of a large room dotted with contestants. His lips were parted, but she heard no sounds. Everyone around him was doing lip rolls and scales, and he was—what was he doing, exactly? Nothing helpful that she could see. She balled her fists, resisting the urge to stalk over to him and teach him a thing or two about warm-ups. But she couldn't be seen taking such an obvious interest in his success. His instruction would have to wait until later.
"You there, girl! Come here." Archambeau's right hand woman, Catherine, waved her over imperiously. Catherine's dress stretched across her thighs, stomach, and breasts so tightly that Mel wondered how she could breathe, or walk.
Mel spent the next hour and a half as Catherine's personal slave. On the plus side, she got to hear snatches of the auditions throughout the morning. But as Kiyoji's time slot drew nearer, she started to worry that she would never get away from Catherine in time to hear him. She didn't even know what song he was planning to sing. Please let it be a good one.
Someone shouted a series of three numbers in the hallway. Was one of them Kiyo's? She couldn't quite hear.
"Bathroom break," Mel muttered. "And coffee break." She dashed away before Catherine could protest.
She really did have to pee, but seeing Kiyo perform was more important, so she crept to the pile of broken scenery that she'd used as a ladder yesterday. Swiftly, gripping and stepping without hesitation, she climbed the stack to the ceiling, jumped for the lowest beam, and caught it. Another swing and a leap took her higher, and she shimmied up a support post to gain more altitude. Then it was merely a matter of walking across the beam, past the backstage walls, until the stage opened up beneath her.
A few years of gymnastics and several more of d
ance had given her an acrobat's balance and control of her body, but she knew that part of the skill was innate—the inborn grace of the Lianhan Sídhe. Still, being up so high gave her an odd fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach. What if her magic swelled too strongly while she was up here? She could already feel the pressure worsening in her head, stretching the boundaries of her endurance, and it was only eleven in the morning.
She narrowed her eyes, pacing across the beam in the darkness, trying to breathe evenly, trying to think of anything but the possibility of a misstep and her mangled body splattered on the stage below.
"Number Fourteen, Kiyo Darcy." The host's resonant voice vibrated through her bones, and she nearly tumbled off the beam. Quickly she swung to a sitting position, gripping the edge with both hands. She didn't have to be right overhead. She just needed a decent viewpoint and a clear path for the sound, from Kiyo's throat to her ears.
Kiyo ambled across the stage, his thin shoulders bowed. Walk with confidence. Straighten up, she ordered him mentally, chewing her lip.
He didn't have the guitar this time—not necessarily a good thing, since he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, or his body. He held the microphone awkwardly, and Eddie had to say "Speak up, son!" during the "tell us your name and age" bit.
Mel cringed. Maybe she chose wrong. Maybe she should have picked Diwali, with his winning smile and the big chest voice that had earned shouts from the crowd not ten minutes ago. But he didn't have Kiyo's range, or his smoothness of tone, or that shining falsetto.
Her attention snapped back to the judges as Eddie said, "You seem nervous, kid. You sure you're up for this?" He was practically sneering, the bastard.
Mel could barely hear Kiyo's answer: "I'm ready."
She held her breath—and then a rollicking sixties tune burst from the sound system, and a pleased murmur surged from the audience. Kiyo's back straightened, his head lifted, and he began to sing, in a voice warm as summer sunshine, smooth as custard, and mellow as Sinatra himself—"That's Life."
Kiyo's voice danced through the song, sliding and swirling so effortlessly that Mel's mouth fell open. He swayed with the music, one hand lifting, and punched the high notes with a defiant strength that drew cries from the crowd. Amarynth rose half out of her seat, lips parted, fist pumping. Kiyo finished off with a rippling run and an unexpected high note that made Ferris Manson stand up and clap.
The Monsters of Music Page 4